Authors: Marie Bostwick
River's Edge (29 page)
At the same time, I envied their position inside the loop of information. Every major battle brought with it a new wave of anxiety. We were all on pins and needles, praying that the Western Union man would pass us by, knowing only a moment's peaceâimmediately after the letters arrived and we knew that our loved ones were safe, or at least that they had been when they wrote the letter. Every envelope from Junior was a reason to rejoice, but my worries could never be completely assuaged.
More than a year had passed since Reverend Bonhoeffer's letter had arrived, telling me that Father was safe, though it seemed he was involved in something very dangerous. There was no way for me to know what had happened in the months since then. When the papers reported the numbers of enemy casualties, there was no corresponding list of names, no way to know if one of those reported killed had shared my last name and deep-set eyes. If the worst had happened, no telegram conveying condolences and explanations would arrive for me. Ten times a day I thought,
Father could be lying cold and dead on a battlefield right now. He could be wounded, or captured, or buried long ago. There is no way of knowing.
Father could be lying cold and dead on a battlefield right now. He could be wounded, or captured, or buried long ago. There is no way of knowing.
When I read the casualty reports, I mourned every lost soldier on both sides of the battlefield, but I didn't say this to anyone, not even Mama. In fact, I didn't say much these days. My accent had faded over the years, but to my own ears it sounded thicker than ever before. When I went out to buy groceries, I could see the eyes of clerks narrow when they heard me ask for flour or oleo or potatoes. I started sending Curt to do the shopping on his bicycle.
Now a big, strong boy of ten, he was happy to take on the responsibility of doing the shopping, making sure we had the proper ration stamps for each purchase. It made me smile to see him carting the bags of food manfully from his bicycle basket into the kitchen. It was good for him to know he was shouldering his share of the responsibilities; besides, it spared me the shame of having to see the recruiting posters that lined Main Street, caricatures of leering, cruel-eyed, knife-wielding German soldiers, and feeling the boring stares of passers-by in my back as I walked past. No, it was better for everyone if I stayed at home, out of sight.
In my heart, I wondered about the wisdom of making myself conspicuous by playing for the benefit, but Cookie interrupted my train of thought, and the look of desperation on her face fought against my better judgment.
“Please! Think what it will mean to the war effort! Think what that money will mean to all the soldiers far from home, to Junior and all the rest of them. Come on, Elise! I really, really need you!”
My resolve began to soften. I thought of Junior, now a chaplain's assistant in Italy with the Fifth Army, and Papa stationed at a training camp in Tennessee, trying to comfort scores of frightened boys far from home at Christmas, both of them probably in need of comfort themselves. How could I refuse to help?
Besides, Cookie really did need me. Her concert was definitely short on musical talent. I couldn't stand idly by and let it fail. This was the first time she'd shown any enthusiasm for anything since we'd learned of Mark Woodward's death at the Battle of Kasserine Pass, the first large-scale American engagement of the war. Junior had survived Kasserine, but at least five families from the valley had lost sons there. Cookie had been inconsolable when she'd heard the news, and listless in the months since. Planning this concert seemed to bring her back to life.
There was no way out of it. Looking at those pleading eyes, how could I tell her no?
“All right. I'll try.” What was I agreeing to? It was only weeks until the concert, not nearly enough time to prepare. Where would I find the time to practice?
She took up her pencil again and asked for confirmation before writing it down. “The Mozart Sonata in C Minor?”
“I'll try.”
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“Have you ever seen so many people?” I asked.
“Not even on Christmas Eve,” Mama answered as we peeked through the door off the altar that led to Papa's private study. The church was already full to bursting, and more people were filing in every minute. “I don't recognize half of them. Look! The boys are trying to squeeze some more chairs into the aisles.” I peeped through the crack in the door and saw Curt and the twins carrying folding chairs from the basement and setting them up anywhere they could find a spot.
Cookie strode purposefully up the center aisle toward us, wearing her best dress and a panicked smile as she returned greetings from well-wishing members of the audience. Her pasted-on smile faded as she entered the study and closed the door.
“Mama! What am I going to do! A whole bus just drove up full of people who came over from Cheshire. We're out of chairs. I don't want to turn them away, but where am I to put them?”
“Charge them seventy-five cents instead of a dollar and tell them they can stand in the back,” I suggested.
“Good thinking,” Mama said.
But Cookie was doubtful. “Do you think they'll really want to stand for the whole thing?”
“If it's a choice between standing or missing the show, I'm sure they'll be happy to stand. At least offer it to them. They can stand or they can leave.” I shrugged. “It's their choice.”
Mama chuckled. “Elise. Always so practical. She's right, Cookie. There isn't anything else you can do. Go on. Run up there and offer them standing room. I'll go out and see if I can get everyone else to squeeze in toward the center of the pews. I'm sure we can wedge in another twenty or so if we try. I'll ask some of the mothers to hold their children on their laps.”
Cookie scurried back to the lobby. Mama was right on her heels but turned and spoke to me just before she left. “Nervous?” she asked. I nodded mutely.
“You'll be fine. You'll be wonderful. You're the last one on the programâyou've got at least an hour before you go on. Just sit down and try to relax.” She gave me a quick hug and disappeared.
Easier said than done,
I thought.
I thought.
The show was going well. The audience was enthusiastic and forgiving. They cheered for Albert Grimes and Mrs. Soames. They cheered for the kindergarten class singing “God Bless America” accompanied by three Boy Scout buglers who couldn't quite hit the high notes. They whistled and stomped so hard for “Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree” that you'd have thought it was the Andrews Sisters themselves performing instead of Mrs. Gorman and her two daughters, Daphne and Daisy. When sixteen-year old Betty Hauser fell during her tap dance number and got up from the floor red-faced with embarrassment and nearly in tears, they cheered louder than ever before. When she finished, the entire audience jumped to their feet.
Having the chance to buy a war bond from Shirley Calloway may have helped swell the crowd, but as the show went on, I got the feeling that they would have showed up even if a real, live actress wasn't signing autographs after the concert. These were the ones left behind. They'd come to show their support for their husbands, brothers, sons, and friends in any way they could. Cookie didn't need me. She could have put a gaggle of performing geese on the stage and the audience would have applauded, because they were all in this together.
Most of the audience wouldn't know if I made a mistake or not, but I was still gripped by nerves. I wanted to do well. To prove I was one of them.
Mama had agreed to serve as the mistress of ceremonies for the evening. I stood waiting for her introduction; my heart felt tight and suddenly much too big for my chest. Mama said my name and led the audience in a round of encouraging applause. For a moment, I was simply paralyzed with fear.
A memory flashed in my mind, of Father and myself at the skating rink. I was little, perhaps three or four years old, content to go round and round, holding onto the railing for balance. Father led me out into the ice, holding both my hands so I wouldn't fall. When we got to the center, he let go of my hands, skated back to the rail, and called out, “Now, skate to me, Elise!” But I couldn't move. I stood frozen and rooted to the ice, afraid of falling, afraid that Father would see I was afraid.
“Come on! Skate to me!” he demanded.
“Yes, Father,” I responded dutifully but didn't move.
He watched me, his face clouding over with impatience. For a moment, I thought he was going to shout at me, but his expression softened and he held out his arms to me. “You're in the middle of the ice. You don't really have a choice, you know. Be reasonable. What's the worst that could happen?” And though his words weren't quite a reassurance, I knew that was how he intended them and that if I should start to fall, he would catch me before I hit the ground.
I pictured Father standing across the stage, next to the waiting piano, holding out his arms to me. Mama cleared her throat and introduced me again, louder this time.
What's the worst that could happen? Be reasonable,
I thought and took a step forward.
What's the worst that could happen? Be reasonable,
I thought and took a step forward.
A lovely, warm wave of applause met me, and I found the courage to smile as I walked to the piano and settled myself onto the bench, shifting it forward so my feet could comfortably reach the pedals. I positioned my hands over the keyboard, arched and ready to strike.
A female voice rang out, “Hey, Fraulein! What're you gonna play? âDeutschland Ãber Alles?'
”
”
A questioning murmur rippled through the crowd.
Janice Samuelson stood up and shouted again. “Maybe a little Wagner? That's Adolf's favorite, ain't it?” The confused murmur rose to an indignant buzz. Janice shouted, “Her dad's a Nazi! Fighting against our boys! You left that part out of the introduction, didn't you, Mrs. Muller!”
Janice stabbed the air with her fist, pointing it at Mama. Members of the audience started leaning into one another, asking if it was true. Some gasped in shock as they learned the truth. Some booed. Some yelled, “Get off the stage!” and things worse than that.
For a moment, Mama seemed rattled, but she gained her composure quickly. “Mr. Paulus! Mr. Raeder!” She motioned to two of the deacons who were standing near the back of the room, and they started trying to move through the crowd to where Janice was standing, but the aisles were blocked with bodies and folding chairs.
Janice's eyes were shot through with hatred. She pointed at me and started screaming. “My husband is dead, and I want to know who is to blame! My husband is dead! Someone is to blame!” The deacons finally reached her, and as they came around each side of her to remove her from the church, she collapsed into their arms sobbing hysterically and crying over and over, “Someone is to blame!”
The crowd parted as the men half led, half carried her toward the door. The shouts of anger subsided to whispered rumbles of sympathy and concern as she passed by. The lobby doors closed behind her, and the crowd was silent, listening to the echo of Janice's keening sobs.
Mama waited a long moment, until the cries faded into the distant night, and then gave me a questioning glance. I shook my head violently, no! She couldn't possibly expect me to go on, but she responded to my refusal with an insistent, proud, almost angry glare. She cleared her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, in our final performance of the evening, Miss Elise Braun will play Mozart's Piano Sonata in C Minor.”
As she finished, someone in the back of the balcony split the silence with “Get off the stage, you Nazi pig!”
The crowd exploded. I covered my head with my hands, trying to shut out the cacophony of insults and outrage that battered me. I sprang up from the bench, desperate to get out of sight before the eruption of sobbing that boiled inside me broke through the surface. The piano bench fell and struck the floor with a crack; one of the legs had broken completely off. I didn't care. I left it lying on the floor and turned, ready to fly to the safety of Papa's study, to hide behind closed doors.
Suddenly a voice, Papa's voice, boomed over the din and stopped me in my tracks. “Who said that?” he demanded.
Papa shoved his way through the mob, parting the mass of bodies as if they were nothing more than a sea of swaying reeds. He mounted the altar steps two at a time and turned to glare at the swarm of stunned faces in the pews. He tilted his face upward and shouted to the balcony, “Come on! Who said it?”
No one answered. His eyes scanned the crowd, glaring a defiant challenge to every face in the room. The veins in his neck stood out, threatening to burst the seams of his white clerical collar. His nostrils flared as he tried to bring his fury and breath under control.
“This is my daughter!” he declared, raising his arm and stretching it toward me. “She was born in Germany eighteen years ago.” At this admission, a few members of the audience whispered to one another, but Papa went on. “Like the ancestors of everyone in this room, she came here seeking refuge. Seeking safety. Just like you, or your parents, or your grandparents. She came as a child, knowing nothing of wars, or politics, or battle lines. We welcomed her into our home, and she has grown into a woman here, working alongside my own children, sweating in the fields like a man to earn extra money to feed our family when my pay wasn't enough to do the job, hoeing and harvesting tobacco for GI cigarettes. That is, until she got fired for being German, an ancestry she shares with about half the people in this room.” His eyes moved smoothly across the room. A couple of people shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and someone in the back row coughed.
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