by Pam Jenoff
She hesitated. A night, even with a boy as wonderful as Henryk, who was about to leave, was a great risk. But this could be their one night together, their last and only chance. “Okay,” she conceded.
“Wait for me at the corner when you get off work.” As she cleared tables, her pulse raced. She wondered where they would go, what her first time would be like.
This time there was no pretense of a date, just a wordless trip to a one-room flat by the train station. She hadn’t bothered to ask who it belonged to, where he had gotten the key. Afterward, as they lay in silence, she tried to ignore the stale, unfamiliar odor of the bedclothes. She didn’t know what she had expected. It was neither exciting nor disappointing exactly, but somehow different from both. Henryk, despite all of his bravado, had been surprisingly awkward. He seemed to know enough to suggest that it probably wasn’t his first time, but it didn’t seem that there had been many others, a thought that was somehow comforting.
He lay on his back, hands clasped under his head. She kept herself confined to the space beside him, not sure if they were supposed to touch or not. He did not speak and she worried that he had been disappointed by the tryst.
“What are you thinking?” she ventured finally.
He looked over, as if he’d forgotten that she was still there. “About leaving,” he replied, and the cold reality of his departure clamped down like a vise. “I’ve got to pack, try to get some more money.”
“Take me with you,” Anneke said, not believing that the words were hers. She had not even dared to contemplate the idea before. But as soon as she spoke, it became her dearest and only wish. A picture evolved immediately in her head—a life together in Paris, a new start. She could study at the university, find work in a bookstore.
“Anneke,” he said gently, and she could tell he was going to refuse. “Traveling with another person would be more difficult.”
“People are much more predisposed to help a couple than they are a single man,” she pointed out, gaining steam. “I could get a job in a café there, earn enough to keep us going while you write.” He pursed his lips, seemingly unconvinced. “And I can get money for our trip.”
His face brightened and he turned toward her. “Really?”
She nodded, though in truth she didn’t know how. Bronia lived from payday to payday, drinking whatever extra there was, and the few coins that Anneke stashed away from her work at the café wouldn’t go far.
But he did not pursue the matter further. “We should go,” he said instead, and their night ended abruptly on the street corner with an awkward kiss on the cheek that did not suggest the promise of anything further.
The next night Henryk and his friends appeared at the bar as always. Anneke was relieved—she had half expected that he might have already left. But there was something different, she quickly noticed. They were not only late but louder too, with a kind of cheer she hadn’t seen previously, a boisterousness unheard of in these head-low-and-eyes-down times that suggested the bar was not their first stop that evening. And there was someone new with them—a girl. She sat down too close to Henryk. Anneke took in her shining eyes and the rich dark curls that she tossed as she spoke. Who was she?
Anneke looked down, concentrating on the beer she was pouring. Her eyes stung. Had she really thought that she and Henryk might be exclusive? Still, bringing another girl here of all places, so soon after they had been together, seemed particularly cruel. It served her right, Anneke thought miserably. Like Bronia always said, if you reach too high, you’ll only fall on your face.
Anneke avoided Henryk’s corner of the bar as long as she possibly could, but eventually Herr Ders remarked that they were low on glasses and the table needed to be cleared. She cringed as she drew close, not meeting Henryk’s gaze.
Anneke did not bother to go to the alley, knowing that Henryk would remain at the table as long as the girl was there. But later, after the café closed and she swept the dirt from the kitchen floor, she was surprised to smell his familiar cigarette smoke through the open window.
Eventually, when she could put it off no longer, she carried the trash to the alley. “You’re still here,” she remarked, not looking up.
“Ja.”
She kicked at the pavement with her heel. “And your friends?”
“Gone. I’m sorry I couldn’t come out earlier.”
“No, of course not.” She fought to keep her voice neutral. “You had company.”
“She’s no one,” he protested earnestly. “The sister of my friend Rolf.”
“I know,” Anneke replied, though in fact she did not. She had not seen the girl talking to anyone else.
“So you said you can get money …?”
She looked up. Was he seriously considering allowing her to join him or was he just attempting to assuage her hurt feelings over the girl? “Yes.”
“We can leave tomorrow night. Do you know the old munitions factory in Friedrichshain?” She nodded, too stunned to speak. She had passed through the district, just south of the central Mitte area where the bar was located, a number of times. “Meet me at the front gate there tomorrow at midnight.” He did not wait for her to respond, but turned and walked from the alley.
She stood, watching in disbelief as he retreated. Did he really mean to take her along? His interest was hardly sentimental, she knew. It was about the promise of money. But that didn’t matter. He would get her to Paris and then he would realize how much he liked her. And if he didn’t, well, at least she would be out of here.
Out of here. She leaned against the alley wall as the magnitude of the plan crashed down upon her. Escaping Berlin seemed impossible, let alone making it all the way to Paris. Henryk was so sure of himself, though, and even though they’d known each other a short time, she sensed that she could trust him. Best to leave the details to him and just concentrate on getting the money she’d promised. But how? The Stossels, she decided, were her best possible source.
Her mind was still racing as she reached the Stossel house the next day, studying the furnishings with an appraising eye as she cleaned. They didn’t keep cash around the house, at least not that she had seen. And Frau Stossel seemed to wear all of the jewelry she owned. Anneke thought of the simple Jewish necklace she had taken. It didn’t seem likely to be worth much.
As she dusted the Stossels’ living room, Anneke stopped, examining the domed clock on the mantelpiece, which she had passed a thousand times, as if seeing it anew. It looked valuable, nicer than the ones she had seen in the shop windows. And at just under a foot high, it was one of the few pieces among their artwork and other belongings that was small enough to take.
“Nice, isn’t it?” a voice said behind her.
She jumped, then spun around to see Inge standing in the doorway to the foyer, holding a half-empty sack of onions and potatoes. “I suppose,” she replied, trying to sound uninterested. “I wonder if it was here before the war.”
But Inge shook her head. “Not that one. Came in a box left at the door some time after the war ended, addressed to the previous owners, no return address. I remember because the mail wasn’t running regularly again yet, but someone had managed to have it delivered, and had gone to a great deal of trouble to pack it safely.” She turned and plodded to the kitchen, leaving Anneke to wonder: Had the clock been intended as a gift, or something else? Whoever sent it surely didn’t know that its intended recipients were gone.
Later that afternoon, as she was about to leave, she walked to the clock, then hesitated, suddenly feeling guilty. It wasn’t that she felt badly for the Stossels; they had clearly done some taking themselves. But taking the clock seemed riskier than ever, especially since Inge had seen her eyeing it. And she couldn’t help worrying about Bronia. When Anneke was gone, her mother would be left to fend for herself—what if the Stossels held her responsible for the theft?
She pushed her guilt back down. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. Inhaling, she picked up the clock and started to
put it in her bag. There was a shuffling sound behind her. She froze, and lifted the clock back to its previous place. Then she turned, prepared to offer her explanation of dusting. But there was no one there.
Once she was several blocks away from the Stossels’ house, Anneke stopped, looking down uncertainly at her bulging rucksack, strained nearly to the breaking point by the clock. Taking the clock had seemed like a good idea at the time, but what to do with it now? There was an antique store she recalled seeing on her way to and from work. Perhaps she could sell the clock. She boarded the tram and as it made its way through the city with painstaking slowness, she held her breath, fearful that she would be stopped at any second by the police, who would ask what she was doing with such a piece.
Twenty minutes later, she reached the antique shop. “I’d like to sell this clock,” she said to the owner, a fat man with a fringe of greasy hair ringing his nearly bald head.
She held her breath as he appraised the clock in a cursory manner, not bothering to ask where she had gotten it. “Sixty marks,” he said without interest.
“But …” Sixty marks was more than she made in months, but it was nowhere near the kind of money she and Henryk would need for the trip. “Surely such a treasure—”
The man shrugged. “Who can afford luxuries these days? People only want to pay for food and heat. Of course, there’s always room to negotiate,” he added, leering at the spot where the hem of Anneke’s skirt touched her knee. Inwardly, she recoiled. For a fleeting second, she considered exploring the man’s interest, negotiating any way she had to with the man to get the money she needed. Then her spine stiffened. She was not that desperate. She turned and walked from the store.
It was her night off from working at the bar, so she returned to the flat and waited in bed fully clothed, listening to the trains roll by below. She and Henryk were leaving, together. Anneke could scarcely believe it. A thousand questions raced through her mind: What would they do when they reached the other side of the Wall? How would they get to Paris? And what would happen once they were there? She drew her arms closer around herself. There were so many things she didn’t know. But Henryk, she felt certain, would take care of them.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Bronia coming through the front door, followed by a second voice, indicating that she was not alone. Anneke groaned inwardly. She had hoped her mother might have an early night, pass out quickly so that she could slip from the flat undetected.
The conversation grew lower and muffled and Anneke tried to tune it out, bracing for the sounds she did not want to hear. But then the voices in the living room rose unexpectedly. Anneke tensed. A fight of some sort. There was a scuffling sound and Bronia let out a high-pitched yelp. Reluctantly, Anneke stood and raced into the tiny kitchen to find her mother cowering by the stove, the little man from the government raising his fist, ready to strike again.
Anger flared white hot inside Anneke. She reached for the first object she could find, a large pot. “Get away from her!” she yelled, swinging the pot at the man’s head when he did not respond. It grazed his temple, hard enough to daze him but not knock him out. The man turned, focusing his wrath on Anneke. Quickly she reached behind her and grabbed a knife, brandishing it. “Raus!”
This seemed to give the man pause. He stepped away, shaking his head. Then, without speaking, he walked out the front door of the flat. “No, no!” Bronia called, starting after him. “Wait—”
“Nein, Mutter,” Anneke said, restraining her mother and smelling the vodka that seeped from her skin and breath.
But the older woman pulled away. “It’s your fault! You’ve ruined everything for me. I never should have taken you.” She turned and ran into the living room and Anneke could hear the sound of another drink being poured.
Anneke considered going after her, then decided against it. There was nothing she could do to help Bronia. As she returned to the bedroom, her guilt rose. After she left, her mother truly would be all alone. But that was not enough to change Anneke’s decision. This was her chance to get out and not become—as she feared would happen if she stayed behind—someone like Bronia herself.
She soon heard the familiar sound of snoring. It was eleven-thirty, Anneke noted, standing up. She reached behind the bed for the clock and as she did her hand brushed against a book. She pulled it out, running her hand over the cover. Gone with the Wind. She hadn’t meant to take it from the Stossels’ library. She had stumbled upon it unexpectedly last spring when dusting the upper shelves, where it was hidden behind a history of the Red Army. She’d been instantly taken with the elegant woman in a flowing gown on the cover. She’d begun reading it, a few pages at a time when she could slip away, and had become engrossed in the story of Scarlett, a young woman living in a divided country like her own.
She had been reading it furtively one day when Herr Stossel walked into the study unexpectedly. Alarmed, she had dropped the book into her bag and forgotten about it until she came home that night. She would read a chapter and then return it the next day, she decided. Instead, she stayed awake long into the night, captivated by the story. And by that point she was so far along, another day before returning it couldn’t possibly hurt, could it? A week later, she finished the book, then started reading it again. Each day she meant to return it but something always seemed to get in the way. It was so nice to have a book, the only thing to read in the flat except for some old women’s magazines that Bronia kept in her nightstand.
Anneke turned the book over in her hand. She felt bad about taking it, in a way that she hadn’t with the necklace or even the clock. And she really had meant to return it, only now she wouldn’t have the chance. Bringing it with her to Paris seemed foolish when she needed the little space she had for other, more practical things. But she could not bear to leave it behind.
She reached down again and pulled out the clock. The unwieldy antique was not ideal for a swift getaway and she hoped Henryk would not be annoyed. But he had said they needed money and surely they could get a better price for it in the West. She picked it up and put it back in her bag, then tiptoed through the living room.
As she reached the front door, there was a noise behind her. She turned to find Bronia in her half-open housecoat, wavering unsteadily from the vodka. Her unfocused eyes traveled from Anneke’s face to the rucksack, where the clock jutted out, then back again.
“Everything is fine, Mutter,” Anneke said, trying to sound soothing. “Go back to sleep.” Anneke watched Bronia’s face as she tried to process what her daughter was saying. Anneke faltered—there were so many things she wanted to tell her mother, who had done her best, though it was in fact not a very good job at all. She wanted to say thank-you and good-bye and that she would send money and perhaps even arrange for Bronia herself to leave when she was able. But her mother could not be trusted with the truth. “Go to sleep,” Anneke repeated, and Bronia eyed her warily before turning and shuffling away.
Anneke made her way through the darkened streets, moving as swiftly as she could until she reached the munitions factory. Deserted since the end of the war, it was a hulking shell, crumbling stovepipes pointing forlornly upward, gaping holes where the windows had once been. She approached the main gate as Henryk had indicated, but there was no sign of him. She was a few minutes late, but surely Henryk would have waited. Perhaps he had been delayed as well.
She kept close to the munitions factory, trying to stay hidden in the shadows. Then she looked across at the mass of barbed wire and steel that now separated East from West. She shivered, taking in the makeshift tower that had been erected, bright lights shining down on the work site below.
At the corner, she glimpsed a police car, creeping slowly. She kept moving, circling the block so as not to arouse suspicion. As she walked, she recalled her conversation with her mother. It was a familiar one, Bronia blaming Anneke for ruining her life. But something she had said tonight was different: “I never should have taken you.” What had s
he meant by that? Anneke shrugged off the question. Bronia was drunk, talking nonsense as always.
She returned to the specified meeting spot. Half an hour had passed at least and Henryk was still not there. She wondered if he was all right, whether someone had learned of his plan to flee. She started down the street, then stopped again. Where was she going? It was too late to go to the bar and ask Henryk’s friends about his whereabouts. She did not know where Henryk lived, and she would not dare to go there even if she did. She thought of the flat where they had spent their lone night together. There was no reason to think he would necessarily be there, but she had to try something.
Twenty minutes later she reached the apartment block by the station. As she climbed the stairs to the flat, the dank odor brought back a wave of memories of the night they had shared. She reached the door and raised her hand to knock, then stopped. From inside came Henryk’s low voice, then the familiar tinkling laugh of the girl from the café.
An icy hand seemed to grip her by the throat. Henryk had betrayed her. Of course he had never promised her anything, but their plans to leave together, the dream that they shared, suggested more. She stood motionless, uncertain what to do. Every instinct in her being told her to go inside and confront him, to demand the truth.
Paris, she thought, and suddenly the images of her new life began to slip from her mind. She pulled them back again. Over the past few days the dream had grown to be about something more than Henryk, something bigger. It had become her own, the first that she’d ever dared to have. If she confronted him now and they parted badly, he would leave her behind.
Go with him anyway, a voice inside her urged. Her other self protested: to say nothing about his betrayal and act as if she didn’t know would be to live a lie. But once he had gotten her to Paris, she would no longer need him. She could set out on her own and make a life there. Quietly she started back down the stairs, feeling about ten years older than she had a few minutes earlier.