The image of his canvas bag on the floor haunted her. The familiar bag looked like it was packed for a sketching trip. All his possessions and his artwork were still in place on the walls and shelves. His tweed suits still hung in the closet. “I’ve paid three months’ rent, so that you have plenty of time to figure out what you want to do.” Peter’s comment had been matter of fact. “Either this will be over quickly and I’ll be back, or you will have to make a decision - whether to house with Sasha or your mother.”
Bewilderment turned to fear and fear turned to rage. Her teeth clenched as the tears started. “I stayed in Holland because of you. I had a visa to New York!” Peter said nothing. He knew. “You have no right to do this to me!”
“You made a choice. Now I am making one.”
She picked up her glass and threw it at him.
Peter caught the glass. “I don’t want to fight.”
“If you’re going to join the bloody English war, you had better learn how to fight!” A heavy bronze sculpture followed the path of the wineglass.
“If you make more noise, you will be thrown out of the flat, whether or not it is paid for.” He did not make any attempt to soothe her, to take her in his arms, or to restrain her.
Esther ran to the bedroom, slammed the door and turned the key. Peter left the apartment for the evening. When she opened the door in the morning, both he and the pack were gone.
***
She was no longer in the present. Sasha and the doctor took over.
“Sasha, did she bathe and douche with the hot soapy water as I asked?”
“Yes, the bag is still hanging over the bathtub.”
“Good. Now we need to shave her. Please hold her legs open, and I will take care of it.” He pulled a straight razor out of his bag and lathered her pudenda, then cleanly shaved off all the dark hair. Sasha removed the towel. A speculum was inserted and the doctor pulled the living room reading lamp over for additional light. “She’s healthy. This should not be too difficult. There is no evidence of disease.”
“Disease!”
“Well, you know, women like this…”
“Like what? She has been faithful to one man for nearly two years, living as husband and wife.”
“Where is he?”
“He joined the RAF to help the Dutch resistance.”
Sasha went silent as the doctor picked up a curette, and began his work. Blood began pouring out onto the pillows, along with mucus and a tiny glob of flesh. Esther moaned but did not move. The doctor saved all the excavated tissue in a glass dish. Then he pulled out a magnifying glass and examined what had been the contents of Esther’s womb. “Now we need to clean her up.” Sasha was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, dizzy and faint. The doctor looked at her and then said, “I’m sorry you feel unwell, but she needs you right now. Esther will be fine. Please write down these instructions. She needs to douche every day for two weeks. There must be absolutely no man for at least six weeks, and then only after she has had a problem free menses.”
“That’s highly unlikely isn’t it?”
“What do you mean, unlikely? Unlikely that she will have a man, or unlikely that she will not?”
Sasha snapped, “Esther is faithful to a man who is now flying airplanes, trying to save our country.”
Dr. Hemelrijk began to wash off his instruments and pack his black bag. He would report to Sarah Goudberg once he knew that Esther was going to be in good health. Sasha sat down on a chair next to the table and took Esther’s hand. As Esther regained consciousness, she looked at her friend and began to stroke her hair. A torrent of loss overtook the two young women and they began to sob quietly from pain of the heart, pain of the body, and pain of the world. Sasha collected the bloody sheets. She set the kettles of soapy water and bleach on the stove and turned on the burners. Then she lay down on the couch and sobbed into a thick pillow.
***
Hours later, Esther struggled to the door to answer the persistent buzzer. She had been in a blackout sleep, somewhere warm, a place where large brightly colored birds flew through the air or landed on branches to take a rest and a treat. They did as they wished. Many of them had partners, and spent their days feeding and grooming each other. Her feather comforter was a safe place, and she didn’t want to get up from her nest in the reading alcove. Where was Sasha?
Sasha was sound asleep on the couch, her head lifted uncomfortably onto one rounded arm, and her knees bent to fit into the cushions. She had stayed up all night to check on Esther. Linens were piled on the kitchen table, wrung out but still wet. Of course. There was no way to hang them out overnight, and late night laundry activity would have attracted the attention of neighbors.
Max, Esther’s sweet younger brother, was at the door. At fifteen, he was still small for his age, a mother’s boy. He carried Sarah’s leather market bag and a bunch of yellow sunflowers. “Mama said you have been sick. She wanted me to bring you these.”
Esther looked over at the sofa. “Sasha, you have to get up. We have company.” Sasha pulled the crocheted afghan around her. “Morning, Max” and staggered into her bedroom. Max looked around at the disarray and the wet laundry, and Esther offered, “I have had the grippe.., a lot of … well, you know, both ends, but I am getting better.” She felt faint.
Her little brother looked at her pale face and stringy hair. “Hey Esther, why don’t you sit on the sofa and I’ll put these flowers in some water for you.” She dropped into the pillows, and Max located a tall coffeepot for the sunflowers and brought them to the side table near her. “Oh, you have a phonograph! Can we play some music? Look at these records!”
Esther laughed at his excitement. Instead of offering one of his favorite romantic composers she suggested, “Would you like to hear Duke Ellington? I heard him when he came to Amsterdam. When he comes again, I promise to take you.”
Her brother smiled and commented, “Actually, I really like jazz ballads. “Around Midnight” is one of my very favorites—it has the feel of—of longing. The same things Schubert wrote about, but different. I love how music comes in all languages.” He sat quietly as the muted horns of mourning filled the room.
“Why are you so angry with Mother? You know she really cares about us.” Esther bristled at the mention of Sarah and her constant criticism of Esther’s behavior.
“Why?” She was wondering if Sarah expected her to confide in her little brother.
“She worries that, with Peter gone, you may not have the life you wished for. Maybe you could come by now and then for a nice meal? Oh, she fixed you some really nice chopped liver pate, cornichons, and a wonderful loaf of roggebrot, the dark rye straight from the farms. She said it would restore you. Shall I make you a sandwich?”
Esther watched her little brother take charge. “That would be very nice, and a cup of tea as well? Do you know how?”
“I think so. I have asked cook to show me a couple things. I like food.”
He brought her an open-faced sandwich, with two cornichons as garnish. Then he sat down at the table in the corner with his. On the shelf was her camera. “Do you ever hear from Hans?”
“No, I don’t even know where he is. I thought he would have written us months ago from New York. If he becomes a famous photographer, we will learn about it in the papers. Otherwise, we’ll just have to guess.”
Max lifted the camera, pointed it northward up the Amstel river, and shot a picture of the city skyline with its intricate rooftops and church steeples. “Here, there is a picture of home for you. You can go there whenever you look at my photo. Or, you can come home whenever you wish.”
Surrender brings its own kind of peace. Esther did not laugh and she did not cry. She could continue to fight alone, or she could accept the idea that she did not always need to win. Maybe others needed a chance as well.
“Tell mother, this pate is de
licious! I always adored her chopped liver.” She chewed the sandwich carefully, savoring the fat.
“She is welcome to visit me as well. She knows the shop where I work. Perhaps she would like to come by for tea one afternoon.”
Chapter Eight
Upstate New York
July 1940
Warning from the FBI
The war against spies and saboteurs demands the aid of every American.
When you see evidence of sabotage, notify the Federal Bureau of Investigation at once. When you suspect the presence of enemy agents, tell it to the FBI.
Beware of those who spread enemy propaganda!
Don’t repeat vicious rumors or vicious whispers.
Tell it to the FBI!
J. Edgar Hoover, Director Federal Bureau of Investigation
Hans opened the little velvet-covered box just once more and scrutinized the tiny solitaire before placing it securely in a pocket in his camera bag. All his dreams were coming true, and he continued packing for the long holiday weekend.
He shivered at the thought of Greta’s honey colored hair falling in long waves, like a river at sunset. It was all he could do to keep his hands out of it. He wanted to walk in the woods with her forever, stopping now and then to kiss by the river. They exchanged endearments in German – Herzchen – sweetheart, Liebling – lover, the affectionate words of their mothers. It was their secret language, a way to talk of dreams that no one else could understand.
They would pursue those dreams together. Greta’s nursing school graduation was coming up, and he liked the idea of being married to a nurse, a pretty heroine in a white cap. Once again, he patted his pocket with the ring box.
Hans enjoyed his work at the camera store. One afternoon he had walked into Rosenbaum’s Photography to window shop the newest American equipment. As he examined a high quality lens, the elderly gentleman at the counter got up from his stool, and asked where he had studied optics. “Young man, you seem to know a lot about cameras and lenses,” Mr. Rosenbaum commented.
“I’m a photographer, but no one is looking for pictures right now. I just process film until I find work.”
“You know how to process film? Can you do different formats?”
Rosenbaum led him to a darkroom in the back, a messy area that was used for storage. Stacks of paper and rolls of supplies were piled onto wooden shelving, and cans of developing fluids were covered in dust. Several of the lamps were burned out.
“I have a backlog of photo processing, but the chemicals bother my eyes and make me sneeze.” Hans looked around the room and didn’t suggest that a clean room would help Mr. Rosenbaum’s sensitivities to chemicals. Instead he offered to help out and accepted a part-time job. He showed up early the next day and asked for a mop and some cleaning rags.
Hans did beautiful work in the darkroom, producing precise images and nuanced shadings. The whole process of taking a completely blank 8x10 sheet of photo paper and gently coaxing images out of the liquid and chemicals gave him a peace and serenity like no other activity. Photography made him a modern day alchemist and provided a nice salary of nearly thirty dollars a week, $28.75 after taxes.
This week marked ten months since he had met Greta. She had invited him for the July Fourth holiday weekend with her family. If her father liked him, he would ask for her hand. He packed a starched white shirt, a sport coat and a conservative striped tie. He needed to look as if he were a gentleman of consequence.
The Fischers lived outside of town, at the edge of a state park. Dense green woodlands darkened until they edged the rocks in the Genesee River. Then the water plunged down a canyon. A New York skyscraper could easily fit into the gorge, and be swallowed as if it had never existed. This was not a place of peace. Instead it offered the roughest challenges of each season – iced waterfalls, thunderstorms, and the stinging insects of midsummer.
His bus arrived on Sunday at noon. As he walked toward the address in the note, he spotted a marvelous house, its foundation rising from the boulders of the glen. This fairytale castle was an old Victorian, studded with gables and turrets, and a confection of white lacy wood trim along all the edges. It was evident that the Fischers were also people of substance. He stopped, opened his camera bag, screwed the wide-angle lens onto his camera, and then captured everything in the scene except the sound of the waterfall.
The Fischers seemed solid as the rock foundation of their home. He liked them right away – calm placid folk, not any trouble to anyone. Mr. Fischer shook his hand heartily. “Johann Fischer. Our Greta has told us so much about you – that she had found a handsome German boy. Welcome!”
Hans’s eyes wandered around the room. A spectacular mantel loomed over one entire wall, its base of river rocks topped by the carved oak. Figures of vines and flowers emerged in nearly full relief, along with birds and smaller animals climbing what had to have been a tree trunk at one time. At the top of the columns were two deer and then a set of antlers was mounted above the fireplace. He turned to Mr. Fischer, gaping.
His host smiled. “Do you like it?”
“It’s absolutely marvelous.”
Fischer grinned. “I carved it myself. I like to work with wood.”
By now Greta had entered the room, dressed in a light blue dirndl, showing off not her long legs, but a wonderfully proportioned bosom. “Papa is an artist, like you.” This moment in time was one of pure contentment, friends well met. Hans looked forward to learning Mr. Fischer’s vision, how he saw things, and how he crafted beauty.
A third man entered the room, Hans’s age but tall and blonde like Greta. He extended his hand and nearly crushed Hans’s knuckles. Apparently he was not an artist. Both her brothers had come home for the long holiday weekend, driving their old jalopy for ten hours from Long Island. The brothers were in plaid sport shirts and well-worn slacks, a little frayed around the pockets and cuffs.
“Hans, these are my two brothers—Frank and Joe.”
“Yeah, but for Hans, we will be Franz and Josef!”
Hans looked at the two warily. Was this some kind of a joke? “It’s not necessary—I go by Hank nowadays. I’m American now.”
“Hank the Yank!” They looked at each other. “Good one. Greta says she met you at Kresge’s. Does she do a nice job?”
“It was Woolworth’s.” Hans was immediately aware that this small talk was going to be uncomfortable. The starched collar around his neck began to chafe.
Josef glanced sideways at Franz and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, OK.” Neither cared where Greta worked, and they didn’t care how Greta met Hans. Her two brothers had some sort of unspoken language. They had predicted the answer to their inane questions, and now they came in for their punch line. “So what are you doing with our Greta?”
“I beg your pardon?” He felt like he was lost in a children’s guessing game.
Gertrude strode into the living room. Their mother was also tall, actually very tall, with her hair pulled back tightly into a bun. Her navy blue dress peeked out from under a pinafore apron, tied and strapped securely around her bulky figure.
“I can cook it, but I can’t eat it! Are you boys hungry?” She paused. “Hans, would you like a beer?” He deliberated. What if he was not supposed to drink? He had already failed one test.
“Yeah, Hans, what kind do you drink?”
Hans hesitated. He didn’t really like beer, and it was unlikely that they would have Amstel or Orangeboom, the two that he knew.
“American beer?”
“Are you kidding? That’s like drinking piss. There’s nothing in it.”
Gertrude laughed. “You need a good stout German beer. We will need to fatten you up a little. Put some muscle on. I’ll bring you a Löwenbrau.”
Josef laughed. “You going to try to make this guy into a lion?”
Gertrude brought out an enormous platter of foo
d – the largest Hans had ever seen. The sauerkraut had been marinated in wine and cooked with apples and spices, and the heaping fragrant vegetables were covered with sliced pork roast, sausages, meatballs and cutlets. It was a feast, but he was nervous. How could he eat this neatly? He did not like unfamiliar meats, or even meats that were cooked with other things. God, he hoped he would not be asked to say grace. Reverend Kirkland warned him that sometimes the guest is asked to say grace, and he had learned one. But what if he got the words wrong? Instead, Mr. Fischer, Franz and Josef stood and pushed back their chairs. Gertrude and Greta followed them and Hans quickly stood up. The men raised their right arms straight out, and the women stood at attention with their arms to their side. They began to sing:
“Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihe fest geschlossen!
The flag on high, the ranks tightly closed.”
Good God, it was the new German anthem, the Horst Wessel song, the anthem of the Nazi party. He had to sing, and he had better put his arm up. He had heard this on the radio as a boy, and only knew some words from the first verse.
“March in spirit within our ranks.”
His blood ran cold. The back of his neck grew numb and the top of his head felt like it was going to detach. Hopefully his hair had not begun to stand on end. He had washed it and used a lot of tonic to get it smoothed down. At the end of this “grace” they sat, and Trudy turned to her husband. “I don’t know why we can’t just say grace the way we used to. I don’t think we should be singing about marching instead of thanking God for what we have.” Greta fidgeted with her ponytail and said nothing.
Franz looked at his mother impatiently. “Hitler is the hope of Germany and the world.”
Hans’s stomach began to cramp and rumble. He had tried to ignore the news that Holland, Belgium and France had surrendered to the Nazis. A light sweat poured across his forehead as he thought about the consequences for his mother, sister and little brother. Hopefully they would keep their mouths shut and go about their daily business. A year is a long time in the life of a young man, but it seemed just days since he had feared the Nazis and fled to America. Esther may have torn up her visa, but she also probably made up with mother and stayed comfortably at home, sneaking out at night here and there for a tryst.
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