Florence Adler Swims Forever(47)
“Do you need help?” Anna asked, with a nod toward the neat stacks of silverware Esther hadn’t yet gotten to. She prayed the answer was no, could think of nothing worse than having to pull out a chair, sit, and make polite conversation as Florence’s wet bathing suit soaked through her dress.
Esther shook her head, stared at the spoon in her hands forlornly, as if the reflection the shallow bowl of the spoon offered her were one she didn’t recognize. Anna felt an urge to rest a hand on Esther’s shoulder, to tell her the silver could wait, that maybe she was pushing herself too hard. But instead she said a quiet good night and slunk off to her bedroom, where she wasted no time removing her dress, peeling off the wet bathing suit underneath, and hanging it from the bleed valve on the backside of the radiator, where Esther was unlikely to find it if she went looking.
* * *
Just as Anna did not feel she had the right to be homesick, when her parents and Joseph had sacrificed so much for her to come to America, she also did not feel she had the right to mourn Florence’s death. She could help with Gussie, taking her on outings to Steel Pier or the Inlet. She could make simple meals on the afternoons when Esther looked too far away to slice a tomato, much less make sandwiches. She could run books and magazines over to the hospital for Fannie. In doing those things, she liked to believe that she was acknowledging that Florence’s death had meant something to her.
The truth was that Florence’s death had meant a great deal to Anna. More than anyone else in the Adler family, Florence had seemed attuned to Anna’s deep unhappiness. Immediately, she’d begun suggesting outings to Anna. The outings were never presented as options—more like commands. “Come with me to White Tower. I’m dying for a hamburger,” she’d said on the afternoon of her arrival, after she’d greeted her parents and put her things away. It was Florence who had given Anna her first proper tour of Absecon Island. She’d pointed out all of her favorite spots—Absecon Lighthouse, which sat at the northern tip of the island, and the Italianate mansion with the funny address—One Atlantic Ocean—that perched at the end of Million Dollar Pier. Both, Florence said, served as guideposts when she was out on the open water. Anna learned where to get the best fried oysters and the tastiest egg sandwich, and since she enjoyed being told these things, she didn’t dare admit that she’d never dream of spending so much as a nickel on a sandwich she could just as easily make at home.
Florence’s attentions went a long way toward pulling Anna out of her melancholy but they didn’t cure her, by any means. She still missed her parents fiercely and worried about them constantly. The night before Florence died, the two girls had returned home from the pictures to find a letter from Anna’s mother on the dresser in the apartment’s entryway. Anna had grabbed it, torn it open, and begun reading it on the spot, while Florence summarized the plot of Little Miss Marker to Joseph, who sat in the living room reading.
“Anything interesting?” Joseph had asked, over the hum of his daughter’s monologue.
“Didn’t you think the little girl in the film was brilliant?” said Florence. “Mark my words, she’s going to be a big star.”
Anna ignored her and read a small excerpt of the letter aloud, translating as she went, “A new statute has just come out of the Reichsregierung. The Nazis are levying a special tax on Jewish émigrés, equal to twenty-five percent of our capital.” Florence stopped talking.
“She goes on,” said Anna. “?‘Considering the other seventy-five percent of our money is already earmarked for the Sperrkonto, this is very bad news indeed.’?”
“What’s the Sperrkonto?” asked Florence.
“A crime is what it is,” said Joseph. “The Nazis are telling Jews that, if they want to emigrate, they can only take two hundred Reichsmarks with them. Everything else, minus the taxes, goes into a special state-owned bank account, which they can tap if and only if they return to Germany.”
“They can’t do that!” Florence said, indignant.
“Unfortunately,” said Joseph, “very few people are telling Hitler ‘no’ these days.”
“So, they’ll have to start over here? With nothing?” Florence had barely gotten the question out before she spit out a solution. “You’ll help, won’t you, Father?”
“Of course I’ll help. But it’s not so straightforward. They need that capital to prove they won’t be a drain on the U.S. economy. It’s a requirement for getting a visa.”
“It’s a paradox,” said Florence.
“Exactly.”
Anna didn’t know what the word for paradox was in German and wondered if she should interrupt to ask. The letter shook in her hands. “You’re sweet. Both of you. But I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Of course,” said Joseph. “We can talk more tomorrow. Remember, Anna—this isn’t a setback. Not yet.”
“I know.” She could feel her voice beginning to break. “It’s just a lot. To take in.”
“Get some sleep.”
She folded the letter and made her way out of the room.
“Anna,” Joseph called, when she had already disappeared around the corner and down the hall. She stopped, retraced her steps, hovered in the living room’s doorway. “Your parents are not so old they can’t start again. None of us ever are.”