“Yes,” I said, hugging his arm. “Yes, please.”
Mrs. Stark said, “Come with me, then, dear.” The “dear” wasn’t the most affectionate thing I’d ever heard.
Through the crowds again, then, buffeted this way and that. Excited husbands, glowing wives, more crying babies, and that sharp wind blowing my fine blonde hair to bits. I was wearing a black wool beret that I’d bought from a man in a stall in Southampton—the luxury of owning a hat that one could tilt in slightly stylish fashion!—but it wasn’t much proof against the wind, and I had to put my hand on it to keep it from blowing away as we hurried to the shelter of the terminal.
Mrs. Stark said, “Ladies’ room first, I think.” Rather bossily, which was odd, perhaps? I didn’t know anything about American manners, though, and she was my mother-in-law, so I followed her meekly enough.
When we were washing our hands side by side—after a long wait in a queue, because thishadbeen a female-intensive ship—she said, “Perhaps you’d rather wash off your makeup, too.”
I looked at her, confused. “Do women here not wear this type, then? It looks like—well, the women here are quite smart, aren’t they, with their hair and makeup and so forth? You look most stylish.”
If I’d thought I’d win her over, I was wrong. She said, “Have a look at yourself, dear.”
I looked in the mirror. Well, yes, the red lipstick with which Paula had bedecked me was oddly bright. Also smeared—Joe had been enthusiastic—while the pancake foundation, powder, rouge, mascara, and eyebrow pencil weren’t what I was used to seeing on my face, but … “How have I gone wrong?” I asked in confusion. “Paula—one of my shipmates—said I was too pale. Washed out, she said. We had no makeup in Germany, you see, and it was very hard to find in England, too. I could have bought it at the PX in Nuremberg once Joe and I were married, but I was unused to wearing it, and I’m German, of course, and—” I cut myself off. Chattering once more. “I’m dreadfully ignorant about such things, I’m afraid,” I finished.
“It’s rather harsh, isn’t it?” Mrs. Stark said. “Some of the women on the ship looked—well, a bit hard. I suppose that’s the type who marries a soldier. If one of them made you up, I can understand. You’d best wash it off now, though.”
I did. It was a bit humiliating, though, and my temper, always my weak spot, was rising despite every effort to control myself. “There,” I said when I was patting my face dry again—a face that looked like me again, and not a china doll. “But most of the other girls were lovely, you know, and very much in love. You must realize how many young men died in the war, or were terribly wounded. England, France, Poland, Hungary … and Germany, of course. So many died in Germany. There are few husbands to be had in Europe, I’m afraid. The war was very hard, too, everywhere. Is it such a wonderful thing that a young woman would be hoping for a gayer time, a … anormaltime, now? And the Americans are so—” I stopped again, because Mrs. Stark’s mouth was pressed into a tight line.
“What are they, exactly?” she asked rather frostily. We left the toilet—the queue was even longer now—and headed over to wait under a huge clock, along with about a hundred other women.
I considered. I was as nervous as a cat, but determined not to be. She loved Joe. I loved Joe. What was there to divide us? All right, many things divided us, but they didn’t have to, did they? “Americans are … newer,” I said slowly. “More expressive. Friendlier. More generous—how kind they are to the children!—and more open, certainly. The way they drive … you see them in their Jeeps, and they always have an arm hanging over the side and their legs sprawling. Casual, I suppose. Germans are not casual. The English are not casual, either, at least the—” I stopped.
“At least the what?” Mrs. Stark asked.
“Well, the upper classes, I suppose. Some of the British girls on the boat were like that—more reserved—but others were very cheerful indeed. More like Americans, perhaps, though I haven’t known many American women. They were mostly lovely girls, though, and very kind. Look, there’s a seat on that bench. You must take it.”
“No, thank you.” Her voice was frostier than ever. “Can you tell me—look me in the eyes and tell me—that they didn’t marry those Americans for their money?”
I laughed. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. “Goodness. Do you imagine they are all marrying bankers and lawyers? My friend Paula’s husband is a clerk in a shop and hopes to own a shop himself one day. They want a little house, yes, or a flat to call their own. One that is whole, with no broken windows and no pile of rubble in the street, that they can keep clean and tidy and be proud of. They want a little kitchen and a bathroom, and to be able to go to the shops and find food to buy, and no ration coupons. Is that so very wrong? Our greatest luxuries, once Joe came into our lives, were sugar and canned ham. How we shared out that first can of GI ham!”
“Joe is Jewish,” Mrs. Stark said, looking not so much into my eyes as over my shoulder. “He won’t be eating any more pork.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I do understand that, although it’s rather a pity that pigs are unclean. Pork is perhaps what we missed most, and really, pigs are rather lovely, aren’t they? Muddy sometimes, yes, but so friendly and curious. Perhaps it’s betternot to eat them after all. A pity they’re so delicious. But oh, the things we ate before the war! Not so much French cuisine, you know, not in my home, but Saxon, which is a very comforting sort of food. Venison with lingonberries, when one of my father’s friends had hunted—he couldn’t hunt himself anymore, for he had the use of only one arm—with the loveliest potato dumplings. Pork roast with caraway and mustard, too, but never mind, I do understand about the pigs. And the cakes! No, you really cannot imagine the cakes. There has been no butter, you know, for the longest time—two ounces a week in Britain, I’m told, and as for sugar and cream! There was often no lard or even margarine, either, and then eggs … What can one prepare with only one egg allowed each week? So of course, now that the war is over, the women talk of baking a cake in their own oven. They wish so much to wear a pretty apron and serve their husband a lovely dinner, and to be able to buy a new frock or a hat nearly as beautiful as yours, or to have perhaps a sewing machine to make their own clothes. All of that was no doubt appealing, but it’s quite understandable, and not theonlyreason. And don’t you think that a woman who has suffered such privation might be more grateful and work harder to be a good wife and mother than one who has led a more carefree life? They know what matters in life, they who lived through this. They know about loss.”
“You think you know about loss.” My recital had had the opposite effect from what I’d intended, for her color was up now, and shewaslooking at me. “You, who are a German, and an Aryan.”
“I thought we were discussing the British,” I said, throwing all good sense to the wind and riding my temper straight to disaster. “But yes, I know about loss. Not as much as the Jews know, not one fingernail’s worth, because Joe told me what went on in those camps, and so did Dr. Becker, who was myfriend. He knows better than anyone, perhaps, for he treats the ones who survived, and he says the wounds they carry inside may never heal. But I too lost my family, my friends. I lost them all, but that’s why I love Joe, do you see? Because he’s the … the opposite of all those bad things that happened, so calm and wise and decent and … andgood.There can never be too much good in the world, can there?”
I was trembling a little—too much emotion, and I hadn’t managed it well—but she didn’t seem to notice. At any rate, she didn’t answer. She opened her purse—it was black leather, sleek and elegant—took out a folded piece of paper, and held it out to me between gloved fingers. “TheQueen Marysails back to England tonight. You can sail on it—you have an American passport now, after all—or make a fresh start here.”
I stared at the paper. I didn’t take it, but said slowly, “It’s a check, isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s a check. And yes, I know that Joe says he loves you. Well, of course he does! He’s barely twenty-one, and you’re a very pretty girl. In your ragged coat and limp dress, too, so grateful for any crumbs, seeing him as the hero who only wants to take you away from that life—well, Joe’s always had a soft heart. But if you care for him, don’t you want him to have more than you can give him? A wife he can be proud of, who’ll fit in with his family, his friends? Eventually, that is, once he’s had time to look around him and make a careful choice. A wife who’s gone to college, who can be his intellectual equal. Above all, a Jewish wife from a good family, who’ll share his background and his traditions, who’ll raise his children as Jews and help his career along in a Jewish firm. Can you imagine you’d be welcome when he has dinner with the partners? Could you be happy knowing you’d stood in the way of his success and his happiness? We’re offering you five thousand dollars; a small fortune. You’ve got your passport now. You’re free, you’re out of Germany, so take the check.You say you’ve had a hard time, and I’m sure it’s true. So take it, start that new life you want, and I’ll explain to Joe.”
I would have answered, but it was too late. Joe was here. And his father. And a battered footlocker that I’d bought in Nuremberg from a one-legged soldier desperate to sell anything he could. It was heavy, for it held many of Dr. Müller’s books, the old friends I’d brought along for comfort. Otherwise, I owned only memories, a priceless emerald-and-diamond necklace and earrings, and one small, very shabby, and largely empty suitcase that had also been Dr. Müller’s. Who was dead now, like almost everyone else I’d ever loved.
Well,thiswas an excellent start. What had possessed me, to have rattled on like that about food, of all things? Aboutpork?
And what did I do to fix it?
4
O SWEET SONG
Joe said, “Now if we can only get a taxi.” He looked at me more closely. “What’s wrong? Why do you look different?”
“Because I’ve washed off the makeup,” I said, trying for a gay laugh. “My friend Paula did it for me, but it wasn’t quite right, was it? I have many things to learn. I’m afraid you will have to be terribly patient.”
