by Betsy Carter
“I feel ridiculous to be dressing for Meyer.”
“You’re not dressing for Meyer, you’re dressing for the readers of that newspaper who are about to be introduced to Dr. Schneider.”
Egon stepped back to get a good look at Catrina. She wore a green dress with a belted waist and black pumps. “You look very, um, respectable. So respectable, I would like to relieve you of your respectability.”
He leaned down to kiss her, but she pushed him away. “Not now,” she said, laughing. “Boris will be here any moment.”
Minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was Gerald Elmlinger, the man from Nagle Avenue with Boris the boxer, whose tail had split after he’d thumped it too hard against a wall. Catrina had chosen Boris to pose in the picture with them because, she said, he had the most regal bearing of all the animals they’d treated. Soon after, Norman Blum arrived. Norman took Egon’s hand into his own pillowy one. “Thank you so much for fixing my daughter’s turtle. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Egon withdrew his hand and said, “Catrina is the one you should thank.”
Norman reached out to Catrina, but before he could touch her, she stepped back and said, “How is Dribble doing these days?”
He smiled. “He ambles around as if nothing happened. A remarkable turtle, I must say.”
Just then, Meyer came in with a Rollei slung around his neck. He circled Egon’s apartment as though he’d never been there before, thumbing through a book at his bedside and picking through papers on his desk. He studied the brass plaque, then put it down when he spied the cloth pouch containing the glass eye. He dug out the eye and held it up. “Perfect.”
Norman asked a lot of questions, mainly of Egon. Meyer had Catrina sit behind the desk holding Boris’s tail, straight as a pencil, and he had Egon stand beside her listening to the dog’s heart with a stethoscope. The glass eye was centered on the desk in front of Boris. “Say ‘Cheese Man,’” Meyer cajoled as he snapped the shutter.
Two weeks later, Catrina and Egon sat at Nash’s eating chocolate peach cake and waiting for Meyer. He rushed in as if he were being chased. “I have the article,” he said, slapping the paper on the table. “First, I order, then we read. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Under the headline THE CHEESE MAN OF WASHINGTON HEIGHTS was a photograph, two columns wide and three inches high. Catrina picked up the paper and stared closely. “My face is enormous, like the man in the moon.”
“Your face is beautiful,” said Egon. “But I am slightly stooped, like a stern professor.”
“No, more like a worried doctor,” said Catrina.
“The only one who looks like himself is Boris,” said Egon.
“What does the article say?” asked Catrina.
“I will interpret,” said Egon. “It is a quote from me saying how ophthalmology is one of the few medicines that translates to veterinary medicine as well. ‘I feel fortunate,’ I say, ‘that I am able to apply my skills to the animals of Washington Heights.’” Egon paused to take a bite of his cake. “Here I talk about the glass eye. ‘My mother, Elisabeth Schneider, was a world-famous nature illustrator. She gave me this as a reminder that I should always look at the world with fresh eyes. My parents were known as the Audubons of Europe.’”
The article went on about Egon’s walks through Fort Tryon Park; his beloved dog, Johnny; and how he’d become a favorite with the customers at Art’s. All that was missing was Catrina, who was only mentioned once in a caption as “Mr. Schneider’s assistant.”
Egon put down the story and turned to Meyer. “This you think will please me?”
Meyer raised one eyebrow. “You’re famous, what more do you want?”
“This whole thing makes me uncomfortable. The Cheese Man of Washington Heights is not how I wish to be famous. The picture is horrible. And what about Catrina?”
“So, now you’re not only an animal doctor, but also a critic? Norman Blum worked hard on this piece, and I happen to think the photograph is very distinguished.”
“Well, I happen to disagree.” He chose not to bring up his disappointment about not being called Dr. Schneider. “I am sorry, there must have been an oversight,” he said to Catrina.
She twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “There was no oversight. If the Irish Echo ever does a story about us, believe me, they won’t write much about you.” She excused herself and went to the ladies’ room.
Egon pulled his chair closer to Meyer’s. “What are you doing? Again, you put me in a bad situation in your newspaper. Then there was that business with Liesl. You claimed the song and dance with the two of you at the Schnabels was nothing, but I have not seen her in a long while, have you? I should not have to ask you a question like that. We are supposed to be friends, or have you forgotten? And we have never mentioned what happened at your apartment, or have you forgotten that too?”
The article. Liesl. The kiss. Meyer hadn’t forgotten any of it. It was so typical of Egon to stay quiet all these months, then spit out his complaints in one chocolaty huff. But Meyer could justify his behavior.
“Being known as the Cheese Man is a good thing. You’ve made a name for yourself in a very short time. Feel proud of that.”
“Believe it or not, Liesl chose me.” (Egon would never believe that.) “You threw her over, what do you care who she picked next? But no, I haven’t seen her since then.”
The kiss was a joke on both of them. “Surely, Egon, even you see the humor in that.”
Meyer started to enumerate his answers but saw Catrina heading back from the ladies’ room. “Shall we conduct this confession in front of your Virgin Mary, or would you rather flog me in private?”
Egon looked down at Meyer as he stood to pull out Catrina’s chair. “Georg Schnabel is right about one thing. With you, it is impossible to hold a civil conversation.”
For the next two months, there was an uncomfortable stalemate between them. No more phone calls, and they rarely saw each other. Conversations with Meyer used to be Egon’s reward for a long day at Art’s. Now he had to stop himself from calling. With Meyer, he had never held back. It had been a relief not to have to be polite, to speak in German when he felt like it, to ask Meyer’s advice and to banter with him. Meyer was maddening, often inappropriate, and embarrassingly vulgar. He’d hurt Egon’s feelings in so many ways, yet Egon depended upon his raw interpretation of life.
On a rainy fall night, Egon was awakened by a ferocious pounding at his door. He was accustomed to midnight emergencies. Animals don’t get sick or injured on anyone’s schedule. He pulled his housecoat over his pajamas and stepped into his slippers, calling, “Yes, yes, one moment, please.” He opened the door expecting to see a cat or dog cradled in someone’s arms. There was no animal, only a person whose face was red and contorted, as if someone had punched it. The body was slumped and sounds were coming from a place deep within it. It took him a moment to recognize the arched eyebrows and the unmistakable gray eyes.
“Liesl, what is it?”
She stared past him and reached into her pocket. A telegram. She shoved a yellow piece of paper in front of him. Strips of words were pasted onto it, and the letters were capitalized and evenly spaced. Egon held his breath. It was from the Red Cross. YOUR PARENTS HAVE BEEN LOCATED IN BERLIN. They both knew the language of these telegrams: Your son has been located at Mannheim. Your sister… in Frankfurt. The people who had been “located” most likely had been taken; alive or not was a whole other question. The page held little room for hope. Egon opened his bathrobe, wrapped it around Liesl, and drew her to him. Her body was drenched and shaking.
“You are freezing,” he said. “Come inside.” She stood in his foyer while he ran to the bathroom to get a towel. She sat as passively as a child while he pulled off her soaked jacket and wet shoes and dried her feet and arms. She continued to shiver. He took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom, where his sheets were still warm with his sleep. “Get in,” he said. He tucke
d his quilt around her and rocked her back and forth. She let herself be rocked until she finally stopped shaking. Her eyes were closed and her body was quiet. Egon got up and started to tiptoe into the kitchen.
“Don’t go,” she said in a hoarse voice.
He sat down next to her. “I was going to make you something warm to drink.”
“I don’t want anything to drink.” She reached her arms from under the blanket and grabbed him around the neck, yanking his face close to hers. She kissed his neck, his face; hard kisses, more like bites. She pulled his hair and dug her fingers into his back. She gripped his thighs so that he would straddle her, and pushed him inside of her. She needed somebody, anybody, to fill her loss. Egon knew he was that anybody, yet he found the sex exciting and her grief moving. He watched her through the night, and under his gaze, she slept fitfully until a begrudging sun announced another rainy morning. In the grim light she looked beautiful.
He left his housecoat on her side of the bed, got washed and dressed, and quickly took Johnny across the street. Liesl was still sleeping when he came back. Quietly, he prepared coffee. It was early, and he hoped she would wake up soon so he could leave. When she finally did appear, he had to smile. Her eyes were red and her voice nasal. Her hair, still limp from the night before, fell into her face, and his bathrobe flowed around her so the only visible parts of her were her bare feet. “You are a sight,” he said.
She ignored his teasing. “Can I use that pink toothbrush in your bathroom?” she asked. Though Egon was sure she emphasized the word pink, he answered as nonchalantly as possible, “Sure, use whatever is there.”
At breakfast, they didn’t talk about the night before. Egon told her not to give up on her parents. “For all you know, they were detained for a day or two and are home in Frankfurt.”
Liesl put down her butter knife. “Do you really suppose the Red Cross has time to notify all the families whose loved ones are detained for a day or two?”
“We will ask Meyer to see what he can find out,” said Egon.
“Hmmph, Meyer. What does he know?”
“A lot. Meyer knows a lot.”
Egon had betrayed Catrina. Catrina must never find out about this. It was awful, he knew. Even worse, he resented Liesl for bringing him back to the world of Herr and Frau Kessler. He wished she would leave. He thought about his dinners with Catrina, Rose, and Kiefer; the stories Catrina told about her father; the way Kiefer talked about his cases. He loved saying their names. Ryan Walsh. Rose Walsh. Kiefer Walsh. Catrina Harty. So much more melodic than Egon Schneider, Kaethe Schnabel, Liesl Kessler. He regretted last night. Then again, what choice had he had? Liesl had been hysterical. Anyone with an ounce of compassion would have done the same thing. Never mind that he enjoyed it, he couldn’t blame himself for that. But it wasn’t the kind of sex that meant something, the kind of sex he had with Catrina. That was love sex; this had been desperate sex. There was a difference, was there not? He wished he could ask Meyer.
Egon cleared the table. He deliberately took time closing his overcoat and tying his scarf, hoping the right words would come to him. He didn’t want to be dismissive, but he didn’t want to encourage Liesl to stay or come back. “Of course you will call the store and tell them why you are late,” he said. “I am sure they will understand. And take whatever you need, more food or coffee. We will get to the bottom of this, I promise.” He considered kissing her on the cheek, but the gesture seemed oddly intimate. “Are you okay?”
Liesl took the remainder of her coffee and got back into bed. “I’ll be okay.”
“You get some rest, yes?”
If she answered, he didn’t hear her.
Egon headed to the park. He was so rushed, he forgot the bag of bread crumbs for the birds. Fatigue weighted his steps. The Cloisters was shrouded in a squeamish light. No one was out on this morning. It was hard to find hope in a day like this. How would he make it through all those hours at Art’s? The insides of his eyelids burned, and he felt nauseated. He sat on a bench and closed his eyes. Sleep didn’t come, but thoughts, unbidden, did. What would he do if Liesl was still there when he came home? Had he been kind or cowardly with her? He should tell Meyer about Leopold Kessler.
Meyer, could he be a homosexual? This was not the first time he’d had that thought. The way Meyer carried on about women, Carola, Liesl, sex in general, was that all bravado? Egon had never known a homosexual, not that he was aware of. He’d seen them on the streets of Berlin, their lips puckered in a certain way, their hips swaying provocatively. Meyer was physically awkward, but not in that way. Even if Meyer was one, Egon would still be his friend, though he would have to tell him to never kiss him again.
Egon must have dozed, because when he lurched forward, spittle trickled down his chin and the sun was shining on the arched windows of the Cloisters. He looked at his watch. He had enough time to run down the hill and get to Art’s.
He got to his place behind the counter just in time, tied his apron around his back, and touched his fingers to his button to make sure it was fastened. When he looked up, a man in a blue overcoat and a gray fedora was waiting for him. It took him a moment to register that it was Kiefer. Most of the times he’d seen Catrina’s brother, they’d been sitting around a table, and Egon hadn’t realized how short he was.
“I am surprised to see you here,” said Egon. “Is everything okay?”
Kiefer kept one hand in his pocket. “Ah, not really. Catrina tried to call you last night but there wasn’t any answer. She asked me to drop by. It’s about Rose. She collapsed last night. She’s in Bellevue now with Catrina. She wanted me to tell you.”
After so much news about people from home disappearing or getting beaten up in the streets, Egon’s first thought was that a hospital was a luxury. His second thought was to send a comforting message to Catrina and Rose, but before he could figure out what it might be, he saw Art walking through the produce section in his direction. Later he would blame what he said to Kiefer on fatigue, guilt, and nervousness about Art. “Thank you for your business. Please give your family my kindest regards.”
Kiefer nodded as if those words made perfect sense. Egon could hear him jiggling the change in his pocket as he turned around and walked out of the store.
21.
We remember the wounded and the mangled from the last war. Do we really want to rush into another?
—Meyer Leavitt, Aufbau, January 31, 1941
By early 1941, everyone was tracking the maps of Europe in the New York Times. The areas that Hitler occupied were saturated with black ink; the others remained white. Denmark, Norway, Belgium, Luxembourg, Czechoslovakia, the Netherlands now left smudges on everyone’s fingers, a daily reminder that any day, America could be sucked into this war. The only question was when. Surely the president would answer that in his third inaugural address. When Inauguration Day arrived, the country virtually shut down as the speech was piped into every home, school, and business that had a radio.
Meyer had asked everyone to come and listen to the speech together at Nash’s. “That’s an uncharacteristically gracious gesture on your part,” Egon had said when Meyer phoned him.
“Not as much as you think,” answered Meyer. “I’m doing a story about the reaction to the president’s speech, and I need to be with a group of landsmen.”
This was true. It was also true that Meyer wanted an excuse to be with his old friends. He’d barely spoken to Egon in the past months and hadn’t shown up for any of the kaffeeklatsche. Egon was his best friend, his only friend, really, and while he joked and argued with his colleagues at the Aufbau, he revealed himself to no one except Egon. Other than at that gathering at the Schnabels’, he hadn’t seen Liesl since that awful evening they’d had together either, though he’d called several times. He’d use any excuse to gaze upon the beautiful Carola and even felt some perverse nostalgia for the Schnabels. Max he could do without.
Nash’s was packed that morning. The Schnabels and the Coh
ens came early. Meyer kept his eye on the door, worried that Egon might not show up. Just as Henry Wallace was being sworn in as vice president, Egon ran in with Catrina behind him. Meyer tried not to show his relief when Egon took the seat beside him. The two men nodded at each other as Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes administered the oath of office to President Roosevelt. Only Liesl was missing. There was silence as a January wind whooshed through the microphone. Roosevelt began: “On each national day of inauguration since 1789, the people have renewed their sense of dedication to the United States… In this day the task of the people is to save that nation and its institutions from disruption from without.”
Egon put down his coffee and leaned in toward the radio, which sat next to an apple tart on the counter. Meyer kept his eyes on the few tendrils of Carola’s hair that had come loose. In less than thirteen minutes, Roosevelt made his intentions clear:
In the face of great perils never before encountered, our strong purpose is to protect and to perpetuate the integrity of democracy. For this we muster the spirit of America, and the faith of America. We do not retreat. We are not content to stand still. As Americans, we go forward, in the service of our country, by the will of God.
“Bravo,” said Egon, once the muffled applause of a gloved Washington crowd subsided. He rose to his feet, as did the woman at the next table holding a Pekingese under her arm.
“Bravo,” shouted a waiter, who put down his tray of cups and saucers to applaud.
Two men in the first banquette stood up, as did Max and Carola.
Only Meyer and the Schnabels remained seated. “This is it,” announced Meyer. He scribbled in his notebook, then turned to Catrina. “Your boyfriend won’t be shouting bravo when your brother is wallowing around in the trenches over there.”