by Lyn Cote
She opened her black beaded evening bag, a gift from her step-grandfather, and drew out her shiny gold compact and lipstick, graduation gifts from her stepfather. She touched up her powder and then opened the lipstick tube and leaned closer to the mirror.
The door slapped open. Mary and Ruth walked in with a few other girls. Bette concentrated on her lips in the mirror.
“I bet you think you’re something tonight with that dress someone had to send you,” Mary snapped.
Ignoring a shiver of alarm, Bette acted as if she hadn’t heard the words. My, how gossip flourished. Though she and Chloe had never said one word, everyone in the county—not just the class president’s mother—must know that she’d received her new clothing from New York City. And her mother had warned her to expect retaliation from the clique for coming to the dance wearing the most fashionable dress. “I don’t know why women can be so catty,” Chloe had said. “But anything they say to you, others said to me. Ignore them.”
“Yes, everyone knows your family’s so busy wasting money,” Ruth chimed in, “on bums and Negroes and Jews, they can’t afford to do for their own.”
Bette finished applying her lipstick, blotted her lips, and returned her lipstick tube to her purse. Snapping it shut, she turned and walked toward the girls. They pulled together to stop her.
CHAPTER THREE
Bette shook her head and gave a tiny smile. Her usual fear of these girls didn’t catch her around the heart, freeze her to ice. “Don’t you think this behavior is a little childish?”
Her cool nonchalance had an effect. The girls looked to one another as if to say, “What’s going on?”
“Next week we graduate from school,” Bette said. “This kid stuff will all be over.” She shrugged. But even as she said it she wondered at her own audacity. What made her bold? Was it the dress, the shoes, the makeup? Or Curt? Maybe it was all of them and the new way her mother discussed things with her—as though she were a woman, too.
She looked at the girls she’d dreaded for years and saw their new uncertainty about her. Her change in behavior had shoved them off kilter. Shoulders back, she strode forward, enjoying the snap of her heels against the tiled floor. They gave way and let her pass through. Curt was waiting just outside the door of the gym for her. “Shall we dance?”
The chaperones had arranged everyone for a Virginia Reel—the fellows in one line and the girls facing them. She and Curt took their places. The rollicking melody lightened the mood of the party and everyone began smiling and laughing at each other as they met in the middle to bow and curtsey. Bette couldn’t take her eyes off Curt. In the low light, he radiated charisma like a steady beam. And she noticed he returned the same attention to her. Did she glow in the shadowy room to him, too?
The reel ended and a waltz began. More dances. More punch. Bette danced every dance in a whirl of music and happiness. And then it was the last tune. Without a word, Curt took her into his arms with a gentleness that left her heart throbbing. She closed her eyes, rested her head on Curt’s firm shoulder, and felt Curt’s heart beat under her ear. “Someone to Watch over Me” was playing. For once the chaperones didn’t reprimand them for dancing so close. Maybe they sensed that it was a special moment in the lives of the young people, slowly moving through the last dance before becoming adults.
The words sang in her ear, but Bette changed the lyrics to “Curtis to watch over me.” Bette didn’t want the night to end. For the first time within Curt’s embrace, she saw a future she hadn’t expected. A wonderful future, where the past faded and where many things were possible . . .
Finally, the dance was over. Curt and Bette, as the chairmen of the dance, helped clean up and were among the last to leave; they locked the door of the school in the dark of midnight. The sounds of night were all around them—the wind rustling spring leaves overhead, car tires whining on the highway. Bette could hear Curt breathe at her side. What now?
Curt offered her his arm. She slipped her gloved hand around his elbow. She liked the feel of him, the firm strength in his arm. Walking beside him—hearing the click of her high heels—made her feel very feminine, womanly. A strange excitement, anticipation surged through her. A feeling she’d never felt before. Curt opened the car door for her. When she passed by him, he leaned closer and brushed his lips over her hair. Bette sat down, feeling slightly faint. Had he really kissed her hair—just like in the movies?
He drove them out of the empty parking lot. The interior of the car felt too full to her, overwhelmed by Curt’s presence. She watched the headlights brighten the road ahead and clutched her purse in her lap. She wanted to say, “Stop. Don’t take me home.” But her parents would be waiting up for her. For a moment, she wished Curt were the kind of guy who’d take her to the local lover’s lane, a place she’d only heard of. But, of course, Curt was a gentleman.
To her surprise, though, about a mile from Ivy Manor, Curt pulled the car onto the shoulder and parked near a newly tilled tobacco field. Bette smelled the fertile richness of the soil and swallowed with difficulty.
“I thought of driving to lover’s lane, but not with you, Bette. You’re too special.”
Bette’s throat tightened. She couldn’t speak so she tilted her head toward Curt, inviting him to come closer. He slid near and without missing a beat gathered her into his arms. For one luscious moment, his mouth hovered over hers.
The seconds of waiting pounded in her brain. And then he kissed her. She sighed into his mouth. With his thumb, he brushed her lower lip and then deepened the kiss. Bombarded by unknown sensations, Bette felt as if her body might fly apart. She clung to him, the one solid object in the world gone wild.
He kissed her lightly and then drew her closer, his arm around her shoulders. “I knew it would be wonderful kissing you,” he murmured.
His words washed through her, melting her. She’d dreamed of falling in love and this must be it.
“I want you to know that I’m serious about you, Bette. I plan to be an English teacher. Nothing exciting.” He traced her lips with one finger. “I’m going to Georgetown University. My parents will help me, but I’ll have to work while I’m going to school.”
Breathless, Bette took in air. “I’m going to secretarial school in Baltimore. It will only take me a year. Then my mother says she has friends in Washington and they should be able to find a job.”
“I won’t be able to propose to—” He paused and brushed his thumb over her lower lip again, making her body sing with excitement. “—anyone until I’m about finished.”
Bette stopped breathing. Was she really hearing what he was saying or was her mind making this up, this stuff of dreams?
“I’m working my way through. It might take me five years instead of four. I know that’s a long time to wait—”
She wanted to say, “I’d wait twice that long for you, Curt.” But she stopped herself. For one thing, a girl just didn’t say that to a fellow, and second, she didn’t want to lie. She didn’t want to wait five years for him, much less ten.
“That’s all I should say now.” Curt caressed her neck where her pulse beat. “But you’ll be seeing a lot of me, Bette. As much as you’ll let me.”
Wherever he touched her, she tingled with awareness. She closed her eyes, turned to him, trailing her fingers through his fair hair. She stroked his golden-tanned cheeks down to his chin. His early-morning stubble prickled her fingertips and she reveled in the masculine texture of him. She wished that they could stay here like this and that she could explore . . .
Curt kissed her again. Just like in the movies. Just like Errol Flynn kissed Olivia de Haviland. Then he stopped, pulling her close and just holding her. “It’s time I took you home.”
She longed to protest, but he was right of course. She slid away from him and fluffed her hair with her fingers. The silence between them was complete, full of understanding and happiness. Bette smiled into the darkness and Curt drove with one hand cradling hers.
At Ivy Manor, he wal
ked her solemnly to the door. Her parents must be waiting in the parlor. The lights were on. Her every nerve hummed with awareness of how near he was to her in every way. “Curt, thank you for a wonderful evening. I’ll never forget tonight.”
“Me, either.” With the back of his hand, he brushed her cheek and then kissed her hand. “It won’t be our last dance. They have them at college, too.”
This happy thought swelled inside her, making it impossible for her to answer. Smiling, she went inside and closed the door quietly behind her.
Then she realized that her mother was speaking on the phone at the rear of the hallway, her back to Bette. “Oh, Drake, I appreciate that so much. I don’t know what you can do in Berlin for Gretel’s family, but thank you. Yes. Good-bye.”
Her stepfather stood in the parlor doorway. He looked over when he heard the door open. He smiled at Bette and waved for her to come to him.
In her pale satin dressing gown, Chloe hung up and turned to greet her, a smile overlaying her serious appearance. “Bette, how was the dance?”
Bette wanted to ask about the phone call, but felt funny about letting on that she’d overheard the end of her mother’s phone conversation.
“Fine. I had a wonderful time.” Abruptly distracted from thoughts of the dance, Bette searched their eyes. She wanted to ask them why Chloe had been on the phone so late and what this was about Gretel’s family and Berlin? But her parents only asked more about the dance, obviously making an effort to change the subject, so she quickly filled them in on everything. She knew her mother would want more girlish details later when it was just the two of them.
After kissing them both good night, Bette walked soberly up the steps. Gretel’s family did live in Berlin, but who was Drake? The name sounded familiar but it called up no face.
Berlin, November 1936
Drake finished a fine meal of sausage and schnitzel at his hotel restaurant and then walked outside and hailed a cab. He’d put off this errand for several days, but no longer. He’d promised Chloe. He gave the man the address and got into the battered taxi. The cabbie looked over his shoulder at Drake, frowned, and then shook his head.
“Is there a problem?” Drake had visited Germany often in the past on business and knew that most cab drivers spoke some English. So what was bothering the man?
“No, mein Herr, no.” The cabbie put his taxi in gear and drove off in prickly silence.
After thought, Drake understood why the cabbie had hesitated. He didn’t want to drive to the Jewish section. Drake watched the gray streets of Berlin pass by. More and more, Berlin depressed Drake. The first time he’d visited Berlin had been before the Great War. It had been a bustling, proud metropolis—full of cheerful smiles, colorful gardens, and light-hearted music. Then defeat and Depression had rolled over it. The marks of this still showed in the worn-down heels and frayed sleeves of its citizens.
But the biggest difference was this was now Nazi Germany. Huge swastika banners marked buildings. SS soldiers walked briskly down streets looking purposeful, official, and dangerous. They saluted each other with “Heil Hitler!” which made the skin on the back of Drake’s neck crawl. The young German democracy had desperately needed a George Washington and they’d settled for Adolph Hitler.
They neared the Jewish part of town. Now more stores wore in their windows the signs saying Juden. Pedestrians wore the yellow star of David—not in pride but to be marked with shame. Along the passing streets, people walked quickly and kept their eyes lowered. He’d read about this in the New York Times but seeing it provoked a visceral desire to seek out Hitler and smash his smug face in.
Drake wondered how long it would be before the simmering pot called Europe rolled to a full boil. Hitler in Germany retaking the Rhineland from France. Mussolini conquering Ethiopia, of all places. Spain, rumbling with fearful, bloody civil war. Stalin purging thousands in Russia. And if the pot came to a boil, would it overflow and envelope the indifferent US?
For just a moment at this summer’s Berlin Olympics, Americans had gloated when Jesse Owens, a Negro American, had won and enraged Hitler for mocking his theory of Aryan Supremacy. But it had been only a flicker. Isolationists, racists, communists, fascists—Drake wished all the “ists” here and at home would go drown themselves in the cold North Sea. The political unrest wasn’t good for business and German-American diplomacy had become as tricky as dancing on a bayonet point.
The cabbie pulled to a halt. They’d reached the Berlin “ghetto.” As Drake paid the cabbie, the German wouldn’t look at him. Drake got out and looked around as the taxi driver roared away, glad to be free. People—all wearing the hated yellow stars—were glancing furtively at him. When he returned their regard, they looked down and hurried away, shrinking into themselves.
The yellow stars taunted him, making him recall the slurs against Jews so common at home. Why didn’t any newsreels show these demeaning stars?
Getting back to business, he glanced at the address once more and then went through the door of an aging apartment building. The smell of cabbage cooking filled the stairwell as he began his ascent to the third floor. At the top of the stairs, he knocked on the first door. The conversation within ceased like a radio switched off. The door opened a crack. “Ja?” a man asked.
“Is this the Sachs’ home? I’m Drake Lovelady. I’m a friend of the McCaslin family in the US. The family your daughter Gretel lives with.”
The door opened. A thin, dark-haired man stared at him. “The McCaslins? You come from Maryland?”
Drake smiled. “I’m an old friend of Mrs. McCaslin’s. She knew I was coming to Berlin on business and asked me to drop in and see how you are.”
“Come in.” The man stumbled backward in his haste and bobbed several times. “I am Gretel’s father, Jakob.”
Drake came in and closed the door behind himself. The apartment was small and very crowded with dark furniture and thin people. Gretel’s father quickly introduced Drake to his wife, his father, his brother and his wife, and Ilsa, Gretel’s cousin. Chloe had told him of Ilsa’s divorce. This made his gaze linger on her. A very pretty girl, somehow arresting. She glanced away, her chin stubborn, proud.
Attracted in spite of himself, Drake turned back to his host. It was obvious they were just about to dine. “I’m sorry. I was hoping that you would have finished your evening meal.”
“No, no,” Jakob objected, looking harassed and embarrassed, “you will join us, bitte?”
“No, I ate at my hotel, but I would be happy to sit down with you.” From under his arm, he offered an ornate, gold-ribboned box to Gretel’s mother. “A gift for you.”
“Chocolates!” she exclaimed, flushed with the moment. Everyone except Ilsa brightened and Drake’s discomfort eased, though his eyes drifted toward the pretty girl of their own accord. “Come,” said Gretel’s mother. “I give you tea and we talk and eat, ja?”
“Ja,” Drake agreed, smiling and turning his attention away from Ilsa.
After the meal, which consisted of boiled cabbage and dry brown bread, Drake came to the point. “I know of your troubles.”
The faces that looked back at him dimmed. “Hope lost,” is what they proclaimed. But none answered him, save Ilsa. “You know I was divorced? Our business is nearly broke?”
He nodded. “Mrs. McCaslin said that Gretel has been encouraging you to leave. Has any one of you been able to get a visa?”
“We don’t have the gelt,” Jakob explained, spreading his hands. “Visas are more and more . . . cost.”
“I was afraid of that.” Drake found himself gazing at Ilsa. She was more than pretty, he realized now, with lustrous dark hair and eyes. But it wasn’t only her attractiveness that captured his notice. It was also her tenseness—she gave the impression of a taut bow ready to release its arrow. “How many of you want to leave?”
Jakob translated this for his father, who pointed to himself and shook his head. “Alt.”
“Father says he is too old to
leave,” Jakob said. “And now it’s too hard to get visas. What country wants poor, middle-aged Jews? Younger friends of ours go to Kenya. Husband was banker. Now they work on a coffee plantation. We couldn’t do that kind of work. And countries only want Jungen—young people who can work. And we can’t take much with us now. How can I start again at my age?” He shrugged his shoulders in a hopeless gesture.
“Why are you asking us this anyway?” Ilsa snapped. “I’m young and I can’t get out—not easily. I went to five embassies here in Berlin. Only Portugal offered to sell me a visa. You know what the visa said? That I could use it to move to any country but Portugal. No one wants Jews.” She stood up, grabbed a coat, and stormed out of the apartment.
Drake’s attention followed her until the door slammed behind her. He had to give her credit. She wasn’t cowed—yet.
The whole family looked down at the table top. “Ilsa ist . . . hurt,” Jakob explained.
“May I try to speak to her?” Drake rose, but waited for permission. When Ilsa had stood up, something else about her had popped into his mind. He devoutly hoped he was wrong. Jakob nodded and Drake went out and down the steps. He found Ilsa on the doorstep.
She had her arms folded in front of her. She leaned a shoulder against the peeling doorframe, facing away from the entrance. From him.
He suppressed a sudden, unexpected urge to touch her, to turn her and let her rest her head on his shoulder. She wouldn’t want or accept comfort from him. But at the same time, why was she taking her anger out on him? “I came to help you, your family.”
She turned to him. “Why? We are strangers.”
So Ilsa was bitter enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. Like a cat licking a sore spot, she fingered the yellow star and he understood why she’d lashed out. She’d said, “No one wants Jews.” How did that feel? He decided then to tell this wounded, hurting woman the truth. “I came because I once was in love with Chloe McCaslin and she asked me to help you, Gretel’s family.”