A: Ach, this made no difference to them. They still had the money. They hid it. Buried it in their cellars, in their homes, under the floors. You know how they are.
Q: How they—
A: Sneaky. The Jews were sneaky. They no longer flashed their money about under our noses, but they had it. They had diamonds sewed into the linings of their coats.
Q: But, Frau Kluge— Not to contradict you, but you said you had no contact with Jews. How did you know they were hiding money?
A: Everybody knew.
Q: Everybody?
A: Ja, everybody.
Q: Well, how did everybody know?
A: They just did. It was a fact.
Q: By everybody, I assume you mean Aryan Germans.
A: Ja, Germans.
Q: Did the Germans— Did you know what would happen to the Jews when they were deported?
A: Nein, nein. We were told nothing. That was government business.
Q: So you knew nothing about the camps?
A: Camps?
Q: The concentration camps. To which the Jews were deported.
A: That is all propaganda.
Q: Propaganda!
A: That is right, propaganda. Ach, I am sure some Jews did die. But from the war. From bombs and cold and sickness and hunger. Just like the Germans did.
Q: But— But Frau Kluge, what about the photographs, the—
A: Propaganda. As I have said. Falsehoods spread by the Allies after the war.
Q: I see...Now, um, now, Frau Kluge, perhaps you could tell me a little more about what your life was like during the war. What do you remember most?
A: The rations. At first. Then no food anywhere. We were starving. The cold. The air raids. Terrible.
Q: What were you doing during the war? Did you have a job? A family?
A: Nein, no family. My mother died in 1936 of tuberculosis. When everybody but the Jews was starving. She had no medicine while they pranced about in fur.
Q: And your father?
A: [shrugs] I never knew him. He died in the first war.
Q: You had no family of your own? No husband, no—
A: Nein. Ja, there was a man. We were to be engaged. But he was in the Wehrmacht and he died in Russia. On the Volga.
Q: So you were alone during the war.
A: Ja, ja, I had to fend completely for myself. To stand on my own two feet during this time, it was very difficult.
Q: What did you do? What kind of work?
A: I was a switchboard operator.
Q: And this paid well enough for you to get along?
A: Nein. Nein. I had barely enough to survive. And with the rations— Ach, it was so bad. The things I had to do to get by.
Q: What sort of things?
A: Nothing. Nothing. Just . . . to get by. That is all.
Q: How did you get by, exactly?
A: I— What do you think? Waited in lines with everybody else. Sometimes stole. When there is nothing to put in the stomach . . .
Q: It must have made you desperate.
A: Ja, ja, desperate, that is right, now you understand me. What I did I had to do.
Q: Which was?
A: I have already told you. Nothing. But. Some others. Some other people . . .
Q: What other people?
A: They were terrible times.
Q: Desperate.
A: Ja, desperate. And this one woman I knew...
Q: She was your friend?
A: Nein, nein. Not a friend. An acquaintance. Somebody I knew from work. Not very well. Sometimes we shared a little lunch. Not very often. You understand?
Q: Yes. What was her name?
A: I do not remember. I do not remember.
Q: That’s fine, Frau Kluge. But you were telling me . . . She also was desperate?
A: Ja. And she, so she had to do something . . .
Q: What was it? What did she do?
A: She...This woman, she did not mean to do anything bad. But she was desperate, as you have said, nicht? And so hungry while the Jews, they still had the money. And she, this woman, she thought, what would be the harm in it, you understand? She knew there still were some of them around. Hiding. Like they hid their money. She—
Q: Forgive me for interrupting, Frau Kluge, but where was this? Where the Jews were hiding?
A: All over. The city was riddled with them. And this woman, she knew of some in the building next to hers. In the cellar. So she—Q: This was in Munich?
A: Ja. Very near to where I lived. On the, the outer ring, the—Q: The suburbs?
A: Ja, that is correct, the suburbs. On the outer ring there were still some hiding. So she, the woman, she went to them.
Q: To the Jews?
A: Ja, ja, to the Jews. I was just— You know, she, she said to me, Petra, I know where some are. In this cellar. Under a staircase, in a room for holding potatoes, and they once owned a store, a very big shoe store, many of them around Munich so they must still have money and also there was a reward—
Q: A reward for turning in the Jews?
A: Ja, ja, that is right, to the Gestapo. A big cash reward. So this desperate woman, she went into that basement and she said to them, Jews, I do not want to turn you in. I have nothing against Jews. So you will give me the same amount of money as the reward, and I will say nothing.
Q: And they gave her the money?
A: Ja. They had diamonds. Small ones. Not very good quality. It was a little disappointing. But some rings. Also earrings. Sewed into the linings of their coats.
Q: So she took their diamonds.
A: Ja, natürlich. She was desperate.
Q: I see. And she didn’t turn them in?
A: Nein. She did not turn those Jews in. She said to me, Petra, you see, now I have a little something, at least enough to eat. Now I can provide for myself. She had no family, nobody to look after her—
Q: So she took their diamonds and she didn’t turn them in.
A: Ja. Nein. Not right away.
Q: Not right away.
A: That is correct. Not immediately. But you know, money goes only so far, and soon, soon they had nothing left to give her, at least that is what they said, although of course there probably was more. So she had to turn them in.
Q: For the reward.
A: Ja, that is right. She went to the Gestapo and she got that reward. And do you know what he said?
Q: Who?
A: The Gestapo man. A little fat man with no hair on his head— This is what she told me.
Q: Right. So what did he say?
A: He said, Fräulein whatever-her-name-was, I do not remember, Fräulein, he said, you have done a very good thing. For your country. For your Führer and Vaterland. I am very happy to give you this money. And if you know of more Jews, I will be happy to reward you again in this way. If you bring them to my attention.
Q: And— Did she?
A: Did she what?
Q: Did she know of more Jews?
A: Well, ja, they were everywhere. All over, as I have said. Hiding in the woodwork. Like lice. Like, what do you call it, termites.
Q: Did she turn them in too?
A: I— I— Ach, well. Who knows. I did not want to know about such things. As I have said, they did not concern me, nicht? And I did not know her, you remember. I did not know her very well at all.
Q: But what do you think? Do you think she turned in other Jews?
A: I do not— Well, ja. Ja. I did. I mean, what I mean to say is, I think she did. Ja.
Q: For the money.
A: Ja, that is correct. She, she might have felt sorry for them. A little. But she had to do it anyway.
Q: I see.
A: She was desperate.
Q: Yes, so you said...Frau Kluge, how do you feel now about what she did?
A: Me? Why should I feel anything? I feel nothing. I did nothing to be ashamed of!
Q: But I said...Excuse me. Let me ask again: How do you think she feels?
A: [shrugs] How shou
ld I know? She probably is dead.
Q: But if she were alive and you could ask her, what do you think she would say? Do you think she would feel guilty?
A: Nein. Nein. Not guilty. Why should she feel guilty? Why should she have had to starve while those Jews still had money? She had to get by.
Q: Yes, but—
A: She had nobody. Nobody to look after her. Nobody to take care of her. They had each other. They had the money. While she was a woman alone. To be a woman on her own is a terrible thing.
Q: Yes, but—
A: You should know this. You know what I mean.
Q: Well, I do to some degree, but—
A: And in those times. Such terrible times. You cannot imagine. You know nothing of what it is like to be cold. To be hungry. To be sick with hunger. You do not understand that.
Q: That’s true, but—
A: Und so. Das ist alles. That is all I have to say.
Q: One more thing, Frau Kluge, with your permission . . . You’ve told me what you think your, um, acquaintance, might have felt. But do you, you personally, ever feel bad about what happened to those Jews?
A: I? I did not even know them. I knew no Jews. And I do not feel bad about doing only what I had to do either. Because a woman alone has to watch out for herself in this world.
20
AS SOON AS FRAU KLUGE’S INTERVIEW IS DONE, TRUDY and Thomas flee her apartment as quickly as the dismantling of Thomas’s equipment will allow. In fact they are so fast about it that Trudy fears, watching Thomas coil cables and fold tripods with a speed almost comical, that Frau Kluge will notice their haste and take offense. Not that Trudy is particularly concerned about Frau Kluge’s feelings, but if the woman senses what they think of her, she might be insulted enough to demand that her testimony not be used. Yet Trudy shouldn’t have worried, for Frau Kluge seems to wish them out of her apartment as much as they want to go. When they leave, the woman is still sitting in her chair, watching a game show on a small black-and-white TV and indifferent to their departure.
Trudy stays near the truck while Thomas loads the contents of his cart into it, ostensibly keeping a lookout for muggers but really rehearsing apologies to him about what they have just heard. When he is done, however, and they are standing face-to-face on the curb, all Trudy can say is: Wow.
Yes, says Thomas. Wow.
They stand awkwardly in the cold, chuffing vaporous breath like racehorses, Trudy prodding with one foot at a dirty chunk of ice. While they have been engaged with Frau Kluge, the world has turned from day to night—something that always startles Trudy no matter how she tries to prepare for it. She squints at Thomas, trying to gauge his expression in the sickly orange flicker of the streetlights, but he is gazing over her head toward Frau Kluge’s apartment. His jowly face is stern, remote.
I’m sorry, Thomas, Trudy says. That was rough.
That’s all right, he says. It was about what I expected.
Trudy frowns down at her boots. But we’re not all like that, she wants to tell him. Really we’re not. There are some good Germans. Instead, she gives the ice a good kick, sending it skittering across the street.
I could use a stiff drink right about now, she says.
Thomas laughs. Me too.
Trudy looks hopefully up at him. Do you want to go get one? I know this place not far from here, in Dinkytown, that has great margaritas—
I would, says Thomas, but I already have plans. Sorry.
Oh. Okay. Maybe next time.
Sure, he says. Next time.
Trudy tarries a minute longer, wanting to say something to confirm that there will be a next time, that Thomas will give her another chance, that lets him know she truly is sorry. But she can’t think of how to phrase it, so finally she just flutters a hand in the air near his elbow, half rescinded touch, half wave.
Thanks again, she says. I’ll talk to you soon.
Bye, says Thomas.
Trudy sits in her car while her engine warms up and watches Thomas climb into his truck and speed off. He honks as he turns the corner—shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits. Maybe he actually does have somewhere else to be. On the other hand, maybe he just wants to get away from Trudy and her German Project as fast as possible. Trudy doesn’t blame him. She sighs and shifts into gear.
She really does want a drink, not so much for the alcohol as to wash the bad taste of her sycophancy to Frau Kluge out of her mouth, to return to the world of normal things. She is not ready to go home to a solitary brandy—she craves company—yet she is not about to go to a bar by herself to seek it. There is little in the world more pathetic, Trudy believes, than a middle-aged woman sitting alone on a bar stool. She runs over her list of possible drinking companions: there is Ruth, but this being her short day at the university, she is probably home preparing dinner with her husband. There are a couple of colleagues Trudy could call, but they are more acquaintances than friends, and casual conversation with them—invariably consisting of campus gossip—seems both irrelevant at the moment and too much work. And aside from this, there is...Trudy gnaws her lip and makes a decision on impulse. Perhaps it is because her pre-interview sparring with Frau Kluge has made Trudy think of him for the first time in a while; whatever the cause, she will pay her ex-husband Roger a little visit.
She gets off 394 at Fifth Street, where Roger’s restaurant, Le P’tit Lapin, is still located despite the girders of the highway, a dream in some city councilman’s head when Roger and Trudy first bought the place, that now eclipse it in permanent darkness. Trudy smiles a little as she parks and picks her way over the ice to the door. Given the restaurant’s success, Roger could certainly afford to move it to a more upscale neighborhood, but it is typical of him that he has not. Such an act would smack of pretension, which Roger claims to despise above all else. He has always thumbed his nose at trend; whereas the city’s newer establishments boast imported light sconces and marble-painted walls reminiscent of Italian villas, Le P’tit is as plain as ever. It is a tiny place, seating only forty at its fullest capacity, with sooty tri-colored awnings flapping over the windows. Inside, the brick walls are whitewashed, the lights bright so as to be able to see the food. A Vivaldi string quartet plays quietly from somewhere overhead; when Roger is feeling wild and crazy, he will slip an Edith Piaf CD into the sound system, but normally the music is as muted as the decor. Nothing that will distract from la cuisine.
The dining room is empty at this hour, although in the kitchen, Trudy knows, the line and sous chefs will be sweating and swearing in an ill-tempered frenzy of dinner preparation. She finds a spindly server wedging napkins into wineglasses and asks the boy to let Roger know she is here. Then she waits by the hostess stand, looking around a bit sadly. Imagine, a whole decade of her adult life spent in this place as Roger’s helpmeet! Trudy can almost see a translucent version of her younger self, hair parted in the middle and tied back with a hank of yarn, moving among the tables to set tealights on them. These have been replaced, she notices now, by fat tapers sparkling with embedded glitter. Tinsel twines about their bases. A Christmas tree bedecked with gingham bows presides in the window. Trudy is startled by this display of seasonal kitsch, which—certainly not Roger’s idea—must be the doing of Roger’s current wife, Kimberly. Who at the moment is clacking quickly toward Trudy from the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Well, hi there, calls Kimberly. What a surprise!
I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this—
Don’t be silly. Not at all.
Kimberly leans in to bestow air kisses on either side of Trudy’s face. She is a well-coiffed blond in her midthirties, her porcelain complexion and china-blue eyes so making her resemble a doll that Trudy fancies she can hear the click of lids when Kimberly blinks. She does so now, rapidly: click click click. But it is a mistake to underestimate the brain beneath that fashionably tousled hair; it is, Trudy knows from the post-divorce division of property, as relentless and practical as an adding machine.
&
nbsp; Roger’s in the wine cellar, Kimberly says. Some mix-up with the Merlot delivery . . . But you know how that goes.
She winks, twinkling.
So I thought I’d keep you company until he comes up. Can I offer you a drink?
Please, says Trudy.
The pair cross the hall to the bar, a dark-paneled little room whose draperies exhale the breath of decades’ worth of cigars. Trudy settles onto a stool and watches in the leaded mirror while the younger woman sets out glasses. If not for the twenty-year gap in age, Trudy and Kimberly might be mistaken for sisters.
Red or white? Kimberly asks. Oh, silly me, did you want something stronger? A vodka tonic, or a Scotch—
Red’s great, thanks, Trudy says.
She samples the Bordeaux Kimberly pours for her. Chateau Souverain, an excellent vineyard, a vintage year. Unlike most restaurateurs, Roger has not hired a sommelier, preferring to select his wines himself. His taste has not slipped.
Kimberly fills Trudy’s glass to within a half inch of the brim and prepares her own drink, a Perrier with lime. She glances at the mirror and scrapes the lacquered nails of thumb and forefinger over the corners of her mouth to remove any crumbs of dried lipstick collected there. Then she comes around the bar to perch on the stool nearest Trudy.
So, she says, crossing her legs to exhibit a thoroughbred’s thighs encased in glittery hose. How are you?
Trudy nods, glancing at the haunches while taking a long swallow of her wine. Maybe it wasn’t such a bright idea to come here.
I’m fine, she says. Busy as always. You know.
Oh, I sure do. This time of year, it’s crazy, isn’t it?
Kimberly sighs deeply and pulls at the wisps of her bangs. I could just yank it all out, she says, laughing. You know, Trudy, I was just thinking about you the other day.
You were?
I sure was. Thinking how I envy you. You single gals have all the fun. No family to cook for—Roger’s whole family coming for Christmas, even that ancient aunt, can you believe it? And no grouchy old bear of a husband to put up with...So tell me, since I have to live through you. Any new men in your life?
Not really, Trudy says.
Kimberly pouts and leans closer, providing Trudy with a view of the admirable and freckled cleavage nestled in the salmon satin of her blouse.