Chapter 44 Surprise
SURPRISE
“I notice what he didn’t say,” Alix said. “That if he were stationed in Nuremberg, he’d be able to hang out with that beautiful blonde again. ‘Gee, what a coincidence, Dad! I almost forgot she lived there!’”
“Probably because his father wrote him back,” I said, “after the letter that ended with the bit about me.”
“Aha,” Alix said. “Let me guess. He wasn’t supposed to be attracted to a German?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “A German Jew? Absolutely. But any shiksa—any Gentile woman—was out of the question, and as for a German shiksa—the very idea was anathema.”
“Ana-what?” Ben asked.
“Anathema,” I said. “The object of vehement dislike. More than out of the question—unthinkable.” What were schools teaching these days?
“I guess he was surprised later, then,” Ben said.
“You could say that,” I said.
“Good thing Grandpa had a mind of his own,” Alix said.
On a clear, cool morning in mid-September, I was handing over a loaf of Pumpernickel—oh, the blessing of Pumpernickel, with its three ingredients! Rye berries, salt, and water, I did have—and telling Dr. Müller, “I’m not sure I’m enjoying The Grapes of Wrath so much.”
“Oh?” he asked, putting the loaf into his string bag and pausing to cough into a handkerchief. “Why not?” He’d been a professor at the University of Erlangen until being forced out in 1933—for his liberal ideas, as he was neither a Jew nor a Communist—and was old now and very thin and stooped.
“A bit too close to home, perhaps,” I said, “as a refugee.”
“Ah,” he said, his mild blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
“It’s interesting, is it not, our reactions to books?
For me, you know, it’s somewhat the opposite.
I enjoy reading about hard times, particularly hard times in history, for it reminds me that no matter how bleak they are, they do end.
Better times come again, if one can hold out. ”
“The ‘if’,” I said, “is the difficult part. And is it enough to simply hold out, or does one have an obligation to try to better the situation, even if the effort will be doomed?”
He beamed. “An excellent question. You are a most perceptive student. A pity your parents didn’t send you to university. One of the Nazis’ worst ideas, in my opinion, depriving society of the intellectual contributions of women. And Jews, of course. Oh, yes, and Jews.”
“I agree,” I said. “Though not about my parents. They would have sent me, I’m sure, had they lived.
As for my perception—easier to talk about speaking out than actually to do it!
But I have to tell you—what a captivating book is Gone With the Wind!
That’s about war, but it feels very different somehow—farther away.
I confess I set The Grapes of Wrath aside to start it.
She’s a most terrible and wonderful heroine, isn’t she?
” How strange and heady it was to be able to speak freely, as I’d never in my life been able to do!
Well, perhaps at seven or eight years old, but I’d had no dangerous thoughts at seven or eight.
“Indeed,” Dr. Müller said. “You’ll pardon my eagerness, but I’ve brought you The Maltese Falcon today.
” He pulled the book out of his string bag and set it on the counter, then paused to cough some more.
“A very different writing style, and I’ll be interested to hear what you think of it.
It’s such a pleasure to be able to discuss American novels again!
I will first mention, though, in my role as professor, how we see the issue of race arise once more with Gone With the Wind, as we discussed when you read Huckleberry Finn, although the authors’ approaches and perhaps their beliefs are quite different, and the books were written in different eras as well.
We must have tea soon, you and I, and delve into this.
Even the Americans, it seems, don’t truly believe in the equality they espouse. How imperfect is the world!”
Frau Lindemann, behind him in the queue, said, “How imperfect indeed, when Germans stand about discussing the enemy’s books, which one has of course read in English. What’s wrong with German authors? Have you no national pride, either of you? You should really be ashamed.”
Frau Neumann, behind her—I could swear that she watched for Frau Lindemann just so she could torment her—said, “Ach, du lieber Himmel, here we go again. Isn’t it enough that Herr Dr. Müller spent six months in Dachau as the guest of the Gestapo for enjoying literature?
Must he be tormented forevermore for the crime of scholarship?
Yes, learning—how very suspect! And is one not even allowed to read another language now?
We should have a bonfire and burn all the foreign books, no?
And yet—hmm, it seems to me that we’ve tried that.
Perhaps you might be ashamed, just a bit? ”
“I?” Frau Lindemann sputtered. “I, with my husband still in a prison camp simply for defending his country? And what of Herr Adelberg, still penned up in England?”
“At least he’s eating,” Frau Neumann said with a laugh. “If it were my husband, I’d hope they wouldn’t send him home until we have meat again!”
I asked hurriedly, “What can I offer you today, Frau Lindemann?”
“I don’t know why I patronize this shop,” she said. “I have half a mind to go elsewhere.”
“Oh, that would be a pity,” Dr. Müller said, still mildly. “I’m sure Fr?ulein Glücksburg makes the best bread in Bavaria.”
I was about to answer that—although how, I had no idea—when the bell jangled at the door and somebody stepped into the shop.
Somebody in a short, neat olive-green jacket, matching trousers, and khaki shirt and tie, with his cap tucked under his arm.
Somebody tall, with a thin face, a beaky nose, and glasses.
Frau Lindemann said sharply, “Is your hearing failing? I asked for a loaf of potato bread.”
“Oh!” I said, and jumped. And then forgot again.
It was like wind going through a field of wheat, the way everybody turned and stared.
“Grüss Gott,” Joe said politely. That was nice—he’d learned to say hello, and a specifically Bavarian hello, too.
Frau Lindemann said, “Are we having not just seditious talk in this shop now, but Americans as well? When do the Russians arrive? Perhaps we should have a tea party for them!”
Joe said—in German!—“I believe the Russians arrive next month. I’m sure they’d appreciate a tea party when they do get here, though. I came for a loaf of bread, myself, but I’m happy to wait my turn.”
Now I was the one goggling. I said, “How did you—how are you—” Then realized that I couldn’t possibly reveal that I’d met him before—that had been seditious, even if there wasn’t anyone to punish me for it anymore.
Other than by shunning me, of course. For the sake of the shop, and Frau Adelberg, too, I mustn’t let on.
As if summoned by the thought, Frau Adelberg came out of the kitchen, saw Joe, and jumped back as if she’d seen a snake. “Oh!” she said, patting her chest. “How did—”
I handed Frau Lindemann her bread and took her coins, my only thought being, I have to get her out of here, for if anybody jumps to the least charitable conclusion, it will be her.
Of course, she didn’t go. Neither had Dr. Müller, and Frau Neumann wasn’t even pretending to ask for bread.
Between Frau Neumann and Joe was Frau Olsen, a blonde with protuberant, pale-blue eyes that made her look constantly astonished.
I realized with a start that she was the mother of Axel, the boy who’d shot Joe.
Did she know about my adventure? She hadn’t said anything so far, but Axel would certainly know—he’d been right there to aim.
Although with Joe’s helmet having been on at the time, would Axel even recognize him? I could only hope.
First things first. “How can I help you, Frau Neumann?” I asked. I didn’t look at Joe, and Frau Adelberg must have caught on, for she didn’t say anything else, just stood there looking like she didn’t know what to do.
Eventually, when nothing exciting happened, Frau Neumann and Frau Lindemann left the shop, and Frau Olsen, too, didn’t seem to want to stick around. Her glance at Joe was hostile, though not as poisonous as Frau Lindemann’s, but neither challenged him directly.
Dr. Müller, though, was not so easily put off. He just stood there as Joe reached the counter, then clearly expected him to ask for bread. What did I do now?
Joe didn’t seem to know either, for he glanced at Dr. Müller, then at me, and said in English, with a sheepish smile, “Sorry about that. I couldn’t resist.”
“It was funny,” I said. “But you speak German!”
“Yes,” he said. “Sorry about, ah, earlier. I don’t need any bread, actually.”
“No,” I said. “I figured as much.”
Dr. Müller said, also in English, “You know each other, then?”
“No,” I said, just as Joe said, “Yes.” We both started talking at once, then stopped again, and Joe grinned ruefully and said, “I guess I overestimated our acquaintance. Hello, sir.” He put out a hand. “Joe Stark.”
“Good morning, Mr. Stark,” Dr. Müller said, shaking his hand. “Friedrich Müller.”
“Dr. Müller,” I said firmly. Few men were as highly respected in Germany as professors and physicians, and I’d long suspected how much Dr. Becker’s loss of status had hurt. Surely it was the same here.
“A pleasure to meet you, Herr Doktor,” Joe said politely, and I felt oddly and stupidly proud that he’d got it right.
Dr. Müller said, looking between the two of us in an uncomfortably perceptive way, “Fr?ulein Glücksburg is a very pretty girl, no?”
“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “I guess you’ve caught me out.” He glanced at the book on the counter. “Who’s reading this? That’s some hard-boiled stuff. A good yarn, too. Nothing like Agatha Christie, but I enjoy them both.”
“I have just loaned it to Fr?ulein Glücksburg,” Dr. Müller said. “We have enjoyed discussing novels together in recent months. I am very fortunate to still have a library, for I confess that I have always spent more money on books than on things some would consider more important.”
“Like heating,” I said, teasing a little, but so aware of Joe’s eyes on me. “And food.”
Dr. Müller gave me his gentle smile and touched his handkerchief to his lips.
“But for what does one live now but books? I am yet more fortunate to have come to know Fr?ulein Glücksburg. How rare in these times to meet a young woman who reads both English and French. Italian as well, I think you said. You have the better of me there.” His tone was still mild, but his eyes were watchful.
Looking out for me, but here I was, dying of curiosity!
And possibly something more, since my heart was beating hard and I was sure my cheeks were flushed.
“My Italian is rudimentary, I’m afraid,” I said. “Only enough to understand the gist of an aria.”
“Strange times,” Dr. Müller said, “when one can meet such an educated lady behind the counter of a bakery. And you, Herr Stark? Pardon me—do you have a rank I should use? I fear I am unfamiliar, although I do know that a general wears stars.”
“Staff Sergeant, sir,” Joe said. “Nothing like a general, I’m afraid. ‘Sergeant’ works too, though.”
Dr. Müller nodded. “Staff Sergeant Stark. I’ll use your correct title. I imagine you’ve earned it. Do you enjoy reading also?”
If it was meant to put Joe in his place, it failed. He said, “I do, sir, though I haven’t had as much time for it recently, as you can imagine. I was just writing my dad about how much I was enjoying John Dos Passos. The USA trilogy.”
Dr. Müller leaned forward eagerly. “Indeed? I have been able to obtain only the first book.”
“I’m just finishing it now,” Joe said. “I’d be happy to loan you my copy afterwards, if you like.
They’ve got the whole thing in one volume now.
I was thinking that I’d like to dig into some of the English novels next.
Evelyn Waugh, now … what do you think of him?
He has a new novel out, I understand, that’s made quite a splash.
Brideshead Revisited. Maybe a little too much war in it, but I’d like to give it a shot. ”
“Really?” Dr. Müller asked. “But how very exciting.”
Joe said, in a take-the-bull-by-the-horns manner that I found most attractive, “I’ll get you that USA once I finish with it.
And as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I really came in to see if I could invite Daisy out for a coffee, or even lunch, if I get my way.
They’re serving something at the hotel. I’m not sure it’s exactly coffee —or lunch, for that matter—but … ”
Dr. Müller said, “You’ll set tongues wagging if you do.” Still mild, but with an edge to it.
“I’m sorry about that,” Joe said, “but I guess I’ll leave it up to her.” He looked at me, that smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t handsome, so why did I like his face so much? “May I take you out for lunch? If not now, maybe a coffee after the bakery closes for the day?”
The bells on the door rang again, and another customer entered the shop. I didn’t pat my hair, although I wanted to. I said, “Let me just check with Frau Adelberg. One moment, please.”
The minute I was around the corner and in the kitchen, Frau Adelberg was hissing, “He’s come back! Oh, what will this do to us, if it gets out?”
“Why should it get out?” I asked. “Can you take over in the shop for half an hour, please?”
She stared at me. “Why?”
“So I can have lunch with him.”
“What?”
“Nobody knows,” I pointed out. “He’s just another American soldier, and we’re seeing more of them every day. It won’t be such a shock as all that.”
“I’m not seeing more of them every day,” she said. “Where are you going, that you’re seeing all these Americans?”
“On my bicycle?” I suggested. “Into the countryside? The worst I can say of them is that they drive too fast. And they do whistle at one terribly, but they haven’t bothered me otherwise. There is a customer out there. Shouldn’t we …”
The sound of the bell again, and then a shout. “It’s you! Have you come to fight again? Where’s your gun and your grenades? Do you have any more chocolate?”
Matti had come home for lunch.