The German Wife(92)
He had a new best friend—a boy from Reno named Bobby—and I got the impression the two of them had become inseparable. Henry was saving money in case he decided to buy a house one day and dating a girl named Flora—at least periodically. She worked in the base’s administration office, and it felt a lot like every time Henry called, they’d either broken up again or were back together.
“Would you two make up your minds? Do you want to be together, or not?” I asked him one day, exasperated. Henry just laughed.
“This is a fiery relationship, Lizzie. That’s part of the appeal.”
I looked at Calvin, who was sitting on the sofa reading, and wondered, not for the first time, what was wrong with me.
“Hey, listen, sis. I have news,” Henry said suddenly. My stomach lurched.
“No. Tell me they aren’t deploying you,” I whispered.
“Where to? To Europe? Of course not. That’s a whole mess over there, but it has nothing to do with America,” Henry laughed. “No, I was just going to say my unit is coming to Fort Bliss for training in a few weeks, so I thought I’d take some leave while I’m in town. Can I come stay in your mansion for a few nights?”
Henry arrived on Thursday night, and we spent Friday and Saturday catching up. On Sunday, I made a roast chicken—one of the recipes I’d mastered. Henry and Calvin had never really had much time together, and I was enjoying watching them bond. They were presently in the sitting room, talking about planes.
Everything in the world seemed right that day. I was just about to pull the chicken from the oven. The rich smell was wafting through the house, and I was so happy, I was dancing to the music on the wireless as I served the food.
The breaking news broadcast cut the music off without warning, and I felt a chill run down my spine. I threw my oven mitts onto the floor as I twisted the volume of the radio up.
“Henry!” I cried. “Cal!”
Calvin ran into the kitchen, scanning as if he expected to find the place on fire, but his footsteps came to a halt as the crackling announcement filled the air.
This morning 8:00 a.m. local time in Honolulu...
...severe bombing of Pearl Harbor and the city of Honolulu by Japanese planes...
...fierce fighting in the air and on the sea...
...America is under attack. I repeat, America is under attack...
I was staring at Calvin in horror when Henry appeared behind him. My brother caught the end of the emergency broadcast, and I was staring right into his eyes as the realization dawned on me that the nation was now at war.
36
Sofie
Huntsville, Alabama
1950
When I heard the knock at the door, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the oven, my hair in a tangled bun, wearing one of Jürgen’s old shirts to protect my cotton dress.
“Tür, Mama,” Felix called.
“English, please, Felix,” I said. Then I corrected him. “Door.”
“Tür,” he muttered again, just loud enough for me to hear. I’d told him no more television that day and he was simultaneously moping and building a tower with some blocks. I scrambled to my feet and dropped my rubber gloves into the sink, then slipped out of Jürgen’s shirt and tried to smooth my hair as I walked to the door. I hoped it might be Claudia, coming to thank me for the confectioners’ sugar I’d left on her doorstep a few days earlier.
When I swung the door open and saw Lizzie Miller, my breath caught. She was holding a beige ceramic plate. She was a picture of poise—her vibrant red hair in a pageboy bob, sleek and smooth and curled under at the ends, delicate pearl earrings in her ears, perfectly fashionable makeup and lipstick so pristine I knew she’d freshened up before getting out of her car.
“My brother takes this route through the neighborhood on his way to work, and that’s not a crime. If an innocent man walking past your house bothers you, go inside. Don’t speak to him. Don’t wave to him. Don’t so much as look at him!”
She was angry—but she was also scared. Of Henry? For Henry? I wasn’t sure, but I could see the emotion so clearly on her face, I felt it echo through my body.
“Maybe he needs help,” I said flatly. Lizzie Miller’s eyes flashed fire and her nostrils flared.
“Don’t you dare try to tell me what my brother needs,” she hissed. “I don’t want your cakes and I don’t want you to come near us. If you drive past and my house is on fire, do not stop to help. You aren’t welcome in this town and you sure as hell are never going to be welcome at my house.” She extended the plate toward me. “Here’s a plate to replace the one you lost.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I don’t want to owe you a damned thing,” she interrupted me, thrusting the plate into my hands. She nodded curtly and turned away, her heels clicking against our porch then driveway as she walked toward her car.
“I just wanted to reach out to you,” I called after her. “To say sorry for the way I spoke to you at the picnic. I know we got off on the wrong foot—”
She spun back to face me, and this time, the hatred in her eyes was unmistakable.
“What was your husband’s rank in the SS? Did he instigate the genocide, or did he just participate in it? And we both know you knew about the camps. If you did nothing to help those people, you’re complicit too.” Her expression twisted with frustration. “You and your husband do not deserve to be here, living among decent American folk.”