of it fall onto the nape of her neck and another on her wrists.
When I was little, I used to spend hours in that room, the largest and sweetest smelling in the whole apartment. Its huge chandelier, with long arms fanning out on all sides, resembled a giant spider. Frightened, I’d shut myself in the huge closet, where I used to try on pearl necklaces and parade about in voluminous hats and high-heeled shoes. That was back when Mama would laugh to see me play, smear me with bright-red lipstick, and call me “my little clown.”
Times had changed, even though the rugs that no one looked after anymore, and the batiste sheets nobody ironed, and the dusty silk mesh curtains, were all still impregnated with the essence of jasmine, mixed now with the sickening smell of mothballs. Mama insisted on preserving a past that was evaporating before our eyes as we looked on helplessly.
I lay down on the white lace bedspread, peering up at the chandelier that no longer scared me, and sensed that she had come into the room. My mother headed straight for the bathroom without saying a word. She was exhausted.
It was obvious from her face and movements that this frail woman, who used to pose like the languid Greta Garbo, had somehow recovered the strength of the Strauss family from some unsuspected, remote place. She responded to Papa’s disappearance with a vigor that surprised even her. I was the one now who found it hard to leave our prison. If I didn’t meet up with Leo at Frau Falkenhorst’s café today, he was capable of appearing at the apartment without warning, running the risk of bumping into the dreaded Frau Hofmeister and silly Gretel.
Without makeup, her hair wet, and her cheeks pink from the hot water, Mama looked even younger than she was. She walked across the bedroom to wrap a small white towel around her head and then closed the curtains so that not the slightest ray of sunshine could enter.
She had still not said a word. I had no idea if she had heard anything about Papa, what steps she was taking. Nothing.
My mother sat at her dressing table and began her beauty ritual. She could see in her mirror that I had gone to sit in her bergère à la reine armchair that was almost two hundred years old, without her even asking first if I had washed my hands. She no longer cared about getting stains on her cherished antique piece designed by someone named Avisse. She took a deep breath and, as she was examining the first signs of a wrinkle, told me gravely:
“We’re leaving, Hannah.”
She avoided looking at me. She spoke so softly, I found it hard to understand her, although I could sense her determination. It was an order. I didn’t count, and nor did Papa or Leo. We were leaving, and that was that.
“We have the permits and the visas. All that’s left is to buy our passages on the boat.”
What about Papa? She knew he wouldn’t be coming back, but there was no way we could abandon him.
“When are we leaving?” was the only thing I dared ask. Her answer was not much help.
“Soon.”
At least it wasn’t going to be that day or the one after. I had time to work out a plan with Leo; he must already be waiting for me.
“Tomorrow we’ll start packing. We’ll have to decide what we want to take.” She spoke so slowly I became worried.
I needed to go out and meet Leo, but she went on.
“We’ll never come back here. But we will survive, Hannah. I’m sure of that,” she insisted, brushing her hair with controlled fury.
Mama switched off the main light and left on just the one over her dressing table. We sat in the semidarkness. She had nothing more to say to me.
I slipped out of the room and ran downstairs without even a thought for the neighbors who were so anxious to see us go. If only they knew how eager we were to finally get out of our absurd confinement.
I reached the Hackescher Markt out of breath and ran to the café. Leo was enjoying what was left of his hot chocolate.
“It’s spelled
When I was little, I used to spend hours in that room, the largest and sweetest smelling in the whole apartment. Its huge chandelier, with long arms fanning out on all sides, resembled a giant spider. Frightened, I’d shut myself in the huge closet, where I used to try on pearl necklaces and parade about in voluminous hats and high-heeled shoes. That was back when Mama would laugh to see me play, smear me with bright-red lipstick, and call me “my little clown.”
Times had changed, even though the rugs that no one looked after anymore, and the batiste sheets nobody ironed, and the dusty silk mesh curtains, were all still impregnated with the essence of jasmine, mixed now with the sickening smell of mothballs. Mama insisted on preserving a past that was evaporating before our eyes as we looked on helplessly.
I lay down on the white lace bedspread, peering up at the chandelier that no longer scared me, and sensed that she had come into the room. My mother headed straight for the bathroom without saying a word. She was exhausted.
It was obvious from her face and movements that this frail woman, who used to pose like the languid Greta Garbo, had somehow recovered the strength of the Strauss family from some unsuspected, remote place. She responded to Papa’s disappearance with a vigor that surprised even her. I was the one now who found it hard to leave our prison. If I didn’t meet up with Leo at Frau Falkenhorst’s café today, he was capable of appearing at the apartment without warning, running the risk of bumping into the dreaded Frau Hofmeister and silly Gretel.
Without makeup, her hair wet, and her cheeks pink from the hot water, Mama looked even younger than she was. She walked across the bedroom to wrap a small white towel around her head and then closed the curtains so that not the slightest ray of sunshine could enter.
She had still not said a word. I had no idea if she had heard anything about Papa, what steps she was taking. Nothing.
My mother sat at her dressing table and began her beauty ritual. She could see in her mirror that I had gone to sit in her bergère à la reine armchair that was almost two hundred years old, without her even asking first if I had washed my hands. She no longer cared about getting stains on her cherished antique piece designed by someone named Avisse. She took a deep breath and, as she was examining the first signs of a wrinkle, told me gravely:
“We’re leaving, Hannah.”
She avoided looking at me. She spoke so softly, I found it hard to understand her, although I could sense her determination. It was an order. I didn’t count, and nor did Papa or Leo. We were leaving, and that was that.
“We have the permits and the visas. All that’s left is to buy our passages on the boat.”
What about Papa? She knew he wouldn’t be coming back, but there was no way we could abandon him.
“When are we leaving?” was the only thing I dared ask. Her answer was not much help.
“Soon.”
At least it wasn’t going to be that day or the one after. I had time to work out a plan with Leo; he must already be waiting for me.
“Tomorrow we’ll start packing. We’ll have to decide what we want to take.” She spoke so slowly I became worried.
I needed to go out and meet Leo, but she went on.
“We’ll never come back here. But we will survive, Hannah. I’m sure of that,” she insisted, brushing her hair with controlled fury.
Mama switched off the main light and left on just the one over her dressing table. We sat in the semidarkness. She had nothing more to say to me.
I slipped out of the room and ran downstairs without even a thought for the neighbors who were so anxious to see us go. If only they knew how eager we were to finally get out of our absurd confinement.
I reached the Hackescher Markt out of breath and ran to the café. Leo was enjoying what was left of his hot chocolate.
“It’s spelled
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