Chapter Forty-Six
I WALKED DOWN the hall to my study and closed the door. Sitting at my desk, I pulled open the drawer and withdrew the red leather journal that belonged to Anna and the black leather folder containing a sheaf of papers comprising my edited version of her life. Carefully I placed them side by side on the desktop and ran my fingers over the covers.
Looking back down at the contents of the drawer, I saw another leather folder. In blue. The white edges of paper stuck out like an obstinate tongue. I pulled the folder out and laid it on top of the work I’d completed of Anna’s journal. I hesitated before opening the cover. I saw my handwriting. Notes, bits of dialogue and description, it was the story I’d been working on when Anna had her nervous breakdown and had been asked to leave the university.
Tucked into the other sleeve of the folder was another slim leather bound book. My journal. I picked it up and flipped through the pages reading bits here and there, of happier times and then the darkness that began with Max’s death and then the coming of war. Finally I came to the blank pages and stared at the creamy open space wondering if I dared to bare my soul.
But who was I, if not a writer? A small voice inside me urged me forward and I reached for the heavy silver capped fountain pen that had always been my favorite. Then I began writing, filling in the events of the past few days, my questions about Ilona, about Deszo, my fears for Mila. Eventually thoughts took the form of a letter, a conversation with God, albeit one-sided, perhaps a prayer was a better description for the words that poured out my heart to Him.
How can I keep Mila safe while my sister loses her grasp on reality? Will I have to choose between them? Where are You? And what of all the others like us? How can you stand by and watch the slaughter of your people, of so many innocents?
I wrote as rapidly as my hand would travel across the page, without thought of grammar or spelling or even the splotches of ink that smudged the page as my left hand moved too quickly across the freshly written words.
When I finished I remained frustrated, but somehow I felt better. Although I was no closer to hearing an answer to my prayers for Mila’s safety, I felt as if revealing my heart to God had somehow made my pleas more real. And perhaps that would help them to reach God’s ears more quickly.
I sighed feeling a bit more hopeful as I pulled the pages of a children’s story out of the folder, and read through them quickly. How long ago and how out of place these gentle tales now seemed. How different those children stories would sound in these days of endless fear. I picked up a pen that sat on the edge of my desk and a bright white blank sheet.
Long ago in the deep of the peaceful ocean swam a baby whale and its mother. It was summer and they swam in the deep cold waters of the Arctic.
I wouldn’t allow myself to consider writing another children’s story. I was simply dictating my thoughts, just as I’d edited Anna’s work over the past year. A shepherd of ideas, lining them up, culling the strays. I leaned over the pages as the words flowed out of my pen as I considered a tale that conveyed the world we faced today.
Suddenly Momma saw a school of sharks on the horizon. The sharks saw Herkimer and swam toward him.
I opened the right-hand drawer of the desk, pulled out two clean sheets of paper, and placed them to the side of the notes.
His Momma cried, “Quick Herkimer, swim for the cave!”
It was too late. The sharks swarmed around them and the deadly chase began. The sharks nipped at Herkimer in their attempt to separate him from his mother.
Chapter Forty-Seven
I TAPPED THE cap of the fountain pen against my lips as I pulled another crisp white sheet of writing paper from the folder. Another thought grabbed me as I remembered the promise I’d made to myself on the night before Mila’s abandonment, that I would write a different outcome to her story, one more certain than the one she currently faced.
Once upon a time, in a future far away, seventy years after the end of the War,
I wouldn’t allow myself to feel the exhilaration of creating a hopeful future for Mila. Yet, I felt urgency with this story, an assured purpose, to create an alternate reality. What better way than to imagine Mila as an old woman, thereby guaranteeing a long and happy life for my dear niece. I would be the creator of Mila’s future, planning the circumstances of her survival.
The old woman dropped the unopened package onto the edge of the sofa. Pausing for a moment, she looked around the room, at the opulent mahogany armoire and card table, the tall windows whose heavy brocade curtains always stood open so that she could enjoy what little light came into the room. She was glad that she would soon leave the weight of it behind forever.
At the front door, she put on her coat and wound a red cashmere scarf around her neck. She closed the door behind her, locked it, and then waited patiently for the elevator as she tugged on her black leather gloves.
But what to call her? If Anna came across this manuscript, or anyone else for that matter, they must not know what I am doing. Once again I tapped the smooth cap of the fountain pen against my lips as my eyes wandered to the odd assortment of objects on the bookshelves next to my desk. There were mementoes of my life: pictures of Max, some framed in dusty wooden frames, others unframed and propped against the spines of books, older, faded pictures of my parents, an icon of Mary holding the Baby Jesus, a small bouquet of dried red roses, and then an outdated desk calendar in a silver frame. I smiled and began to write again.
“Good evening, Mrs. Tuesday,”
I sat this way for two hours. When I woke from my reverie, it occurred to me that this was as it should be, as it had been in the past. It was the first normal morning that I’d had in months, or years. How strange the war had made our lives, how artificial, throwing off comforting routines, stealing the pleasure of completing simple tasks. Perhaps Anna had been right last night. She refused to let the war intrude upon her need to create. In fact, she’d used it as fuel, impetus for a new direction in her work. As she’d done with everything in her life, she’d turned even the most abnormal of situations inward toward her, where she was the center of the universe. I envied that.
Through my closed door I heard the scrape of chairs in the kitchen, the murmur of voices as someone put the pot back on the stove for another cup of coffee. Their voices were friendly, though indistinct. I wondered at Anna’s change. I looked out the window and saw that it was sunny. At least it would be for a few hours. I turned back to my work. I wanted to remain in this cocoon of normalcy. I looked at the clock on the mantle. I would resist the urge to go, bathe, and dress. I would stay here a little longer and work.
My words drew me downward; I began humming an old familiar tune. It was a waltz, one I would often hear Max whistling as I heard the front door close, the stomping his boots, a chuckle and then the tune coming down the hall. He would knock softly on the door of my study, enter and stand behind my chair, placing his warm hands on my shoulders as he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
“How’s the book coming?” he’d say. I would lean back, smile, and close my eyes as he kissed me again on the lips. He’d pat me on the shoulders again and then leave me to my work as he went down the hall to the kitchen to confer with Marie about dinner. This was my reminder to turn on the lamp on my desk to push back the encroaching darkness.
I would hear Max turning on the radio to listen to the news or to a station that played classical music. That was a signal that Max had settled down to read the paper and I had at least another hour to work before dinner.
Chapter Forty-Eight
I RECALLED AN evening when I’d finished my writing for the day, gone into the living room, sat on the arm of Max’s chair, and leaned into him as he put his arm around me and we sat in silence listening to the music. Max told me that evening that he’d seen Deszo earlier, at a café. I knew the place; it was across the street from the stationer’s where I bought my pencils and pens.
They’d ordered sherry. Max took out a ci
gar, “I heard you received a censure from the university.”
Deszo chuckled. “They dislike my corresponding with a professor from Hamburg.”
“Our relations with the Germans are complicated.”
“We were exchanging research notes, Max.”
“Political alliances are changing rapidly, you could lose your job.”
Deszo took out a cigarette and lighted it, stared at the tip. “The smoke from a pile of leaves hides the fire beneath. The Germans will restore our borders, return our land, and strengthen our economy.”
“Our alliance with the Germans will lead us into a war that will ruin our country,” Max countered.
Deszo shrugged his shoulders and continued, “I’ve been invited to a symposium at their university. I will present a paper and participate in a panel discussion on the political and economic opportunities of an alliance between our countries.”
“I hope you refused the invitation,” Max said.
“On the contrary, my friend, I welcome the chance to share my ideas and even better, to make contacts.” Deszo blew out a long stream of smoke and then continued as he rolled the edge of his cigarette along the silver lip of the ashtray. “Their economic and military dominance cannot be ignored. I believe we are faced with the choice of joining them by invitation or by force, the latter would be much more unpleasant.”
“By your reasoning, we either join the thieves in their crime, or are robbed and murdered by them.”
“Perhaps it is better to get rich than to get robbed,” Deszo had replied, with no sign of irony.
On that day, the conversation had turned away from politics as it does between friends with differing opinions and to the safer territory of wives and home. I wondered then and wonder now if either man ever acknowledged the minefields that lay amidst this safe territory. After all, Deszo was having an affair with the identical twin of his best friend’s wife. Did either man ever notice the scent of smoke coming from that pile of leaves?
In the silence of my study, I remembered the days when it was just the two of us living in this apartment. Before Max died. Before the entrance of Ilona, Mila, and finally Anna. Before the war started and rather than finding blue jays feasting on breadcrumbs, I saw black crows.
Chapter Forty-Nine
THE FRONT DOOR slammed, followed by the stomping of boots and laughter. I swallowed the tune I was humming, my heart skipped in anticipation of Max, and then sank at the impossibility and then leapt again wondering who had entered the apartment.
“Mila?” I turned toward the closed door. I heard more laughter and then footsteps coming toward my study. I looked back at the clock. It was three.
“Mila?” The handle turned and the door opened.
Mila’s cheeks were flushed from the cold; she smiled warily, unwinding the blue wool scarf from around her neck. “Yes Nana?”
“You left the apartment.” The words staggered from my throat.
Her hands stopped, tightening around the tassels at the edge of the scarf. “We went for a walk.”
“Where?”
“Just to the park,” Mila didn’t move from her position at the threshold of the room. “Were you working on Anna’s journal?” she asked.
“Actually, I was working on a story of my own.” I opened the drawer, lay the two leather folders side by side, and closed it. I tried to control the frustration in my voice. “You know you’re not supposed to go out.”
“Natalie, no one even noticed us.” I turned and saw Anna standing behind Mila, her hands holding Mila’s shoulders.
“You had no right to make Mila disobey me.” I looked again at the clock, calculating the time it would take me to dress and reach Deszo. “How long have you been gone?”
“Two hours, maybe less,” Anna replied.
“Only to the park?” I cried. “All that time? I don’t believe you.”
Anna sniffed, “It was cold, we stopped to have a cup of hot chocolate.”
“Why don’t you just take her down to the ghetto now!” My hands tightened around the arms of my chair. Mila cringed and I gasped. “I’m sorry Mila. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just trying to protect you. Don’t you understand?”
Anna’s eyes narrowed and she steered Mila out of the room and closed the door behind her. I leapt from my chair and swung open the door following them down the hall to Mila’s room. “It’s for your own good. It’s not safe out there.”
“If anyone would have stopped us, which they didn’t, I would have told them that she was my daughter.”
Daughter? Last night, Anna regarded her as a nuisance. Was this Anna’s jealous reprisal for Deszo’s attention toward me? I looked from one to the other. They stood with their arms around each other’s waist. Their alliance was a danger I hadn’t anticipated.
Chapter Fifty
THE ATMOSPHERE HAD changed drastically since I’d last been here. I unbuttoned my coat and tugged the collar away from my neck; the café was like a steam bath. Waitresses, trays aloft, turned from side to side like ballet dancers as they snaked their way from the counter to the waiting patrons. I followed one of them into the throng. The tables overflowed with people huddled over small cups of ersatz-Turkish coffee, more chicory than coffee, their heads bobbing up and down as they carried on conversations and surreptitiously watched people at other tables do the same. A man suddenly pulled back from the table at which he was sitting and into my path. I stopped, grabbed my coat to my middle and turned sideways as he grunted an excuse and brushed by me.
I didn’t want to call attention to myself. There were too many uniforms. I couldn’t make out the faces through the tobacco smoke that hung in clouds over the tables, but it was clear that the Germans had come to occupy this place as easily as our country. I prayed Deszo had come alone. A rivulet of cold sweat slipped between my shoulder blades. There was another room beyond the heavy maroon curtains, shielded from view. I’d never seen them closed before. I could hear the laughter of men, and the guttural cadence of German coming from behind the curtain. I turned around surveying the main room.
There, finally. Deszo was leaning back in his chair surveying the room like a ringmaster, smoking. I wondered how long he’d been watching me. He signaled me with a wave of his hand and stood as I approached.
“Not our usual crowd is it?” Deszo took my coat and laid it over the chair between us. He caught the eye of the waitress and ordered another cup of coffee.
I sat down and slowly took off my gloves, studying my hands. “I don’t like being here.”
Deszo smirked and shrugged. “For the most part they’re harmless. At least in here.” The clank of his glass against the saucer brought my eyes to his. “Any more unexpected visitors?”
I shuddered remembering the look on the young soldier’s face as he stood just outside our door last night. I shook my head.
“How is Anna today?”
I looked at a bad reproduction of a Titian painting on the wall behind us, and then back at Deszo. “She took Mila out while I was writing.”
Deszo frowned. “Where did they go?”
“Anna claims they went for a walk in the park and then stopped for hot chocolate.” I leaned back and waited as the waitress put a cup of coffee in front of me. “But that’s not the point is it?”
“Strange.” A bemused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Anna’s never shown the slightest interest in Mila.”
“And she decided to teach her poetry this morning.”
“Who can understand Anna?” Deszo sighed and looked around the café. “Well at least, Mila doesn’t look…like her father.”
“But if she’s seen by one of our neighbors…there’s the incident with Mrs. Nyugati.”
“You think she’d turn in Mila.”
“Of course. To protect her shop from further persecution.”
“Self-preservation.” Deszo nodded and his blue eyes followed my hands. “We shouldn’t be surprised. So Mila should be moved.”
&nbs
p; As the woman at the next table began to flirt with the German officer sitting next to her, I leaned forward and whispered, “What will she think if I abandon her to strangers?”
“Lean back and relax Natalie.” Deszo smiled and lifted his cup to his lips. “Remember where you are, and we are discussing nothing more than the weather.”
I made an effort to relax my shoulders and return his smile. “She must stay with us.” I laughed lightly.
Deszo joined in the chuckle and added, “Not safely.”
Nodding toward the maroon curtains I sighed, “This silliness can’t go on much longer. Aren’t our friends expected soon?”
“The party could go on and on.” He tapped the edge of the saucer restlessly. “Regardless, they will continue to send our relatives on holiday. They’re single minded in their generosity.”
The woman at the next table squealed, “Stop it Gunter!”
I met the woman’s gaze and then quickly averted my eyes. “It’s not just them, our own are as responsible.”
I looked at her again. She was Hungarian. A young woman, attractively dressed, her hair carefully rolled under and lipstick freshly applied to an ample mouth. I wondered if her boyfriend or husband vainly fought at the front. What circumstances compelled her to offer herself in this way? Safety, shelter, food? Or was it as simple as loneliness.
Chapter Fifty-One
“THEY’VE BECOME EMBOLDENED by the presence of our new guests.”
“Where can Mila go?”
“There are homes. They’re overcrowded, filthy, with minimal food.”
“Impossible.”
The woman looked over at me and whispered something to her companion. The German officer looked at me, our eyes met. A surge of physical attraction made my cheeks flush and his look made it clear that he acknowledged my reaction. I smoothed my hair, his handsome features creased in a smile and I quickly looked away.
“Do you have any friends you could send her to? Someone you trust.”
Mrs. Tuesday's Departure: A Historical Novel of World War Two Page 9