Those Who Save Us (16 page)

A:
[
shrugs
] How should I know? She probably is dead.

Q:
But if she were alive and you could ask her, what do you think she would say? Do you think she would feel guilty?

A: Nein. Nein.
Not guilty. Why should she feel guilty? Why should she have had to starve while those Jews still had money? She had to get by.

Q:
Yes, but—

A:
She had nobody. Nobody to look after her. Nobody to take care of her. They had each other. They had the money. While she was a woman alone. To be a woman on her own is a terrible thing.

Q:
Yes, but—

A:
You should know this. You know what I mean.

Q:
Well, I do to some degree, but—

A:
And in those times. Such terrible times. You cannot imagine. You know nothing of what it is like to be cold. To be hungry. To be sick with hunger. You do not understand that.

Q:
That’s true, but—

A: Und so. Das ist alles.
That is all I have to say.

Q:
One more thing, Frau Kluge, with your permission . . . You’ve told me what you think your, um, acquaintance, might have felt. But do you, you personally, ever feel bad about what happened to those Jews?

A:
I? I did not even know them. I knew no Jews. And I do not feel bad about doing only what I had to do either. Because a woman alone has to watch out for herself in this world.

20

AS SOON AS FRAU KLUGE’S INTERVIEW IS DONE, TRUDY and Thomas flee her apartment as quickly as the dismantling of Thomas’s equipment will allow. In fact they are so fast about it that Trudy fears, watching Thomas coil cables and fold tripods with a speed almost comical, that Frau Kluge will notice their haste and take offense. Not that Trudy is particularly concerned about Frau Kluge’s feelings, but if the woman senses what they think of her, she might be insulted enough to demand that her testimony not be used. Yet Trudy shouldn’t have worried, for Frau Kluge seems to wish them out of her apartment as much as they want to go. When they leave, the woman is still sitting in her chair, watching a game show on a small black-and-white TV and indifferent to their departure.

Trudy stays near the truck while Thomas loads the contents of his cart into it, ostensibly keeping a lookout for muggers but really rehearsing apologies to him about what they have just heard. When he is done, however, and they are standing face-to-face on the curb, all Trudy can say is: Wow.

Yes, says Thomas. Wow.

They stand awkwardly in the cold, chuffing vaporous breath like racehorses, Trudy prodding with one foot at a dirty chunk of ice. While they have been engaged with Frau Kluge, the world has turned from day to night—something that always startles Trudy no matter how she tries to prepare for it. She squints at Thomas, trying to gauge his expression in the sickly orange flicker of the streetlights, but he is gazing over her head toward Frau Kluge’s apartment. His jowly face is stern, remote.

I’m sorry, Thomas, Trudy says. That was rough.

That’s all right, he says. It was about what I expected.

Trudy frowns down at her boots. But we’re not all like that, she wants to tell him. Really we’re not. There are some good Germans. Instead, she gives the ice a good kick, sending it skittering across the street.

I could use a stiff drink right about now, she says.

Thomas laughs. Me too.

Trudy looks hopefully up at him. Do you want to go get one? I know this place not far from here, in Dinkytown, that has great margaritas—

I would, says Thomas, but I already have plans. Sorry.

Oh. Okay. Maybe next time.

Sure, he says. Next time.

Trudy tarries a minute longer, wanting to say something to confirm that there will
be
a next time, that Thomas will give her another chance, that lets him know she truly is sorry. But she can’t think of how to phrase it, so finally she just flutters a hand in the air near his elbow, half rescinded touch, half wave.

Thanks again, she says. I’ll talk to you soon.

Bye, says Thomas.

Trudy sits in her car while her engine warms up and watches Thomas climb into his truck and speed off. He honks as he turns the corner—shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits. Maybe he actually does have somewhere else to be. On the other hand, maybe he just wants to get away from Trudy and her German Project as fast as possible. Trudy doesn’t blame him. She sighs and shifts into gear.

She really does want a drink, not so much for the alcohol as to wash the bad taste of her sycophancy to Frau Kluge out of her mouth, to return to the world of normal things. She is not ready to go home to a solitary brandy—she craves company—yet she is not about to go to a bar by herself to seek it. There is little in the world more pathetic, Trudy believes, than a middle-aged woman sitting alone on a bar stool. She runs over her list of possible drinking companions: there is Ruth, but this being her short day at the university, she is probably home preparing dinner with her husband. There are a couple of colleagues Trudy could call, but they are more acquaintances than friends, and casual conversation with them—invariably consisting of campus gossip—seems both irrelevant at the moment and too much work. And aside from this, there is...Trudy gnaws her lip and makes a decision on impulse. Perhaps it is because her pre-interview sparring with Frau Kluge has made Trudy think of him for the first time in a while; whatever the cause, she will pay her ex-husband Roger a little visit.

She gets off 394 at Fifth Street, where Roger’s restaurant, Le P’tit Lapin, is still located despite the girders of the highway, a dream in some city councilman’s head when Roger and Trudy first bought the place, that now eclipse it in permanent darkness. Trudy smiles a little as she parks and picks her way over the ice to the door. Given the restaurant’s success, Roger could certainly afford to move it to a more upscale neighborhood, but it is typical of him that he has not. Such an act would smack of pretension, which Roger claims to despise above all else. He has always thumbed his nose at trend; whereas the city’s newer establishments boast imported light sconces and marble-painted walls reminiscent of Italian villas, Le P’tit is as plain as ever. It is a tiny place, seating only forty at its fullest capacity, with sooty tri-colored awnings flapping over the windows. Inside, the brick walls are whitewashed, the lights bright so as to be able to see the food. A Vivaldi string quartet plays quietly from somewhere overhead; when Roger is feeling wild and crazy, he will slip an Edith Piaf CD into the sound system, but normally the music is as muted as the decor. Nothing that will distract from
la cuisine.

The dining room is empty at this hour, although in the kitchen, Trudy knows, the line and
sous
chefs will be sweating and swearing in an ill-tempered frenzy of dinner preparation. She finds a spindly server wedging napkins into wineglasses and asks the boy to let Roger know she is here. Then she waits by the hostess stand, looking around a bit sadly. Imagine, a whole decade of her adult life spent in this place as Roger’s helpmeet! Trudy can almost see a translucent version of her younger self, hair parted in the middle and tied back with a hank of yarn, moving among the tables to set tealights on them. These have been replaced, she notices now, by fat tapers sparkling with embedded glitter. Tinsel twines about their bases. A Christmas tree bedecked with gingham bows presides in the window. Trudy is startled by this display of seasonal kitsch, which—certainly not Roger’s idea—must be the doing of Roger’s current wife, Kimberly. Who at the moment is clacking quickly toward Trudy from the swinging doors to the kitchen.

Well, hi there, calls Kimberly. What a surprise!

I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this—

Don’t be
silly.
Not at
all.

Kimberly leans in to bestow air kisses on either side of Trudy’s face. She is a well-coiffed blond in her midthirties, her porcelain complexion and china-blue eyes so making her resemble a doll that Trudy fancies she can hear the click of lids when Kimberly blinks. She does so now, rapidly:
click click click.
But it is a mistake to underestimate the brain beneath that fashionably tousled hair; it is, Trudy knows from the post-divorce division of property, as relentless and practical as an adding machine.

Roger’s in the wine cellar, Kimberly says. Some mix-up with the Merlot delivery . . . But you know how
that
goes.

She winks, twinkling.

So I thought I’d keep you company until he comes up. Can I offer you a drink?

Please, says Trudy.

The pair cross the hall to the bar, a dark-paneled little room whose draperies exhale the breath of decades’ worth of cigars. Trudy settles onto a stool and watches in the leaded mirror while the younger woman sets out glasses. If not for the twenty-year gap in age, Trudy and Kimberly might be mistaken for sisters.

Red or white? Kimberly asks. Oh, silly me, did you want something stronger? A vodka tonic, or a Scotch—

Red’s great, thanks, Trudy says.

She samples the Bordeaux Kimberly pours for her. Chateau Souverain, an excellent vineyard, a vintage year. Unlike most restaurateurs, Roger has not hired a sommelier, preferring to select his wines himself. His taste has not slipped.

Kimberly fills Trudy’s glass to within a half inch of the brim and prepares her own drink, a Perrier with lime. She glances at the mirror and scrapes the lacquered nails of thumb and forefinger over the corners of her mouth to remove any crumbs of dried lipstick collected there. Then she comes around the bar to perch on the stool nearest Trudy.

So, she says, crossing her legs to exhibit a thoroughbred’s thighs encased in glittery hose. How
are
you?

Trudy nods, glancing at the haunches while taking a long swallow of her wine. Maybe it wasn’t such a bright idea to come here.

I’m fine, she says. Busy as always. You know.

Oh, I sure do. This time of year, it’s
crazy,
isn’t it?

Kimberly sighs deeply and pulls at the wisps of her bangs. I could just yank it all
out,
she says, laughing. You know, Trudy, I was just thinking about you the other day.

You were?

I sure was. Thinking how I envy you. You single gals have
all
the fun. No family to cook for—Roger’s
whole
family coming for Christmas, even that ancient aunt, can you believe it? And no grouchy old bear of a husband to put up with...So
tell
me, since I have to live through you. Any new men in your life?

Not really, Trudy says.

Kimberly pouts and leans closer, providing Trudy with a view of the admirable and freckled cleavage nestled in the salmon satin of her blouse.

Oh, now, she says. It’s not
nice
to keep all the good stuff to yourself. There must be
somebody.

She smiles expectantly at Trudy, who gulps her wine.

Well . . . , she says, thinking of Thomas.

I
knew
it! You couldn’t fool me for a
second
with that poker face. I could tell by just looking at you!

Kimberly gives Trudy’s arm a playful just-between-us-girls tap. So who is he, she says.

Oh, it’s nothing serious, says Trudy. We just met, really.

There you go again, not playing fair. Come on,
tell
me. Tell me all
about
him.

Well—Trudy is saved by Roger choosing this moment to make his entrance. She gives him a huge smile. She hasn’t been so happy to see him since their wedding day.

Whoopsie! Kimberly says brightly and zips the air near her lips.

Roger strides to Trudy and kisses her on both cheeks, the rasp of his mustache raising its usual prickle on the nape of her neck.

I should have known I’d find you two ladies in the bar, he says.

Kimberly vacates her stool and Roger slides onto it.

I’ll have a glass of whatever she’s having, hon, he says to his wife. Thanks.

Then he turns back to Trudy and slaps his knees.

So! he says. This is an unexpected pleasure. How long has it been?

I don’t know, says Trudy. Too long?

I think we saw her about eight months ago, hon, says Kimberly from behind the bar. Remember, when we ran into each other at Lunds?

Oh, that’s right...Well, that’s still too long. Roger smiles at Trudy. You look great, though.

So do you, Trudy tells him, although this is something of a lie. Like his restaurant, Roger is both as familiar to Trudy as her own skin and subtly, disconcertingly changed. He is still a big fellow—the female servers, their ranks once including Kimberly, ever prone to remarking this, to squeezing his biceps and cooing over Roger’s resemblance to the Brawny paper towel man—but now his center of gravity has shifted from his chest to the spare tire around his waist. His face, in the past a healthy pink leading Trudy to tease him that he looked as though he were made of marzipan, is now the red that signifies high blood pressure. And there is more than the suggestion of a double chin.

I see business is good, Trudy can’t help saying.

Roger gives her a look and sips his wine.

Can’t complain, thanks, he replies, and swabs his mustache on the sleeve of his chef ’s whites. So! How’s the teaching? How, as they say, are kids these days?

Apathetic as tree sloths, says Trudy. But one can always hope that something one says is penetrating the ether.

Oh, I’m sure it is . . . And what else is going on? Any ventures outside the academic realm?

Not really, says Trudy. I am doing a research project that’s of personal interest, but I got funding through the university, so I guess you’d consider that academic.

Well, that depends. What’s it about?

Trudy takes a larger gulp of Bordeaux than intended and spills some of it. She licks the side of her hand.

Germans, she says. I’m interviewing Germans of my mother’s generation. To see how they’re dealing with what they did during the war.

Really, says Roger.

Yes, well, it’s still very much in the beginning stages. I just came from my first interview, in fact. And it was . . . difficult. But I thought it would be interesting—I mean, necessary—to hear about the war from live sources. There’s not much documentation of the German reaction, especially straight from the horse as it were, and it’ll be invaluable to the study of this time period to add—

Well, here’s where I leave you two, Kimberly interrupts. Trudy,
super
to see you again. Give me a call and we’ll do lunch, okay? So we can talk about—
you
know. What we were talking about before
this
big lug came in.

She drops a kiss on Roger’s hair, sends Trudy a final wink, and leaves.

Trudy glances at the antique railway clock over the bar.

I should probably let you go too, she says.

No, that’s all right, replies Roger. I still have a few minutes, assuming there’re no brush fires in the kitchen...So. Difficult, you said. In what way?

What?

Your interview.

Trudy raises her eyebrows at Roger. Is he just being polite? But he appears genuinely interested, so she gets up, goes behind the bar, refreshes her wine at Roger’s go-ahead nod, and returns to her stool, where she recounts Frau Kluge’s interview for him in detail.

And that’s it, Trudy says when she has finished, with a flourish that sends a tongue of Bordeaux leaping onto the floor. Interview
ein. Kaputt.