Along the Infinite Sea (39 page)

“Nothing, I guess, if you're going to be stubborn and unreasonable. If you're going to get greedy and vindictive instead of doing what's right.”

“What's right for
you
, you mean. You and your family.”

“What's right for everyone. Including you. Including the baby.” He leans forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. He's a big man, football big. The cigarette looks tiny between his meaty fingers. “I know you think we're just trying to cover up a mistake here. But we're not. This is my brother's child we're talking about.”

“A child he wanted me to get rid of.”

“Well, you didn't, and now he wants—we all want—for that baby to have the best possible life.”

“Then we have nothing more to talk about. Stay out of my life, stay out of my baby's life, and I promise you we'll stay out of yours. I have a family of my own to make sure this baby is well taken care of.”

He sighs and crushes out his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table. His briefcase sits upright next to the chair, just a few feet from the fire. He takes a drink of coffee and lifts the briefcase onto his lap, unsnapping the fastenings in two loud cracks.

“Is that really true, Pepper? Is your family really prepared to take this baby into its heart and give it the love and care it needs? Do your parents even know you're pregnant? Because I don't see them here anywhere. I don't see your sisters or your aunts and uncles lavishing you with love in your time of need.”

“We're not the lavishing kind of family, but we muddle through.”

He withdraws a sheaf of papers from the briefcase, shaking his head as he goes. “You're a single woman, Pepper. A child needs a secure home with a mother and father.”

“He has a mother. Me.”

“But what about a father? Every kid needs a father. And who's going to marry you, Miss Schuyler, in your present state? Or saddled with a newborn? Who's going to take you on?”

“Plenty of men.”

“That's exactly what we're afraid of. Plenty of men. Because that's who you are, right? You're not mother material. Let's be honest. You're Holly Golightly, nothing wrong with that. Everyone's different. You'll be much happier if you give this baby up and continue with your life, free and clear. And the baby, too.”

He hands her the papers. She closes her hands on her lap and stares him down, keeping her mouth shut, afraid of what the hell she might say if she opened it.

“When exactly are you due, Miss Schuyler?”

“Ask your brother. He can do the math.”

“January? February?”

Pepper presses her lips together and sits back in the sofa, sipping her coffee, any old pregnant housewife entertaining a guest in her living room.

“Let's say February,” he says, glancing at her belly. “Let's say you
have the baby in the middle of winter. Do you know what it's like, living with a newborn? And you're on your own, you're bored and cooped up, you can't have any fun. You like to have fun, don't deny it. Newborns are no fun, honey. Trust me.”

“Like I said, I'll muddle through.”

He lifts the papers an inch or two from the leather surface of his briefcase. “Expensive, too.”

“I have money.”

“Listen to me. You don't have to do this. We've got papers all drawn up. We have a couple ready to take the baby, as soon as it's born, and care for it like it's their own.”

“Have you, now? John and Jane Smith from Long Island, loyal Democrats?”

“No. Me. My wife and I. We'll take the baby.”

“Like hell.”

He holds up the papers. “See for yourself. We've discussed this at home. My brother came to us with the idea, actually. I think maybe you know my wife's had a couple of miscarriages. She'd welcome this baby with open arms.”

“Sure she would. Did you tell her whose it is?” Pepper laughs. “What am I saying? She'll probably think it's yours.”

The ruddiness in his cheeks spreads to the tip of his nose. “Don't be an idiot, honey. You're not a fit mother. That baby will be loved and cared for, far better than if you tried to raise it yourself. And you'd be free. No more worries, no more responsibility. You can live your life.” A delicate hesitation. “We'll compensate you, of course.”

Pepper knots her hands around the coffee cup so he won't see the rage inside them, shaking like a volcano on the verge of eruption. She freezes her mouth in a smile and says idly, like it's a game, like there's nothing in the world at stake: “You seem to think I'm one of your bimbos. You seem to think I'm just one of your usual girls.”

He drums his fingers on the briefcase and smiles. “You know, that's
the funny thing about you bimbos. You all think
you're
the one who's not the bimbo.”

Pepper sets down her coffee cup. “Off you go. Discussion's over.”

“I'm not leaving.”

“Then I am.”

She sashays . . . well, not exactly. She waddles elegantly down the line of the chintz sofa, between the chairs and to the door, and she's just about found the knob with her trembling volcanic fingers when his hand takes her by the elbow.

“You're not just walking away from this.”

“Watch me.”

She yanks the door open, and guess who? Black-robed and elegant.

Annabelle.

GERMANY
•
1938

1.

We had stayed only a month in the Himmelfarbs' house, but I felt as if we were emerging, drowsy-eyed, from a Rip van Winkle hibernation. The world seemed to have changed somehow: not just the fallen leaves and the cold air, but the constitution of the physical universe. The atoms and molecules had realigned on a different axis.

By nine o'clock, we had reached Konstanz, on the rim of the lake. We had our story polished and ready: We were the Dommerichs, Rudolf and Annabelle and our son, Florian, skiing enthusiasts, visiting friends in the mountains near Verbier. Stefan was going to do all the talking. If the guard asked me a question, I was to answer in one word if possible, and if he questioned my accent, I was to say I had been brought up by an aunt and uncle in Geneva because my parents died when I was little.

“But he won't ask you any questions, I think,” Stefan said. “You have your big, innocent eyes. He will think you are nothing but a sweet little hausfrau and I am a lucky man.”

“Little does he know.”

The streets were quiet. Stefan parked the car outside a tobacconist and went inside for newspapers and cigarettes. “You poor thing,” I said. “They don't have your favorites. That will be something to look forward to, when we get to Monte Carlo.”

He lit himself up and sighed in relief. “Do you know what I am looking forward to most of all?”

“Safety? Being on your ship again? Making love to me in your splendid stateroom?”

“Yes, all these things, and especially the last one. But mostly I am looking forward to hearing you play your music again.”

“But I left the Amati at the hotel in Antibes.”

He shook his head and picked up the newspaper. “I had it taken back to the
Isolde
. It is waiting for you there, in my cabin.”

I caught my breath and said, “Our cabin.”

“Yes. Our cabin.” He frowned at the headline before him.

“What's wrong?”

He swore under his breath. “They have shot vom Rath.”

“Who's vom Rath?”

“He is no one, just a diplomat in Paris, at the German embassy. Your husband probably crushed him under his heel on his way to work each day and never even noticed the mess. But now some stupid Jew has walked in and shot him in his office.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. Not yet.” He swore again and tossed the newspaper into my lap, next to Florian's sleeping head. “But you will never guess. The fucking Nazis are calling for blood.”

2.

At the crossing, a long line of automobiles stretched down the road. Nobody was moving; most had shut down their engines and gotten out
of their cars, smoking and talking. Stefan opened the door and said he was going to find out what was going on.

He came back half an hour later, and his face was grim. Florian was awake and eating an apple. “We're going to find a hotel,” he said. “They have closed the border temporarily. No one knows if they will open it today.”

“Can't we just wait and see?”

“I don't want to give them any chances.”

We found a plain but comfortable hotel on the outskirts of town, overlooking the main road, so that Stefan could watch for any signs of activity. The weather was too cold for Florian to play outdoors for long. We kept to our room and ordered our lunch, while the line of cars grew along the road outside. Stefan smoked and paced the wall, glancing out the window from time to time, until I asked him to stop and read Florian a story. All right, he said, stubbing out his latest cigarette, and while he was explaining about the three little pigs, room service knocked on the door.

Because he had slept so long in the car, Florian didn't want to take his usual nap after lunch. He ran around the room, firing an imaginary gun at imaginary pirates, while I chased fruitlessly after him and Stefan stood perplexed at the end of the bed.

“Go,” I said at last, brushing my hair from my face. “Go downstairs and see if you can get any news.”

Stefan, looking relieved, grabbed his coat and hat and cigarettes and hurried from the room.

By three o'clock, Florian had at last fallen asleep, and Stefan hadn't returned. I pulled a chair next to the window and sat there, pretending to read in the fading autumn light. The line of cars had shortened, but I couldn't tell if this was because the border had opened or because people had simply given up. A large number of men milled about on the sidewalks and streets, some of them in uniform. I felt the waves of their restlessness rippling upward through the window glass, like a field of
visible energy, and for the first time my blood began to quicken. One man stopped right under the window and looked up, as if he knew I was watching, and the look he sent me was so full of blank hatred I startled up from the chair. The book spilled to the floor. The man spat on the sidewalk and moved on.

When Stefan finally opened the door at half past four, I rushed to his arms. “What is this?” he said, taking me against his chest.

“What's going on out there?”

“A damned mess.” He gave me a last squeeze and tossed his hat onto the writing desk in the corner. “There is no word yet on the border.”

“What are all those men doing out there?”

“Waiting for a fucking riot, I think.” He glanced at Florian, who was stirring on the bed, though his eyes were still closed. “We had better hope that fool vom Rath stays alive.”

“A riot? Here?”

“My dear, they are waiting for it. They are waiting for a damned excuse.”

“Who are ‘they'?”

“Hitler, Goebbels, every man down the line. The pretext, it doesn't even matter. I went to the newsstand for a paper, and do you know what? The Jewish papers were not there. They have stopped publication, by order of the Reich, because they say there is a great Jewish conspiracy afoot, but really because they want to strip us of everything we have left, every possible means of protest and information. Meanwhile, they are expelling Jews who were not born here. They are sending them to Poland by the trainload, and Poland sends them back. That is why this man Grynszpan shot vom Rath, because his family had been expelled to Poland with hardly the clothes on the back.”

“My God.”

“There is nothing left.” He was speaking in a hushed voice, pacing, lighting a cigarette. “They are ready to strike. The Gauleiters are waiting for the signal from Goebbels, I have no doubt. Waiting to hear that
vom Rath has died, or not even that. They will send the local party members to attack every fucking synagogue in Germany, every Jew they can lay their hands on. I must telephone Wilhelmine.”

“Wilhelmine?”

“Because of Else, Annabelle.” He turned to me, and his eyes were wide and shocked and exhausted. “They are not letting Jewish children in the schools anymore. My daughter, she is not even a human being here anymore.”

“Of course, of course. Call her now.”

There was a large black telephone on the writing desk. Stefan sank down in the chair and picked up the receiver. I had borrowed clothes for him from Matthias, who was an inch or two shorter and perhaps fifty pounds heavier, so that gray wool jacket hung from Stefan's shoulders and exposed his wrists. I thought, We will have to go shopping for him in Monte Carlo and buy him several fine new suits and white shirts, and this time I'll iron them for him myself with a bit of starch, the way he likes them. Stefan flicked the ash from his cigarette and told the operator that he was making a long-distance call to Stuttgart, gave the exchange and the number, and tapped his heel against the floor while he waited for the connection.

Florian stirred and sat up on the bed. “Mama?”

“Right here, darling.” I sat down next to him and cuddled him against my side.

Stefan straightened and spoke into the receiver, in German, asking for Mrs. Himmelfarb. There was a pause, and a crease opened between his eyebrows. “I see,” he said “Perhaps Mr. Himmelfarb is available? No? Can you tell me when she is expected to return? I see. Then will you please tell Mrs. Himmelfarb that Rudolf Dommerich called from Konstanz, on the border, and to please return my call at once. The Nazarene Hotel”—he glanced at the paper on the writing desk—“room number 209. Thank you.”

He set down the receiver and said to me in English, “They're out, it seems.”

“So I gathered.”

“Your German has improved, at least.” His smile was forced.

Florian shook off the last of his nap and wriggled down the bed to the floor. Stefan looked at him and his mouth softened. He held out his arms and Florian ran tipsily into them, to be swung up on his father's knee.

“She'll be fine,” I said. “Else will be fine.”

“Yes.”

Stefan brushed his nose in Florian's hair, the way I always did, inhaling his little-boy smell, and my ribs hurt as I watched them, identical hair and identical eyes, the son giving comfort to the father in his ill-fitting suit, his gaunt Dachau frame. When I closed my eyes, I could still see every detail, and I thought, I will never forget this, I will always remember the two of them sitting on the chair in the dull November afternoon, in the hotel room that smelled of Lysol and cigarettes and dread.

3.

The telephone rang at half past ten o'clock, waking the three of us like the sting of a wasp. Stefan stumbled from the bed and grasped the telephone receiver, while I gathered Florian against me and stroked his damp hair.

“Wilhelmine! Where are you? Yes? Yes?” He cursed. “No, we can't anyway, the border's closed. No. Just stay where you are, do you hear me? Stay where you are, and I will come to get her. For God's sake. You must come, too.” A pause. “Tell him he is a fucking idiot. Tell him Stefan said he is a fucking idiot. God damn it. All right. I'm leaving now.”

As he spoke, I thought I heard the distant sound of something shattering.

Stefan slammed the receiver into the cradle and turned to me. I couldn't see him very well in the darkness, but I felt the angry energy that rippled from his body.

“I have got to go to Stuttgart at once,” he said. “Vom Rath has died. The Gauleiters are already at work with their minions. Wilhelmine says she can hear the smashing and screaming from her window. She wants me to take Else. She wants us to take Else with us, out of the country, to safety.”

“Of course, of course. My God.” I scrambled out of the covers. “Of course we'll take her. But what about Wilhelmine and poor little Henrik?”

He shook his head and turned on the lamp. “That idiot Matthias won't leave, and Wilhelmine knows he is an idiot and still she will not leave him. It is a nightmare.” He was tearing off his pajamas and reaching for his suitcase.

I climbed out of bed and ran to my suitcase.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed.”

“What? No. You are staying here, Annabelle. You are staying here with Florian.”

“And let you go off by yourself? Are you kidding me?” I lifted my nightgown over my head and reached for my blouse. “Not a chance.”

“Don't be stupid, Annabelle. I will be there and back by morning. You will wake up and find me, you will hardly even know I left.”

“Do you think I'm a fool? I've spent the last three months trying to save you and keep you safe, and I'm not going to let you out of my sight. Tonight of all nights.”

He seized my arms. “Annabelle, no. Please don't do this. You've got to stay here. You'll be safe in the hotel, you and Florian.”

“I don't want to be safe if you're not.”

“But Florian!”

“Don't you
dare
. Don't you
dare
blackmail me. We are a
family
, Stefan, we are not going to break apart. Do you hear me? I'm in your skin, remember? We're a
family
. I swore it when I found you again, I swore I'd never give you up. Stefan, please, you have
got
to understand, you have got to take me with you.”

“You are killing me, Annabelle.”

Florian began to cry.

I put my hands on Stefan's cheeks. His bones fit into my palms. “I won't let you. I won't let you walk out of this room alone. You are not allowed to do this alone anymore.”

“Annabelle, please—”

Florian slithered from the bed and ran to Stefan's legs. “Don't leave. Don't leave.”

“You see?” I whispered. “This is all there is. This is all we have. The three of us.”

Stefan closed his eyes. His hand dropped to Florian's head, to the sobbing face that stuck to his knees and wet the legs of his pajamas.

“Stefan. I gave you my own blood, remember?”

It was a cheap plea, and he must have known it. That pint of blood had entered his veins three years ago, and by now it was gone, churned over and converted into Stefan's own. But as I said the words, I recalled the drone of the tender's engine, the slap of waves against the hull of the
Isolde
, the briny smell of the sea and the reek of gasoline exhaust. I remembered Stefan's brave and lugubrious voice, telling me not to be stupid, and the giddy plunge in my belly as I fell in love with him. The sight of my red blood flowing through the tube and into the vein on his wrist, to bring him back to life.

Stefan said, in a defeated voice, “You will do exactly as I say, is that understood? You will hide in the boot if I tell you to hide in the boot. If there is the least trouble, I will deposit you in the nearest hotel and you will wait there quietly with our son, is that clear?”

I fell on his chest.

“Yes. Yes, that's clear.”

4.

We reached the outskirts of Stuttgart just before two o'clock in the morning. A lurid yellow-orange glow hung over the rooftops, like a bank of fog. “They have started burning,” Stefan said.

“What are they burning?”

“Whatever they can, probably. Synagogues, businesses. Maybe houses.”