Page 118 of Hell to Pay
“One does what one must,” I said. “Yes, we were fortunate, but still, we didn’t have bread. Frau Heffinger, our cook, didn’t care for making it and had enough to do anyway, with so many fewer hands to help, and I wanted to learn, so you see—” I spread my hands. “A baker was born. Or made. I don’t know how it is in America, but in Europe, nothing is the same as before. The Princess Elizabeth, I understand, spent the war as a mechanic.”
“The Princess Elizabeth,” the captain said. “Hmm.”
“So does this mean,” I said, “that I may take Joe away for a bit now and perhaps discuss books with him, if you’re finished for the day? Or would you like to vet the reading list?” My temper was well and truly up now. “At the moment, I’m attempting to finishBrideshead Revisited.The dullness and passivity of Charles, though! And that silly teddy bear, Aloysius. It isn’t charming for a young man to behave like a child. Why would any author put such a stupid thing into a book? The weakness, the drunkenness, and oh, the dreary Catholicism! I’m Catholic, you understand, but not as boringly so, I hope.”
“Not boringly so at all, Fräulein Glücksburg,” the captainsaid. “Not at all. And I’m very pleased to have met you. Sure, take this guy away. For now.”
We left him at the table. When we were outside again, I asked Joe, “Will he forbid you to see me, do you think?”
“Would you be sorry if he did?” Joe asked.
I turned to him in astonishment. “Of course I would be. How can you ask that?”
“Oh,” he said. “Good to know. Sorry. He’s been in my head some, asking me about you. Well, you’ve seen. He’s one heck of an interrogator.”
“And you believed him.” I turned on him. “Youdoubtedme?”
“Of course I didn’t. What, I think you’re a Russian spy? Or just a well-concealed Nazi? No.” He took my hand, then. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hold his. It depended on what he said next. Which was, “Both things are ridiculous. Pulling me out of the street and bringing American troops back to your front door would have been a pretty risky bet, for one thing, and anyway—no. Not possible. That’s not who you are. But he did have me half convinced that I was seriously overestimating my chances. Every time I saw you, it felt like we fit—itfeelslike we fit—but after a couple of days, I’d start to wonder. I’m a pretty ordinary guy, you know, and you’re—well, you’re not.”
“You’re an ordinary guy?” I had to laugh, even though I was still outraged. My feelings were very confused today, but yes, I was still holding his hand.“You?No. Would any woman who’d been raised by my father settle for that?”
He didn’t say anything I’d have expected. He said, “I wish I could’ve met him. I guess you probably know that I wish I could meet him now.”
Which had me in confusion again, and saying nothing. He said, “When we talked last week with the professor about what we missed from before the war, you said, ‘Music.’ You haven’t said that before.”
“No point,” I said. “Music, I fear, is gone from Germany for some time.”
“Did you play an instrument, then?” he asked.
“The piano. Since I was small.” I was still irritated, you see.
“Ah,” he said with satisfaction. “I thought so. Come on.” He still had my hand, and now, he hurried with me around corners and through alleys until we were standing before a little shop. Its window was scrupulously clean, but that only made the instruments inside look more battered.
I said, tugging at his hand, “I can’t play for you. I’m terribly out of practice, and anyway, I’m not that good. I was only ever competent; my mother was the real musician.”
“If we can’t hear music,” Joe said, “we can still make it. Come on. Let’s go in.”
The proprietor came forward to greet us. A small, bald old man, he bowed slightly and said, “Welcome. I am Herr Volcker, and this is my shop. How can I help you today?” That was in German, and then he said, “Alas, I speak no English,” in a heavy accent. After that, he looked at me expectantly. His suit was threadbare, but his dignity was immense.
Joe said, in German, of course, “How do you do, Herr Volcker. Joe Stark.” He put out a hand. “I’m glad to meet you. You have a cello in the window.”
“Yes,” Herr Volcker said.
“Do you think I could try it out?”
“Of course. Few have money for such things now, I’m afraid. Every day, they bring things to the shop. I cannot afford to buy them, but I tell them that I will do my best to sell them, for a small fee. Alas … But the cello is better than it looks. It’s been sitting here some time, waiting for an owner so it can sing again.”
“Well,” Joe said, “let’s give it a try, shall we?”
Herr Volcker hauled it out of the window, with Joe lending a careful hand to lay it on its side beside a chair. “And could the young lady play one of your pianos and accompany me?” Joe asked.
“Naturally,” Herr Volcker said. “This one is in the best tune.” He indicated a scratched and battered upright, a far cry from my mother’s Bechstein grand, with its beautifully polished woods and ivory keys. “Will you require music?” he asked.
“Definitely,” I said, “for my part. It’s been a year since I’ve played.”
“A year,” he said gently, “isn’t such a very long time.”
Joe said, “Something simple, maybe. Bach’sMinuet No. 2?”
