Well? she says.
She turns again to Frick and Frack, who grin with embarrassment.
Then one of them winks at Trudy and says, Hey, Professor, lighten up. It’s Valentine’s Day, you know? Where’s the love?
There are some stifled giggles at this. Valentine’s Day. This would explain the preponderance of red sweaters in the classroom, the teddy bear holding a satin heart on one girl’s desk, the Hershey’s Kisses the students are mouthing. Trudy grips the edges of the lectern.
Ah, yes, she says. Valentine’s Day. So it is. And do any of you happen to know what was happening on Valentine’s Day in, say, 1943? In Germany? I can assure you it was somewhat different. People your age were not sitting in a classroom with their stuffed animals and little hearts. They were dying. Some because they had been caught performing Resistance activities and were strung up by the Gestapo. With piano wire. From meat hooks. Others were dying in air raids and from the flu that all of you can just run to the infirmary and get shots for. Can you believe that? Dying from the flu? Or how about dying of cold? Or starvation, perhaps you can imagine that. What would it be like not to have even bread, let alone chocolate? Do you know that in 1943 in Germany there were children who had never tasted chocolate? Who didn’t even know what chocolate was?
She glares at the class.
Well? Do you?
Total silence. Then somebody mumbles, You don’t have to, like, yell.
Oh, don’t I? Trudy asks. Thank you. Thank you for that sage piece of advice. But it seems to me that there is no other way to shake you out of your self-indulgent stupor, to make you realize that this isn’t just something I make you read about in history books. This is real. This is something that happened to real people. And let’s forget about the Germans for a second. Let’s think about the Jews. Oh, what the Germans did to the Jews. Did you know that when the Americans and Russians liberated the concentration camps, there were people your size who weighed under seventy pounds? Seventy pounds. Half of what some of you weigh. And their stomachs were so shrunken, so decimated from years of starvation, that when the soldiers tried to be kind to them and fed them meat and soup and cheese and, yes, chocolate, they died. Died from eating a Hershey bar. Can you imagine that? Any of you? You think about that next time you go to the dining hall— to the gym— when you’re trying to decide between yogurt or salad because you’re sticking to your little diets—
Trudy breaks off. A small choked noise has come from just beyond the podium, from a nice assiduous girl who always sits in the front row. She is staring at Trudy, tears in her eyes. The other students are either boggling at her too, thunderstruck, or looking at the floor.
Trudy turns and puts the chalk, by now a stub, back in the trough. Then she picks up her portfolio and coat and scarf.
That’s all for today, she says.
She walks with as much dignity as her boot will permit her from the room, conscious of being watched in stunned disbelief, and shuts the door quietly behind her.
38
IT IS EARLY EVENING WHEN TRUDY RETURNS TO MR. Goldmann’s house. The sky is a deep navy overhead, shading in the west to a lighter blue so pure it seems to vibrate: a gift of a color peculiar to midwinter Minnesota nights, compensating in clarity for what it lacks in warmth. To Trudy, standing by her car, it is reminiscent of a Maxfield Parrish painting; like a Parrish, too, is the yellow of the windows in the neighboring houses. Trudy eyes Mr. Goldmann’s, which are dark. Perhaps he is not home. She feels such relief at this prospect that she forces herself up the front walk and onto the porch without thinking about it further.
She is carrying a casserole of latkes, the recipe for which she wheedled from the owner of Murray’s Deli and that she has spent the entire afternoon making. The latkes look like potato pancakes to Trudy—or their German cousins, Kartoffelkuchen—but what does she know. In any case, they seem to have turned out all right: crisp and brown, rich with onions and butter and flecks of parsley. She has even included a side of sour cream.
She holds the Pyrex dish awkwardly under one arm while she turns the iron key that rings the bell. The ensuing tinny clatter is loud enough to send the dog in the house next door into a frenzy, but Mr. Goldmann does not appear. Trudy starts to try again, then draws her hand back. Once is enough. She sets the latkes on the welcome mat and is rummaging through her purse for paper and pen to write a note to go with them when she hears the whish-whish of approaching slippered feet.
Yes, Mr. Goldmann rumbles. What do you want? . . . Oh. It’s you.
Trudy tries to smile.
It’s me, she agrees.
For a long moment Mr. Goldmann merely looks at her.
Then he says, You have interrupted my dinner, and starts to shut the door.
Wait, says Trudy. Please.
She shifts her pocketbook onto her shoulder so she can stoop and pick up the latkes. The bag sags open and disgorges its contents onto the floorboards: pens, Chapstick, a rattling bottle of Motrin, nickels bouncing and rolling into the corners.
Oh, God, Trudy says.
Dropping to her hands and knees, she scrabbles to sweep the mess back into her purse. She doesn’t dare glance up at Mr. Goldmann; she can feel his displeasure as surely as if it were cold air emanating from an icebox. His slippers, which are leather and embossed with his monogram, remain in exactly the same position in the doorway as Trudy crawls past them.
When she has finished retrieving her things, Trudy stands and picks up the casserole dish. She holds it out.
For you, she says.
Mr. Goldmann lifts an eyebrow. There is something different about him, Trudy thinks. He is not wearing his bifocals. He is marginally less intimidating without them. But his silence is daunting enough.
Please, Trudy says again. I made them for you. Though I should warn you, they’re not kosher. I didn’t have the proper cooking equipment—That is irrelevant, Dr. Swenson, says Mr. Goldmann, as I am not observant. I am Jewish in name only.
Oh, says Trudy.
Mr. Goldmann squints at Trudy’s offering.
What are they?
Latkes.
He leans forward over the pan and sniffs suspiciously.
They look like potato pancakes, he says.
Well, they are, essentially. That’s what latkes are.
Ah.
Mr. Goldmann straightens, his hands in the pockets of his cardigan. Trudy shifts from foot to foot, waiting for him to say something else or at least take the pan. When he doesn’t, she bends to put it on the mat.
I’m sorry to have disturbed you, she says. I’ll just leave these here. You can keep the dish.
Dr. Swenson.
Yes?
Mr. Goldmann sighs.
You might as well come in, he says. And bring those—He gestures to the pancakes.
Latkes.
Yes, the latkes. Since my dinner will no doubt be cold by now, I suppose there is no harm in adding a side of cold potatoes to it.
He turns and walks into the house, again merely leaving the door open in brusque implication that Trudy should follow.
So she does, hurrying to catch up with him as he strides through the dining room, the scene of the earlier debacle, and through a long narrow throat of a hallway that opens into a kitchen. It is somewhat warmer in here, but only a little; the drafts, the room’s large and chilly proportions, the high tin ceiling remind Trudy of the farmhouse. Like those in the farmhouse, too, are the old gas range from the fifties and the gigantic refrigerator with its rounded corners, the walls painted their original Depression green. A Beethoven symphony plays quietly and incongruously from some other room.
Trudy looks around for a place to put the latkes.
On the table is fine, Mr. Goldmann says.
Trudy sets the casserole next to a glass of milk and a half-eaten slab of roast. There is also a candle in a pewter holder, though unlit, and photographs spilling from an envelope, in disarray on the checked oilcloth as though Mr. Goldmann has just b
een sifting through them.
Trudy can’t help glancing at them.
Are these of your family?
My daughter and granddaughter.
May I?
Mr. Goldmann says nothing, which Trudy takes as tacit permission to examine the top snapshot. Against a backdrop of palms, a small woman with dark curly hair laughs into the camera, hugging a pretty child to her waist. Mr. Goldmann stands slightly to one side. They are all wearing Mickey Mouse ears, Mr. Goldmann included. He looks uncomfortable.
Disney World, he explains from behind Trudy, somewhat unnecessarily. A recent vacation. They live nearby. A hideous place, but my granddaughter loves it.
I can see that. She’s a beautiful little girl. What’s her name?
Hannah, after my late wife. Who died twelve years ago of cancer, a miserable agonizing death I wouldn’t wish on an SS dog. The irony being that at the end she was as thin as she was in the camps, skin and bones, all her hair gone. Dr. Swenson—Trudy looks up. Mr. Goldmann is standing stiffly next to his chair, one hand on its laddered back as though he is posing for a portrait.
Yes?
Why are you here?
Mr. Goldmann—
Rainer. Since you have for some unknown reason seen fit to invade my home a second time, you might as well use my first name, don’t you think?
Trudy’s face burns.
All right. Rainer. And please, call me Trudy. Anyway, I just came . . .
She shakes her head.
Go on.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. To bring the latkes, I mean. I somehow had the misguided notion that they might work as a sort of peace offering, you know, to make amends for what happened earlier today, to—Well. It was stupid, really. Nobody could ever compensate for what was done to you and your family. Least of all me.
Trudy hitches her purse more securely onto her shoulder.
But thank you for inviting me in, she says. I’ll leave you in peace now.
She walks quickly from the kitchen, leaving Mr. Goldmann still gripping his chair. She is nearly to the front door, cursing herself for being a fool, when she hears him call: Dr. Swenson.
Trudy turns. Mr. Goldmann is standing at the mouth of the hallway.
Trudy, she says. Please.
Very well. Trudy. Have you eaten?
Well, no, but—
In that case, perhaps you would join me.
Why, I— Yes, that would be lovely. I’d be honored, in fact.
Mr. Goldmann looks startled. Then he nods.
Sit, he says. I will bring the food out here.
Oh, no, says Trudy. Don’t go to any trouble. The kitchen is fine—
But he is already striding away, so Trudy removes her coat and unwinds her scarf and lays them on a chair next to the dining-room table. She pulls out another and settles cautiously on its edge. As she had no chance to take note of her surroundings earlier, she does so now: dark wallpaper with small tasteful wreaths, a sideboard displaying the flowered china, faded Oriental rugs. In an alcove next to the bay window is another, smaller table with a chess set on it, the pieces arranged in midbattle configuration. There are no curtains; on pleasant days, sunlight would stream over the board. Trudy pictures Mr. Goldmann playing himself, angling forward to move a knight and then sitting back to contemplate its position, the light glinting on the gray hair of his wrist and glancing off his watch.
He returns with a tray, from which he doles two plates of meat, carrots and peas, and Trudy’s latkes. Their lacy edges look fussy, she thinks, next to Mr. Goldmann’s simple bachelor fare.
He sits opposite Trudy and picks up his knife and fork.
Gut essen, he says.
Trudy eyes him warily. Is there a faint irony to his smile?
Bon appétit, she replies, and toasts him with her milk.
Mr. Goldmann begins to eat. His complete concentration on his food does not encourage conversation, so Trudy takes her cue from him. She saws at her meat, trying to keep the plate from moving on the table, and brings a forkful to her mouth. Halfway there, her hand pauses: the Beethoven, which Trudy has almost forgotten, stops and starts again, the same piece. It is the second movement of the Seventh Symphony, which to Trudy has always been, with its clever, tortured minor-key strings, the very essence of grief. Mr. Goldmann has programmed it to repeat.
He looks up and levels his knife at Trudy, who notices that his watch is exactly as she has imagined it. Plain, durable. And his large square hand is indeed thatched with silvering hair as thick as that on his head.
Is there something wrong with your food? he asks.
Trudy finishes her bite, chewing and swallowing with difficulty. The roast is in fact overcooked, so tough and stringy as to be nearly inedible.
No, not at all, she says. It’s delicious.
Mr. Goldmann grunts and returns to his meal.
Then eat your dinner, he says.
Trudy does. The cutlery clinks and scrapes on the plates.
Anna and the Obersturmführer, Weimar, 1943–1945
39
BUT HORST, WHERE ARE YOU TAKING US?
Don’t ask questions. Just get in.
Anna balks, refusing to relinquish the safety of the bakery’s shadow for the Obersturmführer’s car, which idles a few meters away. She is so terrified that the blood vessels in her brain must have constricted to threads, for she sees the swastika-draped Mercedes and the grim-faced Obersturmführer as a two-dimensional trompe l’oeil, a trick of the eye.
But Horst—
She glances at Karl the chauffeur, who holds the door open, deaf to this unseemly little scene between his master and his master’s mistress.
But Herr Obersturmführer, it’s the middle of the day. The bakery—
The bakery is now closed. I hereby declare it closed. You’re trying my patience, Anna.
But—
Get in.
Anna helps Trudie climb into the Obersturmführer’s car. What could Anna have done to cause offense? Has she been less than enthusiastic in bed, has she polished the Obersturmführer ’s boots incorrectly, has Trudie irritated him, has he somehow confirmed her past feeding of the prisoners? Has he simply tired of her and found somebody else? This is not the way it is supposed to happen; people disappear at midnight, not at noon. Nacht und Nebel. The antennae of Anna’s instincts, delicately calibrated as tripwires to anticipate any change in the Obersturmführer ’s moods, quiver with effort but pick up nothing. His bearing is military, his face impassive.
Anna would like to pray, but as she is so long out of practice, the only words she can find are dear God. She shifts in her seat for a last look at the bakery. It now seems a shimmering mecca, dear God dear God, an oasis of everything precious, dear God dear God please, cracked walls and all. The car slides away.
Trudie goggles about the interior with intense curiosity. She bounces, kicking her heels against the leather.
Mama, what’s this? she asks. Is it for laundry?
It is not, the Obersturmführer tells her gravely. It contains food, and it is a surprise for your mother.
He presents Anna with a picnic hamper, a wicker relic from another, more carefree age.
Surprise, he says. Are you surprised?
Anna closes her eyes.
You could say that, she tells him.
Happy birthday, says the Obersturmführer. After a moment, he remembers to grin.
Happy birthday, Mama! Is it really your birthday?
Why, yes, says Anna. I suppose so.
I thought you might enjoy a picnic, the Obersturmführer says.
Anna tallies the days: it is indeed the second of August. She is twenty-three years old. She manufactures a weak smile for the Obersturmführer, who pats her knee with a self-satisfied air. Has she ever told him when her birthday is? If so, it is a remark she made long ago, in passing. Either his memory is preternaturally keen or he has gone to some trouble to look up her birth record. Having seen him at his most vulnerable, having grown a
ccustomed to viewing him through a lens of ridicule, Anna has gotten sloppy. She must remember always how smart he is. She must never underestimate him.
Karl drives through Weimar, negotiating potholes. Trudie is silent and round-eyed, awed by the speed of the vehicle. In all the child’s three years, Anna realizes, it is her first experience of travel by car. Yet as they near the Park an der Ilm, Trudie recovers. She jumps on the seat, pressing her face to the window glass.
Mama, she says, pointing at a work detail repaving a road. Why are those funny men wearing pajamas?
Be quiet, Trudie, Anna hisses. Sit down!
She glances at the Obersturmführer, who has recently taken to commenting on the child’s lack of discipline. He is staring straight ahead, his eyes blank with reflected light. He often falls into these peculiar trances now, and at such times he looks much as he did in the breakfast room in Berchtesgaden: his shoulders slump, his mouth sags at the corners. He is an appliance unplugged. But he comes back to life without warning and usually angry, as though suspecting he may have missed something important while gone.
Today, however, he seems calm enough; when he reanimates he merely hoists the picnic hamper and a satchel and marches into the park. Trudie scrambles after him. Anna follows the pair at a more sedate pace. Karl, the faithful mannequin, remains with the Mercedes. As soon as the Obersturmführer ’s back is to the car, a stream of gray smoke shoots from the driver’s window.
The sky is white with haze and the air smells sticky, of running sap and milkweed pods burst open to spill their seeds in the heat. The tall grasses whir with insects. Anna expects the Ober-sturmführer to seek the shade of Goethe’s Gartenhaus or one of the pavilions, but he forges on toward the water. She exchanges a quizzical glance with the statue of Shakespeare, which the Nazis have doused in black paint. Once upon a time the Bard would have beheld sheep grazing here in the park, but they have long since metamorphosed into stringy mutton on the dinner tables of Weimar.
The Obersturmführer and his flock, in contrast, dine well. The hamper, opened beneath a tree on the river’s edge, reveals champagne, ham, currant jelly, sweating brown bottles of the heavy beer the Obersturmführer favors, sardines, pickles, bread. Anna marvels anew at the innocence of the plaid fabric, the clever pockets for cutlery and wineglasses. She has little appetite, but the Obersturmführer and Trudie eat with hearty appreciation. The smacking of lips and licking of fingers is accompanied by Brahms’ Second Concerto, emitted from the phonograph the Obersturmführer has thoughtfully packed in the satchel. The record player is a portable antique from which music is coaxed by turning a crank. The proud horns of the opening movement emerge scratchily from its throat.