by Anita Abriel
“But his promises of getting an apartment together,” Vera protested. “All the talk about your future.”
“He wanted to fall in love with me. He said I was his angel and that we’d show his mother he was a real man,” Edith sighed. “I didn’t understand what he meant until last night. I passed the jewelry store and noticed Marcus standing behind the counter. It was late and the store was dark. I thought he was picking out my ring, so I watched. Leo emerged from the back room and they kissed. Have you seen two men kiss?” Edith’s eyes were wide.
“Then you must come to New York.” Vera said softly, walking over to the bed. She reached down and stroked Edith’s hair. “You’ll meet a sweet college boy and open your own dress shop.”
“Marcus and I are moving to Rome,” Edith announced. “He’s going to take photos of models wearing my designs and get them in Vogue. I won’t have time for men.”
“You can have both,” Vera whispered.
“I had Stefan,” Edith said sadly. “Now I have nothing.”
* * *
Vera strolled along the sidewalk to the embassy. She had been reluctant to leave Edith alone. Edith pretended to be happy about moving to Rome with Marcus, but what if her heart was still breaking?
She remembered when Captain Bingham gave her the money to buy train tickets to Naples. She had been nervous to show the money to Edith. If Stefan survived, Vera argued, they should return to Budapest so he could find them. But Edith was certain that Stefan was dead, and nothing Vera said would change her mind.
* * *
Later on the morning that Captain Bingham returned to Hallstatt in March 1946, Vera climbed the alley to the seamstress’s cottage where Edith worked. The Austrian village looked so pretty on a spring day. The chalets were stacked like matchbooks and there were window boxes filled with daffodils. It was impossible to believe that in another part of Europe the buildings of Auschwitz had been some mythical beast, roaring fire and swallowing every soul that came into its path.
She poked her head in the door and found Edith hunched over a table. She had a thimble between her teeth, and a dress with pink and yellow embroidery fanned out on a table.
“Vera, what are you doing here?” Edith took out the thimble. Vera’s shift usually ended at six.
“I have something to tell you and it can’t wait.” Vera entered the workshop.
“I’m almost done,” Edith said. “My back aches, but Greta said she’ll give me fabric scraps so I can sew my own dresses.”
“What if we don’t stay in the village?” Vera began. “What if we go to Italy?”
Edith stopped what she was doing and looked up in surprise.
“We don’t know anything about Italy,” Edith said. “Except they eat spaghetti instead of potato nokedli.”
“Captain Bingham didn’t find anything at Auschwitz, but he went to Budapest and looked up Miriam Gold.”
Edith thought for a minute. “I remember Miriam. She wore beautiful fur stoles during the winter and her daughters always had matching coats.”
“Miriam said our mothers weren’t sent to the gas chamber right away. Later a woman turned them in because my mother prayed for me over her piece of bread…” Vera’s voice trailed off. “It’s my fault that our mothers are dead.”
Edith jumped up and hugged her. “It’s the war’s fault. But what has that to do with Italy?”
“The embassy in Naples is looking for a secretary who speaks English and Italian. Captain Bingham recommended me and gave us enough money to cover two train tickets and a week’s lodging.”
“Train tickets to Naples!” Edith gasped.
“We don’t have to go,” Vera said quickly. “We can wait a few months.”
“We’ve already been here for almost two years, why would we wait?” Edith asked.
“It might be harder for Stefan to find us in Italy. We should stay here or go back to Budapest.”
“Stefan is dead, and I don’t want to go to Budapest,” Edith’s voice was sharp.
“The war has only been over several months,” Vera replied. “Stefan could be lying in a hospital or recovering in a village not far from here.”
“Strasshof was liberated in May, and he wasn’t on the list of survivors.” Edith pointed to her chest. “If he were alive, my heart would beat as fast as butterfly wings, waiting for him to arrive. Instead it’s so slow, sometimes I think it will stop.”
“Think about it,” Vera urged. “We can take a few days to decide.”
Edith waved outside at the sun shining on the cobblestones and the fields dotted with flowers.
“Visitors think this is some kind of Shangri-la with its clean air and wonderful perfumes, but the mountains are a prison,” she said darkly. “At least in Naples, there won’t be boys with fair hair like Stefan to remind me that he’s gone forever.”
* * *
It was late the next morning and Vera was stirring a pot of porridge. The back door opened and Edith entered the Dunkels’ kitchen. Her hair was tied in a knot and she wore a crocheted dress.
“You were so deeply asleep, I didn’t want to wake you.” Vera turned off the stove. “I made porridge and coffee.”
“I had a terrible dream about Stefan,” Edith admitted, pouring a cup of coffee.
“Stefan?” Vera repeated.
“We were hiking in the Swiss Alps.” Edith took her cup and sat at the table. “Stefan brought a picnic of Edam cheese and rye bread. He wanted to hike further, so we left the picnic and climbed the side of the mountain.” Her eyes widened. “He waved at the forests and waterfalls and said, ‘You see, we made it to Switzerland.’ Then he reached for my hand, but his foot slipped and he lost his balance. I tried to grab him, but he fell.”
Vera frowned and put an arm around Edith.
“It was just a nightmare,” Vera consoled her. “You drank coffee too late last night, or Ottie’s potato soup was too heavy.”
“I wanted to throw myself off the mountain after him, but his voice came to me in the dream,” Edith continued. “He said his mother and sisters died in the camps. If I died too, there would be no one to remember him. I had to stay alive or it would be as if he never existed.”
“Let’s walk into the village for ice cream. It’s a beautiful day and we can sit outside and breathe the mountain air,” Vera suggested gently. “You’ll forget about the dream.”
“I can’t forget the dream.” Edith shook her head. “Stefan takes up all my thoughts.”
“Then you’ll dream something else tonight.” Vera tried to coax a smile out of her. “A memory of you and Stefan swimming or eating Dobos torte.”
“You don’t understand. If I stay here I may as well be lying in a coffin beside him.” She looked at Vera. “Why shouldn’t we go to Naples? I want to stroll beside a bay filled with boats and sit in a piazza where the music is so loud, I can’t think. And I don’t want to see another mountain in my life.”
“Are you sure?” Vera asked.
“Completely sure.” Edith drank the coffee. “And Italian coffee must be better than the coffee in Austria. I love Ottie, but her coffee tastes like dirty water.”
* * *
Vera passed a piazza where children played in a fountain and realized Edith had been right. Life was easier in Naples. Perhaps she worried too much and Edith would be happy in Rome. Edith would take the money she received from Maria and buy the finest fabric. She was going to dress Anna Magnani and Greta Garbo and one day become as famous as Coco Chanel.
Anton was taking Vera to dinner at Marco’s trattoria to celebrate purchasing their ocean liner tickets. She smiled, remembering the night they had dinner at Palazzo Mezzi, how he had asked her to use his first name after chiding her for using his title. She couldn’t help it, when she closed her eyes she pictured him in his khaki uniform and officer’s cap. But since then, all that had changed; they were engaged and they had become lovers.
The curtains were drawn in the morning room and the sounds of Mozart
drifted down the hall. Vera entered the study and found papers scattered across the desk. Anton had been working twelve-hour days, pushing through building applications and construction permits before the embassy’s closure.
She straightened the papers and emptied the ashtrays into the garbage. She was going to miss working together: transcribing his notes, putting the official seal on envelopes. She would miss stopping for a delicious lunch of Gina’s linguini marinara and stuffed artichokes.
Anton was going to help his father run the hotels in New York and Boston. Vera was expected to furnish their new home and sit on the board of the Library Foundation and Ladies Garden Auxiliary. Vera imagined elegant women with fox stoles and American accents and wondered if they would accept her.
Gina stood in the doorway, clutching an envelope.
“This is for you,” Gina said, nervously handing it to her.
Every day Vera was afraid Margaret Wight had learned of their engagement. One of her telegrams would arrive saying: STOP THIS FOOLISHNESS IMMEDIATELY. HAVE FOUND YOU A SUITABLE WIFE. COME HOME.
Vera took the envelope and recognized Anton’s handwriting.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“It was on the counter in the kitchen,” Gina replied.
Vera opened the envelope and extracted three thin sheets of paper.
My beloved Vera,
Even as I write the words on the page, I already miss your bright smile and those luminous green eyes. It seems I am not a war hero; in truth, I am the greatest coward. I should have told you I couldn’t give you a family on the first night we danced. I was afraid you’d turn away from me, and the closer we became the more I fell in love with you and couldn’t let you go. These past weeks have been the happiest of my life.
I saw your discomfort when I told you my condition. What kind of man proposes marriage and announces he can never have a family at the same time? I couldn’t keep seeing you without declaring my intentions, and I couldn’t let you accept without knowing the truth.
I have spent most nights imagining our future and have come to a decision. You will grow to hate me when your friends are wheeling baby carriages and shopping for pink or blue blankets. I can’t tie you to me when there are dozens of men who will give you the family you rightfully desire. I love you more than life itself, and I would never forgive myself for causing your unhappiness.
Please don’t try to find me. I am going to travel until I feel fit enough to be of value to my father. I have already spoken to General Ashe; he can find you a position in Rome. I would have left you money, but I know you wouldn’t accept it. Sell the engagement ring and get yourself a nest egg.
You have shown me how wonderful love can be. I will never forgive myself for my moment of weakness in Capri. Please try not to hate me; it was the happiest night of my life. The memory of your perfume will last me for eternity.
Yours always,
Anton
Vera crumpled the paper and turned to Gina. Her eyes were wide and there was a lump in her throat.
“What did Anton say when he left?” she breathed.
Gina shook her head. “He wasn’t here when I arrived this morning.”
“He’s gone,” Vera whispered. “He’s not coming back.”
Gina held out her arms and Vera collapsed against her chest.
“It will be all right,” Gina soothed. “Captain Wight is a good man.”
Vera thought about Anton’s promise not to cause her unhappiness.
“He doesn’t understand; he’s all I want,” she said, almost to herself. She broke away from Gina’s embrace and raced out the door. She ran past Grimaldi Jewelers with its rows of diamond engagement rings; she ran past Marco’s trattoria with its trays of chocolate marzipan. She stumbled up the steps of the pensione to her room and threw herself on the bed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Summer 1946
It was late afternoon and the sound of children laughing drifted through the window of Vera’s room. It had been three weeks since Anton had left, but she still listened for his footsteps. Sometimes she saw an officer lounging in the piazza and her heart beat faster until he took off his cap and revealed a shock of dark hair.
She spent the first few days in bed, eating nothing except Signora Rosa’s chicken soup. At night she lay awake and pictured Anton sitting on a train. Then her mind drifted to her mother praying for her at Auschwitz and she wondered if she was being punished for her mother’s death.
She even tried praying herself, but what was the use? Her mother had prayed, and God hadn’t listened. But maybe he had. Maybe her mother had prayed only for Vera and not for herself.
* * *
In 1935, Vera was eight years old and had been confined to bed with diphtheria. The doctor suggested that her mother hire a nurse. Any contact with Vera could make her sick. Her mother politely declined.
Finally, after nearly a month, the feeling that she was being strangled went away and she got out of bed. She went to read her favorite German children’s book, Der Struwwelpeter, which was in the library, and as she passed the open door to her parents’ bedroom, she saw her mother kneeling, her hands clasped.
“Vera!” her mother exclaimed. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I was going to get Der Struwwelpeter,” Vera said, entering the bedroom. “What are you doing?”
“I was having a conversation with God.”
“A conversation?” Vera repeated.
“It’s God’s job to listen,” her mother responded. “Like it’s your father’s job to assist his clients in legal matters, and mine to iron the clothes and make the goulash.”
At the synagogue, the rabbi instructed Vera to pray, but he never mentioned God might answer.
“What if God isn’t there to listen?” Vera worried. “Like when father had a cold and couldn’t go to the office.”
“That’s what is different about God. He’s been listening for thousands of years.” She pointed to Vera’s flowered dressing gown. “A few days ago you couldn’t sit up, today you buttoned your dressing gown and walked down the hall.”
“You were talking about me?” Vera wondered.
“What else would I talk about?” her mother asked.
“If I talked to God, I would ask if Edith’s dog is going to have puppies or if she’s just fat, and if our history teacher will be nicer when she gets married,” Vera pondered. “Last week, her fiancé forgot to send her flowers and she was more terrifying than the scariest villain in Der Struwwelpeter.”
Her mother pulled her close and hugged her. When she released her, Vera saw that she was crying and laughing at the same time.
“God would understand why a mother only talks about her children.” She took Vera’s hand and walked to the library. “Because he is the father of us all.”
* * *
If only she had found a way to help her mother, and if only Anton believed that she loved him enough not to have children. The answers wouldn’t come to her and so she stayed awake for hours, staring at the ceiling of her room in the pensione.
After a few days of letting Vera wallow in self-pity, Edith insisted that Vera accompany her downstairs. Vera reluctantly put on a dress and combed her hair and joined Edith for Rosa’s spaghetti Bolognese.
With the embassy closed, Vera had to find work again, and so she accepted a job at Leo’s jewelry store. From morning to night she showed eager young men diamonds and rubies. They handed her wads of black market lire and left with velvet boxes and huge grins.
Now Vera sat at the dressing table in her room at Signora Rosa’s and brushed her hair. She heard footsteps, and Edith stood at the door.
“You’re not dressed.” Edith entered the room. “Everyone is waiting at Paolo’s.”
“I’m too tired to go out.” Vera shrugged. She put down the brush and moved to the bed.
“How many nights did you insist I have iced coffee or gelato when I wanted to lie with a pillow over my head?” Edith
demanded.
“That was different,” Vera replied.
“Because Stefan was dead? Anton isn’t coming back either,” Edith reminded her. “Paolo is making seafood risotto and Marcus got the latest copy of American Vogue. We can drool over the new designs by Mainbocher and Norman Norell.”
Since Marcus had admitted his feelings for Leo, Edith and Marcus were closer than ever. They spent Saturday afternoons at the cinema watching American movies with Italian subtitles. They searched the outdoor markets for the perfect blouse for Edith, and spent hours flipping through fashion magazines.
“I’ll come,” Vera relented. “But if I eat any more of Paolo’s chocolate cake, I won’t fit into my dresses.”
* * *
“The two most beautiful women in Naples.” Paolo kissed them on both cheeks when they entered the restaurant. “I made ziti Bolognese with basil and oregano.”
“Anthony Guido returned the engagement ring you sold him.” Leo turned to Vera. “He said he broke up with his fiancée because he’s in love with you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I hardly spoke to him!” Vera protested. “He doesn’t even know my name.”
“In truth, I think his fiancée turned him down,” Leo admitted. “But if you go out with him, maybe he’ll keep the ring.”
“You already pay Vera too little.” Paolo thumped Leo on the shoulder. “She’s not going to go on dates just so you can keep your customers.”
They sat at a round table and ate. Paolo poured a bottle of red wine and Marcus displayed his copy of American Vogue.
Vera flipped through the pages, admiring women in silk sheaths and empire-waist dresses. She stopped at a full-page ad for a hotel near Central Park. A uniformed doorman stood in front of a gold revolving door and the caption read: