Homecoming (19 page)

So he, too, was self-conscious. And she answered quietly, “I have not yet decided whether I want to go or not.”

There was, after all, no reason why she should tell the truth to this stranger.
We are going to leave the country
.

He nodded. “Yes, it is hard to know what to do with one’s life. I have only a few more months before I’ll be finished with my courses. Then I’ll be at a crossroads. What I want is to go on further in art history and eventually become a curator, but my father wants me to enter his firm.” He made a small grimace. “They manufacture ball bearings.”

“You have quite a problem,” she said ruefully.

“I do.” He picked up a pinecone and threw it for the dog to retrieve. “Well, on a more pleasant note, do you go to the opera? The Ring Cycle starts again soon.”

“Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it?” She could have explained,
We are not allowed to go. That is, my mother is not allowed because she is Jewish, and of course my father would never go anywhere without her
.

But she did not say so. What use would it be?

So they walked, managing all the while to produce more desultory conversation until they had made the circuit back to the starting point.

“I live here,” Caroline said, indicating the house across the avenue.

“Oh, not far from me. I’m down that way, left, only five minutes’ walk. Shall we meet again tomorrow? My parents will not relieve me of Siggy until next week.”

“Perhaps. I’m not sure,” she answered.

Her mood had reverted to the somber gray that had enveloped her before their walk. Unready just yet to enter the house and its inevitable daily anxieties, she sat down again in the garden. And those same anxieties came flooding.… She had been twelve years old in 1933, when the Party took power with its red banners flying, its thousands cheering and thousands marching. Always the endless marching. Suddenly everything was organized: children’s groups, student groups, veterans’ groups, everyone, even the physicians—except her father.

Because of Mama, he had been removed from the state medical plan and had lost his post as lecturer in the medical college. Uncomplaining, he continued to serve whoever among his old patients still wanted to consult him. Often he took payment in kind: a carpenter replaced a door, or a plumber repaired the pipes. Often he took no payment at all, so that they were rapidly using up their savings.

Mama said that his profession was one of the two things that kept him from leaving the country.
The other was his conviction, with which she did not agree at all, that this regime could not last. Only after Crystal Night, two weeks ago, had he lost that hope. Mass arrests of the innocent, thugs rampaging through the streets while the police stood watching, fires, broken glass and broken heads, weeping women and children, all had finally put an end to his now admittedly foolish hope.

So they were leaving. Or, to be exact, trying to leave. It was not such a simple matter. It was, in fact, a very complicated matter of quotas and transit visas, of affidavits and money.

“What are you doing out there with your daydreams?” called Lore, coming down the rear steps.

“You’re off early today.”

“I switched with someone. I had to go to the dentist. My aching teeth, as usual.”

She was still in hospital white with the Red Cross insignia. Her walk looked confident. Her homely, wide face was strong. She knew what she was about. And Caroline had a sudden thought: If I were sick, I would want Lore to take care of me.

“I saw you from the kitchen window. Since you’re doing nothing else, anyway, you might as well help me peel these leftover vegetables for soup. It’s a shame to waste.”

This was an oblique reference to Mama, of whom Lore was otherwise fond. But Mama was a
poor cook. Mama played the piano most beautifully and read good books. Ever since the servants had been dismissed, she had, with Caroline’s help, been preparing the meals and doing her best. Nevertheless, it was always a relief when Lore was home taking charge.

“Cut the carrots finer, Caroline.”

The sun was almost as warm as in spring, a freakish comfort with Christmas only a month away. Basking in it, they sat silently, with a sense of being talked out. The talk, the subjects, were always the same, either the anxious unknowable future or the wistful past.

Lore spoke suddenly. “I remember every single detail of my first day in this house. You were three months old, asleep in the perambulator right here in this garden. I even remember the pink coverlet with the ribbon bow in the center. Like a rosette, it was.”

Caroline could hardly count the times she had heard this story and all the stories: how one of Father’s patients had told him about an orphaned twelve-year-old niece—such a bright, good child—how the patient could no longer afford to keep her, having eight children of her own and an unemployed husband, and how Father, having himself met the child Lore and been touched by pity, had taken her into their home.

From her parents, Caroline had heard their side of the story. Lore, at twelve, had been such a
cheerful, obedient little girl! She had been so grateful for everything, for good food and clothes, a pretty room of her own, and kind attention. She had been a hardworking student. At nursing school she had done very well. Indeed, she did everything very well.

More than that, she was the elder daughter of the family; midway in age between Caroline and her mother, she was the confidante of both.

“My teeth,” Lore said now. “Look at them crumbling away. I was six years old when the war began in 1914, just in time for scarcity. We never had proper nourishment. No wonder my bones are soft. And then all the men were killed, my father and my two older brothers.” She looked around the yard, and seeing no one there, leaned toward Caroline, whispering, “That’s why I have to get out now before the next war comes.” Then she laughed. “And before all the young men die and I’ll never be able to find a husband.”

Caroline felt sad for her. Poor Lore! She never went out anywhere except with other women. Nature was very uneven when it handed out eyes or noses or human skeletons, she reflected. Lore was short and large boned; she had scanty dull-brown hair and a large, flat nose with large nostrils. Unfair. Men would not bother to find out how smart and competent and good she was.

“There. The peas are shelled. I’ve already done the beans, and you have the carrots. Now, with
yesterday’s leftover meat, we’ll have a fine soup. There’s nothing like a thick soup and some fresh bread.”

They went back into the house. Already, though no furniture had been moved, it had begun to feel deserted and temporary. Many of the rooms were never used anymore; the English governess had gone home the year before, and the French one, being Jewish, had left long ago for France. Five-course dinners in the long, formal dining room had given way to simple meals in the breakfast niche. In the glass-walled sunroom one felt too exposed to the bands of roving toughs who sometimes came through the neighborhood. The little library at the back of the house felt safest, and there they all huddled in the evening to read or listen to concerts over the radio, or to Mama playing softly on the piano.

Now, especially since Crystal Night, in their very own house they were afraid.

“E
XCELLENT
soup, Lore,” Father said.

“On Sunday, I’ll be free and I’ll make apple charlotte for you.”

“There’s nothing like your cherry strudel,” Mama said, sighing. “I remember last summer on Caroline’s birthday, it was good enough for a king’s banquet.”

So they talked for a while about food, recalling dinners that none of their friends—of those who
were left—ever gave anymore. And restaurants to which they never went anymore. They talked about a book that Mama had finished and recommended, or about a surgical case that Lore was tending. Quite obviously, they were trying to skirt the one question that was on all their minds.

Lore, whenever she did private duty nursing, was sure to bring back a few tidbits of interesting gossip, most of it harmless stuff about forbidden romances. Sometimes she had more than gossip to relate. And then, inevitably, they would return to what was foremost in their minds.

“Yes,” she said now, addressing Father. “They really are building that airport you heard about. A man who was visiting my patient this afternoon is working on it. But I only heard a bit because someone shut him up.”

“What difference?” Father said glumly. “We all know what’s coming.”

“You had better hurry,” Lore warned, as always.

“What are you talking about? Visas for England are impossible. And as for America, it’s wait your turn on the quota. Hurry up and wait. Wait, especially for poor Eva, who was born in Poland and has a filled-up quota. Please don’t tell me we should have applied a long time ago because I already know it.”

“The world is closed,” Mama murmured.

Our ancestors, Caroline thought in the silence.
God alone knows how long Father’s people have been in what is now Germany; from prehistoric times, most likely. And Mama’s have been in Europe for how many centuries? Before 1492 they were in Spain, perhaps since the destruction of the temple in 70.

“Maybe you should leave now, Lore,” Father said thoughtfully. “Why should you be stuck here with us if we can’t get out?”

“No, you’re my family and I go where you do. Right now, I’m going to bed. I’m on duty early tomorrow.”

“God bless her,” said Mama, when Lore went upstairs. “She’s a princess, a saint.”

It was true. Lore was Caroline’s older sister and her best friend.

“Poor soul,” said Father. “That nose of hers is her main enemy. Well, other things besides. If she ever stops living with us, I’m afraid she will live alone for the rest of her days. Men are such fools.… Play something, Eva. Play some Bach. He is hopeful and filled with faith.”

Long after Caroline had gone to her room, the piano sounded faintly from below. Because it was routine, it was reassuring. Peter’s warm little body pressed against her feet was also reassuring.

Then her thoughts traveled back to the meeting in the park. She felt vaguely troubled. Had she been curt when he asked her whether they would meet again tomorrow? Or if not curt, exactly, perhaps
just dismissive? Or cool? A teacher had once remarked, kindly enough, that she should stop analyzing herself. Perhaps, he said, she had been very strictly brought up, with heavy emphasis upon manners, and so she had a fear of giving offense.

Yes, carried too far, that business could become ridiculous. You spent a few minutes with a total stranger, and now you are worried that you hurt his feelings. You will probably never see him again. And if you do, what difference would it make? He walks his dog, you walk yours, and that’s the end of it.

Yet she knew she would see him again.

He was standing across the avenue from her house the next afternoon, and it was obvious that he had been waiting for her. Indeed, he told her that he had.

“I would like to know you,” he said.

“Well, I walk here every day, unless it should be raining too hard.”

“That’s not what I meant. I would like to go somewhere with you, to a concert or to the opera, since you said you like music.”

Had she said so? She did not recall. Although they had begun to walk side by side and she was not looking at him, she felt that he had turned toward her with expectation.

“Your neighbors, the Cassells at the end of
your street, are friends of my family. You can ask them about me.”

“Oh, no, I don’t need to. I can tell for myself, I—”

“Can you?” There was a slight amusement in his tone, and as she looked up at him, a slight, appealing twinkle in his eyes. “From the first minute yesterday, I was sure we would get along. That happens sometimes, you know, not only in fairy tales.”

“Yes, I know.” She hesitated, and then, diving into cold, unfriendly waters, said directly, “You shouldn’t even be talking to me. I’m half Jewish.”

For a moment as she watched, he stood still, regarding her. Then he said quietly, “It doesn’t matter.”

Even though she had not known what to expect from him, the stillness, as though he was disappointed, and also the words, were startling.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “How can it not matter, the way things are?”

“It is only a complication. One finds one’s way around complications. That’s all there is to it.”

Their eyes were looking into each other. In his, she saw a sympathy that would have made her cry if she had given way to it. There was so little kindness these days.

And she said gently, “I wouldn’t want you to have any trouble because of me.”

For an answer, he took her hand, saying only, “Let’s walk.”

Already, they were behaving as if there was going to be a
connection
. Neither spoke. They arrived at a place where the path sloped toward a small lake on a wide sward, where in fine weather people walked and children played ballgames. There were benches. To one of these he drew her, and they sat while the dogs lay down willingly at their feet, as if they, too, sensed the mood of the day.

Unlike the day before, there was no sun, and it was very cold. Bitter November had finally settled itself upon the world. All was quiet. In the windless air, the topmost elm twigs made a delicate black pattern against the pale gray sky.

“Look. Like a Japanese print, or calligraphy,” Walter said, pointing upward.

He was still holding her hand, and she was still holding back tears. Why? What was happening?

From the lowest branches of the trees, there sounded a sweet twittering of birds, little winter creatures with dark heads.

“Hunting berries, going their cheerful way as usual, in spite of everything,” he said. “Yes, nature. Nature and art. Nothing else lasts, so in the long run, nothing else matters.”

“Nothing matters? How can you say that?”

“In the long run, I said.” Letting go of her
hand, he faced her to ask abruptly, “What are you going to do in the short run?”

“My family, you mean?” She had not needed to be warned against putting trust in strangers. Yet this time, she did just that. “We are trying to emigrate to America. But we are very late, and you need to have people over there who will support you so you will not be a public charge. My mother has gotten hold of some New York City and Chicago telephone books. People are all passing them around. She writes to people with names like those in her family, although we have no relatives abroad. Perhaps generations ago they were relatives. Who knows? But perhaps they will have a heart anyway.”