The Best Contemporary Women's Fiction: Six Novels

by Jenna Blum

  Yes?

  Those books, says Anna. Those books downstairs—I already told you, Mama, Trudy says. They're teaching materials. For my seminar.

  I see, says Anna. And what is its name, this seminar?

  Trudy steps back into the room and shuts the door.

  It's called Women's Roles in Nazi Germany, she says.

  I see, Anna repeats.

  She says nothing further, but the way she looks at Trudy causes Trudy to feel a scalding, primal shame the likes of which she has not experienced since childhood, as though she has been caught watching Anna in the bath or rifling through her drawers.

  Yet she faces Anna's inspection squarely, and her voice is level when she says, I take it you don't approve.

  Anna gives a little shrug, as if the matter is of no consequence to her. But the skin around her nostrils has blanched, as it always does when she is angry or upset.

  You know my view on such things, she says.

  Yes, of course, says Trudy, and recites: The past is dead, nicht? The past is dead, and better it remain so.

  Anna folds her hands in her lap.

  Just so, she says.

  Trudy looks at her. Something about the way she is sitting is familiar. And after a moment it comes to Trudy: if Anna were fifty years younger and holding the child Trudy in her lap, if not for the cheerful yellow blanket behind her, Anna could be posing for the photograph in the gold case, which is now hidden down the hall in Trudy's own sock drawer. Not only is the past not dead, it has come home to roost.

  Trudy exhales and rubs her tired eyes.

  Well, Mama, she says, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.

  She leaves without waiting for Anna's response, if any, and—resisting the compulsion to have a peek at the photograph—she goes instead to the bathroom, where she wets a washcloth and presses it to her face. It seems, thinks Trudy, sinking onto the toilet lid, as though her entire adult life has been a hallucination, a long hallway through which she has walked only to find that it is circular, leading her back to a door that when unbolted reveals Anna standing there. But this won't last, Trudy reminds herself, cold water trickling from her compress toward her ears. Anna's stay here is temporary. Sooner or later, one of the nursing homes to whose waiting list Trudy has added Anna's name is bound to have a room for her. Trudy peels the cloth from her forehead and tosses it toward the sink.

  The door opens.

  Oh, I am sorry, says Anna, backing away as rapidly as though she has come upon Trudy with her pants bunched around her ankles.

  That's all right, Trudy replies.

  Without getting up, she reaches past her mother's embarrassed face to shut the door. Another home repair Trudy will have to make. She will have to put a lock on it.

  29

  THAT EVENING, WANTING TO BE ESPECIALLY HOSPITABLE ON Anna's first night in the house, Trudy emerges from her study early to cook dinner. It is rather more extravagant than her usual solitary supper: an omelet with herbs and cheese, a clear soup, a salad, a slender baguette that Trudy cuts into pretty coins to camouflage the fact that it is two days old. And instead of hastily consuming this standing at the kitchen counter or at her desk—all the better to get back to work—Trudy sets the table in the dining room and, once Anna has been summoned and seated, brings everything in on a tray. She knows her mother will notice and appreciate this latter touch; Anna has always been adamant about adhering to the niceties of dining even in the farmhouse, cloth napkins and place mats and bread in a basket and dainty dishes of pickles placed just so. And indeed, although Anna doesn't offer praise—this etiquette being standard, after all; hasn't she raised Trudy in this tradition?—her silvery eyes gleam at the sight of the food and she tucks into her portion with relish.

  The two women eat in silence, Anna speaking only to murmur approval of the meal. Trudy observes her covertly. At least Anna seems to have regained her appetite, which is a relief. Maybe she was never really ailing at all; given the fare at the New Heidelburg Good Samaritan center, Trudy thinks, she might choose to be fed through an IV herself. But what is she going to do with Anna? The atmosphere over the table is airless in a way that is all too familiar, as though the candles Trudy has lit are sucking the oxygen from the room. Anna mops her plate with a slice of bread and reaches for another, and Trudy, watching her, reflects that even the most ordinary acts performed by the beautiful seem blessed with grace, simply because they look so good doing them. She also thinks of Frau Kluge and Rose-Grete and the others she has interviewed, and of the photograph in its gold case upstairs and all the subsequent evenings she will have to endure in which there is nothing to say, or rather so much to say that neither she nor Anna will ever say it, and her omelet clogs, congealed and nasty, in her throat.

  When Anna is done she stands and begins to clear the table with the efficiency of long habit.

  No, Mama, let me, says Trudy. You don't have to do that.

  I do not mind, says Anna. Then she looks down. Oh, forgive me, Trudy. You are not yet finished.

  Yes I am, Trudy says, getting up too. She holds out her hands for the silverware Anna has collected.

  Anna clutches it to her waist.

  But you have barely touched your food, she says. Are you not well?

  I am fine, Trudy says, then shakes her head; Anna's formal sentence structure is contagious.

  I'm fine, she repeats. Just not all that hungry.

  Anna deposits the cutlery onto the tray with a clatter and sweeps Trudy's full plate next to it.

  Still, you must eat, she says. It is not good for you to eat so little. This is why you are so thin, Trudy. And so pale.

  She lifts the tray with some effort and carries it off to the kitchen. Trudy, looking after her, starts to call, Leave the dishes, Mama! Then she reconsiders. If Anna wants to wash them, let her. It will make her feel useful to have something to do. And with Anna thus engaged, she, Trudy, is free to return to her study.

  Which she does, promptly, shutting the door behind her. She pulls her chair up to the desk with a resolute air, and then she realizes she has little to do. It is true that the new semester begins tomorrow, but since it is the first day, all Trudy will do is greet her students and distribute the syllabus. And this she has already prepared this afternoon. Trudy glances at the tape of Rose-Grete's interview, lying a few inches away on the blotter. She could transcribe it. She gets up and slots it into her VCR and plugs the headset in. Then she sits at her computer with the earphones slung around her neck like a stethoscope, listening not to Rose-Grete's faint voice but to the water running in the kitchen sink, the grind of the garbage disposal. Trudy shuts her eyes and tries to deduce from Anna's footsteps and the opening and closing of cupboard doors whether she is putting everything away in the right places.

  Then Trudy's chin touches her breastbone and bounces back with a jerk. She has dozed off in her chair. She consults her watch and untangles herself from the headphones. It is ten o'clock; she can go to bed; this first difficult night with Anna in the house is over. And maybe, Trudy thinks hopefully, maybe things will get easier from here, as they get more used to each other.

  Trudy opens the door and pokes her head out. The house is quiet. She investigates the kitchen. It is dark save for the fluorescent light bar humming over the stove; the countertops are shining; the dish towel is folded in thirds on the sink. Trudy smiles a little wryly at this and stumbles upstairs, yawning and grateful. She will not even bother to brush her teeth; she will go directly to bed and burrow into the comfort of sheets and blankets that smell of her own hair. And sleep.

  But once she is there, sleep deserts her.

  No, Trudy groans. No, no—

  She turns on her left side. Then her right. Rolls onto her stomach and buries her face in the pillow, though she knows this will result in a stiff neck. No matter, for it is to no avail: Trudy eventually finds herself in her usual insomniac position, lying flat with her hands buckled across her stomach like a seat belt, staring a
t the ceiling. She tries not to look at the digital clock on the bedside table, but she can't help it: 12:13, 1:46, 2:03, 3:01. Why is it that losing a night's sleep should induce such panic, as if Trudy is squandering precious currency she will never get back?

  Finally Trudy throws off the covers and pads down to the kitchen, where she takes the bottle of pills from the spice rack—alphabetized under S for sleep, between sage and thyme. She pours herself a large tumbler of brandy and washes down a caplet, grimacing at the burning, chalky residue in her windpipe. She has not wanted to do this, to dare this combination with a class tomorrow—particularly the first day. Despite all the years she has taught, Trudy still suffers stage fright at the thought of walking into that basement room with all those wary and curious eyes fixed on her. Good morning, folks, and welcome to our lovely Bunker. Standing by the window over the kitchen sink, staring at houses and garages black against a sky the pink of undercooked meat, Trudy forces herself to drink the rest of the liquor.

  When the glass is empty, Trudy rinses it and sets it in the drainer, then steals back upstairs. As she passes the guest bedroom she pauses. There is no sound from within, no stripe of light under the door. Of course not; why should there be? But then Trudy hears it again, the noise that has arrested her: a stealthy creak, and then another, as if somebody sitting in a cane-bottomed rocking chair is moving it very slowly so as not to wake others in the household.

  Trudy raises an eyebrow. Then she tiptoes down the hall to her room. So Anna, too, has her troubles sleeping. Trudy isn't really surprised—like mother, like daughter. And since the daughter can't help even herself, apparently, best to leave the mother alone.

  Trudy climbs into her own bed and pulls the duvet up over her face. In the tented dark she measures her heartbeat, hushed and hammering. There is something familiar about this, too: a flash of memory, of lying very still beneath some rough fabric—burlap? flour sacking?—of the humidity of her own trapped breath; of her mother saying as if from a distance, bright and false, That's right, little rabbit, go to sleep, I will fetch you when he is gone. Then the recollection is also gone, swimming away like a minnow with an insolent flick of its tail.

  Trudy stares at the cotton she knows is an inch from her face, although she can't see it. In the other room, the chair creaks back and forth.

  Creak. Silence. Creak.

  I will never get to sleep, Trudy thinks.

  She falls into unconsciousness as suddenly as if she has been dealt a blow to the head.

  She is playing in the rear dooryard, behind thehouse that houses the bakery. She has been banished there. Her mother has told her to go outside and amuse herself until called. Why don't you clean your Trog, little rabbit? Anna suggests, urging a glass of milk on Trudy before guiding her to the door. Trudy dutifully fetches the broom from behind it and walks to the stand of lilac bushes that conceals her Trog, her rabbit hutch, a child-sized play space in which she serves tea and Brötchen to imaginary companions. When she is sure her mother isn't watching, she pours the milk into the grass; she doesn't like the taste of it, fatty and cloying. Then she sets about sweeping the dirt floor of the Trog, which she and Anna have industriously tamped down. This she usually enjoys. But today, though it is spring, the weather is raw and damp; the Trogis muddy so that soil clings to the broom, and really it is not much fun being outside.

  After a quarter hour spent drawing bristles through the mud, trying to create orderly swirls, Trudy parts the bushes and abandons her Trog. She stands in front of it, watching the house. It is a gray house made of gray plaster, its steeply canted roof jutting into a gray sky. A light rain starts to fall, mist condensing in droplets. Trudy chews a finger and wiggles her bottom back and forth; surely her mother doesn't intend for her to remain out in this wet! Dragging the broom behind her, Trudy marches toward the door.

  But on the stoop she hesitates. An upstairs window is cracked open, the one in Tante Mathilde's bedroom; Anna keeps it this way for air, Trudy knows. From behind the blackout curtain comes her mother's voice, forming not words but sounds: nnnnff, nff, uff, nnnff!, like the whimpers of a dog asleep and dreaming of an owner who kicks it.

  Mama? Trudy calls.

  The noises stop. Trudy slings the broom aside and, without removing her shoes as Anna has always admonished her to, she runs into the kitchen.

  There she finds not her mother but Saint Nikolaus. He is wearing trousers and a white shirt, Anna's ruffled apron knotted about his waist. When Trudy bursts in, he is bent over the oven, taking something from it.

  Why, hello, he says, turning to her with a sheet cake pan in his hand. He sets it on the wooden worktable and perches on a stool.

  I've just finished baking, he says. Would you like a slice of delicious cake?

  Trudy stares.

  Come now, says Saint Nikolaus; don't be shy. Clapping, he starts to sing:

  "Backe, backe Kuchen!"

  der Bäcker hat gerufen.

  "Wer will guten Kuchen backen

  Der muss haben sieben Sachen:

  Butter und Salz,

  Zucker und Schmalz,

  Milch und Mehl,

  und Eier—"

  He breaks off, smiling.

  It's got all those good things, he says, butter and milk and eggs. Won't you try even a little piece? Trudy shakes her head.

  Saint Nikolaus makes a tsch tsch tsch noise with his tongue and pulls the other stool over next to him. He pats it.

  I'm not accustomed to having my invitations rejected, he says. You've hurt my feelings.

  He splays a hand over his heart and inclines his head toward Trudy with an expression of exaggerated sorrow. His eyes are like quartz with two black flaws dead center, the pinprick pupils, floating black specks.

  Trudy tries to back away in the direction of the door, but her legs will not obey her. They carry her to Saint Nikolaus.

  That's better, he says. That's much better.

  From the pocket of Anna's apron he removes a straight razor and shears away a square of cake. It is golden and spongy, and Trudy salivates helplessly over the unfamiliar sugary fragrance. Saint Nikolaus extends the slice in his bare hand.

  Take it, he says.

  Trudy reaches for it. As she does, she sees a single blue eyeball embedded in the sponge. Saint Nikolaus has put her mother in the oven and baked her. Trudy wants to scream; the skin around her mouth hurts from being stretched so wide, but she can't make a sound.

  Poor appetite? Saint Nikolaus asks. A shame.

  He shrugs, then folds the cake in half and pops it into his mouth.

  Delicious! he says, and claps his hands to dust off her mother's crumbs.

  Anna and the Obersturmführer, Berchtesgaden, 1943

  30

  ANNA HAS NEVER GIVEN MUCH THOUGHT TO THE Obersturmführer's mode of transport to and from the camp. In her mind, he simply appears in the bakery, not there one moment and demanding all attention the next. She would not be that surprised if told that he drops out of the clouds, ejected from the doors of some dark carriage, or that he materializes from the ground itself, drawn up from the bowels beneath it like an emissary from the Brothers Grimm.

  In actuality, his chariot is a Mercedes, a sleek black staff car that seems to Anna to be as long as the bakery's front room. Its ornaments gleam even in the muted light of this overcast April morning; two Nazi flags flutter on the hood. As the Obersturmführer hands Anna into the cave of the backseat, she allows herself the small pleasure of inhaling the smell of well-tended leather, boot polish, hair pomade, smoke. She thinks for a moment of Gerhard.

  Then the Obersturmführer lowers himself in beside her with a grunt, the seat squeaking under his weight. The young driver closes Anna's door and races around to attend to the Obersturmführer. Anna can't see the chauffeur's hair beneath the peaked uniform cap, but his face has the naked, lashless look of the redhead. Anna wonders whether he was driving the first afternoon the Obersturmführer came for her. And has he been idling within this steel coco
on throughout subsequent evenings, smoking and peering at the bakery windows, picturing his master's activities within? He looks through the windshield, expressionless, but Anna thinks she has glimpsed a gleam of prurient interest. She stares with hatred at the vulnerable hollow between the tendons of his neck, just below the skull.

  The driver starts the engine and maneuvers the staff car around the holes in the road. Anna turns to watch the bakery's thick gray walls and darkened storefront recede from view. For a moment she is terrified. Then they are passing the villas on the outskirts of the city, and Anna cranes at her neighbors' houses. Like the bakery, they are in glum disrepair. The Weisbadens' home looks as though it hasn't been inhabited for months; starlings swoop in and out of a nest beneath the eaves. Anna is seized by the sudden certainty that the townsfolk have all been evacuated, that she and the Obersturmführer and the driver are the only people left in Germany. She begins to feel carsick.

  The Obersturmführer pays little attention to her. He is in something of a temper. His briefcase acting as a surrogate desk on his knees, he shuffles through documents, tossing some aside and scratching his signature on others so viciously that the nib of his pen tears the paper. He purses his lips, emittingpfffffs of irritation. He glares through the side window, then pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He mutters phrases under his breath. He unbuttons his uniform tunic and shrugs it off. Then he swears.

  Ach, look at this, he says.

  Anna isn't certain whether he is addressing her or the driver, but she looks anyway. One of the Obersturmführer's shirt cuffs bears a brown scorchmark.

  It's a disgrace, the Obersturmführer says. After Koch assured me she possessed impeccable credentials. What kind of laundress can't even handle an iron? What do you think, Karl?

  I don't know, sir, the driver says. His voice is surprisingly froggy.

  I think she falsified her papers, that's what, says the Obersturmführer. I think she was a Jew. A Jewish laundress who can't iron a shirt—the joke's on me, eh, Karl?