Dark Angel (100 page)

“I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, my darling, don’t cry. Please, listen. Look at me. Try to imagine: You thought I was dead—what did I think? I knew you weren’t dead. I knew you were alive. I knew where you lived. Listen.” His voice became more gentle. “You haven’t asked me one obvious question. You haven’t asked why I stopped writing when I did.”

“It makes me afraid. That’s why—”

“Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to fear now.” He paused, looking across the room. “It was the middle of the war, late in 1941. I was in New York by then. I had been with Rosa and Max a few weeks. And one afternoon I crossed town. I knew where you lived—such a very grand address! I stood outside that apartment building, trying to summon up the courage to go in. And while I was standing there, across the street, you came out, with your godmother. You were arm in arm. You had cut your beautiful hair. You had a dog with you—a huge dog, like a black bear—”

“Bertie,” I said. “His name was Bertie. He’s dead now. You were there? You can’t have been there—”

“I watched you walk up Fifth Avenue, arm in arm. You were laughing and talking. You walked very fast. I saw you go into the park. I followed you, as far as the zoo. It was a fine day—there were a lot of people. You never looked back. It was easy to do.”

“And then?”

“Nothing. That was the end. I stood there in the park, and I decided. I would never write to you again.”

“You made up your mind—just like that? I couldn’t have done that. If that had been me, I would have rushed after you and caught you by the arm, and—”

“Would you?” Frank turned me to look at him. “Are you sure? I thought … You can imagine what I thought.”

“Tell me.”

“I thought you had forgotten me, obviously.” His face stiffened. “I thought that … you couldn’t be bothered with that friendship of ours. That our promises meant nothing to you. A little death of the heart.” He shrugged. “I did not think so well of you then. I said: one hundred and fifty-six letters; enough. I went home. I shut myself in my room. And I worked. When I was unhappy, that was what I did then.”

“You worked? Oh, Frank.”

“Mathematics, I think. Sum after sum. It was effective, up to a point. I still find it effective, even now.”

I looked away. I thought of a boy, shut in a strange room in a strange house in a strange city, a boy who had already lost a family as well as this friend. I could understand, now, how that boy could grow up into the man who sat next to me, a man who found it difficult to trust and painfully hard to admit the strength of his feelings. All those episodes from our more recent past fell into place, incident after sad incident. I reached for his hand.

“Frank, if I had recognized you, that first day I came to your house—would it have been different then?”

“It would have been different for me. I hope I would have behaved better, then and afterwards.”

“And in Venice—you almost told me then? You were about to tell me—and you stopped?”

“I might have told you. I wanted to do so—very much.”

“Were you jealous?”

“Oh, yes.” That glint of amusement returned to his eyes. “I can be intensely jealous. This is another fault of mine.”

“I don’t mind it. I don’t mind it at all—”

“It is not so very easy to sit opposite a woman you love, to find you are not recognized, to think—even if you were, it would make no difference. It is especially not easy when you also know you are being touchy, and arrogant, and very, very obstinate—”

“You could have—”

“Oh, I’m very well aware of what I could have done. I could see the possibilities, very clearly, while I did the very opposite. So … I left. I went to Oxford. I thought I could teach myself to forget—”

“And you didn’t?”

“No. That lesson, I cannot learn.” He gave one of his shrugs. “For better or worse, that is the kind of man I am.”

I hesitated. I looked toward the window, and saw that morning began. I said:

“But you did change your mind. You must have changed your mind. Why?
When
?”

“When I was away. When I asked you to come here. And tonight, I think. Yes, when I was playing chess with your godfather—”

“
Then
? Why then?”

“I had had enough of opening gambits. I saw the next move. It was a risky one, perhaps—”

“You thought it was risky?”

“Oh, yes. Very much so. Until I took your hand—”

“And then?”

“I knew,” he replied. “It was not just the correct move—it was the
only
move. I saw that then.”

Wexton and Steenie and I traveled back from New Haven by railroad. On the train, I babbled. I babbled to Wexton, who was trying to read, and who occasionally smiled. I babbled to the train windows, to the air, to the paper cups of watery coffee. I babbled to Steenie, who had a hangover. He winced. He groaned.

“Love? Vicky darling—
please.
My head aches. There are these furry little spots dancing up and down in front of my eyes. My left leg could be paralyzed. I don’t think I can bear to hear about love. Besides which, you’re repeating yourself. People in love are not only egotistic, they’re the most terrible bores.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to stop. You’re going to listen. I love him. In a way, I’ve always loved him. Steenie, please listen. He isn’t Frank Gerhard—well, he is, but he’s also Franz-Jacob. You must remember Franz-Jacob.”

“I don’t remember anything. I’m not sure I recall my own name. What were we drinking last night? Was there port? Or was it brandy?”

“Never mind all that. Did you like him?” I tugged Steenie’s arm. “Steenie, did you like him? What did you think of him?”

“I thought him … a most alarming young man.” Steenie gave a sigh. “He had a wild look in his eyes. Also, he walks very fast. He walks at an immoderate pace.”

“But you liked him—you did like him?”

“I can’t remember if I liked him. I went to sleep. He keeps microscopes on chairs—I do remember that.”

“You were drunk,” I said. “You were tight as a tick—you said so yourself. If you hadn’t been drunk, you’d have noticed how wonderful he is. Wexton, did you notice?”

“He plays very good chess.”

“And? And?”

“He can hold hands with you and checkmate me in three moves—I guess that’s impressive.”

“Wexton, you’re teasing me.”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t think of it.”

“You are. Both of you. You and Steenie. You’ve forgotten how it feels—”

“I resent that,” said Steenie strongly. “I resent that very much. I remember how it feels
exactly.
Don’t you, Wexton?” A glance passed between them, affectionate, a little wry.

“Sure,” Wexton replied. “Now and again.”

“Though on the whole …” Steenie felt about in his pockets. He produced another silver flask, twin to the one I had confiscated the day before. He took a restorative nip. “On the whole, I prefer
not
to remember. It’s too exhausting. Being in love is all very well at your age, Vicky my sweet—but it uses up so much
energy.
Look at you, fizzing away. It’s very charming, my dear. In fact, it suits you. But it makes me feel beige. Washed out. Washed up. Besides which”—he sighed—“I see rocks ahead. I advise you not to fizz quite so much, Vicky dear, when you tell Constance.”

“Constance? Why not?”

“I don’t know. Just a feeling I have.”

Steenie tapped his nose in a ridiculous way. He took another nip. Wexton closed his book, opened it again, then put it away.

“Constance will be pleased,” I said into the silence that followed. I leaned forward. “Steenie, why should Constance mind?”

“I didn’t say she’d
mind
,” said Steenie. “I just advised you not to fizz. Try to look a fraction less happy. Constance can find other people’s happiness very irritating. She’s allergic to it. It makes her want to scratch.”

I thought this unfair. Considering Constance’s recent kindness to Steenie, I thought it disloyal as well, and said so. Steenie sighed.

“Vicky darling, you do flare up. Calm down. It was just a remark. You’re probably right, anyway—I’m thinking of Constance as she used to be, years and years ago. When she was a child.”

“Steenie, that isn’t fair, either. Constance is the same age as you. You said last night that you had changed. Well then, Constance must have changed too.”

“I’m sure she has. I’m sure she has.” Steenie made pacifying noises. He lit a cigarette. He inserted it in a long holder. He puffed in a contemplative way.

“One hundred and fifty-six letters,” he said at last as we approached the dereliction of outer New York. “One hundred and fifty-six. That’s an awful lot. And to disappear like that. It is odd, wouldn’t you say, Wexton?”

Once more he and Wexton exchanged glances. Wexton looked at me in a worried way.

“Well, yes,” he said finally. “I would say it was … odd.”

Constance said: “Tell me everything! Begin at the beginning and go on to the end. I want to hear it all. Life is so strange! I love it when it plays tricks like this. Tell me. Tell me.”

To hear my story, Constance had led me into that library once designed for my father’s books. Books to the right of me, books to the left of me. I told her. I tried not to fizz.

“But I don’t understand.” Constance shook her head. “He wrote—to the right address? You’re sure he wrote?”

“Yes, Constance.”

“Every week—just as he promised to do?”

“Yes, Constance.”

She gave a small frown. “But how could that happen? Your letters to him—I can see they might have gone astray. But his to you? It’s impossible. Tell me again where he went.”

I told her again the story Frank had told me. At least, I told her parts of it: the return to Germany, where his father had been assured by a highly placed official that for a scholar of his eminence an exit visa was merely a matter of time. The conviction of his mother that the family must remain together. And then the inevitable: boots on cobblestones, a night arrest.

“They took his father. Just for questioning, they said. No one was allowed to see him. Frank’s mother panicked. She refused to leave, herself, but she decided she had to get the children out. There were five of them. They still had no visas. She knew they’d never escape in a group, so they were split up after all. His mother tried to make it into a game, for the sake of the children. They drew lots, who should go—to which friend, to which uncle or aunt. Frank drew a cousin in Karlsruhe—not far from the French border. He stayed there a week. Then they heard: His mother had been arrested too. They were moving his parents east—the cousin was very afraid. She had a friend in Strasbourg, and that woman had a friend in Paris. He was put on a train, just one small paper parcel. When they got to the border, he hid.

“They got him out, Constance, just in time—into France, and then back to England. He was passed on, to a refugee organization. There were children being evacuated to Australia, Canada, America. He came here. He was put in a camp in upstate New York. He had to wear a label with his number around his neck. Rosa and Max found him there.”

“Oh, my God.” Constance stood up and began to pace the room. “And his family? What happened to his family?”

“He didn’t find out for certain until the end of the war. They were all dead. In different camps.”

I stopped. Constance’s face was white. She continued to move restlessly about the room. I said:

“Constance. It happened. It happened to hundreds of children. Frank was one of the fortunate ones—he knows that.”

“Fortunate? How can you say that? Fortunate, to be orphaned in that vile way, to be in a camp with a number around his neck?”

“Constance—he did live.”

“Oh, if only we’d known! I was so very sure he must be dead! It pained me so much, to see you go on writing, go on hoping—” She stopped abruptly. “Except, wait—there’s something I still don’t understand. When he came here, to New York, he knew where you lived. Why didn’t he contact you then?”

I made an evasive reply. I did not want to tell Constance the story of that afternoon when Franz-Jacob followed us to the park; it was private between us. I think Constance noticed my evasion, and was hurt by it, for she cut my explanation short.

“Well, well,” she said, “it doesn’t matter now, I suppose, since you have found him again.” She paused. “How odd. Franz-Jacob was lost, and now he is found. It’s quite like your father.” Her face grew thoughtful. “So … you love him, then?”

“Yes, Constance. I do.”

“Oh, darling, I’m so very glad! I can’t wait to meet him. Meet him properly, I mean. How odd—that time in Venice, I remember noticing him then: such a handsome man! But I never thought … Well, well, so it’s happened at last. I suppose I shall lose you—you’ll leave me, leave home. Oh, don’t look like that. It will happen. I can tell.” She hesitated. “He didn’t mention … you didn’t talk about future plans?”

“No, Constance.”

“Ah, well, all in good time. I’m sure he will.” She paused again. “Is he that type of man?”

“What type of man?”

“Decisive, of course—you know what I mean. Some men aren’t. They will shillyshally about, deciding which way to jump. I hate men like that.”

She frowned at the books on my father’s side of the room as she said this. When I replied that, yes, I thought Frank decisive, she seemed scarcely to listen. She began to pace up and down the room again.

“He must come here at once!” she cried. “As soon as possible. He must come down from Yale—and I’ll give a party for him. Shall I do that?”

“No, Constance—he’d hate it, and so would I. Not a party.”

“Well, a little lunch then, so he and I can talk. I want to get to know him. Oh, I feel I almost know him now, from your stories. I can see him, at Winterscombe, with his sums and walking the greyhounds … that day you went to the woods together. Such a strange little boy, a little boy with second sight! And now he’s a man, and you love him—”

She broke off and turned to look at me.

“Did you tell him that, by the way?”

“Constance, that’s my affair.”

“Oh, all right, all right!” She laughed. “There’s no need to be so defensive. Keep your secrets. It’s just that …”