Eleven #2
Silence stretches between us, thorny and uncomfortable. I spot the basket brimming with produce at Walter’s feet.
“Do you have an allotment?” I nod at the basket. Something safe to discuss.
He shakes his head and looks a little sheepish.
“It isn’t easy these days. If our livelihood is taken away, how are we supposed to earn money for our keep?”
“You stole those?”
“I only took one of each. Just a few things to keep us going. They won’t even notice.”
“But... those allotment owners work hard. They are decent, honest people. They’re not rich. Why do you think you deserve their things?”
“We didn’t deserve to be in this situation in the first place,” he snaps, then takes a deep breath, as though he’d like to say more, but doesn’t dare.
So this is what he’s become. A little adversity and he transforms into a thief. True to his nature. Looks are deceiving, blood and breeding can never lie.
I shouldn’t be here.
I feel the weight of his eyes. My throat is tight. The image of a hook-nosed, curly-headed lout, ravaging an innocent, pretty girl, dances in my mind.
“It’s been nice to see you, but I must get back for breakfast.” I stand in a rush. “Come on, Kuschi, we need to go home.”
“Wait, Hetty. Please.”
Walter’s hair droops over his forehead and his eyes are the color of a tropical sea. He is beautiful, desperate, tragic.
If something bad was going to happen, it would have already. Again, I wonder how he doesn’t look remotely like the evil depictions of the Jew in Der Stürmer . The contrast is laughable.
I sit down again, Kuschi pressing his warm, damp body against my legs.
“I’m sorry you think badly of me. Fact is, life here has become pretty intolerable for us.
I wish I could leave Germany, like so many others have done,” Walter says, looking out over the river toward the trees on the opposite bank.
“But my father refuses. Over his dead body, he says, will he let Hitler take what our family has worked so hard for.” I watch him carefully.
Isn’t the reverse true? It’s the Jews who have stolen from hardworking Germans.
“I’ve written letters all over Europe trying to get an apprenticeship or a job of some sort. But I’ve had no luck. Jews aren’t welcome anywhere, it seems,” Walter continues.
This is making my head ache. People only ever talk of getting rid of scheming, thieving Jews. Nobody mentions where exactly they should go, other than Palestine. I stare at the basket and wonder what to say.
“I’m sorry for you, Walter, truly, but stealing ?”
“Hetty...” He touches my hand; the shock of his skin on mine is electric.
He looks hard into my eyes. “The bakery will no longer sell us bread. The greengrocer refuses us entry. Haven’t you seen the signs, NO JEWS , outside so many shops?
They permit dogs, but not us. I don’t want pity; I just want you to see how it is.
The truth is, we are barely getting by.”
“But... There are Jewish shops. And department stores. What about those?”
“Yes, but most have been taken from their Jewish owners, or shut down. If I go there, I risk being set upon by SA thugs.” His jaw is set and his eyes become angry. He laughs harshly, his face red. “And you berate me for stealing a few vegetables?”
His anger hits me like a fist in the belly, and I shrink from him.
“I’m sorry.” He stretches his hands toward me.
“I didn’t mean to... God, you’re the last person I want to think badly of me.
” And there, suddenly, is the Walter who saved my life, open and honest. Not angry at me, but at life.
His face crumples. “We just have to hope these times will pass, and things will become... normal again.”
Can it be so wrong to take a few vegetables if you are denied the ability to buy any? whispers a tiny voice. I silence it.
“I really must get back now.” I speak into an uncomfortable silence. The temperature is climbing and Kuschi pants gently at my side.
“Of course.” Walter glances around and then looks at his basket. “Me too. This is rather conspicuous.”
We stroll back to the humpbacked bridge where we will go our separate ways, me across the river back to Gohlis, and Walter, right, toward his grandmother’s house on Hindenburgstrasse.
I’m strangely aware of my body: the shortness of my legs, the messiness of my hair, my thin arms, the fat feel of my tongue in my mouth, a strange tingling sensation on my skin.
“How is Karl?” Walter asks suddenly. “He must have his Arbitur by now and be off to university soon?”
“Yes. He did well, but Karl is going to join the Luftwaffe.” It’s impossible to keep the pride from my voice.
“A pilot, eh? He’ll do well, I’m sure.”
“He reached a high rank in the Flieger-HJ. The Luftwaffe recruited him because he was so well thought of.”
“Remember the games we used to play, Hetty? Cowboys and Indians? We always argued over who would have the pistol, and who the bow and arrow.” He shakes his head and smiles to himself.
“You used to let me be the doctor-squaw. I’d scrub your feet and treat your war wounds. Afterward I’d make you mud pie dinners!”
“Very delicious they were too.” Walter laughs.
We reach the bridge. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.
We stare at each other and I shuffle my feet.
The silence stretches. Not taking his eyes off mine, Walter reaches out for my hand and solemnly shakes it.
I feel a flicker of illicit excitement at his touch and don’t want to let go.
“Well, it’s been very nice to see you.” He slips his hand away. “I’m sorry things are as they are, but I wish you well. Good-bye, Hetty.” He smiles and gives a half wave of his hand as he turns, shoves his hat on his head, and walks away.
I watch him walk three steps.
“Wait! When will I see you again?” I burst out. Then I shrivel and bite my lip.
Walter stops and turns.
“You really want to see me again?”
“Only if you want to. I know it’s probably not a good idea.”
“You can say that again!”
“I mean, we shouldn’t.”
“We definitely shouldn’t.” He leans against the rough wall of the bridge and slides his free hand into his pocket, crossing one leg in front of the other.
“It would be very dangerous. Especially for me. A dastardly Jew caught with a beautiful young German woman? I know of a Jew who was recently dragged from his house and beaten for being too friendly with the daughter of a tax inspector.”
Beautiful. Young woman.
Can he really think me beautiful?
“But you’re worth the risk,” he continues with a broad smile. “How about we meet at seven, next Sunday morning, here by this bridge?”
“I’ll be away at camp with the Bund Deutscher M?del. My parents never wanted me to join, but after it became compulsory last December for all Aryan children, they had no choice but to let me.”
“In two weeks’ time then?”
“In two weeks, yes.”
“But not a word to anyone.” Walter waggles a scolding finger at me, his face stern.
I nod and walk quickly away over the little bridge, turning toward the slowly waking city.
“Come on, Kuschi,” I call, looking back over my shoulder. Walter is walking away, square shouldered, basket at his side. He glances back and grins when he sees me looking. My heart skips and I am weightless, all the way back to Fritzschestrasse.