He kissed me, and I stirred. But that’s as far as it went. He pulled away. “But that’s the way it is. This was never forever.”
“I know,” I said. But sometimes forever feels further away than other times.
It is amazing how long it takes to assemble a life, and how short a time it takes to dismantle it. What little I didn’t break wasn’t worth bringing back to the mainland, and Ainslie was going straight to Baltra to eat his three squares courtesy of Uncle Sam.
I took the pan that Elke had always admired, as well as a few other kitchen things (even castoffs were indispensable in the Galápagos) and walked the path to her house. The dog recognized me and came to smell my privates. Elke was waiting at the door.
“You heard I’m leaving,” I said, by way of greeting.
“Yes,” Elke said. “War is same as losing.” She sounded more sad than bitter.
“Thank you,” I said. “I never said thank you.”
Elke waved at me in dismissal, and then held up her hand as if to say, Stop. She looked at the corner of the room. “You will like coffee?”
“I can’t stay,” I said. “I brought you these; better they go to use.”
Elke took the pots and the bundle of kitchen knickknacks from my hands. She put them on her table.
“Will you go to Germany?” I asked.
She made a noise that was neither assent nor its opposite. There was more to her story. But I couldn’t ask her, and she couldn’t tell me. The chasm between us grew greater; the wisps of our friendship curled up into the air like cinders.
“Well,” I said. “Goodbye. Auf Wiedersehen.”
“I do not think we meet again,” she said. “It is a large world.”
“Even large worlds have small islands,” I responded. “I prefer to say ‘See you.’ You never know.”
Elke reached for me and took me into her arms, hugging me tightly. It was a passionate hug, but brief. “We do not know,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “Auf Wiedersehen, then. See you on other islands.”
And I left my only friend on Floreana, who doubled as my worst enemy.
Part Four
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
How to describe the utter disconnect from my previous life? Every morning I toasted my store-bought bread, caught the cable car downtown, pressed together uncomfortably with strangers, took an elevator, also full of strange bodies, and punched a time clock, concerned if I arrived a minute or two late. I put the coffee on (the beans were already roasted and ground) and then I spent my day seated, answering the telephone and typing. When the intercom buzzed, I had to do whatever Childress asked me to do. And so I remembered wistfully my time in the Galápagos.
Living on my own, I rarely bothered to prepare a meal, but I still developed a bit of a paunch. I missed Ainslie. I missed Elke. At night I read books, mostly nineteenth-century adventure novels, and I dreamed, when I did manage to sleep amid all the city noise, of being on Black Beach. It was half a life.
But we were at war, and so many of us were living half-lives with husbands and sons away. San Francisco was full of sailors on leave or getting ready to ship out, and it was not a surprise to see someone with only one arm or crutching around on a stub. Still, San Francisco didn’t feel the war privations as acutely as other places—our food was grown locally and there were lots of jobs building, riveting. If you stayed away from the military areas, and most of us had little business there, then it was life as usual, minus stockings, which were never that popular in San Francisco anyway.
Some weekends I would go for a walk in the hills near Mill Valley or Sausalito, taking the bus early Sunday morning and returning in time to get a good night’s sleep before work the next day. I slept better those nights, exhausted from the exertion but also pacified by communing with nature. We were all biding our time until the war ended, and in that way I was no worse off than anyone else. At least I was no longer living in a rooming house.
I present for edification one of Ainslie’s letters to me:
Dear Mrs. Elmer Ainslie Conway,
I am stuck on the rock. Literally, we are calling the island of Baltra “The Rock.” Its resemblance to Alcatraz is intentional, for it is a jail. I suppose we should be grateful that we are not seeing any action (other than a misfired gun on the rifle range and a stepped-on toe). But believe me when I tell you that we are not seeing any action. It’s a struggle to keep the boys from chewing off their own fingers in boredom.
About a week ago the boys caught a goat and wanted to raise it in camp as our own live navy mascot. That’s against regulations, obviously, but I thought, what’s the harm? And at the same time, I got a note from Supply saying the requisition of boots had gone way up and could I investigate what the boys were doing to them. So I do, and wouldn’t you know they were leaving them outside the barracks to air out and pairs were disappearing. The boys all assumed it was a prank, but I put two on watch one night and sure enough the goat would escape its corral and grab a boot to munch on as an hors d’oeuvre. I have no idea how they digest a rubber sole or the metal eyelets. Scientists should study that. I feel like that information would be useful, from a scientific perspective. So I had to smooth the waters between the goat, the boys, and the brass.
There is a persistent rumor that iguanas grow back their tails immediately if they are cut off. No amount of education will dispel this rumor; every man must see it for himself. So we outlawed iguana-maiming. I am now known as the great iguana avenger.
This is the kind of thing I spend my time doing. That and missing you and our beloved Floreana. I’ve heard no news from there—but if anything exciting had happened, I would have heard, so rest easy.
I hope you dream in your favorite color,
Ainslie
So Ainslie was the dorm monitor in a fraternity. I worried that on an island full of young men, he would surely get to know some of them well. And perhaps even very well. I knew that he could never pursue that as a lifestyle, though there were certainly bachelors who roomed together to save money in San Francisco and no one was stupid enough to think that frugality was the only reason. But Ainslie could not keep his security clearance if he was caught with another man, and I knew that it was important to him. But what if he found a companion better suited to him? What if he shared with this person his hopes and dreams, revealed himself in a way he never did to me? I knew that I could live without physical intimacy, but the idea of someone else having the emotional connection to Ainslie that I so longed for made my elbows ache with fear. I still hoped—no, hope is not the right word because it implies the hoped-for thing is a possibility, and I knew it would never come to pass. Hofen un haren machen klugeh far naren, my mother used to say, which means something like “only idiots hope.” Hope I did not have. But I wished that Ainslie would come to me.
At night I dreamed he sailed down the runway in a prop plane, forgetting about me. I dreamed he was at the canteen and didn’t recognize me. I dreamed he died and I didn’t know anyone at his funeral.
Ainslie came home on leave only once in those four years and I was disappointed that he didn’t have more time to spend with me. He was home for six nights (after such a long journey!) and had to go to Carmel to brief the rear admiral on landing protocols or some such. He brought a pressed passion flower with him that was sadly decollated by the time it got to me, but I was still grateful he thought of it. The first night we went to dinner and Ainslie drank quite a bit. I supposed he had gone without for so long that I didn’t begrudge him tying one on. That night, he kissed me good night and moved on top of me, making love to me quickly and soundlessly before dropping off into his characteristic drunken deep sleep. This left me confused, unsure what he was trying to communicate. That he hadn’t been with other men? That he missed me? Did he consider this a duty he had to fulfill while on leave? Was he merely drunk? I was up most of the night, the bed spinning from alcohol, trying to parse his actions. But I couldn’t ask him about it; there were things about which we never
spoke, and I was too scared to destroy that equilibrium, especially when he was going away again so soon.
We spent the next day together in Golden Gate Park with a picnic and a walk through the Japanese Tea Garden, rechristened the Oriental Tea Garden. It had fallen into sad disrepair: empty pedestals for missing sculptures, holes where plants used to be, broken fences…That night, he said he wanted to go see some friends, and it was clear I wasn’t invited. I had never met any of Ainslie’s friends, did not even know their names. When he stumbled in at first light, I pretended to be asleep. In the morning, I decided not to be angry. We had so little time together. We ate breakfast at a small diner near our apartment, and Ainslie ordered everything he couldn’t get on the Galápagos—sausage, gravy, pancakes—and we made small talk.
On the weekend, we went to Napa. It was lovely; the weather cooperated perfectly, and we returned home in good moods. Emptying his pockets before packing his affairs, I found a receipt for a hotel. He had arrived one night earlier than he told me and stayed at the Huntington. My heart sank with the surprise of a sudden fall. Who had he been with? Did he meet with someone in particular, or did he pick someone up off the street? I worried about the possibility of disease. Could men communicate disease to other men? I dismissed that line of thinking. What was there to do? I merely kissed him goodbye and shoved the knowledge down in my stomach where it hardened into a ball of doubt and frustration. I was relieved when he left. I was starting to get used to my bachelorettehood.
I was burning to talk about my feelings with someone, but there was no one in whom I could confide. Every time I saw Rosalie, the secret was like a belch threatening to erupt, yet I held my tongue. As for marriage troubles, I was certain she would be sympathetic, for she definitely had her own, if only I could share mine with her. And until I made that overture, she kept her feelings about Clarence from me.
Apart from this necessary distancing, Rosalie and I continued to spend time together, when she wasn’t volunteering or lunching, which she did a great deal of. After Ainslie’s visit she held a party to raise money for the Eastern European Jewish Refugee Association. The extent of the Nazi perfidy was finally becoming clear, and people were outraged. She insisted that I come, though I complained that I would be out of place among her synagogue friends. Nonsense, she replied, you have a husband in the war. In fact, she would make a special toast in my and Ainslie’s honor. I had to beg her not to, the price of which was agreeing to attend.
I protested that I had nothing to wear, which is how I came to be wearing a dress of Barbara’s (which was too big on me in the bust) at a party where I knew no one.
In the corner, a small man caught my eye. He was bearded and peering closely at the books on Rosalie’s shelf. I happened to know that she had purchased them by the yard. He was studying the titles, pretending to look for a specific volume, like a professor at the library. In fact, he looked a little like a plump Sigmund Freud. Perhaps it was the glasses, which he wore in an antique style, perched on the end of his nose.
As I also had no one to talk to, I approached him. But then I didn’t know what to say, so I stood beside him and pretended to look at the titles. He smelled of aftershave, though he had a full beard. He seemed unperturbed by my presence, and we stood there in silence.
Finally, I spoke. “Have you read much Hardy? I found Jude slow going, but then I grew to enjoy it.”
“I’m not a supporter of Hardy,” he said, with the hint of an accent. He still didn’t look at me. “He’s overly dramatic.”
“Oh,” I said, rebuked. There was a longer silence, and I tried to think of a way to excuse myself.
“But,” he said finally, “I do like James, and he does not avoid emotion.”
“I do too,” I said. “But I never truly understand his characters. They are American, but in a way that seems foreign to me. I’ve never been to the East Coast.”
Finally, he turned to me. Behind his spectacles, one eye was milky, the other a solid clear blue. “You should see New York.”
“I’ve been elsewhere. I’ve been to Panama and the Galápagos Islands. I lived there, in fact.” I’m not sure why I wanted to impress him.
He betrayed no reaction. I continued, babbling now. “I lived there before the war. They’re islands off the coast of—”
“Ecuador,” we said at the same time. “I know. Darwin’s Origin of Species. There are many Germans there now, yes? It is in the papers.”
“Oh that’s just gossip. Mostly, it was solitary.” I felt the need to defend the islands.
“That is the way of most places we live,” he said. And finally there was the hint of a smile. It was warmer for having been reluctantly granted.
“Are you from Europe?” I asked.
“Czechoslovakia,” he said. “Not especially a popular place right now for communists. Or Jews.”
“Is anywhere?”
He shook his head. “I was fortunate. I have a connection to the university here. Berkeley. Many of my colleagues don’t have that luxury.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. There was nothing else to say. I could have inquired about how many family members he lost, or how he snuck in around the quota, but it was a rude question for a party, and I didn’t really want to know the answer.
“I’ve been friends with Rosalie since childhood,” I said.
He said nothing. We had turned now to look at the party, jolly around us with finally released energy. We were so separate we were not in the room; we were watching it happen on a movie screen. His elbow brushed my sleeve.
Rosalie saw us standing there and came over, taking my hands. “You have to come help me over here,” she said, flimsily. “Can I steal her away from you, Mr. Hradistsky?”
When we were safely out of earshot, Rosalie said, “Ugh, he’s like a puddle of something sticky. He’s the colleague of a friend from the synagogue, so I invite him to things, but he’s so morose. You don’t think it’s a language problem, do you? Can I introduce you to someone?”
When I looked around the room again, Mr. Hradistsky was gone, and I thought no more about him.
*
Now that the base on Baltra was up and running, I expected Ainslie home soon. The Office of Naval Intelligence was folded into the centralized Office of the Coordinator of Information, but my job changed very little. It appeared, though, that there was more to do on “The Rock.” I received a letter from Ainslie saying that they wanted him to stay and help run it. He even got a promotion to commander. I was green with envy when I read his letter, which was completely devoid of any sympathy for me alone at home and expressed the most generic sentiments of missing me. I crumpled the letter up, then, embarrassed, smoothed it out. I put it with Ainslie’s other letters in the desk drawer and stood at the kitchen window, looking out over the tops of buildings at the tiny sliver of the bay that was visible from my apartment. It was my apartment, I thought. Not Ainslie’s at all. He’d been there a handful of nights.
Why did I even still live in San Francisco? What was here for me? What was there for me anywhere? I had no roots, no children, no family, and my husband was not really my husband. Thus encloaked in self-pity, I decided to go for a walk.
When I returned the mail had arrived and there was an invitation from Rosalie to dinner that Friday. She already knew I would accept; I would have no other plans. I reflected on how lonely I’d be if I hadn’t run into Rosalie. What role chance plays in our lives, I mused. And then I ate a peanut butter sandwich for dinner and read a book until I fell asleep.
*
At dinner on Friday, Mr. Hradistsky was there, along with four couples. “Sorry,” Rosalie whispered. “Clarence’s friend wanted to bring him, and the numbers were off anyway. I put you on my right so you don’t have to talk to him all night.”
If he recognized me, he gave no sign, extending his hand for me to shake and telling me to call him Joseph. He was kind enough to pull my chair back for me. “Miss Conway,” he said.
“Mrs
. Conway,” Rosalie corrected him.
As it turned out, we had much to talk about, and Rosalie was engaged in conversation to her left, where she was adamantly arguing that the American Jewish Congress’s moderate approach would do nothing.
“Rabbi Silver was right,” she said. “Palestine is historically ours. We need to take it back, not wait for some committee to vote about it.” I was surprised that she had such a vehement and informed opinion.
“I want to move to Palestine,” Mr. Hradistsky said. I could see his eyes alight; finally a subject about which he showed passion. “But I’m troubled. What if our utopia is not all we hope it will be?”
“Utopias are better in theory than in practice, I’ve found,” I said. “But this has been a Zionist dream for so long.”
“I don’t like it here,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He took a sip of wine. “I don’t mean to insult you. This country took me in, and I am alive and for that I give thanks. But I can’t feel at home here, do you understand?”
“I think I do,” I said. I watched him drain his glass. He had surprisingly small, feminine hands. “Well? Will you go, to Palestine? After the war?”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged.
He looked so sad. I wanted to comfort him somehow. So I put my hand on his and gave a small squeeze.
*
About a month later, I was sitting in a luncheonette waiting for Rosalie. She had maintained her childhood habit of never being anywhere on time. I had only one hour to eat, which she knew. After about fifteen minutes, I ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a cup of coffee. The bread wasn’t toasted. I sent it back and at that moment, I saw Mr. Hradistsky sit down at the counter.
I debated whether or not I should get his attention. I knew Rosalie disliked him, but I felt warmly toward him. On the other hand, he was a bit of a wet smack. If I wanted to return to work without having my good humor dashed against the rocks, I would do well to keep my nose in my book. Did I really want to discuss Zionism before one in the afternoon?
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