Those Who Save Us (35 page)

55

WHEN TRUDY GETS HOME, SHE WALKS STRAIGHT PAST A startled Anna in the kitchen and down the hall to her study, where she slams the door. It occurs to her that Anna will find this behavior rude or even alarming. But Trudy doesn’t spare it a second thought. She can apologize later. Or perhaps she won’t. What does it matter now?

Without removing her coat, Trudy sinks into her desk chair and looks dully around the room. There are her texts and papers and books, the history periodicals to which she subscribes, her interview transcripts and
Lotte in Weimar
recording and CDs of German composers. The tapes of her subjects, alphabetized on a shelf in the television cabinet above the VCR. Headphones. Legal pads. Binders of class plans organized by year. Year upon year of them, in fact, stretching back through the decades. This, then, is the sum total of Trudy’s existence. How has it come to be this way? This was not how it was supposed to be. Trudy tries to remember a time when she might have wanted something else and what that might have been, but she can’t. And when Trudy attempts to picture simply going away, to Florida for instance, or one of the islands in those glossy pamphlets, what comes to mind is an image of herself on an old wooden ship, sailing and sailing until she reaches the end of the world and falls off.

You will be fine, Rainer has told her; your work, your students, your research, the full life you had before you met me.

Trudy leans forward and sweeps everything off her desk. She kicks her briefcase, which spills her lecture notes and the travel brochures onto the rug. Then she puts her head down on the blotter and covers it with her arms.

Some indeterminate time later there is a tentative tap on the door. Then it opens and Anna comes in. She switches on the floor lamp next to the sofa and Trudy looks up, blinking. She has not noticed how dark the room has become. It is already evening. And where is Rainer now? At the airport? On a plane?

Anna tucks the spatula she is holding into the pocket of her apron and extends her hands. Trudy stands, takes off her coat, passes it to Anna, and sits down again. Anna disappears with it, to hang it in the closet, Trudy presumes. She does not expect Anna to come back.

But Anna does. She stays in the doorway for a moment, assessing the mess on the floor. Then, with a small grunt of effort, she stoops and begins to tidy it up.

Leave it, Mama, says Trudy.

Anna blows at a long strand of white hair that has escaped her wreath of braids. Then she continues stacking the papers into orderly piles.

I said, leave it! Trudy says.

She puts her hands over her face.

Oh, God, she cries.

Anna straightens and walks to the side of the desk, setting a sheaf of transcripts on it.

So, she says. He is gone, then.

What? says Trudy.

Your man. The man with whom you have been keeping company.

Trudy lowers her hands and stares at her mother. Anna is looking down at her, neat and sturdy as always in a navy blue dress. There is a smudge of flour high on her cheekbone.

How did you know that?

Anna smiles.

Ach,
Trudy, she says. Do you think I am a fool? Those times you did not come home for dinner. Those nights you did not come home at all. Where else would you be but with him?

Trudy nods and sighs.

He has gone away now, Anna repeats.

Yes.

For good?

I don’t know, says Trudy.

She waits for Anna to offer some condolence, some platitude of reassurance or advice, but Anna says nothing more.

You know who it was, Mama? The man whose interview you watched. The night I came in here and you were viewing the tape.

Ah, says Anna. I suspected as much.

Did you?

Yes. It was written on your face the moment you saw him.

Trudy looks up at her.

So you know he was Jewish, she says.

Yes. I knew.

Doesn’t that bother you, Mama? That I was involved with a Jew?

Anna continues to smile, a little sadly, Trudy thinks.

That is a silly question, Trudy, she says. Why should it? You are a grown woman. You may keep company with whomever you wish. It is no concern of mine.

Well, says Trudy. It’s irrelevant now anyway. He’s gone.

Then she covers her face again.

So, she hears Anna say. So.

She senses rather than feels Anna’s fingers graze her hair, so light is the touch. It is more a fleeting rearrangement of the mol ecules in the air near Trudy’s head, a momentary impression of movement, than anything. Yet it suddenly reminds Trudy of all the other occasions on which Anna has comforted her.
Nur eine Alptraum,
Anna would say, sitting on the side of Trudy’s childhood bed when Trudy awoke yelling from nightmares she could never remember;
Ja so, es ist nur eine Alptraum.
Just a bad dream. A voice in the dark. A hand on Trudy’s forehead. How Anna slapped Trudy and then held her on the morning of Trudy’s first menstrual flow, when Trudy screamed and screamed and could not stop screaming at the discovery of the rusty stain on her drawers.
So. So. This is what it means to be a woman. Once a month you will pass blood. Like so,
nicht? The sight of Anna’s rare smile, her fine strong white teeth, sun winking through clouds. And the tune Anna hummed, a favorite of Jack’s to which Anna had not yet learned the words:
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.

But it is too late for such things now, or perhaps too much wariness has passed between the two women. For there is only the moth-light brush of Anna’s fingertips and a trace of her lilac sachet, and when Trudy looks up she sees that Anna has already gone to the door.

I have made a cake, Anna tells her. A poppy-seed cake. Would you like some?

Before Trudy can refuse, she adds, I will put on a pot of your coffee to go with it.

Kaffee und Kuchen
instead of
Komfort
? Trudy thinks. Well, why not? It is the best either of them can do.

Despite everything, Trudy’s lips stitch in a rueful smile, and Anna looks pleased, and it is then that Trudy recalls the rest of the song:
The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping , I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, so I hung my head and cried.

Thank you, Mama, she says softly. I would like that.

Anna and Jack,

New Heidelburg, 1945

56

H
EIMAT
.
THE WORD MEANS
HOME
IN GERMAN, THE PLACE where one was born. But the term also conveys a subtler nuance, a certain tenderness. One’s
Heimat
is not merely a matter of geography; it is where the heart lies. And Anna, lacking the vocabulary to explain this distinction to anyone in her new country, is no longer certain she has one.

For as alien as her own land has become to Anna, her husband’s
Heimat
is more so. Everything about America is incomprehensible to her: the abundant food, the huge vehicles, the immensity of its flat horizons and the violence of its weather. Worse, despite the surface strangeness, an essential undercurrent remains the same. The people here regard Anna with suspicion, their hostility palpable beneath their polite smiles. Anna is dismayed to discover that she has carried Germany with her as surely as if she had imported the spores of its soil beneath her fingernails, as if the smell of its corpses still clung to her skin.

Christmas Eve, 1945, Anna’s first experience of the holiday in her adopted homeland. She and Jack and Trudie will attend services at the New Heidelburg Lutheran Church. This is a good twelve kilometers—
miles,
Anna reminds herself—from the farmhouse. A long drive on a cold night. Anna would much prefer to stay home, putting the finishing touches on tomorrow’s goose or tying ribbons on presents or simply sitting in the kitchen, toasting her feet by the range and awaiting Jack and Trudie’s return. But over the past three months Anna has observed that it saddens Jack when she avoids going into town, though he never says it outright. And she has retained enough Old World schooling to know that a good wife should never disappoint her husband. So Anna bathes herself and the child, puts on her nicest dress and bravest face, and climbs into the truck.

This Lutheran church is a surprisingly plain affair: square and white and wood-shingled, only its steeple differentiating it from a dwelling. A far cry, thinks Anna, from her childhood house of worship, Weimar’s massive stone cathedral with its soaring naves and disproportionately tiny red door meant to remind man of his relative insignificance. Yet Anna has never felt smaller than she does here, trying to evade the gawking of the curious by slipping into a rear pew. And tonight it is worse, since as a result of the farm truck balking in the subzero temperatures, she and Jack and Trudie are late. When they arrive minutes before the service is to begin, the church’s modest interior is packed and riotous with New Heidelburgers and their overexcited children. But when Jack and his new little family appear, a hush falls over the crowd. Heads swivel in their direction. There is whispering. And aside from this and a baby’s bleat, silence.

Jack stands surveying the room. He wears the stoic, friendly expression common among the people of this town, but in her side vision Anna sees his jaw tighten beneath his bumpy skin. And the reason is obvious: nobody is shifting aside to offer them a seat. Instead they stare, and nudge each other, and turn to stare again. Anna takes a firmer grip on Trudie’s hand, hoping the girl will not notice her own trembling. She looks straight ahead at the altar, head high. It is like being in a dream, a bad dream, and Anna has the odd sense that she has dreamed something very similar before.

Finally the minister’s wife pops up from the front pew like the toy Jack has made for Trudie for Christmas, its name bemusing to Anna because it is the same as his:
jack-in-the-box.

Here’s some space for you folks, the woman calls, waving them over.

Anna and Jack and Trudie walk down the aisle past the rows of New Heidelburgers, Anna and Trudie a few steps before Jack as is proper, trailing a murmur in their wake.

Here you go, says the minister’s wife when they reach her, moving her coat to make room on the varnished bench. She beams at Jack, her face round as a platter beneath shellacked poodle curls.

My, isn’t it cold! she says, and turns to Trudie. But don’t you worry, she adds to the child, it’s not too cold for Santa to come. Not if you’ve been a good girl. Have you been good this year?

Trudie shrinks to hide herself behind Anna’s coat. Anna doesn’t blame her. The people here smile far too much to be trusted. But she whispers to the girl in German, Answer the nice lady.

Trudie peeks at the minister’s wife and scowls.

Thank you, Adeline, Jack tells the woman, voice low. Merry Christmas.

Why, Merry Christmas to you too!

Then they face forward as the service begins. Anna comprehends little of it. The way the minister speaks bears scant resemblance to the language she learned in
Gymnasium;
these Minnesotans talk from the throat, with flat wide vowels. Anna makes a token effort to practice her English by translating, though she doesn’t care much for the sermon on the glory of God and the miraculous birth of His son. But soon her mind returns, as always, to the bakery. The bakery with its worktable and rust-stained double sink. The bakery with mice scampering fruitlessly in the cupboards. The black rectangular mouth of the oven that assumed such horrible significance over the years as Anna shoveled loaves in and out. Mathilde’s bedroom with its cracked gray ceiling and the
Obersturmführer
’s trousers slung over the baker’s vacant chair.

The congregation stands to sing. If Anna doesn’t completely understand the words, at least the music is familiar. Mindful of Jack watching her, she mouths the lyrics in English but rebelliously retains the German in her head:
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht . . .
Then the service is over and the second part of this trial begins. Having been briefed by Jack beforehand, Anna knows what to expect, and she files with the rest of the town to the reception in the cellar. She looks around with curiosity, again startled by the humble appearance of the long room. When not being used for church functions, Jack has told her, it serves as a bingo parlor and cyclone shelter, whatever
bingo
and
cyclone
might be. In any case, it is tiled in faded linoleum and smells of old smoke, its only decorations lurid velvet paintings of Jesus and stags’ heads, and the men and women immediately divide into separate groups at either end with tangible relief.

Anna gives Trudie over to Jack’s care and approaches the folding table where the other wives have already set out their offerings. Such strange confections! A cake fashioned to look like a log, complete with a plastic sprig of holly; a gelatin mold with soft white sweets imprisoned in its wobbling confines. But for this too Anna is prepared, and she unwraps her
Stollen
and sets it among the other desserts as though it were no different from the rest. She regards her braided loaf of Christmas bread with pride. As Mathilde has taught her to do, she has folded dates and nuts into its dough, and before baking she brushed the top with egg white to make it shine.

As Anna steps back to further admire her handiwork, she notices the woman on her left inspecting it too. Mrs. Zimmerman, is that the woman’s name? Whoever she is, she squints warily at the
Stollen
as if the candied fruit in its crust might explode in her face like shrapnel. Then she catches Anna watching her and smiles.

Looks tasty, she says, and scuttles off to where the other women are standing on the far side of the room in an exclusionary knot.

Tasty?
Cheeks aflame, Anna wanders a few meters away and pretends to admire the Jesus portrait. The son of God is silhouetted against a yellow sunburst and wearing a bright blue robe; he clasps his hands in prayer, his eyes rolled up toward heaven to show the whites. Anna gazes at this without seeing it, counting the seconds under her breath:
elf . . . vierzehn . . . sieben und zwanzig . . .
Once she has reached one hundred, she permits herself to look about for Jack. There he is, with the men, of course, discussing silage, drainage systems, crop prices and weather, a conversation as never-ending as the wind that scours this flat land. As is his wont, Jack is modestly listening rather than participating, but Anna notes the change in his stance: since importing and introducing his new family to the community, he stands at his full height rather than slumping in the way of a man accustomed to being invisible. Trudie is balanced on his shoulders, and Jack’s hand is clamped to her rump to ensure she doesn’t topple off. This mindfulness of the child, Anna has learned, is typical of Jack, as is his constant peripheral awareness of his wife. He now gives the room a quick scan as if to satisfy himself that Anna has not slipped away. She has grown used to this half-fearful reconnaissance, Jack’s treating her as though she is a wild creature he has caught and must gentle into being unafraid.

She fields his glance and widens her eyes at him. Jack nods and Anna allows herself a sigh of relief. It is nearly over, this ordeal. After the obligatory good-byes, they can go home. She counts again to one hundred, then begins walking toward him.

As she does, one of the boys skating across the speckled floor in stocking feet nearly collides with her, swerving aside at the last moment. Anna forces a smile at him, assuming this is an accident. Why, she wonders, do the parents in this country not better discipline their children? She takes another step and it happens again with a second boy. And the next. And the next.

Heinie! Kraut! a little towheaded boy hisses, sliding close enough to tweak Anna’s skirt and then veering away.

Did you see that? he shouts, darting back to the others. I touched her!

Timothy Wilson, you stop that, his mother calls.

The women break from their formation and descend upon their ill-behaved offspring, scolding the children as they haul them off by the arms. A few of them then crowd around Anna, standing much too close as they extend their apologies. In her discomfort they remind Anna of a pack of wild dogs; she thinks she even sees one woman sniffing her, then drawing back as if she has smelled something sour, boiled
Rotkraut
perhaps, on Anna’s clothes and hair. But surely this is Anna’s imagination, for she has used vanilla in her bathwater and after that, in anticipation of this occasion, an uncharacteristic spritz of
Pretty Lady
eau de cologne.

Sorry, the wives tell her, aren’t they just awful, you know how kids can be, sorry, sorry—

Then Jack breaks through them, holding out Anna’s coat.

Ready to go? he asks.

Anna nods, staring at the floor.

Where is Trudie? she whispers to the linoleum.

In the cloakroom, Jack replies. Putting on her boots.

Once he has helped Anna into her coat he guides her toward the door, lifting a hand in farewell. The crowds part for the pair, everyone smiling and nodding and wishing Anna a happy holiday. Merry Christmas, they say, winking. Hope Santa’s good to you this year! Merry Christmas.

But as the couple depart to collect the child, Anna looks back at the refreshment table. Among the empty trays and pans that contained the other wives’ cakes and pies, Anna’s
Stollen
sits untouched, its crust shining.