His expression clouded over. “So you want a husband, is that it?”
“Is that too bourgeois? It’s more that Idon’twant someone else’s husband.”
“That’s not possible,” he said, shaking his head. “It would crush her. It would destroy the friendship we four have built so carefully—Gertrud, Marie, Otto, and I. Do you think Marie would continue to let me be a part of my son’s life if I hurt her sister?”
“I couldn’t say. I’ve never met Marie. As for hurting Gertrud, aren’t you doing that already?” Abruptly she shouldered her purse and rose, unable to bear another moment. “Goodbye, Adam. I can’t see you anymore.”
He called after her as she fled the café, but she did not look back.
Weeks passed before she heard from him again. In late autumn he sent her a brief letter—an apology for the heartache he had caused her, a wistful hope that she might reconsider, and then, in a postscript, the name and phone number of an editor atRote Fahne, the largest Communist newspaper in Germany, who, Adam said, was seeking an assistant and was expecting her call.
Greta did not write back, nor did she contact the editor. She was not a Communist and had never worked for a newspaper, so she was fairly confident her only real qualification for the job was that Adam had recommended her. She did not want to feel any more indebted to him than she already was, even though she was always one paycheck away from eviction. Somehow good freelance opportunities continued to come her way, as one satisfied client recommended her to another. By the first snowfall of the season, she had begun to suspect that Adam was behind most of the unsolicited job offers, but she did not ask. She could not afford to turn down any more work out of pride, so it was better not to know.
She spent the Christmas holidays with her family in Frankfurt an der Oder, but she returned to Berlin in time to attend a New Year’s Eve party at the Charlottenburg town house of an old college friend. At first she had declined the invitation because she dreaded the thought of admitting to former classmates, in response to the inevitable question, that she teetered on the brink of unemployment. Kerstin had refused to accept that excuse. “Everyone else is struggling too,” she had said one evening when Greta came for dinner. “We’re all poor these days.”
“You’re not,” Greta said pointedly, gesturing left and right to indicate Kerstin’s lovely home.
“I’m a civil servant,” Kerstin replied airily. “I pay for my comfort by enduring endless tedium in a stifling office. Anyway, who knows how much longer I’ll hold on to my job with the Brownshirts marching around demanding that women stay home to cook dinner and make babies. Let’s celebrate while we can. What’s the alternative?”
Greta had no good answer for that, so she accepted the invitation.
When she arrived at ten o’clock on the last night of the year, the party was well under way. Jazz played on the phonograph, bursts of laughter punctuated lively conversations, and scents of perfume and cigarettes intertwined with woodsmoke from the hearth. She had scarcely removed her hat and coat when several acquaintances she had not seen in ages called out greetings or crossed the room to embrace her. Her dread swiftly vanished as one friend poured her a beer and another dragged her off to introduce her to a group of aspiring artists. Kerstin had not exaggerated; several of her old friends were gainfully employed, but more ruefully admitted that they too were barely making ends meet. They cracked wry jokes about taking in waistlines and patching the patches on worn-out shoes, and they shared advice about the best shops to find cheap but edible cuts of meat and day-old bread for mere pennies. And yet Greta sensed—and suspected they did not—that they perceived their similar straitened circumstances very differently. She was a metalworker’s daughter, accustomed to poverty; these children of architects and dentists considered it a bemusing novelty. They took for granted that their situation was only temporary, and that the money would flow their way again when the economy improved. Greta knew that anyone could be one illness, one estrangement, one job loss away from utter ruin.
Sometime later, Kerstin found Greta in the crowd and steered her into the dining room, where her mouth watered at the sight of the wonderful spread and she grew dizzy taking in the savory aromas of lentil soup, roast pork with apples, and sauerkraut—finely chopped, the first mouthful revealed, mildly flavored, and thickened with barley. She polished off her first serving, had just finished her beer, and was unabashedly loading up her plate a second time when Kerstin sailed past with a tray ofPfannkuchen. “Felix is at the fireplace makingFeuerzangenbowleif you need something to wash that down with,” she called over the din.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Greta replied, but then the name registered. “Felix Henrich from university?”
Kerstin laughed. “Who else?”
Immediately Greta set off to find him, nibbling from her carefully balanced plate as she worked her way through the crowd. She found him at the fireside attending a black kettle suspended over the flames by an iron hook. Steam rose as Felix stirred the mixture with a long wooden spoon, the delicious aromas of red wine, the spicy notes of cinnamon, allspice, cardamom, and the sweet, fruity fragrances of lemon and orange wafting on the air. He was almost comically homely, small of stature, with jug ears and an enormous Adam’s apple, but he was a brilliant scholar, one of the best in their class, and one of the kindest, most generous people Greta had ever met. From university he had gone on to law school and immediately thereafter had been hired at the most prestigious law firm in Berlin. Greta had heard that he had married the beautiful daughter of one of the founding partners and had two delightful young children. No one deserved such happiness more than Felix.
She set down her plate, drew closer to the hearth, and spoke his name in an undertone. His face lit up at the sight of her. “Greta!” he shouted, dropping the spoon into the kettle, seizing her hand, and pumping it vigorously. “I had heard you were back in Berlin. How good it is to see you! How did you like America?”
“I liked it very much,” she said, pulling up a chair near his.
“Felix, the punch!” someone exclaimed.
“Oh, yes, yes.” Rolling up his sleeve, Felix carefully reached into the kettle and grasped the end of the spoon, careful not to touch the sides of the pot or the simmering liquid. “You must tell me all about it. You were in Wisconsin, yes?”
“That’s right,” said Greta, pleased that he remembered. As he tended the punch, she gave him the brief, cheerful version of her Madison story, taking care not to sound too wistful or homesick, mindful of the other guests standing nearby, eagerly anticipating a taste of the hot drink.
Soon Felix traded the long-handled spoon for a sturdy pair of tongs, grasped a sugar cone in the pincers, and held it above the kettle. With his free hand, he slowly poured rum over theZuckerhutand waited for the liquor to soak into the fine, compressed sugar. “Greta,” he said, tilting his head to indicate a basket of wooden skewers on the floor nearby, “would you do the honors?”
Greta took a skewer from the basket, held the tip into the flames, and raised the burning end to theZuckerhut, setting it afire. The people nearby murmured appreciation as the bluish flame danced across the sugar cone and caramelized the sugar, which dripped into the steaming punch below. When the flame threatened to flicker out, Felix poured more rum over theZuckerhutuntil the bottle was empty and the sugar melted away. With a sigh of anticipated pleasure, the guests pressed forward with cups as Felix picked up the ladle and began to serve.
Cradling her mug in her hands, glowing from the warmth of the fire and the wine and rum, Greta listened as her companions shared hopes and plans for the New Year. She raised her cup and chimed in fervently whenever someone offered a toast to a better, more prosperous, and more peaceful year ahead.
Eventually Felix relinquished his duties as master of the punch, passed the ladle on, and drew Greta aside into a quieter room. “How have things been for you since you returned from Germany?”
The usual bland assurances sprang to mind, but before she could speak, his expression told her that he already suspected the truth. “Not well,” she confessed. “I tried to get into a university, any university, either as teacher or student, but I failed. I’ve been patching together some work, teaching and editing, mostly.” She forced a laugh. “Maybe I should have gone to law school instead, like you.”
“Kerstin told me that you worked at a theater, organizing a script library.”
“Yes. I quite enjoyed that job too, while it lasted.”
“I have a proposition for you, but promise me you won’t decline until you think it over.”
Greta shrugged and drained the last of her punch. “I promise.”
