by Pam Jenoff
“I just feel like such a coward,” she said, speaking before thinking. She had not meant to include him in that characterization.
But he did not seem offended by the association. “Hardly,” he said. “You’re still out there on the front lines, defending people’s lives. The fact that you’ve chosen to do it in Philadelphia and not at The Hague doesn’t make it any less admirable. Perhaps more so, because there just aren’t that many great attorneys willing to do what you do.”
She flushed, flattered by the compliment. “There are, actually,” she protested, thinking of her colleagues back home. There was the usual smattering of tired civil servants of course. But the public defenders with whom she worked were among the most talented legal minds she’d ever known.
“I have to wonder, though, do you ever get bored?”
“No, not at all,” she replied quickly.
“I didn’t mean any offense. It’s just that after traveling the world, doing such exciting work—”
“I like it there,” she insisted. And she really did, she realized, as an unexpected pang of longing shot through her. “There’s my job and home and friends and such.” She found herself speaking in a way that made her solitary life in Philadelphia sound much more exciting than it really was. “I guess I’ve always been a little conflicted. Like I’m torn between my two selves, the globe-trotter—or gypsy, as my mother used to say, though I guess that’s not an acceptable term anymore—and the homebody. I love being here, hopping on a plane, the freedom of going to places unknown where nobody knows me. But the other life is nice too,” she added.
“I know what you mean,” Jack said, surprising her again. She had never thought of him as anything but a world traveler. “Caroline and I talked about settling down together someday, getting a place in Amsterdam on one of the canals.” He looked vulnerable then, the cool exterior stripped bare by his memories.
She wanted to tell him that she understood, but couldn’t find the words. Instead, she reached out and touched his hair, then dropped her hand, interlacing her fingers with his, a communion of the once wounded. It all made sense then—his terseness, the way he seemed to hold himself apart. He was still out in the world, but he’d built such a protective barrier internally that no one could get close enough to hurt him.
But if that was true, then what did everything that had just transpired between them mean? Was it just a fling between two lonely people that had come about as a result of spending too much time together? There was something in the way he looked at her, though, that suggested something more, if that was possible.
Overwhelmed, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, still holding his hand. Rustling sounds awakened her and she rolled over to find the space beside her empty. “I’m going to go back to my place for a shower and a change of clothes,” he said from the darkness above.
“Okay.” She searched his voice for signs of awkwardness but found none. His hand grazed her shoulder and then he slipped out the door.
She dozed off and sometime later was awakened by a knocking. “Mmph,” she managed, standing up and reaching for her clothes. Faint daylight pushed through the curtains. Jack must have returned. Had she overslept? Being a compulsive early riser, she seldom bothered to place a wake-up call or set an alarm unless rushing for a flight. But they had not, she realized, said whether they were meeting here or at the prison, or at what time.
“Jack, I—” she began, pulling open the door. She stopped in mid-sentence, caught by surprise.
There, standing in the hallway, was Brian.
Eight
BRESLAU, 1942
Roger set down his notes and looked out the window, chewing on the end of his pencil, a schoolboy’s habit he had never been able to break. The courtyard below was empty now, but he knew that the men would soon appear. He had gotten used to the quiet routine of the synagogue over the past eighteen months; it had become a timepiece of sorts, marking the hours like the clock on the mantel in the living room two floors below, or the neighbor’s rooster that crowed mornings back home in Wadowice. The men came to worship in small groups in the weekday evenings, with larger crowds on their Sabbath and holidays.
Or they used to, anyway. The change had come quietly at first, and it was so subtle that he might have missed it had he been studying for exams and not looking out the window most days, daydreaming and putting himself in danger of failing out of the university altogether. Attendance had decreased to a trickle and then a handful of men, and the few that did still come moved swiftly through the courtyard to the synagogue entrance, not stopping to look up at the magnificent structure but glancing furtively behind them and ducking inside, afraid to be seen.
From below came a familiar scratching sound. Roger held his breath, gauging with an appraising ear the nearness of Magda’s footsteps, whether they were growing louder as she climbed the stairs. But they faded again and he heard a door shut as she walked into the kitchen. He exhaled, trying to contain his disappointment.
The dwindling presence of the Jews was not the only thing that had changed in the time since Roger had lived here. The realization that he was in love with his brother’s wife had come swiftly, falling upon him like a sudden weight from above. It had started innocently enough: often in the evenings when Hans was out of town and the study had grown too cold to work, or when he did not dare to leave his light on because the sirens had signaled an air raid, Roger would join Magda in the parlor, reading for class by candlelight while she knitted.
Occasionally one or the other would make a comment and they would break from their respective activities. Their conversation ventured from one subject to the next, minutes bleeding into hours as his reading lay unfinished and she had to redo the stitches she’d dropped while distracted. He didn’t mind the time that seemed to evaporate between them, leaving him working harder and faster at his studies the next day to accomplish all that needed to be done. Those evenings, as they sat across from each other, the Victrola playing softly in the background, were the most peaceful that he had ever known.
It was more than just her beauty that had drawn Hans to Magda, Roger decided as he got to know her better. She had an intelligence and wit about her that in other circumstances might have opened worlds of possibility. Instead she was here, alone in this house, waiting for a husband who scarcely noticed her. He oftentimes found himself angry on her behalf, wanting to fill the voids left by his brother’s absences and inattention.
“Here,” he said one January evening, as they sat at their usual stations in the parlor. He pulled from behind his back the wrapped brown paper package he’d been hiding and held it out to her.
Magda looked at the parcel uncertainly. He extended his hand further in her direction. “For you.”
Tentatively, she took it and opened the paper with shaking hands. Inside was a small skein of gray wool yarn. “I thought you could use it for knitting,” he said awkwardly, explaining the obvious when she did not speak.
“Oh.” She stared blankly at the yarn, which lay in her lap, and for a moment he wondered, crestfallen, if she did not like it, or perhaps it was the wrong type or color. He had bought it on impulse that afternoon, stopping in a notions store on his way back from the university to see if there was any to be had. He knew from watching Magda knit that she had been unraveling old sweaters to get the yarn she needed.
But perhaps the gesture had been a mistake. Was the gift too forward or perhaps not what she wanted? It had cost him the better part of his spending money for the remainder of the month and he hoped he could return it if it wasn’t right.
But she had picked up the yarn and fingered it gently now, as if making sure it was real. “It’s lovely,” she said, her voice low and hoarse.
It was not that she didn’t like the yarn, Roger realized then. Rather, she was just so unaccustomed to being given gifts, or to anyone noticing what she wanted or needed. His resentment of his brother loomed larger than ever.
A few weeks later, Roge
r woke one morning to find the same brown paper parcel lying outside the door to his room. He picked it up, puzzled. Had she returned the gift? Unwrapping the package, he found a single mitten, made from the gray yarn.
After he’d dressed, he carried the package down to the kitchen, where Magda was polishing silver. “You left this for me?”
She nodded, not looking up. “You lost one of yours, I think, some time ago.”
“Yes.” He’d made do through the winter, burying his bare left hand in his pocket to keep warm. He held up the mitten, which was just a few shades lighter than his other one. A torrent of emotions washed over him: surprise that she had noticed what he needed, remorse that she had not used the new wool on something for herself. Most of all he was touched by the time and work she had put into making the mitten for him. He had noticed her working on the piece, but he had assumed that it was for Hans.
She looked up then, searching his face for a reaction to the gift. “Beautiful,” he said as their eyes met and held. He cleared his throat. “That is, thank you.”
A troubled expression flickered across her face, then disappeared again. She turned and picked up the silver and carried it into the dining room.
The following evening as they sat together, he glanced up from his work and saw her hands moving gently above the knitting needles, making something new with brown yarn unraveled from a sweater. He was stunned by the familiarity of her fingers, the soft oval shape of the cuticle beds. In that moment he realized that he knew everything about her, each exquisite detail from the curve of her hips to the corners of her mouth, as if they were his own.
“Excuse me,” he said, standing up so abruptly that she stopped mid-stitch. She looked up at him puzzled, needles suspended in the air. Usually neither of them retired to bed until the candle had burned too low to see, at least an hour or two from now. “I’m quite tired.” He felt his way upstairs in the darkness, then sank to the bed, shaking. What was happening? It was loneliness, he decided, the stress of the war and his studies and the lack of a woman’s warmth. But there were plenty of girls at the university who made clear that they would be only too receptive to his attention if it was forthcoming. No, this was something more. He knew then, even though he had never felt it for anyone before, that he was absolutely in love with Magda.
The next morning, after a long and fitful night’s sleep, Roger awoke before dawn, the renewed realization a cold cloak of guilt against his skin. Magda was his brother’s wife—he could not, would not have feelings for her. After that, he tried to take an interest in other women, actually asking a few out for coffee, one even to a second dinner date. But the conversation always fell flat and he found himself looking at the clock, counting the minutes until he could return to the house. He avoided the evenings downstairs for a time, but eventually he was pulled back to the warmth of Magda’s company.
At least, he consoled himself, the feelings were all one-sided.
One night a few weeks later, after he had retreated to bed, he was awakened by a low rumbling sound. Bombs, he thought. They had started a few months earlier, distant and occasional. But they came with greater frequency now, almost every night. These were closer than anything he remembered, shaking the walls, knocking his books from the desk to the floor.
He should go to the cellar. He groaned inwardly, thinking of the hours that might be spent sitting in the darkness on the cold, damp concrete floor. But Magda went faithfully downstairs with each raid and she shouldn’t have to be alone. Reluctantly, he made his way to the second floor and stopped in front of her bedroom door to see if she was still there. “Magda?” he called through the opening. “It’s getting rather close. Perhaps we should go down to the cellar?”
His question was met with silence and he wondered if she had already gone. He pushed the door open a crack further. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that the armoire was pushed away from the wall. He went to the opening behind it. She was huddled in the tiny crawl space, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. “Magda?”
She did not answer, but rocked back and forth, keeping her head low. What was she doing? The space might offer some protection if one needed to hide, but was useless if a bomb should hit. Yet to her it seemed to represent safety against all perils. He dropped to her side. “Come with me.” When she did not move, he put his arms around her and lifted her up. She was shaking, Roger noticed as he straightened with effort. He hesitated, debating whether he should carry her to the cellar. Better to try and calm her here in the familiar surroundings of her own room. She seemed to relax slightly as he carried her to the bed, but when he tried to set her down, she clung to him.
“It’s all right,” he said softly, sitting down himself, still holding her, their faces just inches apart. Something inside him stirred and seemed to break loose from its moorings.
Her eyes darted back and forth, searching his face, trying to decide whether to believe him. Then she blinked, as if awakening from a dream. “What happened?”
He opened his mouth to answer but found that he could not. Instead, he drew closer, as if pulled by an unseen hand. As his lips neared hers, she pulled away. “Roger …” There was a note of warning in her voice.
“Es tut mir leid,” he apologized, leaping up. He fled the room and raced back to the third floor, heedless of any danger, the roaring in his ears drowning out the exploding bombs in the distance. He climbed into bed, shaken. What had happened? Magda clung to him only out of fear, surely. And he had taken advantage of the situation, or so it would seem to her. How could he ever face her again after behaving so improperly?
He could not stay here any longer, Roger decided. He would get a room at the university, find a job to pay for it. He didn’t know how he would explain it to Hans, but he would think of something.
The explosions outside grew louder, drawing him from his thoughts and making his stomach jump. Then there came another noise beneath, a scratching from the stairway, lower and more persistent. He walked to the door and, opening it, was surprised to find Magda on the other side of it in her housecoat. She did not speak, but came into his room and slipped into the bed.
He stood in the center of the room uncertainly. He slid into bed beside her, trying to maintain a respectful distance, an almost impossible feat given the narrow space. She trembled beside him in the darkness. He lay frozen, too stunned to move, afraid that the slightest word or gesture would give away his reaction. She’s just here for comfort, he thought, willing himself to be calm. But then she turned to him and her lips were on his, her body pressed close, and everything he had scarcely allowed himself to dream became reality.
In the morning she was gone, her slight frame leaving a sheet so unwrinkled he wondered if he had imagined the encounter. The house was still as he left for the university. That day, as he attempted to work in the library, he could think of little else but the previous night. Desire surged in him as he remembered the lilac scent of her hair, the way she cried out with more force than he’d thought possible. Surely it had been an accident, borne of the terror of the bombing raid. He returned home late, preferring to linger in his memories rather than face the inevitable return to the status quo he was sure awaited him.
But she came again that night too, even though the bombs no longer rang out. He was still at his desk when she appeared at the door that he’d deliberately left open. Her hair was neatly combed and she wore a blue dressing gown that made her eyes look even more luminous. She lingered in the doorway until he came to her. “We can’t—” she began, but the words caught in her throat as he drew her in by the hand.
Their encounter this time seemed even more surreal. Once, however forbidden, could be written off to the terror of the bombing raid, to an impulsive need for comfort. There had been an air of intention about this second night, though, that was impossible to deny. Afterward, he could tell from her uneven breathing beside him that she was not asleep either, and he considered asking her why she had come back. But the q
uestion seemed too personal, not his to ask.
Her visits became nightly after that and often, once she had slipped from his bed, he would lie awake, adrenaline still racing, marveling at what had transpired between them. But the question nagged: Why did she do it? Boredom, or loneliness, would have been the easy answers. Magda was too principled a woman, though, to betray her marriage on a whim—and the way she clung to him in the brief moments they shared afterward suggested something more. He desperately wanted to know, yet he fought the urge to press for an explanation, fearful that if he shone a light on what was happening it would disintegrate like dust.
It was not for several months, when the weather had given way to early summer, that Roger noticed for the first time the growing roundness of Magda’s belly. He wished he knew how to calculate such things, to know if the child was conceived during one of Hans’s lengthy absences. Surely, given the infrequency of his brother’s visits, the many nights that he and Magda had shared … Roger was instantly ashamed at his selfishness. A child that was his would be a stigma, yet another secret for Magda to carry when her burden in that regard was already heavy enough.
He did not ask her, of course. He wondered if, given her condition, she would come to him less, but she still climbed the stairs to his room each night, the growing belly pressed unmentioned between them.
The child was born on a cold morning in November. Roger loitered outside the room for what seemed like endless hours, waiting for something to do, and he was almost relieved when the midwife appeared and asked him to send a telegram to Hans that he had a daughter and all was well.
“Would you like to hold her?” Magda asked one afternoon. The child, Anna, as she had been named after one of Magda’s grandmothers, was now three weeks old.