by Pam Jenoff
“Yet you still want to defend him?”
“I do. Everyone deserves a fair trial. It sounds clichéd, I know. And often it isn’t pretty. The kids I see, lots of them have done some really awful things—they’ve hurt family members, strangers, animals, other kids. Maybe there’s a reason, maybe not. But they all deserve to be heard.”
“Is that why you’re doing it?” Jack asked. “I mean, helping Brian, after all that happened.” The painful history suddenly loomed large between them. “It’s not like you owe him anything.”
So that was his real question. “I don’t know.” She shifted uneasily. “I don’t think of it that way. It’s not for him,” she added quickly. But the question lingered. Even with the passage of time, perhaps there was still some small part of her that wanted Brian’s approval, reveled in having something to offer that he needed.
Jack seemed to exhale, so slightly she thought she imagined it. She remembered then his expression earlier that day when he thought she was calling Brian. Was he worried that she might still have feelings for his married brother? And why should he care? Was it just sibling rivalry, or was the acrimony between them still so strong after all of these years?
“I could ask you the same thing,” she countered, changing the subject.
“True,” he acknowledged. She could hear him stroking his chin. “I’m not sure why I’m helping. It’s most decidedly not because I care whether Brian makes partner in that firm of his. I guess it’s out of some sort of sense of obligation—family, not personal.”
“But you haven’t spoken in years.”
“He’s still my brother,” he replied simply. “And he asked for my help.”
“It was curiosity,” she said abruptly. “For me, I mean. The story was so intriguing and it was a chance to do something overseas again.”
“Do you miss it?”
She hesitated, knowing that he was talking about her former life, the international work she’d left behind. “Not so much. It’s like the stuff in these boxes.” She gestured around the attic. “You pack a dream away so that it doesn’t see light and pretty soon it’s just part of your past, like an old art project. Most days you don’t even think of it.”
“And then someone comes along and opens the trunk and takes it out and gives life to it again,” Jack replied. “You wonder if you will be able to put it away.” There was an undercurrent to his voice that made her think that he was talking about something else.
As they lay in the darkness, the question nagged at her. She had left her ghosts buried all of these years for a reason. Would coming back here and stirring things up change that somehow? “I have a life in Philadelphia,” she said aloud, as if responding to an argument that had not been made. “I’ve got work that matters, people who need me.”
“Of course.” She searched his voice for a hint of condescension but found none. He rolled slightly away then and a moment later began to breathe more deeply, air whistling softly through his teeth.
Charlotte looked around the darkened attic, hearing in her mind the whispers of those who had been here before them. She wondered what they had thought when they tucked their belongings away, the things they had thought important enough to save. Had they known they might not be coming back? Her skin prickled.
There was a scuffling sound by her feet then. She sat up, alarmed. A mouse, perhaps, or something bigger? The noise came again, closer now. Impulsively, she grabbed Jack’s hand. “Wha—?” he started, then turned toward her. As he did, his face drew close and his lips brushed hers. She froze, waiting for the awkward leap back, the apology. But his mouth stayed, grew stronger on hers, and she found herself responding. His hand came to her hair, then her face.
A moment later, they broke apart. “I thought I heard a rat,” she managed, as if that explained everything. He did not respond but lay back again, as if still asleep. But she could hear his breathing, quicker and heavier than it had been.
Charlotte turned away, heart pounding. What had happened? The kiss was so out of left field. Even with the slight thaw that seemed to take place as they’d spoken in the darkness of the attic, it was almost impossible to reconcile the prickly, aloof man she’d come to know over the past two days with the one who had kissed her so passionately just now. Had the moment been born of sleep or alcohol or both? Surely it could not have been something more. He didn’t even like her.
She lay awake in the darkness, uncertain of what to do. The thought of staying here next to him the rest of the night was unbearable. But she didn’t know the rest of the house well enough to go traipsing around in the dark and didn’t want to risk the wrath of whatever had been scurrying around, now that it seemed to have disappeared. She turned toward the window, studying the webbed branches, covered with crisp fall leaves, that seemed to form a canopy beneath the pale gray sky. It had to be after three, she guessed. In a few hours it would be light and they could resume their search. She closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep.
Sometime later, Charlotte blinked her eyes against the bright sunlight that beamed in through the open curtains. “Ahh,” she moaned as a dagger seemed to shoot through her head. It was, she realized, the kind of hangover brought on by cheap Polish potato vodka, compounded by the fact that she could no longer drink like she was twenty-two.
She became aware then of something warm pressed against her back. Jack, she remembered. Without rolling over, she could see his tousled hair and rumpled T-shirt out of the corner of her eye. What had happened? A series of images flooded her mind: she grabbing his hand, his lips on hers.
She lay still for several seconds, feeling his breath warm and slightly sour against her neck. It was the vodka that had caused it all, she decided. Best to say nothing about it. She pulled away and sat up, studying him again. Watching him sleep now, arms flung over his head, it was impossible to remember how he had ever seemed intimidating at all.
Charlotte carried her bag down the stairs and found the washroom, then changed into the fresh blouse and jeans she’d brought with her. She ran her tongue over the fuzz that had formed on her teeth. Then she cringed at her own reflection, which shared none of Jack’s sleepy, roguish charm. Instead, her hair was pressed flat against her head, sticking out awkwardly at her neck, and there was a crease across her cheek left by the pillow. She opened the medicine cabinet looking for an aspirin, or at least some toothpaste, but it was completely bare. Of course it was. She rinsed her mouth with some water, then splashed some on her face and smoothed her hair before returning upstairs.
Taking in the still-sleeping Jack once more, she debated waking him, then decided against it. Instead, she sat down beside the box of photographs she’d been examining the previous evening and continued to sort through the pile.
A few minutes later, Jack stirred. “Mmph,” he mumbled, shielding his eyes with his forearm.
“What time is it?”
“Morning.”
“You have a keen insight into the obvious,” he remarked dryly. Their eyes met, and if he felt at all awkward about what had transpired between then the previous night, he didn’t show it. Perhaps the drinks had blurred his recollection. Or maybe to him it was just no big deal.
“Do you think we should leave before Beata returns?” she asked.
“You mean, knock and ask to be let in again? I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ll just tell her we got here early and the door was unlocked.”
He stood up and pulled on his shirt. As he knelt beside her to open another box, her heart seemed to skip once. “This is futile,” he said, picking up their debate from the previous day. “Why don’t we decide which ones we want to look through, and I’ll arrange to have them shipped back to Munich?”
“I don’t know.” She looked around. It seemed such a shame to disturb the order of the attic that had lain largely untouched all these years. But before she could reply, she was interrupted by a clattering below. Beata, she thought, expecting the caretaker to appear at the top of the ste
ps. Instead, a head of bright red hair came into view. “Dzień dobry.”
“Dzień dobry.” Charlotte returned the greeting, confused. It was the woman from the party last night, the one who knew about Roger and Magda. But what was she doing here?
Jola, Charlotte recalled suddenly. The woman looked fresh, as though she had gotten a sound night’s sleep instead of drinking vodka into the wee hours. “I remembered something else,” she said, her voice more confident now than it had been in front of the group at Beata’s. “Last evening I said that Roger was a student in Warsaw, but that was wrong. Roger studied in Wroclaw, or Breslau it was called then. His brother Hans was living there at the time and Roger stayed with him.”
“And that’s where he met Magda?” Charlotte asked.
Jola did not answer, but looked over Charlotte’s shoulder with interest at the pile of photographs. Charlotte cringed, not sure if they should be sharing the Dykmanses’ intimate family belongings with this woman. But Jola reached past her, picking up one of the photos. “That’s her.”
“Magda?” Charlotte followed the woman’s finger, wondering if she had misheard. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” the woman replied firmly, handing it back to Charlotte. “I saw her once in a photo my grandmother had from Pani Dykmans.”
Exchanging uneasy glances with Jack, Charlotte held up Hans’s wedding picture, which they had seen last night. Roger, it seemed, had been in love with his brother’s wife.
Six
BRESLAU, 1940
Roger wiped his boots on the mat and looked up expectantly. Forty-three, the number above the doorway of the row house read. He compared it to the slip of paper in his hand once more. The address was correct. He raised his arm, then hesitated, wondering if it was too soon to knock again.
As he reached forward, the door swung open, leaving his hand flailing in midair. A slight woman with dark hair and pale skin appeared in the doorway. They stared at each other for a moment, not speaking. Roger had never met his brother’s wife. There had been a photograph of an impromptu wedding in Geneva, a hastily scrawled letter, as Hans’s invariably were, apologizing that circumstances had not enabled them to have proper nuptials, or at least come to Wadowice and make introductions to the family before they wed. Their mother, always eager to find an excuse for Hans’s inattentiveness, had speculated in a more outspoken way than was proper that perhaps his bride might be with child. But six months later, the woman who stood before him was willowy, showing no evidence of an impending birth.
“You must be Roger,” she said, stepping aside. “I’m Magda. Come in.”
“Vielen Dank.” She was taller than he had imagined. In the photograph she had appeared more slight, clinging to Hans’s side in the shadow of an alpine slope, gazing up at him with an expression that seemed midway between trepidation and awe. Here in her own home without her husband, she seemed to fill the space, moving through the light-filled house with ease.
“I can show you to your room, if you’re tired from the journey,” she offered, as she led him into the sitting room. “Or perhaps some tea.”
“Tea would be nice,” he replied, setting down his bag and taking the chair she indicated. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Not at all. Hans would have been here, but he’s been called away on business.” Business, Roger reflected, as Magda disappeared into the kitchen. No one was quite sure what his brother did, and Roger often had the sense that it was better not to ask. Hans, five years Roger’s senior, had studied politics, choosing not to enroll in the university here and taking off instead for Berlin. After graduation, he had gone into the diplomatic service and been detailed to the consulate in Breslau, an office that had ceased to exist now that Germany had invaded Poland and no longer recognized its national sovereignty. Hans kept his official residence here but seemed to travel endlessly throughout the country and abroad, meeting with contacts.
Roger looked around the house, simply furnished with a scarcity of personal effects, which reflected the fact that Hans and Magda hadn’t been here long. It was more spacious than he had imagined, given Hans’s modest government salary and his refusal to accept help from their mother. Of course the location, in the Jewish quarter and close to the synagogue, could hardly be considered ideal in light of the present German administration, and that likely kept the value low.
The invitation to stay with his brother had come as a surprise to Roger, prompted, he was sure, by their mother’s urging. It wasn’t that Hans was inhospitable—he simply moved in his own orbit and it would have never occurred to him to ask. Roger felt awkward about being an interloper between the newlyweds. But the coincidence of his brother having a house in the city was too fortuitous to ignore, and the price of rent too dear for their mother to pay when it wasn’t necessary.
Not that it seemed, Roger observed now, as if his presence would be much of an intrusion. The few touches that did decorate the house were all Magda’s, from the embroidered slipcovers to the handful of framed photographs scattered about the room. There did not seem to be a trace of his brother anywhere, not his pipe or shoes or any of the usual clutter that Hans had left in his wake for most of their youth. Roger imagined Magda alone in the large house night after night, and considered, with more empathy than he expected to feel for the woman he had just met, if she was lonely here.
Magda returned with a tea tray, which she set on the low table in front of him. There was not any sugar and he wondered if it was due to rationing. Surely the shortages here could not be as bad as back home. He picked up one of the cups. “That’s a beautiful timepiece,” he remarked, pointing to the clock on the mantel.
She sat down in the chair opposite him. “It was my father’s dearest possession. We found him holding it when he died.”
He waited to see if there was something more she wanted to say, but her expression turned vague as she picked up her teacup, lost in private thoughts. “Where are you from?” he asked, realizing how little he knew about his brother’s wife.
“Frankfurt, originally.”
“How did you and Hans meet?” The question sounded more intrusive than he had intended.
But Magda did not seem offended. “I worked in a café in Berlin. Your brother used to come in when he was a student.” Her eyes seemed to dance at the memory. Sipping his tea, Roger imagined the meeting. He pictured Hans holding court at a table, a circle of onlookers watching as he pontificated on current events, debated politics long into the night. Magda could not have helped but been smitten. And what had drawn Hans to Magda? Her beauty, for starters. Magda, with her perfect posture and luminous blue-gray eyes, had a quiet grace that would have made her the focus of attention over other women who were more flirtatious or better dressed. Even his brother, so often preoccupied, could not have failed to notice her.
“After Hans graduated, we lived some distance apart for a while after he took this assignment. And then we married and I moved here.” She spoke hurriedly, fidgeting with the cuffs of her dress, offering more information in response than the question necessitated. Was she nervous at his presence? He wondered if she minded the intrusion.
“It’s very gracious of you to have me in your home. I hope it isn’t too much of a bother.” He felt certain from her contemplative expression that it was the first time anyone had asked.
“Not at all.” Her voice sounded sincere. “It will be good to have someone else here.” She closed her mouth quickly, raising a hand to her flushed cheeks as if she had said too much.
She stood abruptly, setting down her still-full teacup and gesturing for him to follow her. There was something striking about her gait as she climbed the stairs, a way of walking that was so smooth and effortless, she traveled without seeming to really move at all.
As they passed the second-floor landing, he counted through the open doors three rooms, a bedroom and a study and another room that seemed in disuse. “The water closet is just here,” she said, pointing to a fourth, closed door
. She continued up the stairs to the third floor, opening the door at the top. “This is yours.”
They started forward at the same time. “Oh!” Magda said, as they jostled against one another in the doorway, which was too small for both to pass. They stood motionless for a second, her arm warm against his side.
“Excuse me,” he said finally, feeling his face go red as he leapt back to let her pass. He berated himself inwardly, certain that she must be appalled by his lack of manners.
But Magda let out a tinkling laugh, as though his misstep was an intentional joke, and her good nature instantly put him at ease. She walked into the room and gestured to the expanse of space beneath a sloping roof. A simple bed, chair, and desk were the only furnishings, giving the space an uncluttered feel that he rather liked. The smell of fresh lemon cleanser filled the air.
“It’s lovely,” he remarked.
Neither spoke for several seconds. “I’ll leave you to get settled,” she said at last. She paused, mouth still open, as though there were something more she wanted to say. Then she turned and vanished down the stairs, leaving a sense of emptiness in her wake.
The next afternoon, Roger stood on the doorstep of the house once more, unsure of whether to knock or walk right in this time. He settled somewhere in between, rapping once lightly, then opening the door a crack without waiting. “Hello,” he called.
Something was different, he sensed immediately as he stepped into the foyer. He had left early that morning without seeing Magda and spent the better part of the day at the university, picking up the required texts, making contact with his tutor about their first meeting. Now, as he started up the steps, juggling an armful of books, he detected an unmistakable energy in the air that had not been present previously.