The Red Address Book

by Sofia Lundberg

  We had a crackly old radio in the apartment: dark wood, yellowed fabric, and golden dials. We listened to it every evening. We couldn’t help ourselves. The broadcasts reported more and more brutality, and the number of lives lost grew from the dozens to the hundreds. The war was so close, and yet it also felt so far away, so incomprehensible. Agnes used to cover her ears, but I always forced her to listen because she needed to know.

  “Stop it, please stop it, Doris. It brings such horrible pictures to mind,” she said. Once, she even ran straight out of the room, out of the apartment. It was when the news reporter announced that the Germans had occupied Warsaw and that the Polish resistance had been crushed.

  I found her in the back yard, curled up on top of a firewood bin. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her legs, and her eyes were staring blankly. The cooing of doves sounded faintly from the rooftops. They were everywhere, and their droppings flecked the paving stones.

  “They might just be numbers to you,” she hissed at me, “but these are people they’re talking about. People who were alive and who are now dead. Do you understand that?”

  She shouted those last few words, accusingly, as though I didn’t comprehend the word dead. I curled up beside her, right up close.

  “I don’t want to die,” she sobbed, her head resting against my shoulder. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want the Germans to come here.”

  The Red Address Book

  S. SMITH, ALLAN

  One day, Agnes came home with an envelope. I’m sure it had been white at some point, but it was yellowed, dirty, and covered in postmarks, stamps, remnants of glue, and scribbled-out addresses. It contained a letter from America.

  More than a year had passed since he suddenly disappeared. And now, amid the great anxiety about the war, he had finally written a letter. As though he had perceived my never-ending sorrow at having lost him. Inside the envelope was a brochure about passage to New York, plus a bundle of dollar bills. And the few lines that have etched themselves in my memory forever:

  Darling Doris, my most beautiful rose. I was forced to leave Paris hastily and could not cope with a farewell. Forgive me. My father came to collect me, my mother needs me here. I had no choice.

  Come to me. I need you. Cross the Atlantic so that I can hold you in my arms again. I will love you forever. Come as soon as you can. Here is everything you need to travel. I shall take care of you when you arrive.

  We’ll see each other again soon. I miss you so.

  Your Allan

  I read that letter to myself over and over again. At first, I was angry. At the fact that he had waited so long to get in touch, and that he had written so briefly when he finally did. But then joy took over. I started to live again, as the paralysis of sorrow slowly let go. He was still there, there was nothing wrong with me, he loved me.

  I read the letter to Agnes.

  “We’re going!” she exclaimed, her eyes serious and her forehead tense. “Why stay here when all we have to look forward to is war?”

  There were rumors that the Germans were taking civilians prisoner. Driving them out of their homes, seizing everything of value. We didn’t know what happened to these people next, but Agnes was afraid. At school these awful stories were twisted in ways that made the situation seem even worse.

  We sat in the kitchen in the evenings that followed, talking about the journey. Agnes was so certain. She wanted to leave. Couldn’t handle the fear any longer. It didn’t take us long to decide. We both wanted to get away. But longing, not fear, was what drove me. I sold most of my clothes, hats, and shoes, as well as our furniture and paintings. What little we had left, we packed into two suitcases, with letters, photographs, and jewelry. I emptied my bank account and gathered the large bills in an old tin chocolate box that Allan had once given to me. I kept it close, stashed away in my handbag.

  Once again, my entire life had been packed up, but this time it was different. I was an adult. I felt safe and full of hope. My family was with me, and Allan and I would be reunited.

  The Red Address Book

  J. JENNING, ELAINE

  It was a dark, rainy day in Genoa, in November 1939. I was wearing my red coat, the one made of soft cashmere. It stood out among all the other coats, which were black, gray, and brown. I had tied a gray scarf around my head, and as I walked up the gangway, I left behind Europe and my career with grace. I was still Doris, the live mannequin. The pier was full of people with and without tickets. Some of them recognized me from hand-colored images in magazines, and they whispered and pointed. Others were completely absorbed by tearful farewells to loved ones. Halfway up the gangway, I turned around and waved to the world, as though I was a film star. No one waved back. Agnes didn’t turn. Paris had been nothing but a set of parentheses that briefly enclosed her life; the place would soon fade to a vague memory. But for me, Paris represented a treasured period in my life. As the ship sailed out through the entrance to the port of Genoa, one of the last permitted to leave the harbor, I watched with sadness through the window of our cabin as the coastline disappeared.

  The SS Washington was a long, beautiful ship. We had a large cabin with a living room and a double bed. The bed didn’t creak and the mattress didn’t dip in the middle, which meant that Agnes and I could lie in it separately. That first night, we both lay awake.

  Agnes whispered to me, “Tell me that he’s handsome. And rich. Tell me everything! God, this is so romantic . . .”

  I didn’t know what to say. I could see Allan’s face when I closed my eyes, could remember the exact scent I had breathed in so often during our embraces. But in truth, I knew almost nothing about his life now. Far too much time had passed.

  “He’s an architect and a visionary. He has so many strange ideas, but you’ll like him because he laughs a lot.”

  “But is he handsome?” Agnes giggled, and I swung my pillow at her face. She never stopped asking questions. I told her everything I could remember. About how we had met, about his impulsivity, his joy, his passion. About his green eyes. His smile.

  I wondered to myself why he had finally written to me. Why now and not before? Was it because rumors had finally reached him about the war coming to Paris? Though his disappearance had caused me many tears, I felt expectantly loving, now that I knew he still thought of me. My entire being was filled with longing.

  Before we boarded the ship, I had posted two letters. One was a farewell to Gösta. Our correspondence had become even more sporadic, but I wanted to let him know where I was. I gave him one last intense snapshot of Paris. The second letter was to Allan. It contained the details of our arrival and a brief message, as short as the one he had sent to me. We would soon see each other again. I could just picture the scene, like something out of a spectacular film. He would be standing on the dock, waiting for us, wearing his ill-fitting suit, his shaggy hair blowing in the breeze. Me in my elegant red coat. When he caught sight of me, he would grin and wave. I would run to him, throw myself into his arms, and kiss him. My fantasy ran wild during those choppy nights. As did my nerves.

  Our days at sea were full of activity, planned down to the very last detail by an enthusiastic crew: clay pigeon shooting, bowling, dancing, quizzes. We got to know many new friends. Before we left Paris, I hadn’t given a single thought to the English language; my impulsive decision had been made on the basis of love, not language. I knew only a few words of English, and Agnes none at all. But, as luck would have it, we met Elaine Jenning, an elderly American lady who spoke French, and she became our guardian angel. She gave us language lessons in the dining room every day. With Elaine, Agnes and I played the same game that we had played on the streets of Paris. We pointed, she said the word in English, and we repeated it. Soon enough, we knew the English words for all kinds of items on board the ship. Elaine enjoyed teaching us her mother tongue, giving each word its own weight and articulating it carefully so that we could follow her meaning.

  Elaine was recently widowed. Her husba
nd had been a salesman, and they had lived all over the world, spending the past ten years in France. Like me, she had experienced the good life in Paris. Her dresses were all tailor-made, and she wore several strings of pearls around her neck. Sometimes I imagined that I had seen her in the department store, that she was among the ladies who had pulled at my clothes in search of something that would make them look equally elegant. The white powder on Elaine’s face clumped in her wrinkles when she perspired, and she used an embroidered handkerchief to wipe it away, leaving streaks on her skin. Her hair was carefully arranged in a smooth silver-gray bun at the nape of her neck. Every now and then, she would reach up to steady a hairpin that was about to succumb to the weight of her hair. We enjoyed spending time with her. She was our great comfort out there at sea, on our way toward the unknown.

  Most people onboard that ship were traveling to leave something behind, but Elaine was heading home. To a life she had been absent from for over thirty years.

  The Red Address Book

  S. SMITH, ALLAN

  Agnes and I stood on the deck, sharing a black umbrella, amazed by the skyscrapers towering up against the overcast sky. It was misty; dense droplets found their way beneath the umbrella, with the help of the wind. I pulled my red coat tight at the throat, buried my chin in my shawl. Angled the umbrella slightly to shield us better, but Agnes firmly straightened it again, so that we wouldn’t miss a single detail on our way to the docks. She squealed when she saw the Statue of Liberty, that powerful gift from France. The statue looked out to us with torch raised high, and right there and then I felt fairly certain that we would have a good life in America. Despite that, I still had to visit the bathroom several times. Agnes laughed when I returned from my fourth trip.

  “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” She smiled, her eyes still fixed on land.

  Her words hardly made things easier, and I snorted. “Of course I’m nervous, I haven’t seen him in so long. What if I don’t recognize him?”

  “Just go slowly. And smile. Look like you know where you’re going. Everything will work out.”

  “What do you mean, go slowly and smile? That sounds like something Mamma would say. She was full of strange ideas.”

  Agnes laughed. “Yeah, she was. Did she say ‘Be strong’ to you? That was her favorite.”

  I nodded and laughed, those words were so familiar. And when it was finally time to leave the ship, I did exactly as she said. We said goodbye to Elaine, giving her a big hug. She pressed a slip of paper into my hand. On it was an address, written in ornate script.

  “If you ever need help, you know where I am,” she whispered.

  After giving a kiss on the cheek to passengers we had come to know, I slowly made my way down the narrow gangway. Because of my red coat he would be able to see me immediately. I smiled, certain that I was being watched.

  We paused after passing through immigration. The room was full of people waiting for someone. The minutes that followed felt more like hours. Words and phrases in languages we barely understood swirled around us. We sat on our suitcases, which a porter had carried down from the ship. The icy wind crept up my stocking-clad legs and beneath my skirt. I shivered. Agnes stared at everyone who passed. There was hope in those blue eyes of hers. There were tears in mine. None of the people we saw were Allan.

  Almost an hour had passed when a man in a dark suit came forward. He was wearing a peaked cap, which he took off when he spoke to us.

  “Miss Alm? Miss Doris Alm?” he asked. I leapt up from my suitcase.

  “Yes, yes,” I replied eagerly in English. I held out the only picture of Allan that I had, the one I had pushed into an antique locket. I often wore it around my neck, but I had never opened it to show anyone before. Agnes leaned forward with curiosity.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a picture?” Then she pointed to the man. “But that’s not Allan. Who is he?”

  He mumbled something in English. From the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out an envelope, which he thrust toward me. My eyes scanned the few lines of French.

  Dear Doris,

  It was with dismay that I received your letter. I don’t know what has brought you here, over a year has passed. Doris, my love, why have you come now? I waited months for you. In vain. I had to stay here; my mother was terribly ill and I could not abandon her.

  Eventually, I couldn’t wait and hope any longer. I thought you had forgotten me. I moved on. I am now married, and unfortunately cannot see you. The driver will take you to a hotel where you will find a room booked in your name. You can stay there for two weeks at my expense. We cannot meet. I’m so terribly sorry. A.

  I fainted.

  Agnes slapped my cheeks.

  “Doris, you have to pull yourself together! We don’t need him. We managed before, and you’ve managed all these years. That dream isn’t coming true. Get up.”

  I couldn’t breathe, felt a heavy weight on my chest. Was that all he was to me now? A dream? Agnes helped me to my feet. She had to lead me to the man’s car. I don’t remember anything from the journey. None of the streets, none of the people, no scents, no words. An entire year had passed since he sent his letter. I should have realized, given how unreliable the mail service had become. Imagine—if it had arrived in time, I would have been the one to marry him. Now there was another woman at his side. I felt my stomach contract at the thought. I wanted to throw up.

  Agnes and I curled up in the big, soft hotel bed, hiding from the frightening world. For the second time for each of us, we found ourselves in a foreign country whose language we barely spoke. We had no plans and far too little money. But we couldn’t return. We had left behind a Europe at war.

  Outside our window, just thirty centimeters away, was the brick wall of the neighboring building. I stared at it until the rows of bricks started to sway. On the fourth day, I got up. I washed and powdered my face, applied some red lipstick, and put on my prettiest dress. Then I stepped out onto the city streets, which bustled with life and voices. In broken English, I managed to find out where the department stores were in the closest neighborhoods. I visited them one by one, but it turned out that live mannequins were different in America. They behaved more like hostesses, talking to the customers, showing them around. Back in Paris, we hadn’t needed to say a thing. In fact, we hadn’t been allowed to talk. But here, they were expected to sell while they showed off the clothes.

  After wandering street after street, I eventually managed to get myself a test position, for at least one day, at Bloomingdale’s. I would be in the warehouse. This celebrated Paris mannequin would use her delicate fingers and red polished nails to unpack goods and iron dresses. But I was determined to manage the work and keep the job. Then all we would need was a place to live.

  12

  The man is at her side again, and her head is turned obstinately to the wall, as before.

  “You can’t stay here. And you can’t go home. That’s why we need to move you to assisted living. Call it temporary if you like, but as things stand, you can’t manage on your own. The nurse told me you couldn’t walk when you tried today. How would you be able to live in your apartment, if that’s the case? And alone?”

  She continues to stare at the wall in silence. The only sounds come from the faint beeping of an alarm out in the corridor and the soft tread of the nurses’ shoes.

  “It would feel much better if we could talk about this, Doris. If you could try to understand. I know you’re used to coping on your own, but your body has given up. It’s difficult, I do understand.”

  She slowly turns her head and glares at him.

  “You understand? What exactly is it you understand? How miserable it is to lie here in this bed? How it feels to desperately want to go home? How much my hip hurts? Or maybe you understand what I want and don’t want? I think it would feel much better if you went away. Just go.” She snorts. She purses her lips and feels the skin on her chin straining. The hospital blanket is half-covering her,
and she makes an attempt to pull it over her legs, but the pain prevents her.

  The man gets up and stands for a moment, watching her in silence. She can feel his eyes on her and she knows what he’s thinking. That she’s a stubborn old woman who’ll never be able to cope on her own again. Well, he’s free to think that. But he can’t force her to do anything, and both of them know that. She wishes he would just go away, and as though he has read her thoughts, he takes two steps back and then turns to leave without saying another word. She hears the sound of paper being torn in two. Once again, his form ends up in the wastebasket. She smiles. A fourth minor victory.

  The Red Address Book

  S. SMITH, ALLAN

  It was our fifth day in New York. We needed to start thinking about the future, but we had few ideas about how to survive in our new country. Terrible homesickness struck both of us. Me for the familiar streets of Paris, Agnes for Stockholm. We longed for everything we had left behind. I wrote to Gösta. Complained in a way I couldn’t with anyone else. Asked him for help, though I knew he would not be able to give it.