“Otto,” I call out, finding him in the kitchen wiping down the countertop.
“Yes, my darling?”
“When did you bring this record home?”
The circular motion he’s pushing the rag around slows to a stop. “My uncle gave it to me yesterday and said it would be good dinner music.”
Otto has mentioned seeing his uncle at work. He’s said he hardly sees any one of the men including his father and our neighbors who are joining us tonight. They all work in differentdepartments, assigned to a variety of roles integrating into the cancer-cure research.
“Have you listened to the words of the music?”
“Yes, of course. It’s a neutral form of entertainment for all. It’s just jazz music.”
“I don’t like it. The words are demoralizing to the Allied forces.” Otto continues wiping the already clean counter, dragging the rag in a repetitive circular motion. “Our guests might find it to be offensive, as I do. I’ll need to put on another record. Your uncle should know better than to suggest such precarious ideals.”
Of course, ever since spotting theDas Reichnewspaper folded over Ingrid’s magazine rack the first day I stepped into her house, I’ve been questioning their level of loyalty to the Reich. Though, as for anyone in Germany now, it’s impossible to truthfully know how everyone feels. The fear of speaking up against our country’s imposed policies masks any division between the two sides. For most, at least externally, there’s only one side—the Reich side.
From the time I was a child, I’ve been taught to avoid political topics of conversation similar to how we wouldn’t share how rich or poor we were. I’ve remained faithful to keeping my beliefs private, but that’s the problem this country has. Like Otto and me, all who despise Hitler’s plans and beliefs are silenced with fear.
“Sure, okay, I see what you mean. We can play something else,” he says. He doesn’t seem aghast at his self-proclaimed diplomatic uncle for giving him this record to play tonight.
“Thank you,” I say, spinning on my heels to switch out the record.
Upon returning to the kitchen, I arrange the hors d’oeuvre assortment and the meat and cheese platter, placing each selection neatly across each dish. As the clock ticks, my stomachtightens in anticipation of our guests’ imminent arrival. After hanging my apron, I head to the washroom for a quick mirror check.
My cheeks are rosier than the blush I applied earlier, but my perspiration has washed away the powder. I retrieve my compact and lipstick from my dress pocket and freshen up my face, giving the appearance that I’m ready to host this dinner party. I’m not.
As I step out of the washroom, headlights flash through the narrow side windows framing the door, which triggers a flash of stress that heats me from my core. The only guests driving here tonight are Otto’s parents, coming in from Munich. The others only have to make their way next door or across the street. I feel like I might need to physically force a smile onto my face before Otto opens the door. His parents make him feel uneasy. It wasn’t always like that. Their household was as warm as mine, or maybe notaswarm, but the difference wasn’t noticeable unless one really looked. I’ve gone through life thinking people are who they were born as, but too many people have proven this to be false.
Otto reaches for the door, and I take in as much air as my lungs can hold before releasing it through my nose. I should have had a glass of bourbon with Otto, but Frau Berger would smell the liquor on my breath and ask me why I’m not pregnant yet.
“Mama, Vater,” Otto greets his parents with open arms.
“So, you’re finally settled in after a few months. We were wondering when you were going to have us over,” Herr Berger says, eyeballing me at the tail-end of his statement.
“But we wanted to give you time to make your new house into a home, so we didn’t want to bother you,” Frau Berger adds, nudging her husband with her sharp elbow. “Emilie, dear, you look wonderful. How are you?”
Frau Berger reaches for an embrace; one I can’t say no to. Along with her hug comes a startling aroma of potent rose-scented perfume. My eyes threaten to tear from the burn. “I’m doing wonderful,” I answer through my tight throat.
“Something smells scrumptious, doesn’t it, Marion?” Herr Berger says to his wife.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she says, releasing me from her grip to see her way into the kitchen. She’ll have her fingers in the hors d’oeuvres and the tinfoil off the roast so it can breathe within seconds.
“Son,” Herr Berger says, slapping Otto on the shoulder. “I heard you took time off today for this dinner party.” The scoff doesn’t go unheard. “Emilie, how are you, dear? Otto says you’ve been a bit tired lately. I hope you’re taking care of yourself,” he says, pressing his hands to his hips, smirking down at me.
“Vater, she does more than I could ever ask of her, as I said earlier,” Otto says in my defense.
“Yes, yes, of course. I want her to get well if she’s been under the weather. That’s all,” he says, faux surprised by Otto’s assumption.
“Where is Uncle Dietrich?” Otto asks.
“Ah, I forgot to mention…He sends his regards as he can’t make it tonight. Something came up at the last moment.”
One less person is fine by me, especially his uncle Dietrich who’s known to make dinner conversations awkward.
As I go to close the front door, I spot three couples walking up the stone path with dishes in their hands. Their heels clap against the stone as they walk in, all chattering at the same time. I can hardly make out a word anyone is saying but arms are tugging at me and folding me to various wool and silk textures. It’s as if we’ve all been lifelong friends, except I’ve only spent time with Ingrid on occasion. I’ve only met her husband, Karl,once, for a short encounter on the weekend when I was bringing groceries into the house.
Ursula lives across the street with her husband, Hermann, who works with Otto. Ursula and I have exchanged words a few times, but we only cross each other’s path once in a while. She seems kind enough, although a bit tough to warm up to. Each of the three wives who live around us looks distinctly different. Ingrid with her stark red hair, Ursula and her gaunt figure reminds me of a colored pencil with a white eraser. Whatever clothes she has on, the entire outfit, whether a dress or blouse and pants combination, is the same color and hue from her hat to her shoes, always in startling contrast to her flour-white chin length hair.
