“I doubt I’ll have any complaints,” he said. “You sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Of course!” I said, rather too brightly. Had he told his parents about my hemophilia-carrier status? Probably not, or his mother would surely have mentioned it. If anything could make me evenlesseligible, it would be the prospect of a hemophiliac grandson. “And now I will have the great good luck of seeing New York. Are the buildings really as tall as they say?”
It did take a long time to get a cab. In the end, Joe ran off and came back fifteen minutes later in the most enormous taxi I’dever seen. It was painted bright yellow, like all the others, and when we set off, I understood why. One would want to be visible in this sea of hooting, hustling traffic. Organized chaos, like nothing I’d ever seen. New Yorkers—Americans?—evidently didn’t believe in orderly queueing, whether in their autos or out of them.
Joe’s mother sat in front beside the driver, for which I was most cravenly grateful, and I sat by the window next to Joe, tried to forget what she’d said, and stared as hard as I could at everything I could see. The buildings, which, yes, went up so high one could only guess where they might end. The crowded sidewalks. Thepeople.
“You can hardly believe there’s been a war,” I said. “Everybody is dressed so well—look at all the lovely fur coats—and, goodness, the shops! All of them open for selling, too. And not a uniform to be seen.”
“Well, the war’s been over for more than two years,” Joe’s father said. He reminded me of Joe, with his beaky nose and glasses, but his expression was much more reserved. “I imagine Britain’s recovering by now, too.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said. “I saw only a bit of it—only Southampton—but there were still many destroyed buildings there. Not as many as in Germany, of course, but oh, yes, there is still a great deal of damage. Piles of rubble, too—one wonders how all that rubble will ever be disposed of. What can one possibly do with it? Would an engineer know, Joe? The U.S. Army had engineers, I remember.”
“Good question,” Joe said. He’d taken my hand on getting into the taxi and hadn’t let it go, and that hand was helping. “Make hills out of it, maybe? The luxury hilltop estates of the future. You see why I love this girl, Dad. She’s always thinking.”
“Mm,” his father said, most unenthusiastically.
“Also,” I went on, figuring I couldn’t possibly make thingsany worse, “the shortages are truly very bad still in Britain. Worse than during the war, somehow, the other women on the ship said. Or perhaps it just seems worse, as one wishes so much to go back to the way life was before. Soap is difficult, and even tea. What could be a more cruel blow for the British? They put treacle in it now for sweetening, and it ismostunsatisfactory. That’s how it is in Germany as well, of course, but?—”
“Because they can’t take the food out of the Polish people’s mouths anymore,” Joe’s father said.
“Yes,” I said. He couldn’t see me, not over Joe, who was between us, so I tried to make my voice very firm. “Yes, that’s the reason. But for everyone—for every country—I think it must be difficult to convert—this is the word I want, yes?—to convert a factory that has been making shells and use it to make knives and forks, or lamps, or umbrellas, or the many other things one needs. Paper, now, would seem easier—paper is paper, after all, and if the Army doesn’t need it anymore, ordinary people can buy it again—and one would think that clothing, too, would simply mean making shirts and dresses instead of uniforms and parachutes, but it doesn’t appear to be as easy as that. And farms were perhaps dug up for air bases? The young men went off to war, and the Land Girls—that’s what they were called, Land Girls, because Britain was not like Germany, wanting women to stay in the home, but turned them all out to work in the factories and farms—well, the women have gone home now, haven’t they? And England may not be able to import as much food from other countries as they did before, as many are in the same state.”
“They don’t have enough ships, either,” Joe said.
“Oh, yes, ships,” I said. “You’re always so clever, Joe. Yes, there may not be enough ships to bring in food and cloth andother things, I suppose. It’s all a bit of a muddle still, I’m afraid.”
“Not to mention the economics of it,” his father said. “Britain pretty well emptied its treasury to fight that war.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m sure that’s true. Germany as well, although for Germany, of course, it was a choice.”
“So you admit that.” Mrs. Stark had ceased being merely a rigid back and had turned to look at me. “That Germany was at fault.”
“Very much so,” I said, attempting to keep my tone as cool as my father would have. My mother would have been sweet and kind and skilled at smoothing over, but I was going to have to model myself on my rather formidable father, the King, for I couldn’t imagine how to smooth this. And then there was that inconvenient temper. “I don’t see how one could think otherwise. But the German people are suffering for it now, which may be more satisfactory. Not as much as they made others suffer, but the world, I’m afraid, is often very unfair.”
The taxi driver had been silent so far. Now, he said, “Wait. Is this lady a Kraut?”
Joe would have answered, but I was there first. “I am German by birth, yes, but an American citizen now, and very happy to be in your country.”
The driver sat directly in front of me, which meant I could watch his neck turning red. He swung the car violently right, eliciting a chorus of hooting and abuse—I’d never seen half so many autos in my life, and all driving faster than seemed wise—and stopped at the curb. “I don’t drive Krauts.”
“My wife just told you,” Joe said, “that she’s American.”
“Look, buddy,” the driver said, twisting in his seat to look at him. “My kid brother died in one of their POW camps, OK? Nice kid. Smart kid. He didn’t have to die, but he did. Theyfroze him and starved him, and he died. Broke my mom’s heart. Get out of my cab.”
Joe had his hands up in a conciliatory fashion and was using his calmest voice. “I’m very sorry. I was over there with the Army myself until about six months ago, and I saw plenty. That’s where I met my wife, and I can tell you, she’s no Nazi. You can’t blame a whole country, can you? You sure can’t blame a young girl who wanted no part of it.”
“Out,” the driver said. His face was nearly purple as he opened the door and climbed out. The next moment, there was some thudding and clanking that was clearly my luggage being tossed from the cab.
I said, “If I’m not here, Mr. and Mrs. Stark, surely the driver will continue to drive you. You must stay, and Joe and I will find another taxi. I’ll be silent in this one.”
As a joke, it fell flat. Joe’s parents were climbing out of the taxi without a word, and then Joe was helping me out.
How had I made thisworse?
Did I cry, when Joe and I were finally in that hotel room together, and tell him that his mother hated me and had tried to pay me to leave him? I’m afraid I didn’t. It was the princess in me, perhaps, or the overconfidence of youth, or possibly, more charitably, that I didn’t want to cause friction between him and his parents. Or just that I loved him so much, I couldn’t focus on taxi drivers or mothers or the deficiencies of my wardrobe. It’s hard to care that your dress isn’t stylish, after all, when your husband is taking it off you so tenderly and kissing your neck like that, and his hands are moving over your body as if he wants to memorize it.
I was in a hurry. He wasn’t. He laid me on the bed, not even letting me pull back the covers, took everything else offme, and kissed every place he uncovered, except when he came back up to my mouth again, ran his hand through my hair, held the back of my neck, and kissed my mouth until I was rising into him, urging him on. And after that … well, I was greedy for him, too, and I’m afraid I do sometimes know how to get what I want. And if your husband smells that good, how can you not kisshimeverywhere, too?
