Mrs. Tuesday's Departure: A Historical Novel of World War Two (12 page)

Occasionally she would join my meeting with a small group of writers, but more often she found them boring, pedantic, and too self-absorbed to adequately provide the spotlight she commanded. When they’d ask her to read a work in progress, she’d retort that they could read the work when it was published. I wondered about Anna’s sudden change of heart.

I dipped the triangle of toast into the coffee and took a bite. “You’re working together?”

Mila nodded and looked back toward the door as if anxious to return to Anna.

“Well then, go ahead.”

Mila smiled and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and moved the tray to my nightstand.  I rocked back and forth co
nsidering what to do. It was eight a.m.,
I had to meet Deszo at four. I nodded in thought and pushed myself off the bed, and toward my closet.

I carried m
y
empty cup and plate to the kitchen. Anna was sitting at the kitchen table, Mila at her side; together they bent over a piece of paper filled with Mila’s handwriting. They looked up briefly as I entered the room and then back down at the paper. I walked to the sink, washed my plate and cup, and turned them upside down on the drain board.

Anna said to Mila, “You see the end of this stanza should foreshadow the first line of the next. You’re skipping ahead too quickly.”

“Here?” Mila’s voice was the siren of the worshipful pupil. How quickly we drew in when satisfaction was imminent.

Anna smiled indulgently. “Yes dear, you must focus on the theme. Carry that through to the end.”

It seemed all needs were met at that table. Mila crossed out a line wrote another and looked up at Anna hopefully.

“Yes,” Anna nodded, and then shook her head. “Well no, not exactly. Rhyming words must be chosen carefully.”

Looking toward the window, I saw that the breadcrumbs that I’d set out the night before were now gone and I smiled to myself, rueful that I’d missed the birds’ arrival, wondering which had come today.

Anna continued. “Remember the poem I wrote this morning, about the birds that came to eat the breadcrumbs I’d set out? The black crow was a messenger.”

I coughed back the desire to correct Anna’s appropriation of my breadcrumbs and went to the stove to make more coffee. At the scrape of the kettle against the burner, Anna and Mila looked expectantly at their empty cups. I took their cups from the table and rinsed them in the sink.

Mila’s voice interrupted. “It’s a symbol of the Nazis.”

I folded my arms and leaned against the counter. Both women were wearing their robes over their pajamas. Had this meeting of the minds come up impromptu as they both wandered in to see who would make coffee?

Anna sighed, “No dear, the crow is representative of the diseased psyche that has infected our people, causing them to succumb and separate.”

I refilled their cups and left them to their reverie. I understood this desire to write even before dressing. There was a time when I’d done the same.

I walked dow
n
the hall to my study and closed the door. Sitting at my desk, I pulled open the drawer and withdrew the red leather journal that belonged to Anna and the black leather folder containing a sheaf of papers comprising my edited version of her life. Carefully I placed them side by side on the desktop and ran my fingers over the covers.

Looking back down at the contents of the drawer, I saw another leather folder. In blue. The white edges of paper stuck out like an obstinate tongue. I pulled the folder out and laid it on top of the work I’d completed of Anna’s journal. I hesitated before opening the cover. I saw my handwriting. Notes, bits of dialogue and description, it was the story I’d been working on when Anna had her nervous breakdown and had been asked to leave the university.

Tucked into the other sleeve of the folder was another slim leather bound book. My journal. I picked it up and flipped through the pages reading bits here and there, of happier times and then the darkness that began with Max’s death and then the coming of war. Finally I came to the blank pages and stared at the creamy open space wondering if I dared to bare my soul.

But who was I, if not a writer? A small voice inside me urged me forward and I reached for the heavy silver capped fountain pen that had always been my favorite. Then I began writing, filling in the events of the past few days, my questions about Ilona, about Deszo, my fears for Mila. Eventually thoughts took the form of a letter, a conversation with God, albeit one-sided, perhaps a prayer was a better description for the words that poured out my heart to Him.

How can I keep Mila safe while my sister loses her grasp on reality? Will I have to choose between them? Where are You? And what of all the others like us? How can you stand by and watch the slaughter of your people, of so many innocents?

I wrote as rapidly as my hand would travel across the page, without thought of grammar or spelling or even the splotches of ink that smudged the page as my left hand moved too quickly across the freshly written words.

When I finished I remained frustrated, but somehow I felt better. Although I was no closer to hearing an answer to my prayers for Mila’s safety, I felt as if revealing my heart to God had somehow made my pleas more real. And perhaps that would help them to reach God’s ears more quickly.

I sighed feeling a bit more hopeful as I pulled the pages of a children’s story out of the folder,
and read through them quickly. How long ago and how out of place these gentle tales now seemed.
How different those children stories would sound in these days of endless fear. I picked up a pen that sat on the edge of my desk and a bright white blank sheet.

Long ago in the deep of the peaceful ocean swam a baby whale and its mother. It was summer and they swam in the deep cold waters of the Arctic.

  I wouldn’t allow myself to consider writing another children’s story.  I was simply dictating my thoughts, just as I’d edited Anna’s work over the past year. A shepherd of ideas, lining them up, culling the strays. I leaned over the pages as the words flowed out of my pen as I considered a tale that conveyed the world we faced today.

Suddenly Momma saw a school of sharks on the horizon. The sharks saw Herkimer and swam toward him.

I opened the right-hand drawer of the desk, pulled out two clean sheets of paper, and placed them to the side of the notes.

His Momma cried, “Quick Herkimer, swim for the cave!”

 
It was too late. The sharks swarmed around them and the deadly chase began. The sharks nipped at Herkimer in their attempt to separate him from his mother.

I tapped th
e
cap of the fountain pen against my lips as I pulled another crisp white sheet of writing paper from the folder. Another thought grabbed me as I remembered the promise I’d made to myself on the night before Mila’s abandonment, that I would write a different outcome to her story, one more certain than the one she currently faced.

Once upon a time, in a future far away, seventy years after the end of the War,

I wouldn’t allow myself to feel the exhilaration of creating a hopeful future for Mila. Yet, I felt urgency with this story, an assured purpose, to create an alternate reality. What better way than to imagine Mila as an old woman, thereby guaranteeing a long and happy life for my dear niece. I would be the creator of Mila’s future, planning the circumstances of her survival. 

The old woman dropped the unopened package onto the edge of the sofa. Pausing for a moment, she looked around the room, at the opulent mahogany armoire and card table, the tall windows whose heavy brocade curtains always stood open so that she could enjoy what little light came into the room. She was glad that she would soon leave the weight of it behind forever.

At the front door, she put on her coat and wound a red cashmere scarf around her neck. She closed the door behind her, locked it, and then waited patiently for the elevator as she tugged on her black leather gloves.

But what to call her? If Anna came across this manuscript, or anyone else for that matter, they must not know what I am doing. Once again I tapped the smooth cap of the fountain pen against my lips as my eyes wandered to the odd assortment of objects on the bookshelves next to my desk. There were mementoes of my life: pictures of Max, some framed in dusty wooden frames, others unframed and propped against the spines of books, older, faded pictures of my parents, an icon of Mary holding the Baby Jesus, a small bouquet of dried red roses, and then an outdated desk calendar in a silver frame. I smiled and began to write again.

“Good evening, Mrs. Tuesday,”

I sat this way for two hours. When I woke from my reverie, it occurred to me that this was as it should be, as it had been in the past. It was the first normal morning that I’d had in months, or years. How strange the war had made our lives, how artificial, throwing off comforting routines, stealing the pleasure of completing simple tasks. Perhaps Anna had been right last night. She refused to let the war intrude upon her need to create. In fact, she’d used it as fuel, impetus for a new direction in her work. As she’d done with everything in her life, she’d turned even the most abnormal of situations inward toward her, where she was the center of the universe. I envied that.

Through my closed door I heard the scrape of chairs in the kitchen, the murmur of voices as someone put the pot back on the stove for another cup of coffee. Their voices were friendly, though indistinct. I wondered at Anna’s change. I looked out the window and saw that it was sunny. At least it would be for a few hours. I turned back to my work. I wanted to remain in this cocoon of normalcy. I looked at the clock on the mantle. I would resist the urge to go, bathe, and dress. I would stay here a little longer and work.

My words drew me downward; I began humming an old familiar tune. It was a waltz, one I would often hear Max whistling as I heard the front door close, the stomping his boots, a chuckle and then the tune coming down the hall. He would knock softly on the door of my study, enter and stand behind my chair, placing his warm hands on my shoulders as he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“How’s the book coming?” he’d say. I would lean back, smile, and close my eyes as he kissed me again on the lips. He’d pat me on the shoulders again and then leave me to my work as he went down the hall to the kitchen to confer with Marie about dinner. This was my reminder to turn on the lamp on my desk to push back the encroaching darkness.

I would hear Max turning on the radio to listen to the news or to a station that played classical music. That was a signal that Max had settled down to read the paper and I had at least another hour to work before dinner.

I recalled a
n
evening when I’d finished my writing for the day, gone into the living room, sat on the arm of Max’s chair, and leaned into him as he put his arm around me and we sat in silence listening to the music. Max told me that evening that he’d seen Deszo earlier, at a café. I knew the place; it was across the street from the stationer’s where I bought my pencils and pens.

They’d ordered sherry. Max took out a cigar, “I heard you received a censure from the university.”

Deszo chuckled. “They dislike my corresponding with a professor from Hamburg.”

“Our relations with the Germans are complicated.”

“We were exchanging research notes, Max.”

“Political alliances are changing rapidly, you could lose your job.”

Deszo took out a cigarette and lighted it, stared at the tip. “The smoke from a pile of leaves hides the fire beneath. The Germans will restore our borders, return our land, and strengthen our economy.”

“Our alliance with the Germans will lead us into a war that will ruin our country,” Max countered.

Deszo shrugged his shoulders and continued, “I’ve been invited to a symposium at their university. I will present a paper and participate in a panel discussion on the political and economic opportunities of an alliance between our countries.”

“I hope you refused the invitation,” Max said.

“On the contrary, my friend, I welcome the chance to share my ideas and even better, to make contacts.” Deszo blew out a long stream of smoke and then continued as he rolled the edge of his cigarette along the silver lip of the ashtray. “Their economic and military dominance cannot be ignored. I believe we are faced with the choice of joining them by invitation or by force, the latter would be much more unpleasant.”

“By your reasoning, we either join the thieves in their crime, or are robbed and murdered by them.”

“Perhaps it is better to get rich than to get robbed,”
Deszo
had replied
,
with no sign of irony.

On that day
,
the conversation had turned away from politics as it does between friends with differing opinions and to the safer territory of wives and home. I wondered then and wonder now if either man ever acknowledged the minefields that lay amidst this safe territory. After all, Deszo was having an affair with the identical twin of his best friend’s wife. Did either man ever notice the scent of smoke coming from that pile of leaves?