by Anita Abriel
“Kitty ordered four dresses for the holidays and paid for two in advance.” Edith stretched a piece of taffeta over the worktable. “If I’m careful and don’t buy any more thimbles, I’m going to make it after all.”
“You need thimbles. What will you do if you prick your finger?” Vera laughed. “I have some news.” She paused. “Mr. Matthews offered me the head copywriter job.”
“That’s wonderful!” Edith hugged her.
“Ricardo doesn’t think so.” Vera frowned. “He doesn’t want me to accept it.”
“But the whole point of working is to be successful,” Edith responded.
“I’d have to work longer hours and entertain clients.”
“I thought Ricardo promised to trust you,” Edith giggled. “Though I can’t blame him for being jealous of Philippe. Philippe was so beautiful; I would have slept with him if he asked.”
“Of course Ricardo trusts me,” Vera answered. “We don’t need the money, and we’re going to start a family soon.”
“Maybe you could do both. Venezuela is conservative, but the whole world is changing since the war,” Edith said. “And remember Marie Curie. She won the Nobel Prize in 1903 and in 1911 and raised two children.”
“I love my job, but I want children more than anything,” Vera mused.
“You might need to think about it sooner than you planned.” Edith looked at Vera curiously. “That dress fits you differently; you’re thicker around the waist.”
Vera glanced down at her dress. “I bought the dress before the wedding, when I was so nervous I could barely eat a bite.”
“It’s not the dress.” Edith walked around her. “Look at your breasts.”
“What are you talking about?” Vera wondered.
“Do you remember the female anatomy book I read during the war?” Edith asked. “When was your last period?”
Vera flushed. “I don’t remember. Before the wedding.”
“That’s two months!” Edith said. “And you’ve always been regular. Even when we stayed at the Dunkels’ farm and there was never enough to eat, you never missed a cycle.”
Vera’s heart pounded. She remembered their honeymoon, when they made love every night. Ricardo covered her with kisses and whispered she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
“I can’t be pregnant!” Vera’s eyes widened.
“Many brides come back from their honeymoon already fat.” Edith pulled the fabric tighter. “Except you’ll be beautiful. You’ll blossom like the flowers in Naples when we first arrived.”
Vera remembered sitting in the piazza in Naples and watching teenagers zoom by on Vespas. Less than two years ago they were young girls in a new country, wondering whether they should spend Vera’s salary on stockings or plates of spaghetti. Now Vera was married and going to have a baby.
“What should I do?” Vera asked.
“You find a doctor,” Edith declared. “And then you get used to the idea of becoming a mother.”
* * *
Vera parked a few blocks from the new house and turned off the engine. She needed time to think before she went home to Ricardo. A doctor would only confirm what Edith suspected. Vera’s body had changed; she had just been too preoccupied to notice.
Her chest constricted. She pictured the dinner when Anton proposed and told her he was sterile. She had gone back to her room and tried to imagine a life without children. How would she feel if she was married to Anton and discovered she was pregnant so soon after the wedding? But that was an impossible idea.
If it were a boy, Ricardo would take him fishing and teach him about cars. Vera would buy a girl books and pretty dresses. There would be horseback riding and dinners at the Albees’ with Vera’s parents.
Being part of a family was the best feeling in the world. She remembered when she was a child and her parents took her to The Nutcracker ballet at the Budapest Opera House. There was nothing more thrilling than sitting between her mother in her fur stole and her father with his top hat and watching the dancers pirouette across the stage.
* * *
It was December 1937 and Vera was ten years old. That night was the Kirov Ballet’s performance of The Nutcracker, and Vera couldn’t be more excited.
The opera house resembled an illustration in a storybook, with gold frescoed ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Just entering the horseshoe-shaped concert hall made Vera feel like a princess. Everything seemed draped in opulent fabrics: there were red velvet seats and burgundy silk curtains covering the stage.
The stage was set with a Christmas tree and a fireplace hung with stockings and a table piled with so many presents, they threatened to topple on the floor. Dancers dressed as toy soldiers marched across the stage, and the ballerina who played Clara was impish and graceful at the same time.
A bell chimed for intermission and Vera followed her parents into the lobby.
“I want to go every year,” Vera sighed, adjusting her party dress. “The girl playing Clara can’t be much older than me, and she’s better than Anna Pavlova.”
Anna Pavlova had died in 1931, but she had been her mother’s favorite ballerina. Alice told Vera all about Anna Pavlova’s career as the prima ballerina of the Imperial Russian Ballet and Ballet Russes.
“No one danced better than Anna Pavlova,” her mother replied. “But the ballerina playing Clara is very good. The Kirov has the best dancers in Europe; we’re lucky to see them in Budapest.”
“Your mother would have been just as good if she kept dancing,” her father said, nodding at a family that strolled past. “I saw her onstage in Paris. She was an exquisite Giselle.”
“It was a student performance,” Alice said modestly. “When I was a little girl I used to pray every night that I would be a great ballerina.”
“Why did you quit if you loved it so much?” Vera wondered. “You could still dance after you were married.”
“Being a ballet dancer can make it hard to have children. I didn’t want to spend years performing and discover too late that we couldn’t have a child.”
“But you prayed that you wanted to be a ballerina.” Vera was puzzled. “Weren’t you disappointed that your prayers didn’t come true?”
Alice hugged Vera against her evening gown. “Sometimes God answers your prayers even when you don’t ask him. I wouldn’t trade having you for all the pointe shoes in the world.”
* * *
Vera ran her hands over the steering wheel and imagined the baby growing inside her. Her mother said that when she was at Auschwitz she prayed for Vera because she didn’t want God to desert Vera too. Perhaps God was watching over her. A baby was just what she and Ricardo needed, so that she could forget Anton and Ricardo could stop his small jealousies.
She drove the few blocks to the new house. Ricardo’s car was in the driveway and she ran upstairs to their bedroom.
“Where have you been?” he asked, fastening his cuff links. “We have a dinner party tonight.”
“I’m sorry, it won’t take me long to get ready,” she apologized. “I’d like to talk about something first.”
“It’s not polite to be late.” Ricardo frowned. “Can we talk about the copywriter job after the party?”
Vera shook her head. “It’s not about the job.”
“What is it?” he asked.
Ricardo looked so handsome with his dark hair and white shirt. He was her husband and they were going to be a family.
“I haven’t been to the doctor, but I’m quite sure”—she touched her stomach and took a deep breath—“I’m pregnant.”
Ricardo dropped a cuff link and his face crumpled. For a moment she thought he was still angry that she had dinner with Edith and Marcus without asking his permission, and she felt a tremor of fear. Then he walked to the bedside table and took out a velvet box.
“This is for you.” He handed it to her.
Vera opened it and inside were diamond earrings as delicate as snowflakes.
“I was go
ing to give them to you for Kitty’s holiday gala, but I want you to wear them now.” He kissed her. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”
Ricardo fastened them on and she turned to the mirror. The diamonds glittered in her ears and she recalled Anton slipping the diamond engagement ring on her finger.
“We’re going to have a baby,” Ricardo whispered, circling his arms around her waist.
Vera touched her dress and realized it was wet with her tears. It was normal to cry; pregnant women were always emotional. She wiped them away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
January 1948
It had been three weeks since the doctor confirmed Vera’s pregnancy and she already felt different. It was silly, of course; she was barely three months pregnant. It was too soon to wear the bright tunics Edith sewed for her, and it would be months until she could use the cotton baby blankets Alessandra had saved.
But things were different; she and Ricardo had become closer. He brought her warm milk and they discussed baby names and the paint color for the nursery. Even their lovemaking had changed. Ricardo was as attentive, but there was a new softness about him.
Vera declined the promotion and Ricardo agreed to let her keep working until she couldn’t fit behind her desk. Alessandra showed her a photo of herself when she was pregnant with Ricardo, her stomach as round as a watermelon, and Vera laughed that she would never be that big.
It was midafternoon and she parked her car in front of her parents’ bungalow. Her mother was in the kitchen, stirring milk into coffee.
“I brought you flowers.” Vera handed her a bunch of lilacs. “Ricardo brings flowers every night. If it’s not flowers, it’s something for the baby. Last week he brought a toy train set and yesterday it was a doll to show he’d be just as happy having a girl.”
“Ricardo is going to be a wonderful father.” Alice nodded, pouring two cups of coffee and handing one to Vera.
“I’ve never seen him so excited.” Vera sat at the kitchen table. “He used to read car catalogs, but he got his hands on the childcare book by Dr. Spock that is the rage in America.”
“Men are made for different things. Your father is even happier being a law student than he was being a lawyer.” Alice smiled. “He spends all his time at the university library. The only thing that would please him more would be if he spoke Spanish well enough to teach the classes himself.”
“That reminds me, I have a check for you.” Vera took an envelope out of her purse.
“You can’t give us all your money.” Alice shook her head.
“There’s nothing else to do with it. Ricardo insists on paying for everything.” She put the envelope on the table and noticed a blue envelope with an airmail stamp.
“What’s this?” Vera asked.
“It’s a letter from Gina in Naples. I asked Captain Bingham for her address so I could thank her for finding you,” Alice said. “It arrived yesterday.”
“What did she say?” Vera asked, wondering if there was any news of Anton.
“I haven’t opened it.” Alice tore it open. She read the letter and handed it to Vera. “You should read it too.”
Vera picked it up and scanned the scrawled writing.
Dear Alice,
It was wonderful to receive your letter. Since Captain Wight closed the embassy, I haven’t had much chance to practice my English.
When I learned that you have been reunited with Vera, I broke down in tears. I have two girls and there is nothing like the bond between mothers and daughters.
Vera and Captain Wight worked so well together. When they fell in love and got engaged, I was as delighted as if Vera was my own child.
If only it could have worked out, but one can’t fault Captain Wight. He cherished Vera more than any man could love a woman.
Please give Vera my love and tell her she and Edith must visit. Louis still tends the garden at the embassy, and there is no one to eat his oranges.
Warmest regards,
Gina
The paper fluttered to the table and Vera met her mother’s eyes.
“You were engaged?” Alice asked.
“Captain Wight was my boss at the embassy.” Vera began. “At first I tried to ignore my feelings, but he was so kind. I told him all about my past: how I felt responsible that you were at Auschwitz, and that Edith and I lived for a year with the parents of a soldier who fought in the German army, and he still loved me.” Her eyes were bright. “And he understood about the war. He said one day new philosophers and artists will rise out of the Nazi ruin. No man can wipe out the light in the world forever.”
“Don’t tell me he went back to America and forgot about you,” Alice cut in.
“It was nothing like that.” Vera shook her head. “The night Anton proposed he told me he had mumps as a child and was sterile. I was devastated; you know how much I’ve always wanted children. But I still said yes. I loved Anton and I couldn’t imagine life without him.”
“What happened?” Alice asked.
“He bought tickets to America. We were so excited.” Vera folded her hands. “One morning, I arrived at the embassy and he was gone. He left a letter saying he couldn’t marry me. I deserved children and he would never forgive himself for ruining my happiness.”
Alice folded the letter and put it in the envelope. “What does Ricardo say?”
“Ricardo doesn’t know about Anton. You can’t tell him about Gina’s letter,” Vera said frantically. “Ricardo gets terribly jealous and I don’t want to upset him,” she sighed. “None of it matters anyway. Anton disappeared and I’ll never see him again.”
“Love arrives and leaves on its own schedule,” Alice commented. “But sometimes a great love affair can last the rest of your life.”
“What do you mean?” Vera wondered.
“Let me tell you a story.” Alice refilled her coffee cup. “After the war, I stayed with Gunther and Marie in Bavaria for eleven months. At first I was too weak to travel, and then it was too cold. By the time I left for Budapest, it was March 1946. It was still cold, but Marie gave me warm clothes and a little money. One night I stopped for dinner at an inn in the village of Mistendorf. It started snowing and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t afford lodging but if I started walking, I’d freeze.
“The woman at the next table offered to share her room for the night. Her husband and sons weren’t arriving until the next morning.
“I moved to her room and stayed up talking all night. Her name was Helen Gottfried. She was born to a wealthy Jewish family in Berlin. She married a furrier and they had two sons, Nathan and Samuel.
“In 1943 her husband was detained at Buchenwald, and she was left in their apartment with the boys. There was a bombing raid and the apartment and its contents were destroyed while she and her sons were out shopping. She took the opportunity to obtain forged papers saying she was Anna Hoffman, whose husband was a captain in the German army stationed near Minsk. Then she installed herself and her sons in a vacant flat.” Alice paused. “One day there was a knock and two Gestapo officers stood in the hall. They asked for her papers. It was the longest five minutes of her life. The officer was about to hand them back when he remarked they were almost the same age and from the village of Oberstdorf in Bavaria. But he didn’t know anyone with the last name of Hoffman.
“For her birthplace, Helen had written the name of a ski village she and her family visited as a child. If the Gestapo officer discovered that she had lied, she and her sons would be shot. Helen smiled and said she remembered him; she had a crush on him since the sixth grade. Then she whispered that if he came back that night, she would show him how she had loved him.
“The two Gestapo officers approved her papers, but she couldn’t stay in the apartment. She threw clothes in a suitcase and for the next two years she and her sons kept moving. She took whatever work she could find, and whenever someone suspected she wasn’t Anna Hoffman, she moved on.
“I asked where she fou
nd the courage to keep going. She said whenever she gave up hope, she could hear her beloved Dietrich in her head, encouraging her to keep going.
“The next morning, Helen insisted I have breakfast with her husband and sons when they arrived. A dark-haired man appeared with two teenage boys. I shook the man’s hand and said: ‘You must be Dietrich; it’s a pleasure to meet you.’ He gave me an odd look and said his name was Josef. Then he introduced me to his sons and said he was the luckiest man. For eighteen years he had been married to the most beautiful woman in Berlin and they had a wonderful family.
“Helen and I went to her room to gather my things and I apologized for getting her husband’s name wrong. She said I had heard her story correctly. Dietrich was her great love, but her parents separated them twenty years ago because they wanted her to marry a Jew. Helen thought that because she was able to survive without the love of her life, she could survive the war.” Alice looked at Vera. “But she still made her husband happy and was a good mother to her sons.”
“What are you saying?” Vera’s voice was shaky.
“You may never love the same way as you did with Anton, but you can still lead a fulfilling life with many rewards.” Alice pointed to Vera’s stomach. “Soon you will know a love greater than you can imagine. After I pushed you off the train to Auschwitz, you could smell the desperation in the air. Women whispered in low voices and the elderly prayed aloud they’d die before they arrived. In comparison, I was as light and carefree as a girl. It didn’t matter what happened to me; my only daughter was going to survive.”
Vera hugged her mother so tightly she could feel Alice’s heart beating.
“Is it all right to want a girl?” Vera asked. “Because Gina is right, there is no bond greater than that between mothers and daughters.”
Vera left her parents’ bungalow and drove through the colonial town of El Hatillo. Music spilled onto the streets and it was as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. It was all right if Anton kept part of her heart; she could still make Ricardo happy.