The Pieces We Keep (9 page)

T
he name came to Vivian muffled, as if spoken in a dream. She dropped her hands from her ears.

“Vivian!” On the pedestrian walk, parallel to the river, Isaak was hurrying toward her. She set off in a run to halve the distance between them. Upon their meeting, he crushed her to his body, squeezing out her breath, though none of her relief.

The siren continued its warning.

“We have to get to a shelter,” he told her.

She nodded against his cheek.

“Come.” He grabbed her hand and hastened down the path.

On the sidewalk a torrent of strangers scattered in a panic. They were ants fleeing a storm.

Isaak looked around, assessing, calculating. “The Underground station,” he decided aloud. Not waiting for a reply, he towed Vivian deftly through the crowd. They were about to cross the street when two taxis collided. Vivian ducked at the smash of metal and glass, and once more Isaak pulled her close.

For a full second the scene came to halt, like a photograph from the
Daily Mail.
Then all chaos resumed. Isaak led her onward, but a queue had swelled and divided around the immobile cabs. Each footstep ground shards into salt-like crystals. Over the crunching came a shriek. A woman at the corner had toppled from a shove and scraped her knee on pavement. Blood colored the rip in her stocking.

“I have another idea,” Isaak said.

Vivian nodded. If their surroundings were any indication, the station staircase could be more hazardous than a German bomber. Then again, in her frenzied state, he could lead her to hell and she wouldn’t think to object until waist deep in flames.

“This way,” he said.

Changing direction, they zigzagged in and out of the city blocks and into a vacant alleyway. He came to an abrupt stop. A square wooden door lay on the ground at an angle. A cellar. He jiggled the padlock.

“Damn.” He scanned the ground as though hoping for a dropped key. He resorted to a pile near the trash bin, discards from a building renovation.

Vivian raised her face toward the clouds. Would Hitler give only a taste of a threat, a chance for Chamberlain to reconsider? Or would he punish them unmercifully to deter other countries?

A sharp clank jostled her. Isaak had sent a gray pipe rolling over the cobblestones. “This’ll do,” he said, clutching a narrow piece of steel akin to a crowbar with no hook. He shoved the tool beneath the cellar latch and yanked up with a groan. He yanked again, harder. The fastener bent, yet clung to its bolts.

At minimum she ought to ask whose cellar they were invading; they were no doubt breaking the law. But circumstances, she was learning, dictated a separate set of rules.

Joining him, she grasped the end of the tool with both hands. Its rough, rusted surface pressed into her palms. On a count of three, they heaved and tugged until they pried the latch free. Isaak tossed away the steel and lifted the door. She peeked inside and flinched at the ladder. The shoddy rungs vanished into darkness.

He held out his palm to guide her in. “Trust me.”

For a slew of solid reasons she would be wise to decline. Yet her trust in him, like the depth of her feelings, ignored all sensibility.

She took his hand and mounted the ladder. The slanted wood bowed under her weight. She was halfway down when Isaak climbed on, and she prayed the structure could hold them both.

At the bottom, she found relief on the packed dirt, just as Isaak slammed the door. The cellar turned dark as a coffin. Her lungs sucked a dusty breath.

“There should be a lantern down there,” he said. Creaks marked his descent.

She spread her fingers, inched her shoes by feel. With the siren somewhat muted, she made out a scuffling sound from the side. She told herself it was Isaak, though her ankles awaited the slithering tail of a rat.

Then came the hiss of a match. Isaak used the sulfurous glow to locate a lantern. He returned the matchbook to his trouser pocket and transferred the flame to the wick. Adjusting the knob, he shrank the tall stretch of fire into an orange teardrop.

Shelves covered the walls, stocked with canned foods and dry goods, pickled vegetables and jarred fruit. Barrels of onions and sacks of potatoes huddled in the center of the rectangular space. The air smelled of stale dirt and perishables starting to rot.

Isaak set the lantern on the ground. “The father of one of my classmates owns the general store above us. We’d sneak in here for a snack on occasion,” he explained.

“They won’t mind that we’re here?” Not that it mattered at this point.

“His family evacuated a few days ago.” Isaak shook out a pair of burlap bags and laid them out like blankets. “Can’t say if they’ll ever be back.”

The comment struck Vivian as odd. Londoners would return from their rural hideaways eventually.

Then it dawned on her: “They went back to Germany.”

He affirmed this with his silence.

Saying no more, Vivian took a seat. A shiver from the cool ground moved through her. She thought of her parents. They would be safe in a shelter by now, her father at the embassy, her mother with her friends.

Vivian hugged her knees as Isaak walked around, scoping the area, fingering the shelves. He shouldn’t be so calm and collected. Envy itched at her until his circular stroll revealed itself as pacing from nerves.

“No chance of starving anytime soon.” He picked up a jar and wiped the dust to view the contents. “Are you hungry?”

The knots in her stomach gave no hint of untying. “Sit with me.” She motioned to the burlap. “Please.”

Replacing the jar, he smiled. “Of course.”

He settled beside her, his back against the shelves, and she nestled beneath his arm. His cologne smelled of pine, his jacket of a sweet cigar.

“Darling, you’re shaking.” He rubbed her arm over the sleeve of her sweater, brisk at first, then long and even.

For an eternal stretch, she focused on the rhythm of his breathing. The flow of air, in and out. Anything to drown out the siren’s ghost-like cry. Isaak took a few stabs at casual conversation, but the attempts swiftly died.

Lamplight glinted off the rim of his shirt collar. His necklace. She reached for the chain, desperate for a distraction, and followed its path to a golden charm. She traced the grooves of the foreign engraving, as she had done in the past. It was a gift from his late grandmother-his
Oma
he had called her.

A bedlam of voices broke out above. Vivian’s muscles recoiled, braced for an invasion. The yelling grew, then dimmed as the stampede passed the door.

“It’s all right, Vivian. We’re safe down here.”

The comment brought scant assurance. Any minute, an explosion could rip through the cellar and blast the jars into pieces. She fended off the image, sharp as razors in her mind.

Sinking into Isaak, she rested her cheek on his neck. How she yearned for comforts of the familiar, a vision of life before war. “Tell me again, will you? All the things back home you used to love.”

“In New York?” he said.

She nodded.

“Well ... let’s see....” His subtle German vowels became more pronounced in the dimness. He rested the back of his head against a row of canned soup. “The diners, for one. There was a spot by our house that had the best burgers and fries in town. Probably because they didn’t clean the grill very often, so the grease had loads of flavor. And they had the thickest milk shakes you’ve ever seen. They must have emptied a whole cow to make the shakes that creamy.”

A tight laugh slipped from Vivian’s mouth. She could almost taste the sweetness of vanilla malt on her tongue. “What else?”

Isaak stroked her hair as he continued. “Yankee Stadium. Pickup games of stickball. Penny candies at Mr. Burke’s drugstore—I must have bought a hundred large pickles at that place. After dipping my hand in, my fingers would smell like pickle juice for days.” He chuckled, remembering, and Vivian warmed at the idea.

“Then there’s the American picture shows-not having to wait for them to make it all the way here. Oh, and those fancy window displays. Better in New York than anywhere.”

“Like Macy’s,” she guessed.

“That’s right. They were splendid at Christmas, weren’t they?”

“I’ve actually never seen them during the holidays. Though I’ve wanted to.” Political festivities always consumed her family’s calendar, barring any plans that time of year to venture out of DC.

“Then I’ll take you.” Isaak spoke so decisively, as if Manhattan were across the street, not halfway around the globe. America seemed light-years away.

Suddenly Vivian recalled her pressing news, of her plans to leave in a week. She stamped out the thought, a dried leaf beneath her heel. For the time being, she would allow herself to indulge. She closed her eyes to visualize the scenes, to cling to a feeling of safety.

“What else shall we do while we’re there?”

He kissed the top of her head and she could feel the upturn of his lips. “Why, I’ll take you shopping, of course. Buy you the loveliest hat in Manhattan.”

“Only a hat?”

“A dress-three dresses. A whole wardrobe.”

She smiled.

“Have you been to the Empire State Building? It wasn’t built when I was there.”

“Just a few times.” She looked up at him. “Why? Would you like to go?”

He paused. “King Kong doesn’t actually cling to the top, does he?”

“Not usually.”

“In that case, we’ll add it to our list.” His fingers moved to her cheek. It was a triangular caress, as though mapping their tour on her skin. “From there, we’ll ice-skate in Central Park and take a carriage ride through the city. And we’ll have coffee and pastries every week at my favorite cafe in town.”

“Where is that?” she asked.

“It’s in Brooklyn, near Prospect Park. Called Cafe Labrec. It has a small French courtyard with flowers that bloom in every color. Darling, you’ll feel drunk on the scent of their croissants alone.”

She imagined the smell of baking dough, the chocolate smothered over buttery delights. “How heavenly,” she sighed, and that’s when the siren stopped.

The air raid was over. The silence was sobering.

“Thank God,” he murmured.

Ironically, Vivian felt anything but thankful. She had no desire to leave the virtual world they had constructed.

Isaak shifted, about to stand.

“Not yet.” She grasped his arm, and a solution emerged from the cellar of her own mind. She had been so afraid to throw her life off-kilter. Now she knew: What she had viewed as the firm foundation of her future would be but a feeble stage without him.

In the quiet, Isaak cocked his head, questioning. The lantern cast him in shadows.

She rose onto her knees to fully view his face. Her lingering adrenaline emboldened her. “Come to America with me.”

His eyes sparked with levity, a continuation of the fantasy, then dimmed as he registered her intent.

“The date’s been set,” she said. “Just this morning my parents told me. My mother and I are scheduled to leave next Sunday.”

“Sunday?” he said. “In just a week?”

She nodded, allowing her suggestion to soak in. He looked away, shoved his fingers through his hair. There was no trace of excitement. But then, it was a large proposition that required more detail.

“Don’t you see? It’s a perfect idea. After all, you’re an American. You belong there,” she said. “With me.”

He turned to her. Slowly he shook his head. “My life is here, Vivian. My classes, my work. My family.”

Concerns over his relatives were a given. She would expect nothing less. All the same, a pang shot through her chest from his low ranking of their relationship, below even schooling and a job. Both of which were doomed in a wartime climate.

She drew back onto her heels. “So what would you do instead? Sit in your classroom and wait for the bombs?”

“Of course not.”

“What then? Enlist in the service? Fly with the RAF?” She threw out the exaggerations based on his boyish fascination with newsreels but immediately regretted the scoff. His expression displayed serious mulling of the options.

“You’d be fighting against your own family.”

“No. I’d be fighting the Nazis.”

Incredulous, she blew out a breath. England wasn’t even his country.

“Vivian, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to do my bit. The evils of what they’re doing-they have to be stopped.”

She had heard enough political reasoning to last fifty lifetimes. Each conflict, in reality, could be traced to the same distinct villains: male pride and ego. All arguments to the contrary were fluffy justifications.

“The truth of it is,” she said, “if you truly loved me, you wouldn’t even consider such a thing.”

The statement hung between them, bare in the darkness. His lips parted but crafted no reply. Not even a request that she stay in London. No suggestion that they evacuate, like so many lovers would, off to a spot in the countryside. Rather, he would choose war and death over her.

Tears filled her eyes, fed by a pool of stupidity. Falling this hard for a man, much less one on another continent, made her worse than foolish.

She rushed to the ladder, starkly aware she had brought this on herself.

“Now, hold one minute.”

When she ignored the plea, Isaak grabbed her by the elbow. She struggled to continue, but he pulled her off from behind and bound her with his arms. “Just calm down and listen.”

“Let me go!”

“Look at me,” he ordered. He released her just enough to twist her around, and her arm flung free, striking his face. He stood there, stunned.

A budding of fear opened inside her. She recognized the edge in his eyes that had always lured her in. Before she could act, he pressed her back against the ladder. He charged forward to retaliate, but with a kiss. Flared with such hunger, it dizzied her thoughts.