Page 129 of Hell to Pay
“Poor?” he said. “Yes. But Fräulein Glücksburg isn’t, you see.” His eyes were mild, his voice gentle. “She’s a rather wealthy young woman, in fact.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but I was going to let it stand.
Frau Adelberg looked at me, then at him, then at me again. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out. I said, “But as I said, I’d miss the customers otherwise. So please—let me know.”
How that day and the next one dragged! I’d worked every day except Sundays since I’d come here, and wasn’t used to having nothing to do. I also kept replaying everything Joe and I had said, hard as I tried to take the record off the turntable. While I made potato soup—I knew how to make it now, but wasn’t any happier about eating it—and sourdough pancakes to stretch it into a dinner. While I took my bath—there wasn’t actually enough hot water to read in there, or even to be comfortable crying, so my time there was short. While I sat at the table—Dr. Müller had only one easy chair—and tried to read my book. I did my best to make a plan, to look ahead, butDr. Müller’s cupboards were very bare and the flat very cold, and being uncomfortable as well as idle didn’t help my mood.
Fuel oil,I told myself firmly.Bacon. Eggs and buttermilk and cheese, too.Dr. Müller coughed almost continuously, surely partly because he was too badly nourished to fight off any infection. I’d have to search for those things—well, to search for somebody corrupt enough to sell them to me under the counter—but at least it would give me something to do.
I’d been frightened for so much of the past year, and uncomfortable for almost all of it, but I’m not sure I’d ever been quite as miserable as on that day after Christmas. Before, I’d always had a goal, and part of me had always thought that there’d be better times around the corner. Now, as much as I wanted to keep soldiering on, to remember all the people worse off than me, to believe in a better tomorrow when times would be easier and I’d have people to love again, I could barely summon the strength to try.
Things did get a little better when Matti knocked at the door in the afternoon, skipped up the stairs, and told me that Mama and Papa wanted me to come work in the shop tomorrow. It was something to plan for, at least. And when he opened his rucksack and pulled out his book and the marbles, things got better still. I’d always known, I reminded myself as he lay on his stomach with his skinny ankles crossed in the air and knocked another marble out of the circle, that there was no future with Joe. What had I expected? I’d never believed, I reminded myself as I readRumpelstiltskinto him, both of us sitting on the floor with our backs against the wall, that I’d be able to have children, because no man would want to risk losing them. It had only been a dream, and every German knew, as we approached 1946, that dreams weren’t reality.
But if I was this sad, how sad was Joe? He felt so deeply, and he saw and heard such terrible things every day. Whowould play music with him now, and talk about books, and remind him that there was beauty in the world as well as evil?
Somebody else, that was who. He was a good man, and now he could find somebody worthy of him, who could be all the things I wasn’t. Healthy. Jewish. Not desperate.
Was it awkward going to the bakery those next weeks, too? Well, yes, although the problem wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. I told each customer that Herr Adelberg had returned and was baking, and they expressed their pleasure. They also, however, expressed their disappointment.
“What, still no Pumpernickel?” Frau Neumann exclaimed on the second Friday.
“Not today,” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. But here is a lovely rye bread, you see.” She could hardly help but see, as it was the only variety available.
And no potato bread, either,” Frau Lindemann said. “The loaves so small, too.” For once, they were united. “Your potato bread is always so light.”
“I’m sure Herr Adelberg will be making many delicious varieties of his own invention,” I said. The smile came a little more easily now, because I wasn’t sure at all, was I?
“Are you?” Frau Neumann said. “We’ll see. Will you not be baking at all, then?”
“Not at the moment,” I said cheerily, and smiled some more. Such is the pleasure ofSchadenfreude,and as I’d told Joe’s captain, I wasn’t nearly as kind and gentle as my mother.One owns one’s personality, and this was mine.
I was very tired, though, when I walked back to Dr. Müller’s flat at the end of that day, after a visit to the fishmonger and the grocer and another to a certain fuel oil supplier of my acquaintance who was prepared to part with “a bit extra, for a bit extra.” Dr. Müller was still coughing half the night, because he couldn’t seem to shake that cold, but at least he was warm, and his cupboard wasn’t quite so bare. It wouldbe herring again tonight, but I’d found a quarter of a cabbage to cook with the potatoes. There was no reason to be tired; I hadn’t been tired before, had I? At least the fatigue might help me sleep, so I wouldn’t lie awake seeing Joe’s face, hearing Joe’s voice.
Somehow, I’d never really believe he’d leave. I’d imagined—what? Being able to spend time with him still? To play music with him and have him smile at me so I could realize with that delicious thrill how much we liked each other? Romance didn’t work like that, did it? I wasn’t sure; I knew so little of it, but in films and books, at least, when a couple broke up, they didn’t see each other again. They moved on to somebody else, and never mind that I couldn’t imagine ever finding anybody else like Joe.
I’d discussA Tree Grows in Brooklynwith Dr. Müller while we ate dinner, though, now that he’d also read it, and …
But when I opened the door of the flat, it was cold and dark, and I didn’t find Dr. Müller. I found only a note.
54
WITH YOU
The note was from Joe. I’d barely registered his looping, slightly messy handwriting when I was hit with the actual message.
I took the Professor to the hospital in Nuremberg. He was in a bad way. I’ll come back for you.Do notride over here.
Joe
You can imagine with what anxiety I waited out the next hours. I didn’t even cook the potatoes and cabbage, because I expected Joe at any minute. I tried to read, but couldn’t do it.
The Professor had beenmyresponsibility. Why hadn’t I insisted that he allow me to find a doctor? Or why hadn’t I found one without his permission? Was he going to be all right? Was he even still alive? Why hadn’t Joe come back? Joe always kept his word, so how bad was Dr. Müller if Joe couldn’t leave him? Around and around the thoughts went, until I was pacing the little flat like an obsessive. I was dimly aware that I was cold and hungry, but I couldn’t focus enough to do anything about it. I could only pace.
When the knock at the door came, I nearly sobbed with relief as I flew to it and turned the handle.
It was Joe, looking so solid in his Army greatcoat. My anxious eyes searched his face, and he smiled a tired smile and said, “He’s still alive, anyway.”
That was it. I burst into tears, and somehow, I was in Joe’s arms. Just like that Christmas morning in the cold, he was holding me, murmuring words I barely caught, because I was crying too hard for that.
I’d thought, when day after day had gone by and I still hadn’t cried, that I must be getting over him. Now, when the dam had burst, I knew it wasn’t true. He was here, and that was almost everything.
