Those Who Save Us (34 page)

53

THE FOLLOWINGMONDAY TRUDY WALKS INTO HER SEMINAR TEN minutes late. The crosstown traffic from Rainer’s has been hor-rendous: cars stalled in pools of standing water, the effect of intense April showers on highways whose drains are already flooded; tow trucks out in force, sending up wings of slush. Trudy, however, is whistling the Colonel Bogie March as she stamps her boots in the doorway. She has had it in her head for days, since to its tune Rainer is fond of singing in the shower, with bellowing enthusiasm and appalling pitch, this verse:

Hitler, he only had one ball

Göring
had two but very small

Himmler had something similar

And poor old Goebbels had no balls at all!

Humming, Trudy crosses to the lectern and opens her briefcase.

Good morning, she says.

Some dispirited mumbles from the class. Trudy shakes the sleet from her hair.

What’s wrong with you people? she asks. Granted, this is the sort of day the British would refer to as filthy, but it
is
technically spring, you know.

What
ever,
somebody says.

Trudy smiles and adjusts her scarf, a square of lime-green chiffon that she and Rainer bought over the weekend, Rainer insisting that Trudy make an effort to appear less funereal in public as well as behind closed doors. This caused a prolonged skirmish in the mall boutique, and Trudy smiles again at the thought of it: the saleslady at first flustered, and then, once the purchase had finally been rung at the register, assuming a conspiratorial tone and asking Trudy how long she and Rainer had been married.

Trudy walks to the board to write the topic du jour: Women in the
Schutzstaffeln
—Enforced Complicity or Lust for Power?

So, she says. Let’s start with the female wardens in the camps. The lovely and heartless SS
Kapo
Mandel whom Fania Fenelon described in your assigned reading, for instance. What is Fenelon’s assessment of Mandel’s character?

She turns to her students. They stare vacantly at her or the floor, hollow-eyed from staying up all night. Their noses are rab-bity and dripping from the eternal colds they swap back and forth. They are wearing baggy hooded sweatshirts and pajama bottoms with their big bulbous sneakers. They look completely uninterested in the topic at hand, and they are absolutely beautiful.

Trudy puts her chalk down and slaps the dust off her hands.

Oh, forget it, she says. Why don’t you all go get some sleep? Or, God forbid, do something productive, like studying for your midterm.

Pens stop scribbling in margins. The students look at Trudy blankly or with dawning hope.

Go on, get out of here, Trudy tells them with a shooing motion. Enjoy your parole.

Hesitantly at first, as if this is a test they might fail by obeying, a few of them start stuffing their things into their knapsacks and struggling into their parkas. Then, before Trudy can change her mind, the rest leap up and funnel quickly from the room. Trudy watches benignly. The students are laughing and talking, animated, and this pleases her. This is the way they are supposed to be.

Now
what’s up with her? she hears Frick or Frack say to his counterpart.

Dunno. She looks—weird. Different. Like she’s been getting laid or something.

Professor Death? You’re on crack, man.

They shuffle out, grumbling.

When the door bangs shut behind them, Trudy repacks her materials and walks out too, without bothering to erase the board. But instead of heading toward the parking lot, she goes upstairs. She has something else to do before she leaves the uni-versity: she has had a wonderful idea. Singing under her breath—
Hitler, he only had one ball; Göring had two—
Trudy saunters through the History Department toward Ruth’s office.

This, like Trudy’s, is on the first floor, tucked away in a warren of rooms in the rear, and it is similar to hers in other ways as well: overheated, badly in need of a coat of fresh paint, smelling of coffee warmed overly long on a hot plate and dusty old books. But here the resemblance stops, for while Trudy’s office is austere, Ruth is a collector of Holocaust memorabilia. A glass-fronted cabinet too big for the room displays her strange trea-sures: a swastika banner that once adorned the Reichstag; currency from the Warsaw ghetto; postcards sent from the camps, including Buchenwald, with their single lines of typed text—
We are being well treated, there is work here.
The walls are crowded with Nazi propaganda posters, the largest featuring a terrified Aryan woman who looks much like Anna being menaced by a grinning grizzled Jew.
Frauen und Mädchen,
its slogan reads,
die Juden Sind Ewer Ruine!
Women and Girls, the Jews Are Your Ruin! Another, situated directly behind Ruth’s head, shows a giant Hitler and Stalin shaking hands over a stream of tiny screaming Jews plummeting into a fiery abyss, startling Trudy every time she opens the door.

As Trudy has known she would be at this time of day, Ruth is at her desk, scowling at papers. She throws down her red pen at Trudy’s knock.

Oh, thank God, Ruth says. You are my savior. These midterms are atrocious— Wait, don’t you have a seminar now?

I do, says Trudy. I let my kids go.

You did what? That’s unprecedented. Why?

Oh, I don’t know, says Trudy. I guess I’m just in too sanguine a mood to talk about such depressing stuff today.

Ruth pulls her feet up on the edge of her chair, hugging her knees to her chest. She studies Trudy with her sharp little unblinking eyes.

All right, what’s up.

Nothing, says Trudy.

Baloney, says Ruth. She squints at Trudy’s tousled hair—which Trudy has left uncut so she will less resemble, as Rainer has commented, a tubercular young boy—and at the bright green scarf. You look— different somehow.

Trudy shrugs.

Don’t be silly, she replies.

But she can feel herself grinning as she drops into the chair opposite Ruth’s.

Listen, she says. That trip that you and Bob took to the Caribbean over Christmas. Do you still have the brochures?

Ruth leans back with a
squoink
of springs.

Why? she says. You’re going?

Trudy nods. If the scheduling works out, she adds.

By yourself ?

Well, says Trudy, actually no. There’s a man . . .

Ruth pumps her fist in the air. I
knew
it! I knew that had to be it, with you grinning that way. It’s about time! Who is he?

Trudy smiles down at her lap. Now that she is here, she can admit to herself that this is the reason she has come to see Ruth instead of calling a travel agent. Trudy wants to talk to Ruth about Rainer. She wants to talk to everybody about Rainer. She can barely go to the supermarket for toilet paper without announcing to the checkout clerk that Rainer uses the same brand. She can’t pull her socks on in the morning without thinking that Rainer’s are looking shabby, really; she should buy him some new ones. She has been bursting with the need to share all of this with somebody, to crow over her sudden good fortune. And she is certainly not about to tell Anna. But there is, thank heavens, Ruth.

Who is waiting for Trudy’s answer, smiling in anticipation, so Trudy says, His name is Rainer. Rainer Goldmann. He’s big and rude and preemptory and a former teacher and he must have been a terror in the classroom and I am completely smitten . . . What’s wrong?

Nothing, says Ruth. She gives her head a little shake. The name sounds familiar to me, but I can’t think why...Go on. Where did you meet him?

Trudy laughs. Through the Project, can you believe it? It was awful at the time. He’d read one of my flyers and he lured me to his house on the pretext of participating, but once we were on camera it turned out that he’s really one of yours, a Jewish Holocaust survivor, and did he read me the riot act for even
attempting
to record the German side of the story. Which maybe wasn’t unjustified, so I went back to his house that night with some latkes, and . . .

Trudy trails off, for Ruth is no longer looking at her. She has picked up her favorite toy, a Lego facsimile of Herr
Doktor
Men-gele, and is bending his Lego legs to his waist, frowning at them. Trudy knows that Ruth has ordered Herr
Doktor
Mengele off the Internet, and that he has come complete with his own Lego operating theater, Lego assistants, and Lego victims, but these, unlike the Herr
Doktor
who customarily sits propped against a lamp, have been consigned to the supply closet. Trudy also knows that Ruth plays with Herr
Doktor
Mengele only when she is working through some thorny departmental problem or is otherwise upset. Trudy makes a face, perplexed.

What’s the matter? she asks. I thought you’d be happy for me.

I am, says Ruth to the
Doktor,
bending him back and forth at the waist. Really, it’s great that you’re dating. But this guy, Trudy . . . I don’t know. Because now I know where I’ve heard his name before: I called him myself, about participating in the Remembrance Project. And he seemed . . .

What?

A bit rough.

Rough?

Angry, says Ruth, setting the
Doktor
on the desk. He was really very rude, actually.

Trudy sits back.

Well, I already told you he’s like that, she says. But that’s just a front. He has some— some difficulty when he’s confronted with talking about the past.

Ruth snorts.

No kidding, she says. Believe me, that came through loud and clear. Trudy, I hate to say this, but maybe you should rethink being involved with him. I’m not sure it’s the wisest course of action.

Trudy bristles.

Oh, really? she asks. Why is that? Because I’m German and he’s a Jew? You know how you’re acting, Ruth? Like a Jewish mother, like any yenta who disowns her kids if they marry outside the religion and sits shivah if they do—

Ruth is tolerating this outburst with a patient, candid gaze, and Trudy stops, ashamed. She knows this is not the case at all. In fact, Ruth’s husband Bob is only half-Jewish, and the couple has had to suffer the disdain of Ruth’s family because of it. But why is Ruth treating her in this patronizing fashion, as if Trudy were a teenager dizzy with her first crush, as if she is incapable of seeing for herself that the boy who is taking her to the prom is really a juvenile delinquent?

I’m sorry, Trudy says. Please ignore everything I just said. But I don’t understand why you’re reacting this way.

I don’t want to see you get hurt, says Ruth. That’s all.

Ruth, that’s not going to happen. Rainer’s a good man. Really. He’s the best person I’ve ever met.

Ruth reaches for her toy again.

I’m sure he is, she says. But you know, you’ve been out of the swing of things for so long that . . . I’m just a little concerned. Now listen. I really do think it’s great that you’re putting yourself out there again. So before you get too heavily involved with Mr. Goldmann, maybe you should consider dating somebody else too, for balance? As a matter of fact, there’s a man I’ve been dying to introduce you to. A new colleague of Bob’s at the firm, recently relocated here from St. Louis. Not divorced. A widower. Three children, but all grown, and he’s really a wonderful . . .

Trudy watches Ruth throughout the rest of this sales pitch, smiling a bit acidly. She understands Ruth’s objection now. For a long period after Trudy’s divorce, the well-meaning Ruth, desperate to see Trudy remarried, introduced her to a parade of prospective candidates. And Trudy played along for a while, enduring countless dinner parties where she would be seated next to whatever available bachelor Ruth could provide—he could be pompous, balding, fat, flatulent, it didn’t matter, as long as he was breathing and single. Trudy still remembers the scalding humiliation of Ruth’s final attempt about seven years ago, which consisted of Trudy listening in horror while her date described, with huge enthusiasm, a recent singles’ cruise where the introductory activity consisted of standing in the ship’s pool passing a rubber ball from person to person using only one’s chin. After this, Trudy gave up, telling Ruth that having a partner was perhaps simply not in her cards.

And Ruth must have been thinking of Trudy in this particular way ever since: the ungrateful recipient of social charity, the sad sole monkey on Noah’s Ark. Of course she is disconcerted to see Trudy so suddenly changed. People hate it when others step out of their neatly labeled little boxes.

Ruth is looking at Trudy with bright expectation.

Well? she says. Sound good? I could set something up for next week.

Trudy smiles gently at her.

Thanks, she says. I’ll keep it in mind. Maybe somewhere down the road . . . In the meantime, though, could I have those travel brochures?

54

ONCE THE PAMPHLETS RUTH HAS RELUCTANTLY GIVEN Trudy are safely tucked in her briefcase, Trudy drives back across the river to Rainer’s house. She will now implement step two of her wonderful scheme: she will whisk Rainer off to lunch at Le P’tit, and there she will reveal the trip they will take together. The anticipation of Rainer’s reaction—and of introducing her new lover to her ex-husband—is so delicious that Trudy starts to sing again, at the top of her lungs, smiling and waving at the other drivers who catch her belting like a Wagnerian soprano at stoplights.

But when she runs up his front steps and twists the key to his bell, Rainer doesn’t come to answer it.

Trudy tries three more times. When Rainer still fails to appear, she walks slowly to his porch swing and sits, puzzled. Has Rainer mentioned some appointment this afternoon that Trudy has forgotten about? A routine checkup, a meeting with his accountant, the dentist? Trudy doesn’t think so. Maybe he is running an errand. She sifts through the brochures while she waits. Palm trees, aquamarine waters, couples strolling hand in hand along sugar-sand beaches. Quite a contrast to what Trudy sees when she looks up, rain puddling on the sidewalks and street, ankle-deep over the ice. Canned game-show laughter and applause come from one of the neighboring houses: another retiree, perhaps, hard of hearing, the volume turned all the way up. Nobody else is home this time of day, except maybe an exhausted young mother or two stealing an hour’s rest while her children nap. Everyone else is at work.

After forty-five minutes have passed, Trudy starts to grow concerned. Also cold. Unfolding herself stiffly from the swing—her limbs chilled, the seat of her coat damp—Trudy tramps through the remaining snow to the backyard. Rainer’s car is not in the driveway where it usually is, and she feels a moment’s relief. But when she checks the garage, peering through the dusty windows, the Buick is there among the cobwebs and garden tools: an improbably long white shape in the shadows, like a submarine.

Really worried now, Trudy rushes to the back door and pounds on it.

Rainer, she yells. It’s me! Open up!

She backpedals to the middle of the lawn and squints up at the bedroom, cupping her hands around her mouth.

Rainer!

When there is still no response, Trudy retrieves from beneath an overturned flowerpot in the garden the spare key Rainer hides there. This is an effort, since the key has frozen into the ground. And it is an unnecessary one, for when Trudy uses it she locks the door instead of opening it; it has been unsecured all along. She hurries through the kitchen, the metallic taste of fear in her mouth. Has Rainer had a heart attack? A stroke? As he often jokes after an especially energetic session in bed, he is no longer a young man.

Rainer, Trudy yells. Can you answer me? Where are you?

She runs up the stairs and nearly collides with him halfway, as he is coming down.

Goodness, what a ruckus, he says.

Trudy grips the banister and lets out a shaky breath.

God, you scared me, she tells him. I thought something bad had happened to you.

Rainer smiles. Is it really so easy for you to give me up for dead, Dr. Swenson?

It’s not funny, Trudy snaps. Why didn’t you answer the door?

Rainer looks sheepish.

I wasn’t expecting you until later, he says.

Didn’t you hear me knocking? Ringing the bell?

I did indeed. I thought it was a particularly irritating salesman.

But Rainer looks away as he says this, and Trudy feels another frisson of unease. He is lying. Something is still wrong. She notices for the first time that he is holding an armful of sweaters.

What are you doing? she asks.

Packing.

Packing?

Trudy follows Rainer to his bedroom, which is in atypical chaos. On the bed is a garment bag, unzipped and bulging with trousers, and next to it is an open suitcase. For a bewildered second Trudy thinks Rainer has read her mind about the trip she has been planning, or even intended to suggest one himself. But the amount of clothes on the comforter soon puts paid to that idea. There are mounds of cardigans, pajamas, pairs of socks. Wherever he is going, he expects to be there for a long time.

What are you doing? Trudy asks again.

I should think it is fairly obvious.

But I don’t understand. Is there some sort of emergency? Has something happened to your daughter?

Rainer wedges a packet of undershirts into the suitcase. He seems to be avoiding Trudy’s eyes. Or is she imagining it?

I was going to leave you a note, he says.

A note?

A letter.

Trudy braces herself against the door. The rain has stopped, the droplets trickling down the windowpane casting sinuous shadows on the opposite wall, and the room is filled with watery gray light. She can hear the drip of melting icicles, the coo of a mourning dove in the gutter. The latter conjures images of green lawns, shadows at twilight, the clink of ice cubes in cocktail glasses. How can this be happening?

Where are you going? she asks.

Florida.

Florida?

Do please refrain from repeating everything I say, Rainer tells her, but without heat. He has yet to look at Trudy.

I’m sorry, she says. I’m just so...Why are you going to Florida?

To visit my daughter and granddaughter.

For— For how long?

Now Rainer does turn to face her.

Trudy, he says.

Trudy stares at him. The resignation in his eyes tells her everything she needs to know.

No, she cries.

Rainer shoves a pair of loafers into the suitcase.

It is for the best, he says.

How can you say that? That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you possibly think that’s true?

Rainer stands with his hands in his pockets, studying the bed.

It
is
true, he says. And it is not the end of the world. In any case, I am not certain how long I will stay. I have deliberately left my return date open. Perhaps I will find I am not suited for a tropical climate after all.

His tone is sardonic, but Trudy sees the muscles working along his jaw. She crosses to him and tugs his sleeve.

Rainer, look at me. Please. Is it something I’ve done? Something I’ve said? That thing last week, about you being the most German Jew—

No, no, says Rainer. But he remains immobile, his forearm like a cord of wood beneath Trudy’s hand.

Trudy takes a painful breath, tears building behind her eyes. Is it because of who I am? Because of
him
—my father?

Of course not. You must never think that, Trudy.

Then it has to be my Project. I’ll give it up. Today. Right now. As of this moment I’ll never do another interview—

Rainer sighs. Don’t be preposterous. That is the last thing I want.

What
do
you want, then? Trudy says. Please, Rainer. Please don’t go. Or take me with you—

Then she remembers her mother. What will happen to Anna if Trudy leaves? But Trudy is too frantic to care. She’ll think of something.

Please, she says again. Don’t do this. Why are you doing this?

Finally Rainer looks down at her and clasps Trudy’s hands in his.

It has nothing to do with you, he says. You must believe that.

Trudy stares at their laced fingers and shakes her head. She feels nothing except the certainty that she is the butt of a cosmic joke. Has she really dared to think happiness is for her? She has been a fool. Somewhere the gods are slapping their giant robed knees and laughing.

Without you, she tells Rainer, I’ll have nothing.

Ah, Trudy.

Rainer lets go of her hands to enfold her in his arms.

You will have plenty, he says, his voice a vibration on Trudy’s cheek. You had a full life before we met, and you still do. Your classes, the students to whom you are so dedicated, your research, your project. You will be fine. Better than fine.

But Rainer—

As usual, I beg you not to argue. I must do this. You are only making it worse.

Trudy presses her face against the scratchy wool of his sweater and permits herself one last inhale of the cologne whose fragrance she has so rejoiced to find lingering on her own neck, in her hair; beneath this, Rainer’s distinct scent, clean like wood chips, like cedar.

Then she pulls away from him.

You still haven’t told me why, she says. You owe me that much, at least.

Rainer moves back to the bed. He selects a tie and holds it up, examining its subdued stripes as if he has never seen it before. Then he winds it into a roll and tucks it into the suitcase.

Why does any old man go to Florida? he asks, his voice not quite steady. A kinder climate. A perpetual summer. And in my case, the yearning to be with family. You forget I am older than you, Trudy. I do not know how many good years I have left, and I should like to spend some time with them.

All right, says Trudy. That sounds valid enough. But it’s not the real reason. Is it.

Rainer gazes at his clothes, his fists clenched at his sides.

I do not deserve to have this, he says finally, very low. I am not meant to be this happy.

Trudy starts to protest this as well, but then she finds she can’t. She suddenly feels very heavy. It is the weight of the inevitable. Who is Trudy to argue when she has felt the same conviction not a minute earlier? Part of her has known all along that this cannot last. The moment upon them now has been decided for them both long ago.

She releases a long trembling sigh and steps next to Rainer. She touches the pile of cardigans. She knows each and every one of them intimately. Something sharp catches in her throat, then swells until she can barely breathe.

Around it she asks, Why are you bringing all these sweaters?

Air-conditioning, Rainer replies. Everything down there is climate-controlled. My daughter’s house is like a meat locker.

Ah, says Trudy.

She picks up the top cardigan and folds its arms behind its back, then doubles it and sets it in the suitcase with the rest. Rainer fetches another suit from the closet and lays it in the garment bag. Trudy senses him standing close to her, so close she can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He is breathing with effort in deliberately controlled measures, his breath coming short and hard through his nostrils, and Trudy knows he wants to touch her again. But he does not, and she helps him pack without saying another word. They orbit around each other in organized, well-choreographed rhythm, like husband and wife who have been sending each other off on trips for years.