Page 111 of Hell to Pay
“That’s exactly what it is,” Joe said. “I guess your parents didn’t teach you that, huh?”
“Theirs was an arranged marriage. It was common with—in the society to which they belonged. They loved each other very much, but the love came after the wedding, for theydidn’t know each other before. They were from different states entirely, in fact.”
I held my breath—that was coming dangerously close to the truth—but Joe didn’t press. He said, “Well, we’ll work our way up to it, I guess. On that note—” He rummaged in the rucksack. “I won’t bore you with the toilet paper. I’ll pull out the big guns instead. So to speak.”
He passed me two parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Twosquashyparcels. I didn’t say anything, just eased the first one open.
It was a dress. Green, with flowers, and belted neatly at the waist. The second parcel held another dress, yellow with purple flowers, this time with a tie at the back and buttons all down the front.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “Truly. They’re so very … so very beautiful.”
“From Switzerland,” Joe said. “I guessed at the size. Rayon, because that’s what they had, but I liked how it sort of … flows. It’s feminine, I thought. I figured you could wear them with an apron at the counter.”
“I’ll save them for that,” I said, “and wear these terrible trousers for baking.”
“Wait,” he said, “you’re the baker?”
“But of course. With Frau Adelberg’s arm, how else could we manage? I’m very lucky to have such a skill. Otherwise—” I shrugged. “Unless I could get a job with your Army, I’d be in a sad state. And as I don’t know typing or shorthand, I fear I’d make a very deficient secretary.”
“Yes,” Joe said, his eyes gleaming with amusement, “I imagine that would make things difficult.”
“I am excellent, however, at baking,” I said. “Or at least thoroughly adequate, though I long to try my hand at more varieties. Did you find the yeast? Please say yes. How I’ve wished for yeast!”
He said, “You’re an easy woman to please, then, because Ididbring you yeast, and a bag of sugar, too, from the base, even though you didn’t ask. I lived through the rest of my war on the smell of that bread. I’d like to try it for myself.”
“Then,” I said, “I’ll give you a loaf when we get back, and you can share it with your friends. You have so much lovely food, but good German bread—even if itispotato bread—may be a bit of a treat still, I hope.”
“It’ll definitely be a treat,” Joe said. “And so is spending time with you.”
47
A VERY GOOD MAN
I stayed in the shop until it closed the next day, even though I’d been up since three-thirty. Joe didn’t appear, and I didn’t want to admit how disappointed I was to put up theClosedsign. I was only cheered by Dr. Müller’s excitement, earlier in the day, at the stack of books Joe had left for us.
“Brideshead Revisited,”he’d exclaimed. “What a wonderful adventure. Hemingway, too: an American author.For Whom the Bell Tolls,hmm. What is that about, I wonder? We haven’t tackledA Farewell to Armsyet, have we? Will this be another novel of war? And here is Thomas Mann withLotte in Weimar,translated into the English.How seditious! I believe I must claim the right to read this one first. And the last one:A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.This I have not heard of. A woman author, too. Betty Smith. This must be American, I think. Now, that is the mark of an educated man, to want to read books written by authors wholly unlike him.”
“Is an American woman wholly unlike an American man, then?” I asked.
He looked up, startled, then laughed. “Very true,Fräulein,very true. You challenge me quite rightly. Should I take all these away with me, or would you prefer to keep them here?”
“Oh, you take them, please,” I said. “I’ve gone back toThe Grapes of Wrathfor now.”
Dr. Müller looked at me, and I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. “The book about California,” he said.
“Yes.” I turned and straightened bread that didn’t need straightening—there were only three loaves left on the shelf.
“And you have a pretty new dress,” Dr. Müller said. “Well, well. Young men are not the most reliable of creatures, but here I suspect we may have found an exception.”
“Oh!” I said, happy to find a way to leave this topic. “I nearly forgot.” I reached under the counter and pulled out four rolls of toilet paper, setting them before Dr. Müller with a flourish. The smile on his face! “And …” I said, drawing it out before pulling out four pads of lined writing paper in a neat stack, followed by a tin of loose tea and a little packet of sugar. And the last item: a tin of pipe tobacco.
“Oh, my,” Dr. Müller said. “Oh, my.” He took off his glasses and polished them on his tie, blinking his watery blue eyes. “To be able to take proper notes again, and to smoke a pipe in the evening while I think! I’ve an idea for a book that— And now I can pursue it. Oh, what a happy day.”
“Yes,” I said with a smile, feeling as proud of Joe as any mother with her child.
“And he has behaved properly, giving you all this?” Dr. Müller remembered to ask.
“Very properly,” I said. “He’ll be working in Nuremberg for a year, he says, and he asked again about the book discussion group. He really would like to pursue it, and he wished me to tell you so.”
