We Were Strangers Once

by Betsy Carter

  “No, I’ll handle it.”

  “Who is he?” asked Kiefer.

  “A friend, sort of. I invited him. Then we had a fight and I uninvited him. I don’t think he should sail in here like everything’s okay.”

  Catrina wiped her hands on a dishrag, took off her apron, and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “You look nice,” said Kiefer.

  “I smell of onions, and I look a mess.”

  Conversation stopped when Catrina walked into the living room. Egon stood by the table and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to bring you something. Your brother, Kiefer, was kind enough to let me in.”

  “I know my brother’s name.”

  Everyone stared at Egon. “On this holiday, I thought you should have…” He pulled a white box from the brown bag he carried. “This.”

  Catrina took the box and saw that it was from Nash’s. “Chocolate peach cake?” she asked, not meeting his eyes. “How lovely.”

  Rose started to get up. “We need another place setting.”

  “I’ll get it, Ma,” said Catrina, retreating into the kitchen.

  Egon followed. “Was this a bad idea?”

  “Only if you think barging into someone’s house after you’ve been uninvited is a bad idea.”

  “I go then.” Egon started for the door.

  “For God’s sake, you’re here now. You’ve charmed them, you might as well stay.”

  When everyone was settled, Kiefer said to Egon, “We’ve already said grace, but feel free to say whatever it is you say.”

  Egon scanned the table. “Thanks to you for letting me be here.”

  Catrina ignored Lou’s slight grin when Egon’s “thanks” came out as sanks. They all raised their glasses.

  At dinner Kiefer talked about the recent assassination attempt on Hitler. “Better luck next time,” he said.

  Egon said that an assassination was too easy a death for him. “Something slower, more painful perhaps.”

  Lou Delaney asked Egon what line of work he was in. Egon told him about the grocery store, and said it was only temporary. “I am interested in becoming an animal doctor. I already treat animals on weekends.” He started to explain how similar veterinary medicine was to ophthalmology. Then Catrina brought out the apple pie and began to cut it.

  Martha commented, “That’s a nice pie server, Catrina, where did you get it?”

  “It’s nothing special,” said Catrina. “I picked it up at the five-and-ten.”

  Although Egon was sure no one noticed, the words five-and-ten bolted through him. Only days before, Carola and Max had decided they would do their version of Thanksgiving at their apartment. “Sauerbraten instead of turkey,” Max had said, “with spaetzle stuffing.” Meyer had promised to bring wine; Liesl had said, “Leave the decorations to me.” Even the Schnabels seemed excited and offered to bring the apple strudel from Nash’s. Egon had remained quiet, trying to decide how much truth to tell and how much to leave out. “It will be a complication for me,” he finally said. “I already have an invitation for this day, a friend from the store. No one special.” He avoided Liesl’s gaze but couldn’t ignore the seesaw pitch of Meyer’s voice when he said, “How lovely for you, Egon. We’ll all be sure to give thanks for your friendship.”

  Egon wondered what they were all doing now. Were they speaking in English or German? Did anyone play the piano? Was Liesl suspicious? He imagined Meyer seated between her and Carola, making them laugh with one of his stories. He envied them, how at ease they must be. At their table, he would be free to say whatever came to mind, while at this one he measured every thought and word. Here he was a foreigner, and even worse, an uninvited guest. Every time he spoke, that pugnacious neighbor, Lou Delaney, asked him to repeat what he’d said, as if his accent were impenetrable. Catrina wouldn’t meet his eye, and Kiefer kept watching him as if he suspected that Egon might slip the silverware into his pocket. Coming here had been a terrible mistake.

  Martha slid a piece of apple pie onto his plate. It was sloppy, with yellow fruit and syrup oozing from its sides. This was why German Jews didn’t eat pie. The scoop of ice cream that Rose plopped on top only added to the mess. He waited to see how everyone ate this. Fork? Spoon? People made mmm noises as they shoved the mush into their mouths. Egon found the fruit too sweet, the crust tasteless. He wished Catrina would offer him some of the chocolate peach cake, but she’d kept it in the kitchen. A part of him thought she’d done that out of spite. He managed to finish the pie, and at the first lull in conversation pushed back his chair. “Thank you very much for this delicious meal and the company, but I am afraid I must go and take care of a sick dog that stays in my house. Happy Thanksgiving to you.”

  Even though he’d pronounced all of his S’s with the proper sibilance, Lou Delaney cupped his ear with his hand and said, “I’m sorry, could you repeat what you just said?”

  Kiefer reached across the table and shook Egon’s hand, Martha smiled, and Rose said how nice it was to meet him. Catrina was watching him, but when he turned toward her, she stood up and started to clear the table.

  As he headed uptown, he thought about how he’d lied to Liesl, and he could hear the mocking tone in Meyer’s voice when he’d said, “We’ll all be sure to give thanks for your friendship.” Maybe this humiliating afternoon was what he deserved.

  Meyer and Egon met for coffee and cake that Sunday, then went back to Meyer’s apartment. They sat at his metal card table facing each other in the meager light that leaked through his window. Egon asked his friend the question that had been running through his mind: “Do you believe we get what we deserve?”

  “I believe we do what we can to set the score straight,” said Meyer.

  Egon looked puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”

  Meyer rummaged through some papers on the table until he found a copy of the story he’d written for the following day’s Aufbau. “Here,” he said, pushing the paper in front of Egon and pointing out a paragraph. “See if this makes sense.”

  Egon read:

  When our leaders betrayed us, we ran from our country. When our beliefs betrayed us, we ran from our country. When our religion betrayed us, we ran from our country. Now, in the free country, we try to set the record straight. We swipe rolls from restaurants and shove them into our pockets, we lie to our friends. These are only small betrayals, but they add up. We may never get even, but at least we are trying.

  Egon put the paper in his lap and held out his hands like a magician who’d made a rabbit disappear. “Are we to play out our whole lives in the pages of your column?”

  “Not entirely,” said Meyer, “only the parts I find interesting.”

  “Be serious. I feel as if we are all being held prisoners ‘In the Free Country.’”

  “That’s good, Egon, criticism from a man who lies to his friends and his girlfriend. So tell me, do you now count among your blessings the beautiful Catrina?”

  “Quite the opposite. We had what you might call a disagreement right before Thanksgiving. She told me not to come, but I decided to go anyway. I think it was not the wise choice on my part. She seemed very annoyed. Now I am not sure what to do.”

  Meyer pulled his chair closer to Egon and propped his elbows up on the table. “What do you want to do?”

  “I like her. I want to see her again.”

  “And what about Liesl?”

  Egon ran his fingers through his hair. “This will sound unkind, but I know Liesl like the front—or is it the back?—of my hand. This one is different: an American, a mystery. She is also a natural with the animals. Like no one I have ever met.”

  Meyer started blinking hard. He rubbed his eye until the fleshy part around his socket was red and his eye was tearing. He blew his nose and rubbed his eye again.

  “Are you having an asthma attack?” asked Egon.

  Meyer shook his head. “No, no, there’s something in my eye, a sh
arp pain like a sting.” He rubbed it some more.

  Egon got up. “Let me have a look. Come by the window.”

  Meyer stood up next to him. Always a study in contrasts, they were never more so than at this moment. Meyer’s shirt was untucked and wrinkled; a pink part of his belly poked through the bottom two buttons. His thinning hair sprawled across his head like weeds. Egon towered over him in a pale blue sweater and crisp navy pants. He bent down to look in Meyer’s eye. “I see nothing.” Meyer squinted and Egon leaned in closer until their noses almost touched. “There is nothing—” But before he could finish his sentence, Meyer grabbed him around the neck and jammed his mouth up against Egon’s. It was a kiss of sorts, but more put-upon than most kisses are. Teeth mashed against teeth, and for a moment, Egon could feel the wetness of Meyer’s tongue and taste the coffee and apfelkuchen he had eaten earlier. Then, with equal intensity, Meyer pushed Egon away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Egon backed himself against the kitchen wall. “I do not know what to say.”

  “You can ask me how is my eye.”

  “Okay. How is your eye?”

  “My eye is fine.” Meyer’s voice rose and fell. “There was nothing wrong with my eye to begin with, as any doctor who claims to know anything about the eye would have noticed right away.”

  “I am not understanding,” said Egon.

  “What’s to understand? I wanted to see what it was like to kiss the great Casanova, Egon Schneider.”

  “That was not funny, I am not amused.”

  “I’m not amused either,” said Meyer. “Frankly, you’re a terrible kisser.”

  PART III

  In the Free Country

  17.

  Friendships are of a different nature here. Where we used to behave with decorum and formality, now we break all the rules. We cling to each other when we are frightened, and turn on each other when we feel threatened. We are spinning in our freedom, excited about possibilities and terrified of where they might lead.

  —Meyer Leavitt, Aufbau, December 29, 1939

  The Aufbau office was a single room with four wooden desks, two telephones, and two typewriters. “My desk even comes with a lamp,” Meyer bragged to Egon. “I sit in the lap of luxury.”

  The lap of luxury had two windows that never shut or opened properly, so the four men who worked in it kept their coats on during winter and rolled up their shirtsleeves in summer. There was hardly room on the desks for any photographs or memorabilia. Meyer kept The Pale Princess of Prussia on his. Next to him, Norman Blum, round as a sausage and equally hairless, had a photograph of his young daughter posing with a clown at the circus. Grace was solid, with the same round, pasty face as her father.

  On a freezing Friday in December, Norman came into the office looking paler than usual. There had been a mishap at his home that morning: “I accidentally stepped on Grace’s turtle,” he said. “Part of his shell is cracked, and Grace is heartbroken. She loves that turtle, and I’m beside myself.” Meyer could only imagine the effect of Norman’s footfall on the poor turtle and reached for something reassuring to say. He told him about Egon and how good he was with animals. Then he had another thought. “He works with a woman, her name is Catrina, and she is especially handy with the smaller animals. You should ask for her. Surely she should be able to fix a turtle. I’ll give you his address, and you can go there on Saturday morning.”

  Meyer couldn’t wait to phone Egon that evening. “I am going to tell you something that might change your life,” he began. “Your friend, Meyer, ignoring the voice of reason in his head, listened instead to the goodness in his heart. And please, feel no obligation to thank me. I did what I did because you are my friend and I want you to be happy.”

  “Mein Gott,” said Egon. “This scares me. What did you do?”

  Meyer told him everything. “Don’t you see, now you have a reason to call Catrina that has nothing to do with your lascivious desires and everything to do with how much you respect her. She’ll be happy to help an animal in need, and what happened on Thanksgiving will be beside the point. It’s a brilliant scheme, if I do say so myself.”

  Egon sighed. “This makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Nothing to be uncomfortable about,” said Meyer. “She’ll be flattered.”

  “That is not what makes me uncomfortable. You do. This is so unlike you.” In his own way, Egon thought, Meyer was trying to make up with him about the kiss.

  “You mean it’s so unlike me to do a favor for my dear friend? If we don’t help each other, who will? So call her. I told Norman that you’d see the turtle tomorrow morning.”

  Egon hung up and checked his watch. It was 9:12, still early enough to call Catrina. They hadn’t spoken since Thanksgiving. He had never called her at home. What if she hung up when she heard his voice? What if her mother answered and said Catrina never wanted to speak to him again? What if no one answered; how often would he call back? His doubts piled up into a convincing blockade. When he next looked at his watch it was 9:23. He would never call a woman past 9:30. He dialed her number.

  Catrina picked up on the second ring. Her voice, once she learned who was calling, wasn’t steely, but it wasn’t silky either. Efficient was more like it, with no obvious pleasure at being asked to the task. All she said was “I can be there at nine thirty,” and, “Do you have a large sewing needle?”

  Saturday morning, Catrina showed up at Egon’s apartment. They were cordial, but exchanged little small talk. Grace and her mother came fifteen minutes later. Grace was carrying the wounded animal in a shoe box. When Catrina knelt down, she saw that Grace was crying. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Dribble.”

  “How old is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Turtles can live until nearly one hundred. Dribble’s got a long life ahead of him.” Catrina reached into her pocket and handed Grace three lemon sour balls. “Suck on these while I fix him. Turtles find the smell of lemon soothing.”

  To close up a shell, Catrina figured she’d need something stronger than the usual suture thread. She’d dug out the spool of thinly spun wire she and Egon had used to cobble together a hamster cage a few weeks back. After cleaning Dribble’s shell with hydrogen peroxide, she dabbed on some ether. For the next twenty minutes, she could feel Grace’s lemony breath on the back of her neck as she stitched the shell back together. When she finished, she handed Dribble back to her. “Good as new.”

  Mrs. Blum stroked her daughter’s hair as she turned to Catrina. “I don’t know how to thank you. How much?”

  For the first time, Egon spoke up: “For mending a cracked turtle shell, two dollars.”

  After they left, Catrina went to the kitchen sink, washed her hands, and poured herself some water. “My first turtle. How did you come up with two dollars?”

  “It seemed reasonable. And you? Do turtles really find the scent of lemon to be soothing?”

  “I have no idea, but I thought that Grace would find it soothing.”

  Egon shook his head and smiled. “Can I make you some tea?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Egon’s back was toward her as he placed the kettle on the stove. His black hair curled above his collar, and his lanky frame, slightly bowed, gave him the posture of someone playing the cello. She touched him on the shoulder. “Thank you for letting me handle this one.”

  He turned and faced her. They stood so close that a scalpel could barely have fit between them. He saw how the whorls of her auburn hair played against her pale skin. And those eyes. She was beautiful in such an unpredictable way. He took her chin in his hand with the intention of telling her so but instead kissed her mouth and then the faint blue vein that ran beside her throat. He felt her body yield and unbuttoned her cardigan. She wore a rayon chemise beneath her blouse, and the fabric was smooth in his hands as her body swayed against his. When she unfastened the snaps on her skirt, lemon sour balls spilled from her pockets and
skittered across the floor. “You certainly come equipped,” he said.

  “It’s not every day you get to fix a turtle.”

  Her smile was shy. The way she moved her body was not. She put her arms around him, and he could feel her strength. There was something urgent about the way she unbuttoned his shirt and undid his trousers. The two of them fell into the velvet chair and might have stayed there the rest of the afternoon had the teakettle not started to whistle. At first they disregarded it, but a persistent teakettle is not a thing to be ignored, and eventually Egon made his way to the stove and turned off the water. They moved to his bedroom, and for the rest of that afternoon, Egon and Catrina made love, slept in each other’s arms, drank lukewarm tea, and then started all over again. Somehow, Johnny knew to stay under the bed.

  “I thought this was over for me,” she said as she stroked his bare shoulder. It was thin and smooth like a young boy’s. “That I had used up all I had in this department.”

  “I have missed this too.”

  “I don’t think you’ve missed it very much.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  She sat up. “The lipstick, the nail polish, the second toothbrush. I’ve seen your medicine cabinet.”

  “You opened my medicine cabinet?”

  “Of course I did. Haven’t you ever looked into anyone’s medicine cabinet?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Catrina moved away from him. “Well, before you get on your high horse, let’s talk about this. Who is she?”

  Egon took a deep breath. “There is a woman. She is also from Germany. It is nothing serious, not like you.” He reached down to kiss her. “It has been a lonely time until you. You are a surprise in every way.” He didn’t tell Catrina the nature of his surprise: how her breasts were too big to fit into his hand; how, when he rested his head on her belly, it was cushiony, not bony like Liesl’s; how her frankness upended him; how nothing about her was familiar, yet everything about her seemed necessary.