by Betsy Carter
Liesl wondered if Flora lived here, but she was too shy to ask. “So big,” she said, straining to see out the window. “Do people ever get lost in them?”
Flora smiled and pointed to the uniformed doormen who stood outside each of these canopied buildings. “No, that’s what these gentlemen are for.”
At Seventy-Second Street they took a left and then a right onto Fifth Avenue. “Now I’ll show you where the millionaires live.” Here were the mansions with elegant courtyards and limestone facades that looked like the French chateaus Liesl had visited as a girl. Flora rattled off names: Astor. Vanderbilt. Whitney. Warburg. They meant nothing to Liesl, but she liked the way they sounded: solid and gilded, as she imagined everything in America to be. “And this,” said Flora, pointing to one of the grand homes with its heavily curtained windows, “this is the Woolworth mansion. Which brings me to the subject of work. I have secured a job for you at the five-and-ten-cent store on Fourteenth Street. You’ll be a clerk, but a job is a job.”
A job? Liesl had never had to work before. She thought about the clerks at the bank: tidy older women with soft-heeled shoes and tightly rolled buns. She couldn’t imagine being one of them.
At Ninety-Seventh Street, they turned left again and drove across Central Park toward the Hudson River, where they headed north on Riverside Drive. The road twisted and the air smelled fresh and earthy.
“How do you like it so far?” asked Flora.
“I like it very much. Very much,” said Liesl, thinking this was how her America would be.
The car followed the Hudson uptown until they passed the George Washington Bridge and took a right turn at a sign that said FORT TRYON PARK. They rode through streets filled with stubby apartment buildings and children playing, nothing like the limestone palaces and sparkling sidewalks they’d seen on Park Avenue. Liesl assumed the nicer homes were up ahead, like the half-timbered ones in which she had grown up. But there was one apartment building after another, until the car came to a stop in front of one made of red brick, and Flora announced, “Here we are, Three Fifty Pinehurst Avenue. Your friends’ apartment.”
The driver unloaded Liesl’s bags from the trunk and placed them on the curb. Flora wrote the address of the five-and-ten-cent store and the name of the woman who would be Liesl’s supervisor, Audrey Holmes, on a thick notecard that had FE embossed in gold letters. “Miss Holmes does not expect you until next week. Call me if you need anything.” She jotted her phone number down on the card. “And please, tell your parents to hurry. This is no time to dillydally.” Flora waited in the car until she was sure Liesl was at the door.
Liesl saw Carola standing in the building’s cement courtyard. She was hugging a sweater around her shoulders. In the late-afternoon light, the tulips in the planters on either side of the wrought-iron doors looked faded. Carola’s face too looked drawn in this light, but it brightened as she embraced her friend. “Thank God you’re here.” It was the first time since she’d left home that Liesl had touched or smelled a familiar person, and the first time in more than a year that she’d seen Carola.
“Rosewater,” said Liesl, burying her head in Carola’s neck.
“You remember,” said Carola. “You look as beautiful as ever.”
The two had been close friends since they had met at a summer youth group in Frankfurt. Liesl had been fifteen at the time; Carola was eight years older and one of the leaders, but the two paired up, as pretty girls often do. Aside from their beauty, they seemed to have little in common. Liesl was an athlete who won swim competitions and beat the boys in tennis; Carola never went out in the sun. Liesl loved parties; Carola was happiest playing clarinet alone in her room. Carola liked quiet, bookish boys and married one; Liesl went for handsome types who dazzled on the tennis courts and brought her ivory edelweiss from St. Moritz. She never settled on any one of them, but according to the gossip slept with all of them. Despite their differences, Carola and Liesl were easy with each other, and shared confidences and private jokes.
From the letters Carola had written about the heather garden in Fort Tryon Park and all the wonderful shops and bakeries in their neighborhood, Liesl and her parents had been certain that the Cohens were thriving in America. In reality, their small apartment was overrun with whatever furniture they’d been allowed to bring over. A mahogany china cabinet filled with porcelain figures and some of Carola’s mother’s cherished Spode china, their bed with its massive headboard, her dressing set, a ponderous foldout sofa, and a muted Persian carpet swallowed the floors. Liesl felt everything in her body contract, as if she were trying to fit herself into this space. Flora Einson had made her feel small, Carola’s pinched face even smaller. And now, in this mishmash of the old furniture and bare walls, it was conceivable that Liesl might disappear entirely. “You’ve done such a lovely job of making this feel like home,” she said.
Carola put her hand on her friend’s shoulder and pretended to shove her. “Dear Liesl, we have known each other too long to pretend. You do not have to use your good manners with me. Max and I do not intend to stay here forever, but it is a start. This is nothing like heim.” The way Carola said the word “home,” heim, with its embracing vowels and familiar accent, brought tears to Liesl’s eyes. “It’s all so strange, this,” she said. “America. It’s not how I thought it would be.”
“I know,” said Carola, her arm around Liesl. “We all thought it would be different.”
During her first four weeks in America, Liesl slept on the sofa. Though she fell into bed exhausted by the end of the day, rest did not come easily. The mattress was worn and each spring pressed against her. Outside, cars honked, neighbors talked. Flora Einson’s icy voice when she said, “This is no time to dillydally,” filled her head.
Liesl started wearing her pearls to bed at night. Her parents had given her the double strand when she turned sixteen. They were the finest, they said, from the South Seas. “You’re a young lady now,” they’d told her. “Wear them like a lady.” What they meant, of course, was: “This is jewelry worthy of Leopold Kessler’s daughter; don’t embarrass us.” The pearls shimmered like wet sand and sounded like plops of water when they bounced off one another. Many men had run their fingers over them, commenting on their beauty while managing to skim the arc of Liesl’s neck. Lying in the darkness, she imagined the men, and how it used to feel to be Leopold Kessler’s daughter.
Home. Heim.
At home she’d been lulled to sleep by the evening breeze against her window or her parents’ voices in a nearby room. Here, it comforted her to close her eyes and take inventory of her old house: her mother’s satin robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, the bronze lamp in the shape of an upside down bell in the library, the starchy feel of clean linen sheets against her skin, the two loose floorboards in the parlor. And if this didn’t quiet her, she turned to food, recalling the black bread with butter, the teewurst and cervelat, the flourless chocolate cake with walnuts her mother made for special occasions. Night after night, she’d call up these memories, and like a child’s favorite bedtime stories, only they could soothe her.
At home, she had never arisen much before eight. Here she had to get up at six thirty and wait her turn to use the bathroom. Then the subway to Fourteenth Street. A new kind of hell. So many people, too close and pushing. Squeals and rumbles that echoed in her belly. Curves taken at such a speed she thought she might fall over. Holding on to straps with strange hands touching. At work, no one even tried to pronounce her first name. They called her Lee, though she overheard her boss, Audrey Holmes, call her “the Kraut” when she thought she was out of earshot. Audrey ordered her to do things like clean up a mess left in the ladies’ room. If one of the customers cupped his hand around her behind or whispered something in her ear that she was grateful not to understand, she didn’t complain.
After all, a job was a job.
14.
Trips to greet old friends at the Hoboken pier had become commonplace. Egon persuade
d Meyer to keep him company when he went to pick up Kaethe and Georg Schnabel. It was late May, warm enough to wear the new camp shirts and plastic sunglasses that Liesl Kessler had brought them from her five-and-ten-cent store. “For my American men,” she’d said when she gave them these gifts.
As always, the wait at the pier was long and the crowds dense, but eventually Egon spotted the Schnabels in line under the S’s. “There they are,” he said, pointing. Georg had his trouser legs tucked into his boots and was leaning on a walking stick. Kaethe wore a brown felt hat and a long brown skirt with a matching vest.
“That’s them?” asked Meyer incredulously.
“Yes, I told you they were older.”
“You did, but you didn’t tell me they were characters out of Heidi. Mein Gott, they look ready to climb the Tyrolean Alps.”
“Please, Meyer, be nice. Coming here was a hard decision for them. They swore they’d never leave.”
“So why did they?”
Egon took off his sunglasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. “Ach, why did I invite you?”
“Because you’re trying to be a good boy and do the right thing for your landsmen even though you find these people silly and you’d rather be spending the day walking in the park with your friend Meyer. So instead, you brought him along to cheer you up and say things about these batty people you’re too polite to say yourself. Any other questions?”
“Only one,” he answered. “How does it feel to always be right?”
Meyer smiled. “It feels like the moment when you put your hands between a lady’s legs and you can tell she’s ready and you’re almost home. That’s how good it feels.”
Egon shook his head: “And when, may I ask, was the last time you were that close to a lady?”
“Ha! Do you think I tell you all my secrets?”
“Seriously. When you don’t work, you are with me. I have seen your apartment. It does not exactly look like a love nest.”
“If you really must know, I plan to invite the luscious Liesl Kessler to dine with me next weekend in what you so touchingly call my love nest. She’s a looker. I think we’d make a perfect couple.” He stuck his chin out and lowered his eyes.
“Do not,” said Egon.
“Do not what?”
“Do not start with her.”
“Why not? Have you already lured her to Noah’s Ark on Bennett Avenue?”
“It is not that. For one thing, she is Carola’s best friend, and I do not think any of us can go through one of your Schneewittchen obsessions again. For another—well, she is too young and too…”
“Too what?” Meyer interrupted. “Too rich? Too pretty? Too well bred for your hick farm friend? Well, not anymore. America, the great equalizer, has seen to that. She’s one of us now: willing to take any kind of shit work, embarrassed that her English isn’t good enough, nearly broke. I’ll bet you anything she’ll be grateful for a free meal—even at my disgusting love nest. And what about you, Mr. Cheese Man? Surely there’s some beautiful woman who thinks she’s the one. Tell me, who is it?”
“You know, sometimes I wonder why I have stayed friends with you all these years. You are so…” Out of the corner of his eye, Egon saw the Schnabels wave at him. “Oopa, here they come. We can continue this brilliant conversation later. And please, try to act civilized.”
That weekend, the Schnabels were the guests of honor at one of the Saturday afternoon kaffeeklatsche. This week, it was at the Cohens’. Carola set the table with the linens and serving pieces she and Max had managed to bring out with them. There was apfelkuchen and coffee with heavy cream in a silver pitcher, and cubes of sugar in a matching bowl. Talk inevitably turned to the possibility of war and President Roosevelt. “He is probably the greatest president America has ever had, and I believe he’s the only one who can defeat Hitler,” said Egon.
Meyer tucked his hands under his armpits. “Roosevelt is a bloated snob, an anti-Semite, like the rest of them. Another one of those Harvard boys who think they own the world.”
“I disagree,” said Egon. “For the Jews, he is our only hope. Look what he has done for other groups. His work programs—”
“For crying out loud,” Meyer interrupted. “Roosevelt could give a shit about the Jews. Do I have to remind you about the quota system? That even after Kristallnacht, he continued trade relations with the Third Reich? If it were up to him, we’d be back in Frankfurt quaking in our boots. Roosevelt or no Roosevelt, they can turn on us here as easily as they did there.”
It always came back to the same fear: that it could happen here. Carola, whose parents were still in Kaiserslautern, placed her hands over her ears. “Please, can we take a short vacation from all of this?”
“Amen,” chimed in Max.
Meyer shrugged. “I surrender.”
They talked about Joe Louis’s latest fight, the Clark Gable–Carole Lombard marriage, their favorite bakeries in Frankfurt—anything but what they did during the week. The Cohens had a piano, which Egon loved to play. Dutifully, he banged out the familiar songs with all the oom-pa-pa he could muster, but on this Saturday, Liesl brought the sheet music to the Cole Porter song “You’re the Top.” She sat next to Egon on the piano bench and beamed as he said, “This next song I play to welcome our new friends Kaethe and Georg.” Carola and Liesl tried to sing along, but they stumbled over the lyrics: You’re a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare sonnet / You’re Mickey Mouse. Max and Meyer tapped their feet. Only the Schnabels, he in a three-piece suit and she in a long skirt and lace-up shoes, sat impassively. Afterward, there was schnapps and more talk until it was late enough for them all to go home with the feeling of having been out on the town.
Egon invited Kaethe and Georg to come with them on the following Sunday. It was another of their rituals: They would meet at Nash’s and then go window-shopping up and down Dyckman Street. The Schnabels, he figured, would find this comfortingly familiar, like their weekly spaziergänge back home.
Georg showed up with his walking stick, Kaethe in her felt hat. “You two are dressed for an expedition,” said Meyer. “We’re only going so far as éclairs and apfelkuchen.”
“This is nothing to laugh at,” said Kaethe. “We dress as we dress at home.”
“This is home,” said Meyer. “You’re in New York City, not Frankfurt.”
“For now,” said Georg. “When things get better, we go back. Until then, we dress as we please.” The others stared at Kaethe and Georg as if they’d just declared that Hitler was their grandson.
“Fine, but until then, we eat cake,” said Meyer, digging into his napoleon.
After Nash’s, they strolled down Dyckman Street, Max, Meyer, and Egon with their hands clasped behind their backs, Carola and Liesl with arms laced. They nodded at familiar faces and exchanged gossip with old acquaintances, only these days their gossip was of urgent matters: who was looking for work, who was missing back home, would Roosevelt bring America into the war. On this afternoon, they ran into Frieda Bauer, an old friend of Liesl’s family, who asked about her parents.
“They still haven’t gotten their papers in order,” she said. “I keep writing for them to hurry, but they don’t.”
Frieda told them of two other mutual friends who had arrived from Frankfurt this week and needed a place to stay. Did they know anyone who could take them in?
This was always an uncomfortable situation, as no one had space. Kaethe and Georg were staying with Egon until they could find an apartment. Liesl was still with the Cohens. Meyer, who lived in the smallest place of all, finally said, “For God’s sake, send them to me. I must have extra room on my kitchen floor.”
With time and money so scarce, nights out were a rare and big event. On an evening in June, they paid twenty-five cents each to go to Lewisohn Stadium and hear Oscar Levant play piano. Liesl sat beside Egon in the bleacher seats. The bright lights bathed her in a way that cast a bronze glow on her skin, making her look clean and classic. Only when the audience began
clapping did Egon turn away from her.
Levant took his seat at the piano without a smile. He flexed his hands and lowered his eyes, then attacked the keyboard like a man getting even. He started with Chopin’s “Étude in C-Sharp Minor.” When he finished, he sat with his fingers poised over the keys. There was the sound of an ambulance approaching. People looked around. As the wailing became a fixed melody, they realized it was the sound of a clarinet, the startling prelude to “Rhapsody in Blue.” The pace became urgent and the notes more rhythmic. Car horns, subways, people yelling in the streets—everything that frightened and amazed Egon about the city—exploded from this piece. He looked at the others, expecting to see his excitement reflected back. Carola bobbed her head along with the clarinet; Meyer tapped his index finger in time to the music. Georg slept and Kaethe sat upright, staring straight ahead. Only Liesl squeezed his arm in a way that made him think she felt what he did.
He remembered when Liesl had come to see him in Frankfurt, a pretty young girl with bright red lipstick and watering eyes. When she’d said her eyes were crying for all that was happening in Germany and that “all of us Jews” needed to get out as soon as possible, he’d said something foolish, like “It’s not that bad,” and tried to comfort her in a fatherly sort of way. Now he was feeling anything but paternal. His heart raced, and his foot swung back and forth as he tried to keep pace, but Levant’s fingers were gymnasts, and Egon couldn’t begin to follow, so he gave himself over to the melody and let himself be taken up by the ruckus and sweetness of it. When he thought back on it, he realized that this was the moment when New York City finally entered him.
As they headed downstairs into the subway, Liesl stayed by his side. Her face still glowed, even in the dim light of the station. The train was crowded and the seven of them huddled together around a single pole. Liesl let her body slide against Egon’s. She smelled fresh, and he could feel her eagerness through the thin rayon dress she wore. “Tonight, I come home with you,” she whispered to him in German. She spoke with the confidence of a woman who had never known rejection. He imagined what it would be like to have her in his bed. It had been a long time since he’d had anyone in his bed. She was beautiful, young, slender, and familiar. She had known who he’d been when he was Dr. Schneider. He thought about Catrina. A fantasy floating on impossibility. An American who knew him as the Cheese Man. So far away. The music still filled him with elation, and so did the thought of making love to Liesl Kessler.