Oh. Religion. I said, “Yes, much better discussed in private.” Mrs. Stark looked at me sharply, so I went on to say, “The rules must be different in America, I think? My parents never allowed discussion of politics or religion at the dinner table, when I was allowed to eat with them. Well, what can really be said about religion? One’s relationship with God would make a tedious topic, I think, although questions of ethics could be discussed, perhaps? Lightly, you know, if one weren’t too dreary about it. And talking of politics was very unwise during the war years, for anyone could carry tales to the Gestapo. I imagine much was said, though, among carefully chosen friends, once the covers and the women were removed and the men were sitting over their brandy and cigars. When one could still get cigars. It will be difficult if we have dinner-parties, Joe, for I can’t imagine our apartment will have enough space for the women to retire and leave the men to it.”
The corner of Joe’s mouth had ticked up in that way it did when he was trying not to smile. “I think you’ll find that American manners aren’t quite so formal. We might be serving coffee in the living room after dinner, but that’s about it. I’ve always wondered what it was that the men actually talked about in those smoke-filled rooms, though. Did they tell blue jokes? Discuss sports?”
“There were no sports,” I said. “It was Germany. Well, fencing, possibly, although it would seem very dull to hear the details of a bout. Hitler prohibited academic fencing, perhaps because he thought it a decadent custom of the nobility, but I believe it continued in secret at the universities, at least until the war began, so men could get their most desirable dueling scars. Still rather dull as a topic, though? Horse racing, now, and hunting—men can talk a great deal on these subjects. Iimagine the talk at my father’s table was much more serious, though, in later years, and probably rather seditious. I wish he’d told me more, but he was protecting me. Protecting all of us. What I didn’t know, he said, I couldn’t tell.”
“It may be wise, dear,” Mrs. Stark said, “to talk a little less about Germany once you’ve made your own friends. We’re happy to know you better, of course, and understand your background, but others may be more interested in their own concerns, or topics of general interest.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thank you. What sorts of topics would be of general interest? Science, perhaps. Science is very interesting now, I think, with the atom bomb and radar and penicillin and all the other things. Particularly in America, where you have made such great advances.” There, that was flattering, and it wasn’t about Germany.
“Well, maybe,” Mrs. Stark said dubiously. “Among Joe’s friends at Stanford. But women generally talk together about things like shopping, and children, and maids, if they have a maid.”
I blinked. “They talk about their children? And their maids? But what interest can this hold for others?”
“The difficulties of maids,” she said, rather more crisply. “Hiring them, and getting them to understand what you want done, and worrying about them stealing and so forth.”
“Oh.” I tried to imagine my mother discussing Lippert with her friends and failed utterly. “My mother’s maid would have been shocked to be the subject of discussion. It’s different in America, clearly. Does one talk about the cook as well? I was taught that it was rude to discuss the food one was served, even to praise it, as that would imply that one hadn’t expected a good table. Although one should, of course, express appreciation of a special sweet or the like—if it were decorated in fabulous fashion, you know, with meringues, perhaps, and marzipan. And what of the butler? No, onecouldn’t discuss the butler. He’d be standing near the table to supervise the dinner service, and doing so would be very rude.”
Joe had lost the battle with his mouth and was grinning. “I think you’ll find that most Americans are pretty short on butlers and footmen.”
“Oh,” I said. “Of course. Democracy, and so forth. I forgot, because the service here has been very good, more like it was before for me, so I thought there might be servants. But I’ve never stayed in a hotel before, or eaten in a railway car. I suppose it’s quite different at home. So I discuss shopping, and what else? As we don’t have children, and it seems unlikely I’ll have a maid.”
“Probably a fair assumption,” Joe said gravely.
“Well,” his mother said, “there’s discussing other people, though you’ll want to be careful not to gossip, as that’s a sure way to become unpopular. You can talk about housekeeping problems—that’s something all young wives have in common—or movies and books, if there’s a popular title circulating. People seem to love to discuss movie stars, too.”
I said, “Books will be best for me, I think. I’m not sure I can talk about movie stars. What would I say about them? Oh—I could discuss what I think of the film, the themes and so forth, and the acting, as with a book or a play. Is this correct?” I didn’t mention housekeeping. I wasn’tgoing to be discussing that. What, at a dinner-party or musical evening? Too dull for words.
“Not exactly,” Joe said. “From what I can tell, with movie stars, it’s usually about who’s having an affair.”
“Joe,”his mother said.
“An affair is a party, yes?” I asked.
“Not the kind you mean,” Joe said. “I’ll explain later.”
“But music is acceptable?” I went on, as his mother had stiffened a bit. “That’s a topic I could discuss.”
“If it’s not too highbrow,” she said.
“I don’t know this word,” I said. “Please?”
“Well, people generally prefer popular music, you know,” she said, “Bing Crosby and Perry Como and so forth. Some people seem to like jazz now, too, though it doesn’t sound like real music to me. It hardly has a tune, and no lyrics at all. Young couples generally have a record player, though, or a radio, and they may roll up the rugs and dance later in the evening, if it’s a gay sort of party.”
I blinked. “They roll up the carpet in the drawing-room and dance? After dinner?”
“Well, yes,” she said. “Often. Did you not do that in Germany?”
Joe had his quizzical face again. I didn’t dare look at him, or I’d have burst out laughing. “No,” I said, as soberly as I could manage. “If there were a ball, of course—there were still balls until later in the war—there would be dancing, but it would be in the ballroom. The musicians would be above, in the gallery, but one wouldn’t discuss them. What could one say, after all, except that they played well? And my parents would have been very surprised indeed if somebody had begun to roll up the carpet in their drawing-room. They would have assumed the servants had taken leave of their senses, or possibly that the mistress of the house had.”
“Manners,” Mrs. Stark said rather frostily, “differ by time and place.”
“Most assuredly,” I said. “I clearly have a great deal to learn. Are there no balls in America, then? But you must have such a number of wonderful musicians. Many Jews came to America before the war, didn’t they? The Hungarians are especially gifted in that way, as if it’s in their blood. Even we Germans, who hear Bach and Beethoven and Brahms practically from the cradle, and the Austrians, with Mozart and Schubert and Haydn and all the others, must acknowledge that. Liszt, andBartok also, so modernist and interesting. And the Russians, oh, yes, the Russian composers are very fine. I suppose one goes to the concert hall or the opera to hear music, then? Although one cannot dance at the opera.” I’d lost the battle and was laughing a little. “That would be very silly.”
“There are dances,” Joe said, still smiling. “In halls and places like that, although not what you’re thinking. Less waltzing, more swing. And clubs in Chinatown, too.”
“Which aren’t quite respectable,” his mother said.
“No,” Joe said, “but I’ll bet they’re a swell time.” And grinned some more.
