Page 106 of Hell to Pay
I raised my eyes to his. I didn’t look at Dr. Müller, but I was glad he was here. Joe said, “Of course I came to see you. I’d like to come back and see you again, too. With those books, and maybe—what? Real tea? That’s one thing the English seem to still have plenty of. And what else? Chocolate and gum, I can get you right here, and nylons, too. Lipstick, if you’d like some.”
“Nylons and lipstick,” Dr. Müller said, again addressing the distance, “would perhaps be inappropriate. Very conspicuous, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” Joe said. “I don’t know the ropes, I guess. But tea, yes?”
“Yes,” I said. “Oh, yes. And—and powdered milk, possibly?”
“I can do that,” he said. “But nothing to wear? Not even a dress? I imagine those are easier to come by in London than they are here.”
“Oh,” I said, “a dress …!” And stopped. I had exactly two dresses, now that we’d cut up the blue one, and they were very thin and shabby now.
Joe said, “If it was simple and not too flashy, maybe. Something you could wear in the shop. With flowers. Blue, or maybe yellow?”
I couldn’t even answer. I wasn’t a particularly materialistic person—ironic, given my upbringing, but when one is focused on survival, all other desires tend to recede. I could see that dress, though. “Or green,” I said. “With flowers.”
Joe smiled. It wasn’t a triumphant smile, but that kind one again. “And what else?” he asked. “What would be—I don’t know, a luxury?”
“If you could find yeast,” I said.
“Yeast?” He looked confused.
“For baking,” I said. “Yeast is very difficult now. And soap, too. Not for baking, but … My mother used Yardley English Lavender Soap when I was growing up. She was so sad when she used up her store of it, because of course one couldn’t get it after 1939. Or Pears, if Yardley’s isn’t available. Real soap … that would be wonderful.” I was talking too much, nearly babbling. Why should I be nervous now? I hadn’t been a bit nervous when Joe had been lying on my bed and I’d been sleeping on the floor beside it, and how much more intimate was that? “Oh!” I realized, and flushed. “I can repay you for all those things, of course. I have a little money.”
“Nope,” Joe said, and pulled out a pencil and small notebook. “This one’s on me. It would take an awful lot of tea and soap to pay back what I owe you. I’m making a note. What else?”
I should have been insisting on paying, but in my lust for comforts, I’m afraid I forgot. “A jar of Pond’s cold cream, if one can still get it. That would be a real luxury. And—oh, paper. Paper, please.”
“Paper?” Joe said.
“Paper,” Dr. Müller said, “is very difficult to come by. Toilet paper in particular.”
“OK, then,” Joe said, making another note. “I didn’t realize that. And for you, sir? What can I bring you, besides toilet paper and tea?”
“Oh, the books,” Dr. Müller said. “Absolutely, the books. And a bit of writing paper, if you can manage it.”
“And pipe tobacco, maybe?” Joe asked.
Dr. Müller looked up. “How did you know?”
“Well, sir,” Joe said, “you seem like a professor to me. I’ve only had one year at the university, but in my experience, professors tend to like a pipe. Good for contemplation, I suppose. Do you smoke cigarettes, too?”
“Not anymore,” Dr. Müller said. “I cannot get them, you see. They are hard to find, and very dear.”
Joe reached into his pocket, pulled out a cellophane-wrapped packet of four cigarettes, and held them out. “I get them in my rations, but I don’t smoke. If you’d take them off my hands …”
Dr. Müller made no move to take them, but said, “If you’d really like to help Fräulein Glücksburg, you’ll give them to her. One can buy many things with cigarettes these days.Cigarettes and sugar. Some women, one hears, are perhaps …” He stopped.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s improper of me to mention,” Dr. Müller said. “They are willing to trade too much for such things, let us just say. And Fräulein Glücksburg is alone in the world.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” Joe said. For once, his eyes didn’t look kind. “Daisy doesn’t have to do one single thing to get me to bring her back a few bars of soap and a jar of cold cream, and I’m pretty offended you’d suggest it.”
“Your compatriots,” Dr. Müller said, “are not always so high-minded. And neither, it must be said, is every German woman. A dress? Lipstick? Nylons?” He spread his hands. “You see how it looks.”
“Well, I’m not my compatriots,” Joe said, “and Daisy’s not every German woman. She saved my life. Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t respect it? Do you imagine I’d ever hurt her?”
We were speaking English, and I was devoutly glad of it, for I saw some heads turn. Joe wasn’t shouting, but he definitely sounded angry.
