Anna looks sideways at her husband. It is true that Jack is simple in that he requires only life’s basic gifts to be content: a pretty wife, a lively child, healthy livestock and a well-run farm. But in the sense these women have meant it—befuddled, easily misled—Jack is not simple. He is shy, yet he is far from stupid. How much, Anna wonders, did he hear of Frau Hochmeier’s denunciation at the Buchenwald gates? He keeps to himself, her husband, and this is one trait Anna understands and appreciates. Jack has never mentioned the scene, and Anna is certainly not about to ask him.
Whatever Jack suspects, however, there is one thing Anna is certain he does not: the other wives know about the Obersturm-führer. Has Anna really been so foolish as to think she can escape him simply by crossing an ocean and half a continent? No. She knows what the women were sniffing for earlier. They may not have the specific facts at their disposal, but with the instincts peculiar to her gender, the wives can smell the Obersturmführer on Anna, even here.
Yet to cry further over this will be to risk the freezing eyeballs and upset Jack, so Anna summons a wan smile and picks up the thread of the conversation, winding it back to its source.
I will try better not to take it to heart, she assures him. Now can we speak of happier things? It is Christmas, after all.
Jack looks relieved, and Anna takes momentary advantage of his concern to slip into her own language, the ease of which is like a bath.
Did you see the jelly with the white things in it? she asks. Horrible! Like a science experiment.
Jack laughs.
Ambrosia, he says mysteriously.
He pats Anna’s arm and shifts into gear, jolting the truck out of the lot.
Trudie, who has been dozing, stirs and nuzzles her head against Anna’s coat.
What time is it, Mama? she asks. Is it Christmas yet? When is Saint Nikolaus coming?
Anna sits up straighter.
Saint Nikolaus doesn’t come here, she says rapidly in German. In America we have Santa Claus, remember?
Yes, but I want Saint Nikolaus, Trudie says, and Anna’s stomach goes cold.
Hush, Trudie, she says. Do not distract your father’s driving. You will make us go into a ditch.
She waits fearfully for the child to say something else, but Trudie just shudders and yawns.
Somebody’s ready for Santa, all right, says Jack.
On the county road the truck jounces over ruts of ice a half-meter deep. A foot, Anna reminds herself, her teeth clacking together; a foot. Already uneasy, she has to restrain herself from yelping when the truck fishtails on a curve; she tries to mimic Jack, whose expression remains unperturbed as he cranks the wheel in the direction of the spin. Anna bites the inside of her cheek and watches the headlights slice through the dark to reveal the icy road, the drifts and fencing on either side. She wonders, not for the first time, what on earth enticed people to carve out lives on this frozen plain. If she still believed in the religious teachings of her girlhood, Anna thinks, she would pray for two things: that they reach the farmhouse in one piece and that the child should hold her tongue until she can be put to sleep.
Devout or not, Anna is granted both wishes, and the truck is soon parked in the dooryard without mishap. Jack rouses Trudie and slings her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, jogging with her up the porch steps. Anna follows with her gloved fist to her mouth, feeling sick as the child shrieks with delight at this familiar game.
Can’t I stay up just a little longer? Trudie begs. Please? Pleeeeeease—
Do you know what becomes of clever little girls who steal other people’s names? asks the Obersturmführer. They must go straight to bed.
Trudie, behave, Anna calls. She knocks snow off her boots onto the plastic mat. Mind your father.
She holds her breath, but the only response is a drift of giggles from upstairs.
Frowning, Anna moves about the living room, picking up scarves and coats and hanging them in the closet. She wriggles her nyloned toes on the thick beige carpet and looks around at the Christmas tree with its gaudy bulbs, her own davenport with its new slipcover, the phonograph Jack brought home in September when soybean prices went through the roof. There is none of the shabby elegance of the Elternhaus in this room, nor the gemütlich trappings of the Gasthof in Berchtesgaden. And it is the furthest thing from the deprivation of the bakery. Life in this place is soft, made more so by wondrous amenities such as deepfreeze units and washing machines, vacuum cleaners and central heat. Anna wants for nothing. Nothing material, in any case.
In the kitchen, Anna sets out breakfast things on the Formica table: plates, mugs, sugar, jam. Returning to the front room, she stuffs Trudie’s stocking with oranges and candy and clothes for her doll. She unplugs the lights of the Christmas tree so as not to start a fire. Then she switches off the floor lamp as well and stands in the dark, listening for noise from above.
But all is quiet. Anna taps her knuckles thoughtfully against her lips. What did the child really mean by her question? It is the first time Trudie has mentioned Saint Nikolaus since leaving Germany. How much does she remember? The numbing blow Saint Nikolaus dealt her, the marching song he taught her, the tale they spun about the rabbits in the Trog? His clownish conducting of Brahms on the riverbank of the Ilm? The showering candlesticks and crashing china, the boot thudding on the wall near her head, Saint Nikolaus’s stomach slick with her mother’s blood? Playing in the kitchen, the cellar, the bakery dooryard, all the while listening to Anna’s stifled cries.
Anna climbs the steps to the second story and pauses before Trudie’s room. She taps on the door and pushes it open, shutting it quietly behind her. At first she thinks the girl is asleep, but then a sniffle comes from the huddled little ball on the bed, and then another, and when Anna sits on the edge of the mattress and feels for Trudie’s face, her fingers come away wet.
So, says Anna. So. What is all this? Shhhhh. Hush now. You should be happy tonight of all nights. And you must go to sleep, for how will Santa ever come to bring your presents if you do not?
She strokes the girl’s hair until Trudie stops crying and lies quietly, though her body still quivers beneath Anna’s hand. Then there comes a sad mumble, muffled by the pillow.
What did you say, little rabbit? Anna asks, bending over her.
I don’t want Santa, the child says. I want Saint Nikolaus.
Well, you cannot have him, Trudie. He will never come again. So you must not think of him any more.
But I want him, the girl wails. Where is he, Mama? Why isn’t he here with us? I miss him—
Be quiet, Trudie! Do you want Jack to hear you? Now I will tell you something very important. You must never say such things in this house. You must never speak of that man at all. You must never even think of him. Never. Do you understand?
But I don’t want Jack. I want him—Anna grips Trudie’s face on either side of the jaw.
I said you will not speak of him. He no longer exists. He belongs to the past, to that other place and time, and all of that is dead. Do you hear? The past is dead, and better it remain so.
Anna gives Trudie’s chin a shake for emphasis, her fingers digging into the child’s soft flesh. She despises herself for it—she would rather take a blade to her own face than hurt her daughter this way. But it must be done. The girl must be made to understand.
Never, Anna repeats. Do you hear?
Trudie tries to nod.
Yes, Mama.
That is my good girl.
Slowly, Anna relaxes her grasp. She touches the child’s cheeks in the dark, then kisses her on the forehead.
Now we will not talk of it any more. You will sleep, and morning will be here before you know it, and then you may open your gifts. Won’t that be nice?
Yes, Mama.
Well then.
Anna rises and makes her way to the door.
Sweet dreams, little rabbit, she says, as she closes it.
Then, legs weak, she wobbles the few steps to the wind
ow at the end of the hallway and stands clutching her elbows to stop their shaking. There is the dooryard. There is the truck, a dark shape against high snowbanks, its metallic womanly curves gleaming faintly in the light of pinprick stars. There are the pines standing guard along the drive, planted by Jack’s grandfather shortly after the man emigrated to this country from a similar farm in Germany—from Rothenburg ob der Tauber, in fact. And beyond their silent boughs, there is only snow, stretching unbroken for kilometers in every direction. Miles.
Anna closes her eyes. She has done what she can for her daughter. She can only hope it is enough. And for the second time that night, Anna finds herself thinking that although she no longer places any faith in prayer, she will offer one up nonethe-less: that the child be allowed to forget. Anna’s first memory is of the radio on her mother’s dresser speaking directly to her, admonishing her to eat her vegetables; she prays now that Trudie’s recollections will assume the same jumbled, nonsensical quality of dream; that with time they will be expunged from that bright lively mind; that her daughter’s childhood will consist solely of gamboling beneath this enormous American sky, on these flat broad planes as guileless as her adopted father’s face.
A door opens down the hall.
Annie?
I am here, Anna whispers. I will be right in.
I wondered where you were. I thought maybe you’d fallen asleep downstairs.
Jack chuckles. What are you doing, anyway? he asks.
Nothing, says Anna. Telling Trudie good night.
Well, come to bed.
I will. In a moment.
Rubbing her arms, Anna takes a last look at the fields. Please, she thinks. Please, let her remember only what I have said. She stands a moment longer listening to the house settle around her, creaking in the wind. Then she turns from the window and walks to the master bedroom where her husband waits for her.
58
ANNA AND JACK ARE BOTH EARLY RISERS, JACK AS RE-quired by profession and Anna by dint of long habit from the bakery. But the next morning, Trudie is up and about before either of them. It is barely dawn when Anna wakes with a start to find the child staring down at her, a small ghostly figure in her long white nightgown and the room’s slowly graying light.
Careful not to disturb Jack, Anna pushes herself up on one elbow, her vision half obscured by a curtain of hair.
What is it, Trudie? she asks. A nightmare?
Trudie shakes her head, her sleep-mussed braids unraveling.
Is it Christmas yet? she whispers.
Anna remembers what day it is and smiles.
So it is, she says. Merry Christmas, little one.
Did my presents come? Can I go open them?
May I, Anna corrects automatically. In a few minutes. When both your father and I will come too.
Jack stirs and grumbles something before burrowing deeper beneath the quilts, pulling the pillow over his head.
Merry Christmas, Dad, Trudie says, climbing onto the bed between her parents. She plucks at Jack’s undershirt. Merry Christmas Merry Christmas! Wake up wake up so I can open my presents, get up now, pleeeease—Jack groans, rolling over.
Dad’s sleepy, Strudel, he says.
Trudie pouts, pulling a wisp of hair on his chest.
Why are grown-ups always sleepy, she asks.
Because we’re old, Jack tells her.
He taps his cheek with a finger. Trudie kisses the spot three times, then smacks the other side of his jaw, his chin, and his forehead.
Yuck, scratchy, she comments. Now will you get up? Please?
You go ahead, says Jack. We’ll be down soon.
The girl catapults from the bed.
Only the gifts Santa has brought, Anna calls. Only those in your stocking, do you hear?
Yesssssssss, Trudie shouts impatiently.
Anna sighs and grimaces at her husband as the child runs down the stairs.
You spoil her, she says.
I know, replies Jack without a hint of remorse.
He lifts the pillow and sweeps a palm beneath it. I like to spoil her mother too, he adds. Now where is that darned thing . . . ? Oh.
He hands Anna a small velvet box.
Anna frowns. And what is this? she asks her husband.
A diamond ? says the Obersturmführer. Perfume, perhaps? A string of pearls for that lovely neck?
You’ll see, Jack says.
Anna turns the box over. On its underside is the imprint of the New Heidelburg jeweler, Ingebretsen’s, scrolled in gold script.
You should not have done this, Jack, she scolds. It must be very expensive.
Would you just please open it?
Anna aims a mock scowl in her husband’s direction. Jack smiles and lazily scratches his stomach. In the box, on cotton batting, is a silver locket.
This is very fine, Anna tells him. Such beautiful . . .
She fishes for the English word for craftsmanship, but when it doesn’t surface, she repeats, It is very fine.
Look inside.
Anna does and again feels a nauseating déjà vu. The hinged oval reveals a photograph, inexpertly trimmed with nail scissors, of a family of three. It is not Anna and the child and the Ober-sturmführer, of course; in this locket she and Trudie are posed sitting with Jack at his HQ in Weimar, shortly before departing Germany. But the similarity is strong enough—down to Jack’s dress uniform and ramrod posture—to cause cold sweat to form at Anna’s temples and under her arms.
You don’t like it, Jack says, crestfallen. I guess I should have gotten something else.
Anna daubs her forehead with the sleeve of her nightgown.
I love it, she says.
Really?
Anna hands the locket to him, gathering and lifting her hair.
Put it on me, please, she says.
After a few attempts, the fine chain catching on his callused fingers, Jack fastens the clasp. He kisses the nape of Anna’s neck, and she shivers at the scrape of stubble on her skin.
How do I look? she asks, turning to face him.
Like a dream, says Jack.
Shyly, he touches her nearest breast through her nightdress, his signal. Anna is startled. He usually prefers such things to take place once a week, on Saturdays, only at night and always in the dark.
The child—, she protests.
Don’t worry about her, Jack says. She’s forgotten all about us.
She will love the bicycle, says Anna, stalling.
But Jack kisses her, his breath thick with sleep. He undoes the ribbon at the throat of the gown and draws the material aside to expose her breasts. As he buries his face between them, Anna stares over his cowlicked head at her curtains. They are not lace but dotted muslin; the walls have been papered, also at her request, with a pattern of violets. They are not dark wood or decaying plaster. There is nothing of Germany here. Except that, whenever Anna blinks, she sees the bakery. Blink: the cold ring of the overhead light in the storefront. Blink: the snow tracked in by the refugees melting in dirty puddles on the floor. Blink: the webbed cracks on the ceiling in Mathilde’s bedroom, so similar to the tracery of veins in Anna’s lids that they might have been tattooed there. The fleeting images are like cinders in the eyes, a constant irritant.
Anna screws them shut, but it is no use, it is in fact worse, for she then sees the Obersturmführer ’s dilated pupils fixed on her. She feels his ersatz grin pressed to her throat, his mouth fastened and sucking on a particular spot between shoulder and neck. Her hips jackknife upward against her husband’s and she cries out.
Jack rolls off her.
Annie? Did I hurt you? Look at you, you’re shaking like a leaf. Are you cold?
The Obersturmführer drags his pistol down Anna’s ribs. Are you cold, Anna? he asks. You must not lie to me, I can tell you are.
Is it— female trouble again? Jack asks. Let me take you to a doctor, Annie, please. We could go to Iowa City or Rochester. Nobody would have to know.
He reaches over t
o smooth Anna’s damp hair. Anna ducks her head away.
I do not need a doctor, she assures him. I am fine.
In truth she is stiff with fright. This happens every time she and Jack perform the marital act, and Anna fears he suspects well enough what is wrong with her. There is no hiding anything physical from a man who works with animals, who guides lambs from the birth canal and calms skittish horses merely by grazing his weathered fingertips over their quivering hindquarters.
Anna searches for an excuse not already used.
I am just thinking of the child, she says. What if she should hear? And, Jack, in the daytime . . . ?
But Jack is not listening. He is lying on his back, contemplating the ceiling. He runs a hand over his chin, skewing his jaw to one side. Then he sits up so he can see Anna’s face.
I promised myself I wouldn’t ask this, he says. I thought I didn’t want to know. But it’s been driving me crazy.
He looks down at Anna.
Anna, I’m only going to ask this once. That thing the woman said, the morning we brought you to the camp, the thing about the SS officer. Was it true?
Anna turns her head away, toward her curtains.
Yes, she whispers finally.
She feels Jack grow still beside her. She dares a glance at him. He has gone white; but for the rise and fall of his chest, he might be made of plaster. Then he turns his back on her.
Anna closes her eyes.
Jack, she says.
She hears him shove the quilts aside. She knows from the bed’s sag that he is sitting on its edge, perhaps staring at nothing, perhaps talking silently to himself. Suddenly the mattress springs into place as he jumps up, and Anna is lying alone.