by Andrew Gross
“She is, isn’t she? Thank you. I’d offer you coffee, but I’m not sure it’s best for Emma to get the wrong idea.”
“The wrong idea?”
Liz draped her coat across a chair and put down her purse. “Look, I talked to my lawyer, Charlie. Rollie Gretch.”
“Oh.” I felt my heart sink. “Another G.”
“This isn’t a surprise, is it?”
“No, it’s not a surprise.” I shrugged. “I just wanted you to know, Otto Brickman has started paying me to go over some of his papers at Fordham. It’s not exactly a full-time position, but he said if it went well, he would talk to someone there. It does give me enough to take a room in a boardinghouse in Brooklyn and get off that couch I told you about.”
“That’s great, Charlie. That’s swell. Really. I’m glad you’re getting back on your feet. Look, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t want Emma to see us together right now and get the wrong idea about things at a sensitive time.”
“I get it,” I said, and stood up. “I won’t stay. Okay if I leave her this?” I dropped the Ginger comic on the table.
“I think I can promise it’ll be in the trash within ten seconds after you leave.” She smiled.
“I figured. But actually, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about, which was why I stayed.”
Liz opened the fridge, searching for a plate of chicken Mrs. Shearer had left for her there. “What’s that?”
I said, “I’ve had a couple of unusual chance meetings with the Bauers. I was just wondering what you know about them?”
“Trudi and Willi? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what I mean. I mean, there’s something about them that just doesn’t add up.”
“Add up how, Charlie?” She pulled out the dish. “What I know is that they’re the nicest people I know. They adore Emma as if she was their own. And she, them. They even found Mrs. Shearer for us, and what would we ever do without her? I’m sure that will forever endear them to you.” She laughed. “And when she can’t make it, they’re always willing to step in with Emma till I get home. So what do you mean, ‘doesn’t add up,’ Charlie? Add up how?”
“I don’t know.… How they say they’re Swiss, but they’re always reading and talking German to Emma.”
“They are Swiss. And anyway, is that illegal today?”
“No, it’s not illegal. It’s just … Look, Emma used a German word to me a while back that opened my eyes. ‘Lebensraum.’ You know what it means?”
Liz placed the plate of chicken on the counter and took out a pitcher of water. “No, I don’t.” She shrugged impatiently. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“It means ‘living space,’ Liz. Elbow room. It’s how Hitler justified all his military expansion into Czechoslovakia and Poland and beyond. Emma said she overheard Willi and Trudi using it, and when I asked her what it meant, she said, ‘the future.’”
“The future … Willi and Trudi? Now I know you’ve got it wrong. The Bauers are against the Nazis more than anyone I know. They have family, Trudi said, who have been imprisoned by them.”
“I hear you. But then there are these people who go in there from time to time.” I lowered my voice so Emma wouldn’t hear. “Emma and I have bumped into them on our way out. I’m sure you’ve seen them.”
“No. In fact, I haven’t seen them, Charlie. I’m not always around. But now that you mention it, they do have visitors sometimes on the weekend. Is that illegal too?”
“So far, we’ve seen four different ones. They always seem to hide their faces, like they don’t want to be seen here. Trudi Bauer calls them ‘customers.’ Customers for what, Liz? Then I happened to see one the other day. I was actually looking for you, at Old Heidelberg—you remember, that café near the subway station, I don’t know if you go there anymore.…” I was about to say how I’d spotted her with someone across the street, but held back. “And I saw one of them.…”
“One of whom?” She looked at me, tired and exasperated like she wanted to sit down and eat.
“One of the people I’m talking about. Who we had run into on the landing. He was at The Purple Tulip next door. You remember, The Purple Tulip is a place where the German American Bund types always congregated.”
“Charlie, I’m really having trouble figuring all this out. Do you have any idea just how you’re sounding?” Liz looked at me.
“I don’t care how I’m sounding, Liz. I’m just trying to put a few things together. Do you have any idea how long they’ve been here? Or what they do? Emma said they sold beer?”
“They’ve been here for years, as far as I know. Since the late ’20s, I think. And Emma’s right, they do make beer. Or did, I don’t know. They have a brewery of some kind. Old Berliner, I think it was called. On Ninetieth somewhere. Originally, they said they would take Emma over for a visit. I know they sold it to many of the German bars around here. I really don’t keep up with them that way.”
“Old Berliner? I thought they were Swiss.”
“You can’t be Swiss and make beer, Charlie? Do you just have to make chocolate? Who are you now, Hector Poirot? You’re sounding a little silly now. I mean, just what are you suggesting? Trudi and Willi are spies?”
“Don’t mock me, Liz. I’m sure you saw that twenty-six of them were arrested not two weeks ago. Right here in New York. So they do exist. We’re inching toward war. It’s not exactly far-fetched.”
“I’m sorry, but it is to me, if you’re talking about the Bauers. And we’re not at war, Charlie. At least, not yet. Trudi and Willi…? Next you’ll say they’re recruiting Emma. And what are they using as their secret weapon, strudel?”
She stared up at me and I admit I had to smile at that, and Liz smiled too. Then laughed. The way it all came out, it did sound a bit far-fetched. Even to me.
“Honestly, Charlie, you must be watching all those war movies that are coming out now. You know, Confessions of a Nazi Spy?”
“No.” I shook my head. “In fact, I haven’t.”
“Well, it certainly sounds like you have been.”
Emma came back out in her squirrel pajamas and we tabled the conversation. “Are you going to be staying for dinner, Daddy?” She looked at Liz. “Please, Mommy.”
“Look, honey…” Liz didn’t know how to answer her.
“I wish I could, peach, but not tonight,” I said, chipping in with what I knew Liz would want me to say. “But maybe sometime soon. Or maybe we can go out. Just the two of us.”
“I would rather it was all of us,” she said. “Like before.”
“I know, doll. I wish it could be like it was before too.” I pinched her on the cheek. “But it can’t be. Not right now. I’ll see you Thursday, okay?” I took my hat and jacket.
“See you Thursday,” she said, nodding with a tinge of disappointment.
“To be continued.” I gave Liz a tight smile, and with a one-fingered wave toward my daughter, I was out the door.
* * *
Heading down the stairs, thinking on it all again, maybe it did all seem a bit silly. Maybe I was making it up as I went along, piecing together bits and pieces of things that didn’t fully fit, like Emma’s puzzles. Still, at the same time, I couldn’t put it away. Just as I couldn’t put away that Liz was now speaking to her lawyer and that any hopes I had of picking up the life we had before were gone. Or at least, they were listing badly.
Still, on the street, my mind kept coming back to the Bauers. To Old Berliner … They had been in the beer business. What they had done in the years before.
I stopped back in at the Old Heidelberg café and sought out my waiter, Karl.
He seemed surprised to see me again so quickly. “Did you forget something, Mr. Mossman? I didn’t find anything at your table.”
“No, I’m just curious about something, Karl. Maybe you can help. Ever hear of a beer called Old Berliner?”
“Old Berliner, why, of course. We served it in this restaurant for yea
rs. It was Wilhelm Bauer’s beer. He and his wife still eat here occasionally.” He pointed eastward. “It was brewed right over there near the river in an old firehouse on Ninetieth Street, near York.”
So Emma and Liz were right, I said to myself—the Bauers were in the beer business. Maybe the people we kept running into could be merely customers after all. Bar owners. Distributors. Though it occurred to me, why would they be coming to them? At their home. Instead of to the brewery.
Karl tucked two menus under his arm. “Is that all for now?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks, Karl.” Then as I was about to leave: “Just one more thing.…”
“Of course. If I can help…”
“You used the word ‘served.’ In the past tense. How come I don’t see it on the menu anymore?”
“Well, that’s because they don’t make it any longer,” the white-haired waiter lamented. “The Bauers had to close their doors.” He scratched his head. “A year ago, I’m thinking. Maybe more.”
“Closed…?” I looked at Karl. “A year? You’re sure?”
“Yes, Mr. Mossman. Or more. Why…?”
“No reason. Thanks.”
But what I was really thinking was that I was now sure Trudi Bauer had lied about this after all, just like they had about what they’d said to Emma.
They closed their brewery a year ago, Karl had said. Or more.
Whoever these people were, I was now sure they likely weren’t customers of the brewery at all.
10
September moved into October. America teetered on the precipice of war.
While Britain held on, Germany looked east and pushed deeper into Russia. Tensions were high in the United States as we continued supplying arms to England and Russia through the lend-lease program FDR had worked out, in defiance of the Neutrality Act and a stubbornly resistant Congress. Lindbergh gave a speech that was broadcast across the entire country, begging the United States to remain neutral, blaming Roosevelt, the British, and the Jews for dragging us to the edge of war. In the North Atlantic, German U-boats preyed on American merchant ships ferrying aid to England, including the sinking of another destroyer, the USS Brent, where eleven sailors lost their lives, the first casualties of the impending conflict. Every day things seemed to bring us closer to war.
But here, I was starting to slowly put my life back together. I got my old job back, teaching American history at night to aspiring citizens twice a week, and continued to earn a little cash reading term papers for my old boss, Otto Brickman, now at Fordham. I managed to sell my car for four hundred dollars, enough to keep a roof over my head for a while. Sometimes I came twice a week to see Emma, other weeks only once, depending on my schedule.
For the moment, life kept me clear of the Bauers.
But one Wednesday I surprised Emma as an appointment with my parole officer had brought me near the Upper East Side. When I showed up unexpectedly, around our usual time, three thirty, Mrs. Shearer, who was ironing, said rather coolly at the sight of me that Emma was next door.
I hadn’t spoken to the Bauers since our little chat about Lebensraum.
I knocked on their door. I heard classical music coming from within. In a moment, Trudi Bauer opened up. “Ah, Mr. Mossman!” she exclaimed with a pleased demeanor. “We have a guest, Emma. Look who’s here!”
“Daddy!” Emma jumped up from the love seat, ran over to me, and gave me a hug around the waist.
“I’m very sorry to intrude,” I said. “Mrs. Shearer said she was here. I was in the neighborhood and couldn’t be close by without seeing my little girl.”
“Aunt Trudi was just teaching me about music,” Emma announced excitedly.
“Schubert,” Trudi Bauer confirmed.
“Yes, I hear it. His Ninth, I believe. The Great. In C major,” I said.
Trudi’s grayish eyes came alive brightly. “Good for you!”
“I only know because—and you may not even know this,” I said to Emma, “but your mother took a course or two on Schubert back at Columbia before we…” I caught myself mid-sentence, knowing where continuing would have taken us, a place I didn’t want it to go. “She was actually writing her doctorial thesis on Chopin when we met. In musicology.”
“Chopin? Is that so?” Trudi Bauer said, impressed. “I had no idea.”
“I guess she doesn’t talk about it much now. But ask her,” I said. “I’m sure she’d love to bring it out for you.”
“I was just taking Emma through the different movements of a symphony or concerto. How slow is called andante, right?” Trudi waved her arm slowly. “And fast, the allegro vivace, and the final movement, the finale, the merging or coda of all the themes. I think it’s all a bit over her head, I’m afraid.”
“I just like the music,” Emma said. “Especially the fast parts. It’s pretty.”
“It is indeed pretty,” I said. “And did you know that Schubert was discovered and actually tutored by the very same Antonio Salieri who taught Mozart.”
“And who was thought to have murdered the maestro,” Trudi chipped in herself.
“The same.” I nodded. “And, that the Ninth is considered Schubert’s masterpiece of symphonic form. That’s why it’s called The Great. Oh, and that he was only five foot one in height. Barely taller than you, peach.”
“You are a truly Schubert expert!” Trudi Bauer exclaimed.
“Well, for a semester back then, Liz barely thought of anything else. I was bound to pick some of it up. You were just a little tyke,” I said to Emma. I looked around. “Your husband’s not at home?”
“Not at this time. He’s out on business. But I wonder if I can tempt you with a slice of fruit tart. I just cut a piece for Emma. It would be no trouble.”
At first I was set to decline, and say we should probably get along now and out of her hair, but seeing Emma scooping hers up with a messy, red and creamy smile, I reversed course and replied, “If it’s no trouble, why not then? No reason to break up the party.”
There was a New York Times folded on the coffee table and Trudi saw my eyes fix on the headline: “German Tanks Stream Toward Stalingrad.”
“That lunatic has now turned his sights on Russia,” she commented, shaking her head. “A far better general than he had to learn that same lesson the hard way.”
“Yes, and like Napoleon, he obviously believes he’ll be in Moscow before winter,” I said.
“Well, we’ll see,” Trudi said, slicing a piece of cake at the kitchen counter. “History proves different, of course.”
She handed it to me on a pretty plate, with a filigreed silver fork and a cup of coffee that had been brewing.
I heard you have family back in Germany, I was about to inquire of her, recalling what Liz had said, about the Nazis imprisoning them, when Trudi waved her hand dismissively and opined, “Well, enough of this conversation about war. It’s not fitting for a young girl’s ears. It’s why we Swiss remain neutral in such matters, as we’ve learned that all war is without its winners, only those who suffer the least casualties. Emma, what do you call this particular movement?”
It was the third movement of the Schubert. Lively and whimsical. I’d heard this piece a dozen times during Liz’s and my early life together.
“Al-le…” Emma stuttered.
“Allegro. Allegro vivace, in fact!” Trudi said. She smoothed her gray hair back off her ears. “So how do you like the cake, Mr. Mossman?”
“Charlie,” I reminded her. In front of me on the coffee table was a large edition of Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle. In German, I could see.
“Yes, Charlie. My apologies…”
“Anyway, it’s delicious, right, peach?” I pointed to the Darwin. “So who has the interest in the natural sciences in the family?” I asked.
“Oh, my husband,” Trudi said. “He maintains lots of interests.”
“I actually heard you and your husband were brewers,” I said, shifting the subject.
“How did you know that?�
� she inquired.
“Liz told me.”
“Oh. Yes. We did have a small brewery on East Ninetieth. We bought it when we came over, back in ’28. It was never much of a money-maker however. It was always hard for Willi to go up against the more established local brands. Like Rheingold and Knickerbocker.”
“Old Berliner, it was called?”
“Indeed. We had a German brewmaster and we distributed to many of the restaurants in the neighborhood. It was quite the time then. But we had to close the business a while back. At first, it was Prohibition. But now, nothing with such a name could be popular with what’s going on now.”
She meant the war, of course. Anything German-sounding was no longer in the style. “But you still have customers, I see?”
“Customers…?” Trudi looked at me quizzically.
“You recall we’ve bumped into a couple on the landing. Emma and I. Once, when we mailed your letters.…” I waited for her reaction. “And another time, when we were headed out for ice cream.”
“Ah yes, of course.…” Trudi Bauer cleared her throat and nodded, as if catching herself in a fib. “Yes. They are customers. Willi’s in a different business now. We are trying to rent out the building. Now, Emma,” she quickly changed subjects, “I said I would show you a picture of Willi and me at the Zurich zoo when we were first married? Would you like to see it? I have it in the bedroom.”
“Yes, Aunt Trudi.” Emma seemed excited.
“And then I must begin making dinner for Willi. He’ll be home soon. And I’m sure Emma would like to spend a little time with her father on his surprise visit, and not me. Come, child.”
She took Emma’s hand and led her inside their bedroom.
“I’ll clear,” I called out, reaching for Emma’s plate. “The cake was delicious.”
“No, no, don’t bother,” Trudi said from the bedroom. “That’s for me to do.”
“No bother at all,” I said.
Ignoring her wish, I stacked Emma’s plate and silverware on mine and took them into the kitchen. I was thinking maybe I’d been rash after all in what I’d thought of the Bauers. Looking around—the cake, the old photographs, the completely orderly decorum—it seemed they could not possibly live more ordinary lives.