The German House

by Annette Hess

  “Stop it!” Eva cried out so earnestly that Edith and Annegret immediately ceased their sparring. Eva placed the paper bag containing the hat on the bed and sat down heavily beside it. Edith eyed her searchingly and felt her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Are you getting sick?”

  Annegret waved off her mother’s concern. “Nonsense, Mum, she’s just nervous. It’ll be fine, Evie! You’ll soon belong to high society yourself!” Annegret smiled somewhat spitefully and turned her attention back to the contents of the wardrobe. Eva looked at her sister’s broad back.

  “You told me that all Otto Cohn had was a concussion.” Annegret, who was arranging a white cardigan over the dark blue dress to see if it matched, froze.

  “I did what?”

  “Who’s Cohn?” Edith asked, confused.

  “He’s dead,” Eva said in Annegret’s direction, ignoring her mother. Annegret hung the white cardigan back up.

  “All I did was pass along what the chief physician told me.”

  “His injuries must have been more serious. He must have died on the street somewhere, after leaving your hospital. How could you let him go?”

  “How should I know? How the hell is this any of my concern, Eva?!” Annegret spun around and glared hotly at Eva, her expression slightly walleyed in her indignation. Eva recalled that Annegret had sometimes looked like this when they were younger. It happened whenever someone accused her of having eaten something from the pantry. Eva was shocked to realize her sister was lying.

  “Now would someone please clue me in on who you’re talking about?” Edith asked impatiently, as she ran a lint brush over the light brown suit.

  “A witness from the trial, Mum. Yesterday he—”

  “Oh, I see,” Edith interrupted brusquely and raised the hand holding the brush to stop her. It was clear she didn’t want to hear about it. Eva studied the two women, who had again turned their backs to her and were digging through her clothing, as if she weren’t there. Eva suddenly felt like she was no longer at home in her own room. She stood up.

  “Could you please leave?” They both turned and hesitated for a moment, then Edith handed Eva the light brown suit.

  “Listen to me, wear this one—it’s modest and tasteful, and you’ll make a respectable impression. You’re still going to wash your hair, aren’t you?” Edith left without awaiting a reply. Annegret also headed for the door and shrugged regretfully.

  “We just wanted to give you some advice. There’s no helping some people.” With that, she left too.

  Once Eva was alone in the room, she hung the dresses back in the wardrobe and closed the doors. She took the hat out of the paper bag and turned it over in her hands. The jet-black velvet had rubbed off in a few spots, and the violet lining had come loose. The inside band, once blue-and-white-striped, was now a shiny, greasy black from sweat and dirt. The words Lindmann Hats—Hermannstadt—Telephone 553 were embroidered in cursive on a cloth label sewn to the inside. Eva looked around the room. Then she pushed together a few books on her shelf and placed the hat on the spot she’d cleared.

  SHORTLY BEFORE SEVEN THAT EVENING, Jürgen’s car pulled up beneath the streetlight outside the house. Eva was not wearing either the dark blue dress or the light brown suit under her wool coat. She had opted for a maroon silk dress with a plunging neckline, as it was the most elegant piece she owned. She wasn’t wearing a hat. She had styled her updo higher than usual. Her pumps made her seem even taller, which Jürgen was startled to discover as he opened the car door for her. He also noticed that Eva didn’t seem nervous, and he made a joke about it. She did not respond. She had felt strangely numb since that morning. As though she were wrapped in thick cotton wool. Jürgen’s nerves, meanwhile, were on edge, and he lit a cigarette and smoked as he drove, something Eva had never seen him do. They listened in silence to the news on the car radio. The announcer reported that demonstrations for racial equality had been held in several cities across the United States. A Sheraton hotel in San Francisco, in the state of California, had been occupied by protesters because hotel management discriminated against black job applicants. More than three hundred people were arrested. The weather forecast, which promised spring-like temperatures climbing over twelve degrees Celsius, was followed by a music show—The Friday-Night Record Bin, which Eva listened to whenever she stayed in. The young disc jockey’s voice cracked as he announced that the Beatles had released a new single. Listeners were hearing it here first! “Can’t buy me lo-ove! Lo-ove! Can’t buy me lo-ove!” the singers screamed ardently, and without any musical introduction, from the little car speakers. At the fourth “love,” Jürgen turned off the radio. They had argued about the Beatles before. Eva liked their songs. She thought their music was fun, and the four young Englishmen themselves cheeky and attractive. Jürgen had asserted that their music was little more than haphazard noise. Eva had replied that he was as uptight as her parents. She was not in the mood for another argument tonight and withheld comment. She secretly decided, though, to buy the new single in the music department at Hertie’s on Monday. Those few measures had just helped lighten her subdued mood.

  A short time later, the InterContinental Hotel appeared before them like an unscalable wall blocking out the dark red evening sky. “Have you ever been inside?” Jürgen asked. Eva had not. “Seven hundred rooms. And every last one has its own bathroom and television set.” Jürgen turned the car directly toward the building, and for a brief moment, Eva thought they were going to crash into it, when suddenly the vehicle dove down, and they followed a ramp into the parking garage under the hotel. Eva had never driven underground in a car. The ceiling appeared to be sinking, a few dim lights glowed as they passed, and the colorful symbols and lines on the concrete floor were indecipherable and mysterious to her. She clung to the handle above her door. Jürgen steered the car confidently through the labyrinth of columns and parked by a steel door that read “Stairs to Hotel.” Jürgen helped Eva out of the car and held her for a moment, and she thought he might want to kiss her. Instead, he said, “Please don’t mention the trial. It could upset my father. As you know, he was imprisoned for years.” Eva was stunned. Ever since she started going to the municipal building regularly, Jürgen hadn’t said a word about her work. Evidently it was on his mind more than she’d thought. Eva nodded. “Of course. Has he been doing all right?” Jürgen nodded, but didn’t look at her as he did. They stepped into the mirrored elevator. The copper-colored panel beside the door had twenty-two light-up buttons. Jürgen pressed the top one. As the elevator climbed, Eva was captivated by their reflection as a couple, the way they appeared over and over, in big boxes that grew smaller and smaller, at once close then farther and farther away. Eva thought they looked good together: Jürgen with his black hair and navy blue wool coat, herself blond in pale checkers. Like husband and wife. She caught Jürgen’s eye in one of the reflections. They both had to smile. The elevator stopped a few times, and other guests entered. It got crowded. The elevator finally went ping, the uppermost light glowed, and the doors opened to the rooftop restaurant. Eva, Jürgen, and the remaining guests were all drawn first to the panoramic window, where they took in the view. “The lights in the houses look like fallen stars,” Eva said softly. Jürgen stroked her cheek and said, “Don’t worry, Eva. I think my father had a good day today.” But it sounded as if he were saying it more to calm himself, than Eva. She squeezed his hand. In the vestibule outside the coatroom, they were greeted by an employee in a dark suit. Herr Schoormann and his wife were already waiting in the Manhattan Bar, he informed them. He helped Eva with her coat. Jürgen’s eyes fell on her exposed cleavage. “Was that really necessary?” he hissed. Eva flinched; it felt as if he had slapped her. She laid her hand over her low-cut neckline. “Well, there’s no changing it now.” Jürgen offered her his arm, which she reluctantly took. The amicable mood was extinguished.

  Walther Schoormann sat perched on a swivel stool at the luminous, ovoid chrome bar in the
crowded lounge. Brigitte—in elegant, high-necked black—stood by him, dabbing a dampened napkin on a stain on the collar of his suit coat, which was too big for him these days. A man in a tuxedo played soft, cheery music on a black grand piano.

  “Brigitte, leave it be!”

  “It wasn’t there back at the house. How did you manage it this time?”

  Walther Schoormann saw his son enter. On his arm was an attractive, perhaps not overly elegant, but seemingly upright young woman. Her dress looked a bit cheap, the neckline too low for the occasion. But there was nothing calculating to her gaze, Walther was relieved to note. Beautifully thick hair, Brigitte Schoormann thought, but what a horribly old-fashioned updo. But that neckline. Daring. Interesting contradiction. Eva sensed the couple’s penetrating, appraising looks. She formed her own first impression as she approached: she liked the Schoormanns. There was no doubt he was moody and gruff, the way he had just pushed off his wife. He seemed funny, though, alert and approachable. Not at all unwell. His wife kept a straight face—she didn’t immediately betray her opinion. But to Eva, she looked like someone who made an effort to be fair. “I’m pleased to meet you, Fräulein Bruhns.” And Eva knew Brigitte meant it. They shook hands. Eva hadn’t noticed the music till now. The pianist was playing “Moon River,” from the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which Eva had seen in theaters with Annegret a year ago. The sisters had cried through the entire final half hour.

  Eva sighed involuntarily. The tension she had felt subsided. The bartender filled four glasses with what Eva assumed was champagne, and they clinked glasses where they stood. Eva took a large swig, and sure enough, it had the same dry flavor she had illicitly tasted for the first time at Jürgen’s house. She glanced at Jürgen, who was staring at her neckline. She covered her bare skin with her hand. Then they went to a private, wood-paneled room, where their table had been festively set. Eva was immediately taken in by the room’s warm atmosphere and gentle orange lighting, whose source she could not locate. The city lights glittered in the distance beyond the windows. Brigitte told them that a six-course French meal was planned. Walther Schoormann pulled out a chair for Eva. “Take the seat to my left. I can hear better on that side. Jürgen, you’d better sit on the right.” He grinned at his son, who jokingly bared his teeth and sat down opposite Eva.

  NEARLY EVERY SEAT WAS TAKEN at German House that Friday evening. They were hosting no fewer than two groups of regulars, including the neighborhood Carnival planning association. Ludwig cooked, stewed, and roasted with the support of Frau Lenze, whose finger had more or less healed after all these weeks, and a newly hired young worker, who did nothing but wash dishes and chew gum. Edith was waiting tables together with the perpetually grim but competent server Fräulein Wittkopp, who was still unmarried at forty-eight and would stay that way. Herr Paten, a longtime employee, tended the bar. There was no chance to catch their breath, no time for a private moment between the Bruhnses, although they both needed it more than ever. Edith chanced upon Ludwig alone just once, when she came into the kitchen laden with dishes. The dishwasher was out back, chewing away and having a smoke, and Frau Lenze had slipped off to use the toilet. Edith hovered beside Ludwig, who was breading schnitzel cutlets with remarkable speed and arranging them in a large pan of sizzling oil. “Almost ready, give me six minutes. Five.” Edith did not respond. Ludwig looked over and was shocked to discover that she was crying. He turned to her and somewhat helplessly brushed a floury hand across her cheek. Then he took a dishtowel to wipe both the tears and flour from his wife’s face.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “Soon we won’t be good enough for her anymore.”

  “Oh, baloney! Our daughter won’t let herself get carried away.”

  Frau Lenze returned to the kitchen. Her finger hurt, she said, it just hadn’t been the same since the accident. Edith choked back her tears, balanced five plates of cucumber salad, and carried them out to the dining room. Ludwig flipped the schnitzels and swore. They’d come out a bit dark. “Oh, they’re still fine. Not meant for girls, anyhow!” he boomed.

  In the dining room, Edith delivered the plates of salad and took new orders. An elegantly dressed gentleman and equally refined woman emerged from behind the felted curtain hung at the entrance. Edith glanced over and immediately recognized them. She turned her back to the couple and grasped Fräulein Wittkopp by the arm as she carried a tray past.

  “Please let those folks know there are no tables available.”

  “But table two is about to—”

  “It’s been reserved for nine!”

  Fräulein Wittkopp frowned at Edith for a moment, because that wasn’t true, then approached the newcomers, tried to make her dour face look apologetic, and told them, “I’m sorry, we’re full.”

  “We’ve heard how excellent your schnitzel is. How unfortunate,” the raptor-faced man replied pleasantly. Leading his companion out the door, he said, “We’ll come back another time, Mother.” They vanished behind the heavy curtain. None of the diners had recognized the man, although his photograph had frequently appeared in the newspaper over the past few months—he was the main defendant, after all.

  At the InterContinental, the third course had arrived: coq au citron. Eva had never eaten chicken that tasted like lemon. The flavor reminded her of dish soap, but she chewed on bravely. Conversation had initially revolved around the catalog. Brigitte had admonished Walther and Jürgen to find a topic of conversation that would also interest the women. So they talked about the increase in traffic on the roads. Brigitte was currently working toward her license, and she described driving practice as “unspeakably infernal drills.” Eva said she didn’t know if she would ever need a license. Jürgen didn’t think so. Eva’s defiance stirred, and she was about to announce that maybe she would sign up at a driving school, when Walther Schoormann unexpectedly touched her forearm. “Excuse me, my dear girl, but who did you say you were again?” Eva stiffened, and a wave of heat cascaded down her body. Jürgen set down his silverware in alarm, but Brigitte remained calm and said to Walther, “This is Fräulein Bruhns, your son’s girlfriend.” Walther Schoormann looked bewildered. “My name is Eva Bruhns.” He looked at her with unseeing eyes and repeated her name.

  “Do you have a husband? Children? A job?”

  “I am a translator from the Polish.”

  Jürgen caught Eva’s eye and shook his head faintly in warning. But at that moment, Walther Schoormann nodded. He edged in his chair and tapped his index finger repeatedly on the table as he spoke: “Of course. I asked after you. You’re translating in the trial at the municipal building.”

  Eva looked at Jürgen helplessly, then responded, “Yes.”

  “What’s the trial about?” Walther Schoormann asked. Eva looked at him incredulously. Did he really not know what it was about? Or was he testing her? Jürgen fixed her with an urgent stare. Brigitte also flashed Eva a small, pleading smile. Eva tried to take on a breezy tone: “Oh, it’s against a few men, well, war criminals, who worked at that camp . . . at a camp . . . so, who committed crimes in Poland. It was a long time ago and people . . .” Eva dropped off in the middle of the sentence. It felt wrong to speak about the trial so lightly. The little old man had thankfully turned his attention back to his lemon chicken. He seemed to have forgotten his question. Eva and Jürgen abashedly began eating again too. “Yes, the war was terrible. But now it’s time we went back to talking about nice things. Were you maybe planning to take Fräulein Bruhns to the island over Easter?” Brigitte said. She turned to Eva affably. “I think it’s the most beautiful time of the year, when everything starts to blossom and—” Walther Schoormann suddenly burst out, “You’ll never get me to talk—never!” He got up from his chair. “Brigitte, I need to use the washroom.” Eva looked down Walther Schoormann’s body. A dark spot was spreading over the middle of his trousers. Brigitte stood up. “Come, Walli, come with me, everything’s fine.” Brigitte rounded the table and led her husband out of the ro
om. Jürgen glanced at the empty chair, but the silk upholstery did not appear to have been touched. Eva sat there, rigid and helpless. The maître d’ entered soundlessly and bowed slightly. “May we clear this course?” “Yes, please,” Jürgen gestured. “And would we like to wait a moment before the main course?” Jürgen eyed the man. “Please bring me the bill.” The maître d’ seemed vexed but did not ask further. He nodded and withdrew. Eva sought Jürgen’s gaze. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t lie.” “Eva, in no way is this your fault.”

  They went to the coat check, then happened upon Walther and Brigitte at the elevator. They were also wearing their coats. The four stepped into the little mirrored compartment together, going down. “Are you also in the garage?” Brigitte responded, “No, we’re parked outside.” Jürgen pressed the button beside the L and the button beside the P. The elevator jolted, then descended smoothly. Eva didn’t look in the mirrors this time, but at the carpeted floor. What a sad way to end the evening. Walther Schoormann regarded Eva at that moment and said, “I’m sick, miss. That’s why these things happen to me.”

  “Yes, I understand, Herr Schoormann.”

  “It might have been a better idea to invite you over to ours. I’d have a pair of replacement pants, then.” Eva smiled uncertainly. “Yes, that’s true.” When the doors opened to the lobby, they shook hands. Their good-byes were brief, and Eva and Jürgen continued down into the garage.

  Back in the car, Jürgen made no move to start the engine. He sat there, bent forward and gazing at the speedometer; the needle was stationary. He began to talk about his father, about how he’d always been unpredictable and how his illness hadn’t actually changed anything other than his control over bodily functions. When he was a child, his father encouraged him, praised him, spent hours fishing with him at the pond, then out of nowhere, humiliated and struck him. He could always go to him with questions, no matter how outlandish. But he had occasionally earned himself a solid cuffing, just because he had described a storm trooper uniform as “neat.” His mother loved him reliably, whereas his father repeatedly let him down. But he survived the war. He had to live with him. Jürgen turned to Eva, and his eyes shone black in the cold gloom of the parking garage. Jürgen said that he could tell his father had liked Eva. And that in spite of everything, the evening had been a success. And to be perfectly honest, had his father found fault with her, he wouldn’t have been able to marry her. Eva saw Jürgen’s eyes begin to glint. A sob escaped him, and he covered his face with his hands. Men didn’t cry. And as he turned away from Eva bashfully, yet so clearly full of relief, she thought that although she didn’t understand Jürgen, she did love him. She drew his hand, damp with tears, away from his face and stroked it. It seemed she would soon be living together with Walther and Brigitte Schoormann in that house that smelled of chlorine. Eva tried to imagine sitting at breakfast with the Schoormanns, sorting laundry with Brigitte, or arguing with Frau Treuthardt in the kitchen. It was impossible. But when she pictured what had always been her home, the stuffy apartment above the restaurant, her family, she was not filled with the usual sense of sleepy security. Eva held Jürgen’s hand and gazed at a concrete wall. She was sitting underground, under a twenty-one-story building with seven hundred rooms and as many bathrooms, in a car that wasn’t moving, yet she felt as though she were on a distant journey.