Along the Infinite Sea

by Beatriz Williams

  All right, she says, and her head disappears again, behind the flat ledge of the front seat.

  4.

  When Pepper wakes up a few hours later, she’s aware of two facts, and that’s all: she’s lying on the backseat of a car, and the car has stopped.

  Her hand goes straight to her belly and finds—with relief—the strong little ball, still in place. Still there.

  And then she remembers there’s nothing to fear. She’s escaped into the night again, just in the nick. She’s headed for Georgia. A vagabond. Pepper on the run.

  She sits up and looks out the window at a salmon-pink sunrise rising above the distant marsh grass. On the other side of the car lies a wide street, silent as the grave, studded with tombstone cars. Beyond, a pilloried white building glows hopefully in the dawn. The Riverview Hotel, the sign says.

  “I guess we’re in Georgia,” she says, to no one in particular, because the front seat is empty. Which rather offends Pepper, because who leaves a pregnant woman asleep on an unknown street at dawn?

  She stretches, runs her fingers through her unkempt hair, and opens the door.

  Outside, it’s chillier than she expected, as if they’ve crossed some invisible line from the endless summer of Florida into a world in which seasons existed. Pepper tucks her cardigan about her shoulders and inhales the Georgia morning. A suggestion of smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the fishiness of the nearby sea, and Pepper realizes she’s standing at the edge of a glassy tidal river, that the distant marsh is actually the opposite shore, and that a modest white boat lies moored to the railing, next to a sign that reads CUMBERLAND ISLAND FERRY. A figure leans back against the rightmost edge of the ferry sign, covering the last three letters. One arm crosses beneath a round bosom, while the other operates a cigarette in short and furtive strikes.

  Well, well. Not so squeaky-clean after all.

  Pepper reaches back in the car for her crutches and hobbles toward Susan. Her limbs are stiff and ungainly after the rocky night, and her tongue is coated in fur. Dollars to doughnuts, she looks like hell. But then Susan looks remarkably like hell, too. The skin actually sags beneath her lashes, an effect made worse by raccoonlike smears of black mascara, and her blond curls have expired. Two pretty women brought low by a night in a Ford Thunderbird.

  Susan waves her cigarette. “Don’t tell.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Want one?”

  Pepper nearly says yes, and then she thinks of Florian quitting cold turkey the day his father got cancer. “I’m laying off the smokes right now. But I might just huddle around your lighter for a second to warm up.”

  Susan laughs. “I almost forgot what cold felt like. Florian told me to pack a jacket, but it slipped my mind. Serves me right.”

  “Speaking of which, where is the little devil?”

  “My jacket?”

  “Florian.”

  “Oh, he’s just getting rooms, so we can rest and freshen up before the ferry leaves.” The cigarette is nearly finished. She holds it between her thumb and forefinger, sucking every last drop into her pale mouth. Her skin is pink with cold, her eyes excessively blue inside their charcoal circles.

  “I could use a little freshening.” Pepper watches longingly as Susan drops the final crumb into the turf and crushes it under her pristine white sneaker. “And then the fun begins.”

  “The fun? You mean looking for Mrs. Dommerich?”

  “Well, maybe fun isn’t quite the word. Fireworks is more to the point, when Florian finds out that his dear mama is tracking down an old flame.”

  Susan hesitates. “Do you think so?”

  “You don’t agree?”

  A look of wariness enters Susan’s young forehead. “It could be an old school friend,” she says.

  “Come on, honey. We both know you’re not nearly as naïve as you let on.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She looks down. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, now that Mr. Dommerich is gone. I’d just hate to think she was . . . you know, that it was anything . . .”

  Pepper braces the crutches under her arms and clasps her hands together. She’s warmed up a little, thanks to the miniature furnace burning away inside her, but her fingers feel like numb little sausages. “You never know what’s really going on in someone else’s marriage.”

  “My mother didn’t like him,” Susan says. “Mr. Dommerich. She said he wasn’t very pleasant. He didn’t like to talk about himself. But I thought he was nice, once you got to know him. I think he was just quiet because of what happened, you know, back in Germany.”

  “What happened back in Germany?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but I always got the feeling it was something terrible. Because he wouldn’t ever talk about it, wouldn’t even allow any photographs in the house. Like he thought someone might, I don’t know, recognize him, or something like that.”

  “But they got out before the war even started.”

  “I know. But that was just the feeling I had.” She pauses. “He used to teach me German words, until my mother got upset. I think maybe they were vulgar; he had this naughty sense of humor, though you wouldn’t think it at first. He seemed very proper. I called him by his first name once, Rudolf, and he looked at me like I was crazy. I was so sorry when he got sick.” She eyes her pocketbook, as if considering another cigarette. “He about worshipped the ground Mrs. Dommerich walked on, and you could tell she loved him back. The way they looked at each other, like they were sharing a secret. They had all these kids. Stepkids and half-siblings and full siblings. I couldn’t tell half of them apart sometimes. Keep straight who was who. They were mostly older, except for the twins. They had twins after they moved to America. Margot and Lizzie. They’re in college now. I only have one sister, so I loved going over there, everybody crawling over each other. She just loved taking care of them all, Mrs. Dommerich. She’s one of those mother hens, you know? I don’t know how she found the time for her music.”

  “Or anything else,” murmurs Pepper.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. And you and Florian?”

  “Oh, him.” Her cheeks are already blushing with cold, but Pepper imagines a little more color. “Don’t tell him, but I had a crush on him since I was a little kid, when he saved our beagle Molly after she got caught in the surf. He came up out of the water—it was a horrible riptide, there was a storm offshore—all dripping and handsome, and I was a goner. Isn’t that the most? And he never paid the slightest bit of attention to me. I was just Margot and Lizzie’s friend.”

  “Oh, that’s just boys. Trust me, he had his eye on you, a pretty thing like you.”

  “Well, if he did, he didn’t let on for years.” She casts a hairy eyeball at the hotel entrance. “Not until last summer. He was back for a week or two, and he finally noticed I existed. Asked me to dinner. I had a date with Billy Fielder—”

  “Oh, who’s Billy?”

  “Just a boy.” She looks away. “I called Billy up and canceled, and—well. We had a real nice time. He kissed me good night.”

  “Better late than never.”

  “Yes, I guess so.” Again with the hesitation. Susan’s such a good girl, she hates to hurt anyone’s feelings, even when they’re not around. She opens her mouth, closes it, and discovers her pocketbook again. “It’s funny,” she says, rummaging for the cigarettes, “nothing’s ever quite what you expect, is it? Even something you’ve wanted for years.”

  “That’s life, honey.”

  She lights up and draws in deeply, eyes closed. “But what am I saying? He’s terrific. He’s the best. He always opens the car door for me and gives me his jacket when it’s cold out. He said his mom made him take her out on a date when he turned sixteen, so he would know how to treat a lady. Don’t you love that?”

  “It sounds like Annabelle, all righ
t.”

  “He called me a few times when he went back to Washington, wrote me a couple of letters. I missed him like crazy. I thought about moving there to be with him, but Mom said no, you make them come to you. Like dogs, she said. Or was it sheep?”

  “Mom is probably right. But it’s easy for her to say, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say. Oh, shoot!” She snatches the cigarette from her mouth and drops it on the ground. “Here he comes.”

  “You know, he can still smell the smoke on you.”

  “Oh no. Do you think so?”

  Pepper shrugs. “Don’t worry. I’ll say it was me. Just don’t let him get too close until you’ve washed your mouth out with Listerine.”

  5.

  But sneaky cigarettes are the last thing on Florian’s mind. He strides across the parking lot like a warrior advancing over enemy territory, and from the wattage of his eyes, Pepper guesses it’s news. Good or bad?

  “She’s here,” he says. “Was here. Right here at this hotel.”

  Pepper scans the street for a vintage black Mercedes, a pearl among swine. “Was here? So where is she now?”

  “On the island. Cumberland Island, like we guessed. She took the ferry out yesterday.”

  “And she’s still there?” Susan’s words emerge in a cloud of guilty cinnamon Dentyne.

  “They don’t know. That’s the thing. She never checked out of the hotel. She didn’t take a suitcase or anything. But . . .” Florian holds his hand up to his brow and turns to stare at the boat moored beside them, and he looks like he’s forty years old, just like that. He looks as old as God.

  “But?” Pepper says softly.

  He turns not to Susan, but to Pepper, and his eyes are like two brown stones. “But when the last ferry came in, she wasn’t on it.”

  Annabelle

  GERMANY • 1938

  1.

  At the top of the entrance gate to the prisoner’s camp at Dachau, the iron formed into the words ARBEIT MACHT FREI.

  “In English, it means, literally, Work makes freedom,” said the man next to me, with conspicuous pride. “Though perhaps it is more usefully translated as Work will make you free. You will find, Frau von Kleist, that all our prisoners are kept occupied with honest and wholesome labor, for the great progress of the Reich.”

  “So my husband tells me.”

  The September sun shone white on my face. Underneath my neat suit of light blue wool, I was dripping with perspiration, though the morning was still cool. I followed the officer through the gate, past the barbed wire and the ominous empty strip of land overlooked by the tower. The officer was explaining how perfectly secure the camp was, how I had nothing to fear. There were sharpshooters in the top of that tower, guns already cocked, eyes and muzzles trained on any movement. A prisoner had no chance of escape.

  “What if he were to dig a tunnel of some sort?” I asked.

  The officer shook his head and told me this was impossible, that every prisoner was required to strip naked and relinquish everything in his possession upon entry into the camp. He was then issued a striped uniform and a number. Unless this prisoner were to dig with his bare fingers—here the officer laughed—he would have no capability for such a project.

  “Besides,” he went on, “that is why we keep them occupied with physical labor during the day. They have no thought of anything but sleep at night.”

  Of course, I said. How clever.

  2.

  We toured the various buildings—the infirmary, the canteen, the camp offices—and saw the gray-striped prisoners shuffling about the laundry. The interiors were spotless and smelled of lye and disinfectant. Lieutenant Helmbrecht repeated at intervals what an honor it was to have the general’s wife inspect the camp, and how he hoped I appreciated the genius of its design and operation, its remarkable efficiency. While the SS were of course in charge, the prisoners actually ran the camp themselves, organizing into work details and operating the laundry and the library and the infirmary. Work and responsibility, sobriety and industry: these were the pathways to rehabilitation. The new complex had just been opened last month, a model for future camps. The lieutenant was young and fair and high-pitched with enthusiasm, a bit like Frieda describing the day’s tennis. I complimented him on his exact knowledge of the camp, his thorough attention to his duty. He blushed and consulted his watch.

  “It is nearly time for the midday prisoner muster, Frau von Kleist,” he said. “May I have the honor of presenting this spectacle to you? I assure you, it is perfectly safe. The prisoners would not dare to step from line.”

  I said I would enjoy that very much.

  3.

  “Tell me more about your prisoners,” I said, as we walked toward the beaten rectangle of the assembly area. Lieutenant Helmbrecht’s leather boots had taken on a film of dust, dulling their shine, but they still struck impressively on the ground. He kept his hands folded behind his back as he walked.

  “They are divided into two groups at present,” he said. “The political prisoners, who are classified by a red badge, and the criminal ones, who wear green. Here we have mostly the political prisoners, because that is the purpose of building these camps: a place to hold these dangerous men without overburdening the state prisons.”

  “Are they ever released?”

  “Very rarely, I am afraid. The tendency to sedition and agitation is a chronic condition. If released, they will simply continue their criminal activities against the state.” Lieutenant Helmbrecht shook his head in a way that suggested profound regret. “I have often wondered if there is some mental weakness or disorder associated with this tendency.”

  “A fascinating theory, Lieutenant Helmbrecht. I shouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  We came to a halt at the edge of the assembly ground, where long lines of men in striped clothes were filing into order, a strange sort of convict army. Like soldiers, except they were not. Like trailing ants, except they were men.

  I thought, He’s here, Stefan is here. One of these men is Stefan.

  At the outset, I had conveyed to the lieutenant and the camp authorities that my German was limited, but this was a lie. In fact, I’d spent many hours dedicating myself to the study of my husband’s native language since our reconciliation last year. Johann had been so pleased. He helped me practice, pointed out the nuances of Sie and Du. He said that he hoped I would be able to converse with his friends, to see that there was nothing to fear, that good people and good intentions prevailed in Germany. I never had that opportunity, but I could listen now as the commands rang around the muster grounds. I could understand what was happening. The prisoners stood in line, wearing identical striped uniforms and caps. The ones with the green badges stood to the right, and the ones with red badges stood to the left; the red badges far outnumbered the green. Each row lay in a precise line, separated from the others by the same distance. I gazed across the rows of gray-striped limbs, the expressionless faces beneath the caps, and I thought, in panic, I will never find him; this is impossible.

  Lieutenant Helmbrecht turned to me. “There are four thousand two hundred and five prisoners in total, of which—”

  “May I walk down the rows? My husband is a humanitarian, Lieutenant Helmbrecht, and he instructed me specifically to examine the condition of the prisoners.”

  “But Frau von Kleist, I assure you we take the strictest care of these men. The prisoners themselves are in charge of their own governance. We watch continually for signs of infection, and sickness is quarantined at the first symptom. There is an infirmary, staffed by the prisoners themselves, those who were employed in the medical profession—”

  “And I confess, I’m a little curious about these incorrigible criminals, and how thoroughly you have managed to subdue their dangerous tendencies. I’m eager to report to my husband how brilliantly Dachau fulfills its mission, and whether any of its tech
niques can be copied at the other camps.”

  Lieutenant Helmbrecht’s young cheeks turned a little pink. “Of course, Frau von Kleist.”

  He shouted a command to one of the guards, who stepped forward and accompanied us down the first row of prisoners. The red badges were vivid against the gray and white of their uniforms, as if an artist had tinted some aspect of a monochrome photograph for visual effect. Each face was fixed with the same expression of neutral hatred, and as I walked down the row, sweeping my gaze along the procession of cheekbones and gaunt eyes, I realized that the Nazis had won: I could not tell these men apart. Everyone was thin, everyone was striped, every face matched the other. You hardly noticed who was tall and who was short. You didn’t see the cropped hair hidden under the striped cap. You saw no difference in complexion between one sunburn and another.

  “Excellent,” I said to Lieutenant Helmbrecht, as we came to the end of the row.

  “Thank you, Frau von Kleist.”

  I looked again across the rows and columns, which were so exactly spaced that from where I stood, at the diagonal, the men formed yet another straight line. They must have drilled them this way, all day in the hot summer, until they got it right. And Stefan had lived here for a year. All year, last summer and autumn, the bitterness of winter and spring and summer again, he had worn his striped uniform and stood out here while the sun shone and the wind blew and the snow fell.

  Where was he?

  Do something, I thought. Show me where you are. You must know it’s me. You must know why I’m here.

  And as I gazed across the motionless lines of men, doing my best to appear pleased with what I saw, I realized that he would not. Of course he would not. Stefan would open his own veins before he would allow me to risk myself for his sake.

  I put my gloved hand on Lieutenant Helmbrecht’s shoulder and let out a little cry.

  “Frau von Kleist!”