Wunderland

by Jennifer Cody Epstein

  No, now she is actually looking at Ava; bluntly studying her through her glasses. Assessing each feature, each long dark eyelash while her mind works furiously to confirm or deny. Ava finds herself holding her breath; as though she were standing before a diminutive judge whose verdict will determine her very fate.

  After concluding her survey, however, Renate Bauer doesn’t immediately speak. She stands up. As Ava watches, twisting her hands in her lap, the old woman paces from the bookshelf to the window, her white hair illumined by pinkish, early-evening light. She seems agitated, almost angry. But for several sets of rapid strides—back and forth, back and forth—she neither looks at her newfound niece nor says a word.

  “What is it?” Ava finally asks, aware of how tentative and nervous her voice sounds.

  Stopping midway between door and bookshelf, Renate Bauer looks at her fiercely.

  “It’s your mother,” she finally says, her tone caustic. “Even dead, she’s turning everything to chaos.”

  Ava blinks.

  “All these years,” the old woman continues. “All this time, all I’ve had to do is hate her. And that was easy enough, after all. After all she did to me. To us.” She flings an arm out, indicating Ava. “But now here you are, with her letters and your stories and you—your goddamn eyes. Your eyes that are just like Franz’s.”

  “They are?” asks Ava, feeling them widen.

  “Yes,” Renate snaps, “Yes.” And then, more softly: “You have his nose as well. She must have seen it every time she looked at you.”

  Every time she looked at me. Awed, Ava touches the outer corner of her eye, the very tip of her nose, as though she might be able to confirm the resemblance tactilely. She sees Ilse at her kitchen table again, the morning after the blackout. Staring at her with such bleakness, such utter despair that Ava hadn’t been able to hold her gaze.

  “And now here you are,” the older woman is continuing. “And I have no idea what to do with you. None at all.” She breaks off, glaring at Ava before looking away again.

  “I’m sorry,” Ava whispers, though she doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for.

  Outside a siren blares, its tone rising and falling as its vehicle hurtles toward its unknown uptown destination. In a neighboring apartment, someone’s dog breaks into howling accompaniment before falling abruptly back into silence. Renate remains motionless, eyes on her overstuffed bookshelves, thin fingers tugging absently at a salt-and-pepper strand of hair. Ava imagines drawing her like this; not out of the urge to create art, but for the opportunity to really ponder her features: the fine dark brows and softly etched lines in her forehead. The small nose. The distant look in the dark eyes. How many of those features, she wonders, did Franz share with his sister? Was it possible to find her father in her aunt’s face? Does Renate have any pictures of him? She wants to ask her. Not just about that, but a thousand other things that Ava is just starting to know she doesn’t know. Were there other artists in their family? Were there illnesses? Was she in touch with anyone else from the Bauer side of the family? Was anyone else even left?

  “So.”

  Looking up, she sees that Renate has sat back down, briskly placing her hands on her knees.

  “What’s next?” she asks, her dark eyes snapping and her head tilted in a way that reminds Ava of a bright-eyed little bird.

  “I don’t know.” Ava hesitates, then adds: “I’d like to come back.”

  Renate bites her lip. “I’d have to think about it.”

  “I’d like Sophie to meet you,” Ava says. “She never got a chance to know my mother.” For a moment she sees her daughter again; the unfamiliar rage that had flashed on her face. Sophie, she thinks suddenly. She pulls herself to her feet. “Actually, can I use your phone?”

  The older woman blinks first, then nods. “Around the corner. Next to the refrigerator.”

  * * *

  The kitchen, Ava discovers, feels as cozily stuck in the past as the rest of the little apartment. Wood paneling on the cupboards and sink make the windowless space even darker, the effect brightened only slightly by the mint-green glint of the oven door and matching exhaust shield over the stove. Thankfully, though, the wall-mounted telephone—the color of Pepto-Bismol—is a punch-button model, not rotary. Ava dials in, cringing at her own slightly frantic-sounding voice before punching in her access code for the machine.

  At first, all that follows is muffled movement and static. But then comes Sophie’s bell-clear voice: “Hi, Mom.” Her daughter’s tone is tight-sounding, but the spitting rage of the morning seems to have faded. Sophie continues: “I’m okay. I’m just at Erica’s watching music videos.” She pauses. “And don’t worry. We didn’t go into the park.” In the brief pause that follows, Ava’s pulse leaps in time with the oversynthesized chorus in the background, a pulsing number she vaguely recognizes, something about blaming rain. “I was going to ask to sleep over,” her daughter continues. “But if you really want, I guess…I guess I can come home, too. Leave a message letting me know.”

  An audible teenage snort in the background. Ava pictures both girls rolling their eyes in the eternal exasperation of the young. She’s about to hang up when her daughter adds—almost curtly:

  “I love you too.”

  Ava’s knees seem to go weak. She leans against the Formica counter so washed with relief that she feels like she’s drowning. She is tempted to call the machine again, just to hear those last three words (I love you, she said! She said I love you!). Instead, she hangs the phone up, redials, and leaves her own message after the tone:

  “Hi, sweetie. Yes. Yes, please, come home. I have so much to tell you. I’ve had the most incredible day…” She pauses, wondering how she can possibly pack the past three hours into a thirty-second sound bite. In the end she just says: “We’ll talk. We’ll order in. I love you so much, Liebchen.”

  Hanging up, she clenches the counter, briefly unsteady on her feet. Then she makes her way back to the living room.

  “Is everything all right?” Renate asks, as Ava retakes her former seat.

  “Yes. I was worried. But she’s okay.”

  Renate just nods, as though she knows there is more.

  “She was right to be angry with me,” Ava says, dropping her gaze to her hands. “You see, I—I kept Ilse from her too. For thirteen years, I told her my mother was dead. She only found out this morning that I’d been lying.”

  “After the ashes arrived.” Renate raises a brow. “Ilse always did have a way of showing up at crucial moments.”

  “She did.” Despite herself, Ava laughs. Then she shuts her eyes. “I suppose I’m an awful mother.”

  A moment passes. Something dry and light touches her knee. Opening her eyes again, Ava sees Renate’s weathered hand, tentatively hovering over the bare skin. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful mother,” the older woman says quietly. “And teenage girls can also be awful. I remember. I did my share of running out when I was one.”

  “Not in New York.”

  “True. But Berlin wasn’t always so safe there in those days, either. Particularly for people like me.” She smiles ruefully, returning her hand to her own lap.

  “We never had children, Adam and I,” she continues thoughtfully. “Between his medical school and my dissertation, and then his hospital shifts and my teaching, somehow the time never seemed right.” She shrugs. “We waited too long, I suppose. Though sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t because I was afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Of loving them too much.” Her dark gaze seems to drift for a moment. “I couldn’t have borne it, you see. Anything happening to them. Not after everything else. The truth was, I couldn’t stand even having a pet. God knows Adam would have loved a dog.”

  She stares at the worn carpet, looks thoughtful again, a little wistful. Then she looks up.

  “Wh
at is she like, your daughter?”

  “Honestly?” Ava laughs again. “She’s like a clone of my mother. Which is strange, because I’ve tried to raise her completely opposite, in every way, from the way my mother raised me. And yet in the end, Sophie is practically the spitting image. Not just in looks, but in the way she thinks and behaves.”

  “How so?”

  Ava ponders. “She’s very determined. Fearless. Focused. She has a memory like a steel trap.”

  “That does sounds like Ilse.”

  “But she is also almost frighteningly honest,” Ava adds quickly. “I don’t think she has ever wittingly told a lie in her life.”

  Renate nods again. “Does she write?”

  “Write?”

  “As a hobby. Essays, stories, that sort of thing.”

  “Ah.” Ava nods. “Yes. She’s constantly writing something. Plays. Poems. Things like that. She rarely lets me read them.” She suddenly remembers the letters. “Oh. Speaking of writing…” She reaches into her purse. “These belong to you.”

  But even as she is pulling the stack of worn envelopes from her bag, Renate is shaking her head. “Nein.”

  “No?” Ava looks up, confused.

  “I don’t want them,” Renate says firmly.

  “But…but what should I do with them, then?”

  Renate Bauer just shrugs. “Perhaps give them to your daughter. After all, they’re as much her story as they are mine.”

  Ava puts the letters back in her lap. They fall silent again, and Ava finds herself thinking about what the other woman had said earlier, about her last sight of her parents. She pictures them herself: two small, stark figures on a receding dock. Which was worse, she wonders—knowing and losing both? Or never knowing them at all?

  The question seems to usher an endless flood of others. Why had the Gestapo shown up at Ilse’s house that night? Had her mother really thrown them off as firmly as she claimed she had? Or was that just another falsehood she’d told herself to avoid taking blame, the same way she’d lied to herself by imagining that—despite all the exhaustive paperwork the Bauers must have filed—the Gestapo wouldn’t have known of Franz’s and Renate’s travel plans? Or that in talking so glibly with those agents that night, she’d been saving anyone other than herself? For in the end, Ava realizes, it was these untruths—the ones she told herself—that had been her undoing.

  The things we tell ourselves, she thinks. The things we lie about to make our crimes bearable.

  In another room a clock starts to chime softly. Ava counts along absently in her mind: One. Two. Three…After the sixth tone she hears Renate catch her breath. “Oh dear. Is it really six o’clock? I’m afraid that I have to leave soon. I’ve opera tickets tonight. The Magic Flute. I almost forgot about it completely.”

  She stands up, smoothing her skirt. Realizing she’s being dismissed, Ava feels a wave of something approaching panic. What if this is it? What if Renate Bauer has had enough of her already, and never wants to see her again?

  “I’m sorry. I’ve kept you,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady as she climbs to her own feet again. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so late either.”

  “It’s fine,” says the other woman. “It’s just that I must change.” She smiles wryly. “I’m still old enough to believe in dressing up for these things.”

  Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Ava straightens the canvas straps, her mind racing. “Can I call you, at least? I mean, in a couple of days or so. After you’ve had time to let all of this…settle somewhat.” She indicates the space between them. “I have so many things I want to ask you about….”

  Renate appears lost in thought a moment. Then she nods. “Yes. Yes, you may call. And then we can make a plan. Perhaps dinner somewhere. You, myself, and your daughter.”

  “That would be wonderful,” says Ava. “Just wonderful.” She’s been following Renate to the door now, and as the other woman pulls it open Ava turns to face her, once again at a loss. How does one part with a sole surviving relative that she didn’t even know had existed before today? With the one person who can tell her everything she’s never known about the father and grandparents she never knew?

  Tentatively, she extends her hand. Renate studies it for a moment. At first she makes no move to do the same, and Ava bites her lip, unsure of herself again. Then, to her complete surprise, the older woman bridges the distance between them to give Ava a short but surprisingly strong hug. Startled, Ava has just enough time to return the embrace, her heart skittering, before stepping back awkwardly.

  As Ava struggles to recompose herself Renate studies her again, one pink-tipped finger pressed thoughtfully to her cheek. “It’s so strange,” she says.

  “What is?”

  “You.” Reaching out, the older woman traces a light line from the corner of Ava’s eye to her chin. “You are,” she says, slowly, “a mixture of everything I have ever loved, and everything I have ever hated in my life.”

  As Ava gazes back at her, something inside her chest seems to ineffably unknot, the way a muscle that has been cramping releases. In its wake, for the first time since learning of her mother’s death—actually, the first time in what seems like years—comes a lightness. Almost a giddiness.

  “I think that makes me family,” she says.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people helped me to grow, shape, and hone this novel as it evolved. Thanks to Michael Epstein for spying—in a New Yorker piece about a somewhat obscure German memoir—the seed of an interesting narrative, and then brainstorming, cheerleading, and workshopping along as I coaxed that seed into a book. Amelia Atlas at ICM rescued me from representational wilderness and helped me sharpen and tighten the Wunderland manuscript, and Hilary Rubin Teeman offered it an extraordinary and enthusiastic home at Crown, along with narrative and stylistic suggestions that made it so much better. Thanks to Jillian Buckley for expertly shepherding me through the production process, and to Amy Schneider for her invaluable copyediting expertise. Thanks to Dr. Catherine Epstein of Amherst College for her close reading for historical and cultural context of an earlier draft, Dr. Aine Zimmerman of Hunter College for essential insights into German culture and language, and David Kay for an initial German-language proofread (all errors that remain despite these heroic efforts are mine and mine alone). Thanks to Renate Olsen for sharing recollections of her childhood in wartime and postwar Germany, and to Johannes Beilharz for granting me the use of his lovely translation of Else Lasker-Schüler’s poem “To the Prince of the Grail.” Heartfelt thanks to Jennifer Egan for providing sage professional advice and direction when I direly needed it.

  Many historical sources were consulted for this project, but a few stand out as uniquely informative and of possible interest to Wunderland readers. First and foremost is Melita Maschmann’s confessional memoir Account Rendered, which provided emotional and historical insight into one woman’s incremental journey from youthful idealism to full-on Nazi fanaticism, and from intimate friendship to brutal betrayal. Victor Klemperer’s I Will Bear Witness: A Diary of the Nazi Years, 1933–1941 depicted the horrific deterioration of Jewish daily life under Nazi rule, while Joachim Fest’s Not I: Memoirs of a German Childhood explored the same period from a non-Jewish/Catholic perspective. Erica Fischer’s Aimee and Jaguar was both a breathless read and a treasure-trove of period detail, particularly regarding the onerous bureaucratic gauntlet faced by German Jews trying to flee the country. Elizabeth Harvey’s Women and the Nazi East shed fascinating light on daily life in Nazi Germany’s Labor Service programs abroad. Jonathan Mahler’s Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bronx Is Burning: 1977, Baseball, Politics, and the Battle for the Soul of a City painted a richly vivid portrait of the 1977 New York blackout, while Jillian Becker’s Hitler’s Children: The Story of the Baader-Meinhof Terrorist Gang provided compelling background for understanding the rise of Ge
rmany’s 1968 protest movement.

  Novels worth their salt require smart readers along the way, and Wunderland has had so many: Hillary Jordan and Joanna Hershon provided—as always—inspiration, encouragement, and astute feedback, as did my Brooklyn writing coven (Alison Lowenstein, Julia Lichtblau, Courtney Zoffness, Maura Sheehy, Michelle Brandt, and the late and deeply missed Sarah Coleman). Joan Cody, Tom Cody, Dina McGuinn, Rozanne and Steve Epstein, Andrea Lafleur, and Amy Simon Hopwood all offered perspective and encouragement throughout various drafts, while my trusted BOCOCA mom posse (especially Amy Sirot, Julie Beglin, Virginia Terry, and Laura Sweet) weighed in dutifully and thoughtfully when called upon. Thanks too to Pam Loring for the peace and austere tranquillity of the Salty Quill Women’s Writing Retreat, and to Scott Adkins and Erin Courtney of the Brooklyn Writers Space for providing an oasis of quiet and literary camaraderie.

  Last but never ever least: thanks to my amazing daughters, Katie and Hannah, for inspiring me daily and believing in me and my work (even when I don’t), and once more to Michael—as always my muse, hausfrau, and partner in creative mischief.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JENNIFER CODY EPSTEIN is the author of the international bestseller The Painter from Shanghai and of The Gods of Heavenly Punishment, winner of the 2014 Asian Pacific American Librarians Association honor award for outstanding fiction. She has written for the Wall Street Journal, Vogue, Self, Mademoiselle, and many others. She has an MFA in fiction from Columbia University and a Master of Arts in International Affairs from the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and two daughters.