The Light After the War

by Anita Abriel

  “What about your brother?” Vera asked.

  “My mother knew Brad was more likely to get a girl pregnant than put a ring on her finger,” Anton replied.

  “I see.” Vera put her fork on her plate. She was no longer hungry. She imagined a sleek blonde waiting for Anton at the dock in New York. She saw them stepping into a black motorcar and driving to their town house near Central Park.

  “What about you?” Anton asked. “Did you have many suitors?”

  “I was busy with school, and on the weekends I wrote. I wanted to be a playwright.” Vera remembered the manuscripts hidden under her bed. She wondered if the Germans found them. She imagined them laughing at the scribblings of a young girl. “I always thought boys would come later, when I was at university.”

  “I’m glad you waited.” He stood up and offered her his hand to dance. Vera rose and he pulled her toward him.

  He kissed her slowly, tasting of sherry. Then he kissed her harder, crushing the green silk against his chest. Vera stood on tiptoes and felt like she would faint. She was delighted and shaken at the same time. The ornate frescoes, the glittering chandeliers, the candles faded away and all that remained were his lips on hers.

  “It’s getting late.” Vera pulled away. “If I’m not home when Edith arrives, I’m afraid she’ll invite Marcus upstairs.”

  “You can’t leave yet.” Anton fixed his bow tie. “Gina has been working all afternoon on dessert.”

  Vera reluctantly sat down and waited while Gina cleared plates and silverware. She had forgotten about Gina. Where had she been during dinner when she was supposed to be their chaperone? But Vera was too happy and excited to think about it.

  Anton dimmed the lights and Gina appeared carrying a beautiful chocolate cake. It was shaped like a heart and illuminated by nineteen flickering candles.

  “I bribed the chef at the Grand Hotel in Rome to make the cake.” Anton smiled. “I wanted him to top it with pink flowers, but he said Americans had terrible taste. A cake isn’t a garden.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Vera noticed her name scrawled in pink icing.

  “How did you know it was my birthday?” She turned to Anton, pushing away her memories of birthday parties in the country with her parents and aunts and uncles.

  “You said that Edith was born three days before you,” Anton replied.

  “And you remembered?”

  Anton cut two slices of cake and placed them on Wedgwood plates. He handed Vera a dessert fork and a white linen napkin.

  “I remember everything about you.”

  * * *

  They ate thick slices of chocolate cake and shared a bottle of Tia Maria that Anton had brought from Rome. Vera remembered Anton’s lips on hers and wondered if he would kiss her again. Then she shook herself and listened to him talk about plans for new schools and parks.

  “I’m boring you.” Anton put his napkin on his plate.

  “Liqueur makes me sleepy,” Vera admitted. “I should go home.”

  “I’ll walk with you.” Anton pushed back his chair.

  Vera shook her head and stood up.

  “You have work to catch up on,” Vera she reminded him. “I’ll be fine; I just need some air.”

  “I promised I’d walk you home.” Anton took her arm and walked to the entry. “An officer always keeps his word.”

  They walked quietly through the piazza, Anton’s tuxedo brushing her arm. Vera suddenly felt out of place. Anton was used to women who wore diamond earrings and silver-fox coats. Vera’s wardrobe consisted of two cotton dresses and a new pair of stockings.

  They reached Signora Rosa’s and Vera stood on the first step.

  “Last Saturday you let me tell my story and I was too tired to go on,” Vera said nervously. “I would like to tell you more.”

  “You don’t have to,” Anton said. “We can just stand here and enjoy the balmy evening.”

  She waved at the ball gown. “It isn’t right for you to see me all dressed up and drinking wine without knowing who I was before. It would make me feel better.”

  “If you’re sure…” Anton took off his jacket and draped it over the step.

  “Perfectly sure.” She nodded and sat down. Stars twinkled against the black sky and she was transported to the night she and Edith jumped off the train and there were no stars to guide them.

  * * *

  Vera held her arms to her chest to keep from shivering as she and Edith walked in the dark. Edith had begged Vera to let them stop and rest. But if they lay down on the hard ground they would freeze, and if they waited until morning, someone might find them.

  “We don’t even know where we’re going,” Edith moaned, trudging beside Vera. For the last hour they had hummed the Maurice Chevalier and Josephine Baker records their parents had played on the phonograph.

  “There must be a farmhouse somewhere.” Vera squinted into the dark. She assumed there would be, and yet she didn’t even know what country they were in.

  “And do you really think we can knock on a door and be invited inside?”

  Vera had been worrying about that since they jumped off the train. With her blond hair, Edith might pass as Aryan, but Vera’s dark hair and slightly longer nose marked her as Jewish.

  They turned at the sound of an engine. Edith stepped onto the gravel path and waved her arms.

  “What are you doing?” Vera asked in alarm. It sounded like a car.

  “Hoping someone might see us.” Edith waved her arms wider.

  “Are you mad?” Vera gasped. “What if it’s a German soldier?”

  “I’d rather sit in a car with a gun to my head than freeze to death in this field,” Edith retorted.

  Edith was right. If they stayed there any longer, they would get sick from the cold. And Edith was a wonderful actress. She had been so convincing with the guard on the train. Maybe it would be wiser to take their chances with the driver of the car than spend the night in an open field. Besides, what would a German soldier be doing out here in the middle of the night? It was probably a farmer returning home from visiting a neighbor.

  Before Vera could protest, a truck emerged from the fog. She squinted in the dark and made out a man sitting in the driver’s seat.

  “What are you girls doing out here?” the man asked in German, jumping out of the truck. He was a few years older than Vera and Edith and wore a thick vest.

  “We were at a party and got lost.” Edith stepped forward. Edith might have been a good actress, but she was a terrible liar.

  “A party out here?” The man glanced around the empty fields.

  “It was a very small party.” Edith smiled provocatively. “Our dates were expecting it to be more exciting and we disappointed them.” She rubbed her hands. “They left us here and we’re going to freeze to death.”

  The man noticed Vera and he turned toward his vehicle.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I hope your dates return soon,” the man said brusquely. His jaw was set in a firm line and he shifted his feet.

  “Please.” Edith touched his arm. “It’s so cold and I’m afraid of the dark.”

  The truck light illuminated Edith’s blond hair and blue eyes. The man coughed and opened the passenger door. “My name is Lukas. There is a farmhouse not far from here I can take you to.”

  The girls squeezed in beside him and he started the engine. Vera kept glancing at Lukas, terrified he’d pull out a gun.

  After ten minutes, the truck stopped in front of an overgrown lane.

  “It’s down there.” Lukas pointed into the darkness. “The Dunkels lost their only son at the battle of Kursk. Ottie Dunkel is a kind woman and she has a soft spot for young people.” He opened the car door. “Next time make up a better story. There are no young men left to party with; they’re on the front lines. Be careful.”

  Vera knocked on the farmhouse door and waited for someone to appear. They heard footsteps before the door opened no wider than a needle.

  “What
do you want?” a woman’s voice called.

  “We are lost.” Vera leaned closer. “We haven’t eaten all day and we’re very cold. Can we come in?”

  “I’m sorry, you must leave,” the woman said coldly.

  “Please, we’ll freeze out here,” Vera tried again. “Lukas said you would help.”

  Vera tried to stop the panic rising inside her. The latch opened and the woman peered outside.

  “Lukas?” the woman repeated. “Come inside, quickly.”

  A candle flickered on the mantel and a single log sat in the fireplace. There was a rocking chair and a side table with framed photographs.

  “My husband is asleep.” The woman pointed to a ladder that led to a loft. “Come into the kitchen.”

  They followed her. The small space held a table and two chairs next to a stove; the window was covered with heavy drapes.

  She motioned the girls to sit down. “I’m Ottie Dunkel. First you will eat, then we can talk.”

  Ottie took a pan that smelled of potatoes and beef and garlic off the stove. She placed two plates in front of them. Vera thought she might have dreamed it.

  “It’s Eintopf stew.” Ottie handed them spoons. “The farmers are supposed to make it once a month and bring it to the German soldiers living in the village. I make extra and keep it for us. There’s hardly any beef in it, but it’s better than eating plain carrots and onions.”

  “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Vera said, momentarily forgetting the chestnut purees of her childhood.

  “We are fortunate.” Ottie hovered over them. “We keep cows and chickens. There is enough milk and eggs and sometimes porridge.”

  “Do you have coffee?” Edith asked, looking up from the stew.

  Ottie shook her head. “Occasionally we trade a chicken for spoonfuls of coffee. But if we did it too often, we wouldn’t have a way to get eggs.”

  “Coffee is my favorite drink,” Edith sighed. “I love it made with cream and lots of sugar.”

  “It’s very kind of you to let us in and feed us stew. We lost our way,” Vera said between mouthfuls. She was starving and couldn’t eat the Eintopf fast enough. “Where are we? Germany?”

  “Austria, though the Germans would like to believe Austria doesn’t exist.” She let out a slow sigh. “Just because Hitler was born in Braunau am Inn in Austria, he thought he could march in and take the whole country. For six years we’ve lived under German officers who believe they’re superior because their boots are shiny.”

  They were in Austria! And where were their mothers? How many days until the train arrived in Auschwitz and they were led into the concentration camp?

  “You girls are not from around here,” Ottie commented. “Farmers don’t own pretty dresses or wear fancy shoes.”

  Vera hesitated. Ottie had to suspect they were hiding from something. If she told the truth, Ottie might make them leave. Or worse, turn them in. But she had no other story.

  “We are from Budapest,” Vera admitted. “We were on a train to Auschwitz.”

  Ottie walked back to the living room and Vera’s heart raced. What if she woke her husband, or worse, there was a German truck waiting outside? But Ottie returned and handed them a photograph.

  “This is my son, Emil. Emil and Lukas were best friends. Emil lied about his age and enlisted in the German army in 1941. He died in 1943 at the battle of Kursk on the Eastern Front. He’d never been to Russia; he’d never been past our village. I like to think he saw something before he died: the orthodox churches in Moscow or the inside of a Russian home, where someone offered him borscht with sour cream.”

  Vera and Edith stared at the photo and Vera knew what Edith was thinking. Emil resembled Stefan, with the same blond hair and strong jaw.

  “He was very handsome,” Vera commented.

  “He was sixteen,” Ottie said shortly. “He’ll never make love to a woman or hold his son in his arms.” She stuffed the photo in her apron. “Come, we can’t sit here or my husband might hear us and come downstairs. I have some blankets you can take to sleep in the barn. But you have to be gone by morning.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Vera breathed.

  “You must be quiet as mice.” She took the blankets from a closet and opened the back door, walking them to the barn. “My husband is not so open-minded. I understand his thinking.” Her mouth wobbled as she spoke. “He has to believe that Emil died for a worthy cause, otherwise there is no point living.”

  Vera and Edith climbed up to the loft in the barn and Ottie handed them the blankets.

  “We will be grateful forever,” Vera said, as Ottie turned to leave the barn.

  “Emil didn’t know what he was doing when he joined the army. He was just like you girls: young people full of hopes and dreams, eagerly waiting to see what the world would bring them.”

  * * *

  Vera stopped talking and looked at Anton.

  “There’s more,” she said. “But I’d like to stop for now.”

  They stood outside the pensione. Anton was so close, Vera could smell his cologne. He touched her arm and she realized the evening was coming to an end.

  “I wanted to wait until after dinner to tell you my feelings,” Anton said slowly, putting on his dinner jacket. “Then I blew it by kissing you, but I still haven’t told you how I feel. The last thing I wanted was to get involved with a woman in Naples. Rebuilding a city is a grueling task and I shouldn’t let anything get in the way.” He paused. “But I can’t help it. I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

  Vera studied Anton in his dinner jacket and bow tie and wondered how she could be so lucky. Anton was in love with her and she was falling in love with him.

  She opened her mouth to answer when she heard the window in Rosa’s pensione open upstairs.

  “There you are!” Edith called. “Marcus bought a bottle of Chianti and we had to drink the whole thing ourselves.”

  Vera glanced up to see Edith waving a silk handkerchief out the window. Her cheeks were flushed and she leaned dangerously over the ledge.

  “I’d better go.” Vera turned and smiled at Anton. She lifted her skirt and ran up the stairs. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  In their room, Edith lay on the bed. She wore the red dress she had worn on her birthday. Her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but she wasn’t asleep.

  Vera slipped off her evening gown and stuffed it in the wardrobe dresser. She stood at the small sink and wiped the powder from her cheeks.

  “Marcus and I danced for hours and then we walked along the dock,” Edith opened her eyes and said drowsily. “We ate warm chestnuts and he didn’t even try to kiss me.” Edith sighed, clutching the sheet against her chest. “I think I’m falling in love.”

  Edith yawned again and moved over in the narrow bed. “You haven’t told me about your dinner with Anton.”

  “Go back to sleep.” Vera lay down beside Edith. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

  She wanted to tell Edith about Anton but it was late and Edith was practically asleep. She pictured Anton’s pale blue eyes and square chin. She remembered the way he touched her cheek, and for the first time, she understood how Edith felt.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Spring 1946

  Vera stood in Signora Rosa’s narrow kitchen, eating an orange.

  Over the last two weeks she and Anton had spent every spare moment exploring Naples and falling in love. No matter how much time they spent together, they wanted more. She cherished every moment: picnics of figs and grapes and ricotta cheese with crusty bread in the Parco Virgiliano; the massive paintings by Titian and Raphael and Caravaggio at the Museo di Capodimonte; the spot on the Triumphal Arch of the Castel Nuovo where they had scratched their names.

  Vera felt guilty about leaving Edith alone, but Signora Stella kept Edith busy with more work than she could handle. During the day Edith sewed until her fingers bled, and at night she and Marcus zoomed around Naples ta
king photos. She promised that Marcus behaved like a gentleman. Edith’s guarded expression had been replaced by an open smile.

  Anton seemed content holding hands at the cinema and kissing on Vera’s doorstep. Sometimes she imagined his mouth on her breast or his hands massaging her thighs. But she pictured all the women he must have known during the war and knew it wouldn’t stop there. She didn’t want to become a young unwed mother abandoned by her American lover, as other women in Naples had become.

  Vera grew nervous when Anton read his mother’s telegrams. He knew hardly any Jews in New York; he was raised Episcopalian. Perhaps Anton would give in to his mother and return, his wartime romances forgotten. His mother would hold endless cocktail parties until he met a girl with a suitable pedigree. They’d have a large church wedding followed by a reception at The Plaza. Vera pictured sheaths of pink and yellow roses, and a six-tier raspberry fondant cake.

  “You’ll never guess what happened,” Edith announced, racing into the kitchen at the pensione, clutching a copy of LIFE magazine.

  “Tell me.” Vera poured sugar into a cup of coffee.

  “Marcus got a photograph published in LIFE!” Edith opened the magazine and flung it on the counter.

  Vera studied the photo of children playing in the fountain. She read the caption and found Marcus’s name in small print.

  “That’s wonderful!” Vera beamed. “He must be so happy.”

  “They asked him to take a series of photos of street life in Naples,” Edith gushed. “But that’s only the first thing. Last night we had dinner at Paolo’s, and the owner of a boutique in Amalfi asked where I bought my dress.” Edith grabbed a green apple. “I told her I made it myself and she wants to sell it in her store.”

  “Well, she has wonderful taste!” Vera clapped her hands.

  “I still haven’t told you the best part,” Edith said as she danced around the kitchen. “I saw Marcus in the piazza whispering with Leo Grimaldi—you know, the one who owns a jewelry store on Via Port’Alba.” She stopped and turned to Vera. “I think Marcus is going to ask me to marry him.”