Ah, says Anna. I suspected as much.
Did you?
Yes. It was written on your face the moment you saw him.
Trudy looks up at her.
So you know he was Jewish, she says.
Yes. I knew.
Doesn’t that bother you, Mama? That I was involved with a Jew?
Anna continues to smile, a little sadly, Trudy thinks.
That is a silly question, Trudy, she says. Why should it? You are a grown woman. You may keep company with whomever you wish. It is no concern of mine.
Well, says Trudy. It’s irrelevant now anyway. He’s gone.
Then she covers her face again.
So, she hears Anna say. So.
She senses rather than feels Anna’s fingers graze her hair, so light is the touch. It is more a fleeting rearrangement of the mol ecules in the air near Trudy’s head, a momentary impression of movement, than anything. Yet it suddenly reminds Trudy of all the other occasions on which Anna has comforted her. Nur eine Alptraum, Anna would say, sitting on the side of Trudy’s childhood bed when Trudy awoke yelling from nightmares she could never remember; Ja so, es ist nur eine Alptraum. Just a bad dream. A voice in the dark. A hand on Trudy’s forehead. How Anna slapped Trudy and then held her on the morning of Trudy’s first menstrual flow, when Trudy screamed and screamed and could not stop screaming at the discovery of the rusty stain on her drawers. So. So. This is what it means to be a woman. Once a month you will pass blood. Like so, nicht? The sight of Anna’s rare smile, her fine strong white teeth, sun winking through clouds. And the tune Anna hummed, a favorite of Jack’s to which Anna had not yet learned the words: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.
But it is too late for such things now, or perhaps too much wariness has passed between the two women. For there is only the moth-light brush of Anna’s fingertips and a trace of her lilac sachet, and when Trudy looks up she sees that Anna has already gone to the door.
I have made a cake, Anna tells her. A poppy-seed cake. Would you like some?
Before Trudy can refuse, she adds, I will put on a pot of your coffee to go with it.
Kaffee und Kuchen instead of Komfort ? Trudy thinks. Well, why not? It is the best either of them can do.
Despite everything, Trudy’s lips stitch in a rueful smile, and Anna looks pleased, and it is then that Trudy recalls the rest of the song: The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping , I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, so I hung my head and cried.
Thank you, Mama, she says softly. I would like that.
Anna and Jack,
New Heidelburg, 1945
56
H EIMAT . THE WORD MEANS HOME IN GERMAN, THE PLACE where one was born. But the term also conveys a subtler nuance, a certain tenderness. One’s Heimat is not merely a matter of geography; it is where the heart lies. And Anna, lacking the vocabulary to explain this distinction to anyone in her new country, is no longer certain she has one.
For as alien as her own land has become to Anna, her husband’s Heimat is more so. Everything about America is incomprehensible to her: the abundant food, the huge vehicles, the immensity of its flat horizons and the violence of its weather. Worse, despite the surface strangeness, an essential undercurrent remains the same. The people here regard Anna with suspicion, their hostility palpable beneath their polite smiles. Anna is dismayed to discover that she has carried Germany with her as surely as if she had imported the spores of its soil beneath her fingernails, as if the smell of its corpses still clung to her skin.
Christmas Eve, 1945, Anna’s first experience of the holiday in her adopted homeland. She and Jack and Trudie will attend services at the New Heidelburg Lutheran Church. This is a good twelve kilometers—miles, Anna reminds herself—from the farmhouse. A long drive on a cold night. Anna would much prefer to stay home, putting the finishing touches on tomorrow’s goose or tying ribbons on presents or simply sitting in the kitchen, toasting her feet by the range and awaiting Jack and Trudie’s return. But over the past three months Anna has observed that it saddens Jack when she avoids going into town, though he never says it outright. And she has retained enough Old World schooling to know that a good wife should never disappoint her husband. So Anna bathes herself and the child, puts on her nicest dress and bravest face, and climbs into the truck.
This Lutheran church is a surprisingly plain affair: square and white and wood-shingled, only its steeple differentiating it from a dwelling. A far cry, thinks Anna, from her childhood house of worship, Weimar’s massive stone cathedral with its soaring naves and disproportionately tiny red door meant to remind man of his relative insignificance. Yet Anna has never felt smaller than she does here, trying to evade the gawking of the curious by slipping into a rear pew. And tonight it is worse, since as a result of the farm truck balking in the subzero temperatures, she and Jack and Trudie are late. When they arrive minutes before the service is to begin, the church’s modest interior is packed and riotous with New Heidelburgers and their overexcited children. But when Jack and his new little family appear, a hush falls over the crowd. Heads swivel in their direction. There is whispering. And aside from this and a baby’s bleat, silence.
Jack stands surveying the room. He wears the stoic, friendly expression common among the people of this town, but in her side vision Anna sees his jaw tighten beneath his bumpy skin. And the reason is obvious: nobody is shifting aside to offer them a seat. Instead they stare, and nudge each other, and turn to stare again. Anna takes a firmer grip on Trudie’s hand, hoping the girl will not notice her own trembling. She looks straight ahead at the altar, head high. It is like being in a dream, a bad dream, and Anna has the odd sense that she has dreamed something very similar before.
Finally the minister’s wife pops up from the front pew like the toy Jack has made for Trudie for Christmas, its name bemusing to Anna because it is the same as his: jack-in-the-box.
Here’s some space for you folks, the woman calls, waving them over.
Anna and Jack and Trudie walk down the aisle past the rows of New Heidelburgers, Anna and Trudie a few steps before Jack as is proper, trailing a murmur in their wake.
Here you go, says the minister’s wife when they reach her, moving her coat to make room on the varnished bench. She beams at Jack, her face round as a platter beneath shellacked poodle curls.
My, isn’t it cold! she says, and turns to Trudie. But don’t you worry, she adds to the child, it’s not too cold for Santa to come. Not if you’ve been a good girl. Have you been good this year?
Trudie shrinks to hide herself behind Anna’s coat. Anna doesn’t blame her. The people here smile far too much to be trusted. But she whispers to the girl in German, Answer the nice lady.
Trudie peeks at the minister’s wife and scowls.
Thank you, Adeline, Jack tells the woman, voice low. Merry Christmas.
Why, Merry Christmas to you too!
Then they face forward as the service begins. Anna comprehends little of it. The way the minister speaks bears scant resemblance to the language she learned in Gymnasium; these Minnesotans talk from the throat, with flat wide vowels. Anna makes a token effort to practice her English by translating, though she doesn’t care much for the sermon on the glory of God and the miraculous birth of His son. But soon her mind returns, as always, to the bakery. The bakery with its worktable and rust-stained double sink. The bakery with mice scampering fruitlessly in the cupboards. The black rectangular mouth of the oven that assumed such horrible significance over the years as Anna shoveled loaves in and out. Mathilde’s bedroom with its cracked gray ceiling and the Obersturmführer ’s trousers slung over the baker’s vacant chair.
The congregation stands to sing. If Anna doesn’t completely understand the words, at least the music is familiar. Mindful of Jack watching her, she mouths the lyrics in English but rebelliously retains the German in her head: Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht . . . Then the service is over and t
he second part of this trial begins. Having been briefed by Jack beforehand, Anna knows what to expect, and she files with the rest of the town to the reception in the cellar. She looks around with curiosity, again startled by the humble appearance of the long room. When not being used for church functions, Jack has told her, it serves as a bingo parlor and cyclone shelter, whatever bingo and cyclone might be. In any case, it is tiled in faded linoleum and smells of old smoke, its only decorations lurid velvet paintings of Jesus and stags’ heads, and the men and women immediately divide into separate groups at either end with tangible relief.
Anna gives Trudie over to Jack’s care and approaches the folding table where the other wives have already set out their offerings. Such strange confections! A cake fashioned to look like a log, complete with a plastic sprig of holly; a gelatin mold with soft white sweets imprisoned in its wobbling confines. But for this too Anna is prepared, and she unwraps her Stollen and sets it among the other desserts as though it were no different from the rest. She regards her braided loaf of Christmas bread with pride. As Mathilde has taught her to do, she has folded dates and nuts into its dough, and before baking she brushed the top with egg white to make it shine.
As Anna steps back to further admire her handiwork, she notices the woman on her left inspecting it too. Mrs. Zimmerman, is that the woman’s name? Whoever she is, she squints warily at the Stollen as if the candied fruit in its crust might explode in her face like shrapnel. Then she catches Anna watching her and smiles.
Looks tasty, she says, and scuttles off to where the other women are standing on the far side of the room in an exclusionary knot.
Tasty? Cheeks aflame, Anna wanders a few meters away and pretends to admire the Jesus portrait. The son of God is silhouetted against a yellow sunburst and wearing a bright blue robe; he clasps his hands in prayer, his eyes rolled up toward heaven to show the whites. Anna gazes at this without seeing it, counting the seconds under her breath: elf . . . vierzehn . . . sieben und zwanzig . . . Once she has reached one hundred, she permits herself to look about for Jack. There he is, with the men, of course, discussing silage, drainage systems, crop prices and weather, a conversation as never-ending as the wind that scours this flat land. As is his wont, Jack is modestly listening rather than participating, but Anna notes the change in his stance: since importing and introducing his new family to the community, he stands at his full height rather than slumping in the way of a man accustomed to being invisible. Trudie is balanced on his shoulders, and Jack’s hand is clamped to her rump to ensure she doesn’t topple off. This mindfulness of the child, Anna has learned, is typical of Jack, as is his constant peripheral awareness of his wife. He now gives the room a quick scan as if to satisfy himself that Anna has not slipped away. She has grown used to this half-fearful reconnaissance, Jack’s treating her as though she is a wild creature he has caught and must gentle into being unafraid.
She fields his glance and widens her eyes at him. Jack nods and Anna allows herself a sigh of relief. It is nearly over, this ordeal. After the obligatory good-byes, they can go home. She counts again to one hundred, then begins walking toward him.
As she does, one of the boys skating across the speckled floor in stocking feet nearly collides with her, swerving aside at the last moment. Anna forces a smile at him, assuming this is an accident. Why, she wonders, do the parents in this country not better discipline their children? She takes another step and it happens again with a second boy. And the next. And the next.
Heinie! Kraut! a little towheaded boy hisses, sliding close enough to tweak Anna’s skirt and then veering away.
Did you see that? he shouts, darting back to the others. I touched her!
Timothy Wilson, you stop that, his mother calls.
The women break from their formation and descend upon their ill-behaved offspring, scolding the children as they haul them off by the arms. A few of them then crowd around Anna, standing much too close as they extend their apologies. In her discomfort they remind Anna of a pack of wild dogs; she thinks she even sees one woman sniffing her, then drawing back as if she has smelled something sour, boiled Rotkraut perhaps, on Anna’s clothes and hair. But surely this is Anna’s imagination, for she has used vanilla in her bathwater and after that, in anticipation of this occasion, an uncharacteristic spritz of Pretty Lady eau de cologne.
Sorry, the wives tell her, aren’t they just awful, you know how kids can be, sorry, sorry—
Then Jack breaks through them, holding out Anna’s coat.
Ready to go? he asks.
Anna nods, staring at the floor.
Where is Trudie? she whispers to the linoleum.
In the cloakroom, Jack replies. Putting on her boots.
Once he has helped Anna into her coat he guides her toward the door, lifting a hand in farewell. The crowds part for the pair, everyone smiling and nodding and wishing Anna a happy holiday. Merry Christmas, they say, winking. Hope Santa’s good to you this year! Merry Christmas.
But as the couple depart to collect the child, Anna looks back at the refreshment table. Among the empty trays and pans that contained the other wives’ cakes and pies, Anna’s Stollen sits untouched, its crust shining.
57
AS IF CONSPIRING TO FOIL ANNA’S ESCAPE FROM THE church, in its lot the farm truck again refuses to start. Jack pumps the gas pedal and talks to the engine, which turns over sluggishly but dies time after time.
Come on, Jack mutters. Come on, that’s it . . . Shitfire!
Anna huddles against Trudie, the two of them shaking helplessly. This is another thing Anna cannot get used to, this cold. She has given up trying to convert the temperature from Celsius to Fahrenheit, not because the mathematics are beyond her but because the results are surreal. Thirty below freezing, forty-five below—it is preposterous! Anna has heard that a dish of water, thrown skyward, will solidify before it hits the ground; that one’s eyeballs, if left unprotected, will freeze. Prone as these Americans are to tall tales, Anna believes it. Such conditions are almost enough to make one nostalgic for the relatively tame trials of chilblains and aching joints, the damp Weimarian winters. Anna draws Trudie closer to her side.
Keep your scarf over your face, she reminds the girl.
Damn it, Jack says. Goddamnit—there we go! All right then.
He smiles sheepishly at Anna.
We’ll just give her another minute or two to warm up, he says.
Anna nods, her teeth chattering.
Jack pushes his cap back on his head and ruffles the flattened hair there with a wrist, then cranes forward to examine the night sky through the windshield.
Least it’s too cold to snow, he comments; that’s one good thing.
Anna is too cold to answer. Instead, as they wait, she clears a small circle on her window with the side of her gloved fist. Jack has entreated her to wear mittens as Trudie does, explaining that they are more practical as the fingers are kept together for warmth, but here Anna has drawn the line. The bulky, childish things remind her of pot holders. She peers through the hole she has rubbed in the delicate fishbones of frost, watching the church. The reception is breaking up, the townsfolk coming through the door in twos and threes. Some of the women gather around the minister as he pauses on the step to secure the earflaps of his cap under his chin. Others inch toward their cars in pairs, arms slung around one another’s waists, laughing at their halting progress over the ice in their spectator pumps.
Jack grunts. Be lucky they don’t break their damn necks, he grumbles. Bet you’re glad you wore your boots, huh, Annie?
Then he looks at Anna and his voice changes.
Oh, honey, he says. Oh, honey, don’t. Don’t cry.
Anna turns away.
I am not crying, she tells him. It is the cold. It is making my eyes to water.
It’s water, not to water, just water, says Jack.
He blows out a breath and flexes his hands on the steering wheel.
You have to learn not to take it pers
onally, he says. They don’t mean to treat you wrong. It’s just that— Well, the war being so recent and all. Give them some time to get used to you. They’ll come around if you make a little effort. They’re basically good folks, you know.
Anna nods. There is some truth to what Jack says. They are not inherently bad, these New Heidelburgers. They are simply reacting to her own strangeness. The way her bones, even after months of beef and milk, are still too prominent in her face. The fact that her dresses don’t hang right. The white spots and ridges in her nails, the pallor of her skin. Her clumsy English, uttered in an accent so thick that her tongue feels like a useless lump of meat in her mouth. Anna knows that despite the town’s Teutonic name and the primarily German heritage of its citizens, they are Americans through and through, at least two generations removed from their original homeland. And thus Anna’s mere existence in their midst must offend them by reminding them of what they have just lost. Almost every front window in New Heidelburg boasts a gold star or two, honoring the memory of beloved sons who have given their lives in service of their country, and from long experience Anna recognizes widow’s black. No, she doesn’t condemn these people for the way they treat her. If the situation were reversed, might she not do the same?
But Anna also knows that although the women may someday pretend acceptance, it is useless to make a little effort, for they will never truly come around. She has not told Jack what happened at the sole social function she attended, a few weeks after her arrival, a bridge party at the house of the banker’s wife. Oh, the women were solicitous enough at first, insisting that Anna have the seat of honor on the davenport and making much of her pretty scarf, the elaborate coil of braids in which she wears her hair. Most of this took place in dumb show, naturally, although the women also brayed incomprehensibly in Anna’s face—speaking loudly, as Jack initially did, as though Anna were not foreign but deaf. Yet Anna did understand some of what they said, thanks to Jack’s insistence that only English be spoken at home, and indeed she comprehended perhaps more than they thought. For once their obligation to her was attended to, they withdrew to leave Anna on the davenport next to a plastic plant, a slice of upside-down pineapple cake in her lap for company, and as they chattered over their strange game of cards at tables of four, Anna heard the hostess utter the word simple. Glances in her direction. Shhh! She’ll hear you. Then again, a statement this time, louder in agreement: Well, sure she tricked him into marrying her, that poor simple man. Who else’d have him?