Along the Infinite Sea

by Beatriz Williams

  “And now he’s out of your life for good. His brother, I mean. Both of them.”

  Pepper looks back down at the gentle mountain of her pregnancy, this foreign salient of her once-lithe body. For maybe the thousandth time, she thinks, My God, I’m going to be a mother, and for the thousandth time it doesn’t quite sink in. Maybe it won’t sink in until the baby’s born, until it’s alive and kicking in her arms, until it’s nursing at her breast, further ruining her perfect curves. Maybe not even then. Maybe the sonofabitch was right, when he spoke to her there in the parlor of the Riverview Hotel; maybe Pepper isn’t mother material.

  “That depends,” she says. “I mean, it’s his baby, too. I can’t just say never, can I? I’m kind of stuck with him.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “It’s not for his sake, or his family’s sake. It’s for the baby’s sake. The baby deserves a father, if his father decides he wants to be a father.”

  “Or she.”

  Pepper looks up.

  Florian’s smiling. “Might be a girl.”

  “Might be. God help her.”

  Florian goes back to swishing his coffee. “So I was thinking . . .”

  “You could use a haircut? A decent necktie?”

  “Probably both of those things. But mostly I was thinking we might have coffee sometime.”

  “Unless I’m hallucinating, that’s what we’re doing right now.”

  “So maybe we could have coffee more often. A regular thing.”

  “Don’t you have to go back to work on Monday morning?”

  “I could visit on weekends.”

  “That’s a hell of a drive.”

  He leans in close, so she can smell the flavor of his shaving soap. “I could fly.”

  Maybe she banged her ribs in the accident. Maybe it’s pneumonia. A heart attack. Whatever it is, there’s definitely something wrong with Pepper’s chest. She’ll have to ask that nice doctor for an X ray, the next time he comes around.

  “It’s a dumb idea,” she says. “The dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. I’m not much fun at the moment.”

  “That’s okay. I happen to like you when you’re not much fun.”

  Jesus. Now her eyes.

  “I guess I’m not in any condition to stop you,” she says, and then, without thinking, “even if I wanted to,” and thank God the door opens right then, before she can go on to say something even more stupid, and Annabelle Dommerich marches into the room, carrying a big bunch of fragrant pink roses.

  “They’re really from Florian,” she says, planting a kiss on Pepper’s forehead, “but he was too shy to give them to you himself.”

  “Mama, for chrissakes,” says Florian.

  5.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” says Annabelle. “I’d never have forgiven myself.”

  Pepper lets out an aggrieved sigh. “You were trying to help.”

  “Well, I did, didn’t I? All’s well that ends well.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Pepper gestures to the whole lot: belly, bed, cast. “And now I’ve got my family crowding half drunk around my bedside every second, thanks to your meddling.”

  “Yes, I was right about that, too,” Annabelle says smugly. “I just had to pin you down, nice and helpless, so you could see for yourself. And the car will be fixed by the end of the week. And I got rid of Susan.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Oh, I may have hinted that Florian was conceived out of wedlock, or something like that.” She leans forward, woman to woman. “He likes you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “So don’t you go around breaking my son’s heart. He’s really very tender inside, though he hates to show it.”

  “Trust me, I wouldn’t dare. I saw what you did to that sonofabitch outside.”

  “Good, then. You’ll be very happy. I can see you’re already in love with him. I’ll have that Cartier watch on my wrist by Christmas.” She winks. “Our bet, remember?”

  Pepper rolls her eyes and reaches for the cherry Jell-O.

  “By the way,” Annabelle continues, examining her fingernails, “I’m taking your advice.”

  “I beg your pardon? When did I ever give you advice?”

  “About my friend on Cumberland Island. I realized you were right, that I was a coward. And I suppose my pride was hurt as well. Every woman likes to dream that a man will pine for her eternally, when the reality is that the poor dears just need some company. They can’t manage on their own forever.” She smiles brightly. “So I’m off on the afternoon ferry. Finish off that unfinished business and brush my hands clean.”

  Pepper scrapes her spoon around the sides of the Jell-O cup, wondering if it would be bad form to lick it clean. “I’m glad to hear it. Tell me how everything goes. I hope you kick the bitch out.”

  Annabelle laughs. “I’ll do no such thing. I’m just going to say hello, give him something back, and wish him well.”

  Pepper looks up. “But don’t you want to wait until the car is all fixed?”

  “The car?”

  “I mean, what are you going to say? I’ve bought back the Mercedes, please don’t mind that crumpled mess in the rear wheel well.”

  Annabelle’s face clears. “Oh, my dear. I’m not bringing him the car. Why would I?”

  “But I thought it was his. His car.”

  “No, no. The car belonged to my dear husband, God rest his soul. And it’s a beautiful car, and my husband loved it very much and was sorry to see it go, and I’m sure he’s very happy, wherever he is, to know that I’ve found it again. No, for this man, I have something far more valuable.” She looks at her watch, starts, and picks up her gloves and pocketbook, which are made of rich blue leather in contrast to her neat black trousers and cashmere turtleneck sweater. She picks up her coat, made of beautiful aubergine wool, and slings it over her shoulder. “I’m going to be late.”

  “But wait! I’m confused. I thought—”

  But Annabelle is already slipping through the door into the bright hospital corridor, an elegant blue-tipped bird among the antiseptic white walls.

  Pepper sets aside the empty Jell-O cup and says aloud, to the baby: You know, one day, we have really got to make her sit down and tell us the whole damned story.

  Annabelle

  GERMANY • 1938

  1.

  In the interior of the Mercedes, nobody spoke. Johann drove intently along the dirt road, glancing into the mirror every so often, while Stefan and I occupied the other seat, covered with sleeping children, staring like corpses through the windshield, too shocked to say anything at all. To ask a single question.

  Until Florian woke up. Florian lifted his head from Stefan’s chest and saw Johann driving keen-eyed, both hands gripping the wheel, washed clean by the morning light, and he shouted, “Papa!” and flung himself on Johann’s thick arm.

  Johann had already taken off his jacket that was covered in brains, and he opened up his arm and pressed Florian to his shirt, without saying a word.

  Next to me, Stefan closed his eyes and stroked Else’s dark hair, and a minute later his breathing relaxed, and he seemed to have fallen asleep.

  2.

  Johann lit a cigarette and asked if I wanted one. I said no, thank you.

  “Are you well?” he said. “You are not hurt?”

  “No.”

  He adjusted Florian in his arm, so he could smoke and drive at the same time. “Good. I had some concern, when I saw them putting you in the truck like that.”

  “You didn’t show it.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  The air was close inside the car, despite the late autumn chill. I found myself wishing we could open the top. I leaned across Henrik’s sleeping body and turned off the heater. “Where are we going?”

&
nbsp; “To the border crossing at Neuenbürg, about a hundred kilometers away, south of Freiburg. It’s a smaller one, in case we have any trouble.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He maneuvered around Florian to tap his cigarette into the ashtray. “Listen to me. If we are going to get you across in safety, you must do exactly as I say, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “We are husband and wife. These are our children. We are going south to Italy, to spend the winter there for your health. You’ve been sick, okay?”

  “Yes. What about Stefan?”

  “We will stop shortly, about a mile from the border, and put him in the boot.”

  “The boot? Won’t they look?”

  “No,” he said, “because I am a general in the German army, you understand. I am a senior official; I am a confidant of the Führer. I outrank any idiot officer at the Neuenbürg crossing, at least until they find out what I have just done.”

  He took in a long draft from his cigarette, which was nearly finished, and then he pulled the pack from his shirt pocket and lit another one from the end of the first, which he stubbed out in the ashtray.

  “And what have you done?” I asked softly.

  “I have committed an act of treason, I suppose.”

  “You have saved us. You saved Stefan.”

  He shrugged.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Not for his sake, certainly. Not even wholly for yours.”

  “Then whose?” But I knew the answer.

  He drove on silently for a moment, negotiating a series of curves in the road. There were no other cars, an eerie absence of other people, and I remembered the riots last night. The riots that had started all this, and now seemed like another age. The smoke was so thick, I couldn’t breathe. I rolled down the window a couple of inches.

  “I was in Munich yesterday,” he said. “There was a great meeting, a celebration, actually, a commemoration of the—oh, what is it in English?—I believe it’s called the Beer Hall Putsch. When they sent Hitler to jail, many years ago, and he wrote his book. We were all expected to be there. A very nice dinner, a big dinner, and then we got word that vom Rath had died, the poor bastard. And instead of giving his speech, Hitler left, and Herr Goebbels spoke instead.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that the party wouldn’t instigate any demonstrations, but that they wouldn’t stop them, either. If the people wanted to kill Jews in revenge, no one would stop them.” He cracked open his own window and blew out the smoke. “And all I could think was Florian. This enemy, this animal they were talking about, was my boy. They want to kill my boy.” His voice broke. “They will kill my dear boy because he is a Jew.”

  I waited while he struggled. My eyes blurred, so that I couldn’t quite see the road ahead, and turned my head to the window instead, where the smudging of the passing trees was a normal optic effect.

  Johann went on: “So I left, before anyone could see what was in my face, and returned to my hotel, and there was a message there that they—the Gestapo agents, these men I have worked with many times—had discovered who was involved in the escape of Stefan Silverman a month ago and that they were planning a raid that night on the house of the Himmelfarb family in Stuttgart. Why tonight? Of course, because the demonstrations would lend them the perfect cover; they could do what they wanted this night.”

  “Oh, God,” I whispered.

  “I got in my car that instant and left. By then, I think I had gone a little mad. I thought, I have been wrong. I have been wrong about my country. I have been what I believe the Americans call a stooge . . . is that the word? Stooge?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “A stooge for these men, these selfish men who will commit any crime to win themselves another gram of power. I have got to do this, I have got to stop them. I have got to do this for my boy.”

  He wiped his face and dropped his cigarette out the window.

  “In the event, I arrived too late. They had already shot the Himmelfarbs like dogs in their own house. I saw the wife there on the rug, shot through the forehead, here, and the stomach.” He gestured. “But then I saw Silverman. He was fighting like a madman. I thought, My God, what the fuck is Silverman doing here, when he should be safe in Switzerland? The goddamned bastard is more a hero than I am, he is fighting for his people instead of enjoying his new wife and his son and his freedom. And I realized in that second what God was asking me to do.”

  He started another cigarette, and the sun, now fully risen, darted out from a cloud, blinding the windshield. Else stirred and groaned, and I put my hand over her brow to shield her.

  “How are the girls?” I said. “How is Frieda?”

  “She was distraught when you left. She is a little better now. She is with my sister.”

  There was a low ache in my gut, like the removal of some vital organ. I stroked Else’s hair and said, “And you? How are you?”

  He glanced down at Florian’s head, and then he lifted his hand, the one with the cigarette, and rubbed his forehead with his thumb. “For some time, I wished I would die. Not to kill myself. But that God would take me in the night, so I would not wake up and find you both still gone. I thought He must be punishing me, and yet what had I done? I was only doing my duty. I had done what I supposed was right.”

  I thought, His face is so lean. His big frame, there isn’t an ounce of extra weight. He hasn’t been eating. He is smoking too much.

  I thought staunchly, But he deserves that. He deserves not to eat, for what he did to Stefan.

  “Now, of course,” Johann went on, in a quiet voice, “I see why God allowed me to live.”

  He slowed the car, and we turned from the smaller road onto a large paved highway. A signed passed by: FREIBURG, 78 KILOMETERS. In a hundred kilometers we would be out of Germany.

  A thought occurred to me. “So what will you do?” I exclaimed. “You can’t go back, can you?”

  “No, they would probably arrest me if I tried. I sent a telegram to my sister before I left Munich. She was to pack up everything she could and bring the girls to Paris. I hope to God she has succeeded. The boys are still at school in England.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Yes.” He paused. “They will confiscate my estate, however.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Maybe it is what I deserve.” He pulled out another cigarette. His voice was rough, as if he were choking on glass. “You must take care of Florian. You must take care of my dear boy. He will not remember me.”

  “He might.”

  “No. He is too young. If he were three or four, perhaps. But this is for the best.” He lost himself a little on the last word, and covered it with the cigarette. With his thumb he rubbed the inner sockets of his eyes.

  I couldn’t think of anything more to say. Thank you? My limbs were tired and aching from holding the children, from the long night without sleep, from the avalanche of fear and dread piled on my shoulders.

  All at once, I couldn’t hold my head up any longer. I leaned my heavy cheek against Stefan’s shoulder, and as I listened to his breathing, the rhythm of his respiration that I knew more intimately than my own, I realized that he was awake.

  3.

  We passed Freiburg just before noon, and a few kilometers later Johann pulled over into a field by the side of the road. The children were awake by now, restless and hungry and confused.

  “Let them stretch a bit,” said Johann. “Then we must go into the village for a little food and to clean up, so we look like a civilized family. Silverman, it is best if you wait here, I think.”

  “Of course,” said Stefan.

  “I will need napkins for Henrik, and milk,” I said.

  “Yes, we will get all these things.” He looked up at the sun, or the spot ove
rhead where the sun would be, if the clouds hadn’t moved in the way. “I have been thinking that we might wait until it is closer to dusk. Dusk is a good hour—harder to see details, but there is not so much suspicion as at night.”

  Stefan nodded. “Very well.” He was watching the children in the field.

  In the village, Johann visited a barber for a shave. I took the children into the market and bought food and milk and cigarettes. The atmosphere was deeply subdued; hardly anybody was out. There were thick black headlines on all the newspapers, but I didn’t read them. In another shop I found a bottle for Henrik, and napkins. I bought five, enough to last a day or two, until I could find a way to wash them. Johann was waiting for me at the car, freshly shaven, jacket miraculously cleaned. He took the packages from me and put them in the boot.

  “How did you get the jacket cleaned?” I asked.

  “I had the barber do it. I explained that we had hit a deer along the road.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  Johann shrugged. “He didn’t ask any questions.”

  We drove back through the eerie streets to the field where we’d left Stefan. I let the children out of the car and stepped out after them to look around. There was no sign of Stefan’s dark hair, his gaunt brown shoulders. I turned to Johann. “Where’s Stefan?”

  Johann was unwrapping the food. “He’ll be back.”

  “But where has he gone?”

  “For a walk, I think. She was his wife once.”

  “I’ve got to find him.”

  Johann put a hand on my arm. “Let him be, Annabelle. He’ll be back. He will be back for you and the children.”

  There was an unsettling normalcy to it all, eating lunch with Johann and Florian and Wilhelmine’s children. The air had warmed a bit, so we sat in our seats in the car and kept the doors open. Henrik insisted on sitting in the grass. Else and Florian chased each other. My brain was still so numb; I could hardly comprehend the past twenty-four hours. I had focused on the necessary details, hygiene and food and sleep. But the great truth sat behind it all, the awfulness, like a gorgon waiting for night. And this man, sitting next to me. Johann, my onetime husband, lost and found. Soon to be lost again, this time for good.