hurting someone before, but right then, I wanted to hurt Anna Mueller.
“Easy, Iris,” Benny whispered in my ear. The arm around my waist grew tighter, holding me back.
“I’m sorry if that upsets you, but Ingrid Anderson was not a good person. That is why I take the money.”
“How can you say that? You didn’t know her.”
“No, but I know her kind.” She stabbed the air with her finger. “We all do. And it may be hard to hear, but no one cares how she died, they are just happy that she did. We don’t need people like her here.”
Finally, I understood what she was saying. Pearl was right: Yorkville was nothing but a hotbed of anti-Semitism. This woman, the police—everyone thought that Mama’s faith justified her murder.
No wonder Pop didn’t want to talk about it.
“Get me out of here,” I whispered to Benny.
“Why are you so angry?” asked Anna. “You know what she was, don’t you?”
I met her, cold stare to cold stare. “No. Why don’t you tell me?”
I braced myself for her to declare that Mama was a Jewish pig. But she surprised me.
“Poor little girl, don’t you know? Your mother was a Nazi.”
* * *
I DON’T REMEMBER leaving the Biergarten. The time between when Anna declared Mama a Nazi and when I found myself on the street, crossing the imaginary line between Yorkville and the rest of the Upper East Side, vanished.
“She was yanking our chains,” said Benny.
“Of course she was,” I said, though I didn’t feel nearly as certain as I tried to sound. On the surface, it was a crazy accusation, but in some strange way it made sense. Of course the police didn’t care that she had been murdered. Wasn’t one less Nazi a reason for rejoicing?
But then why claim it was suicide? To protect her killer?
“It was probably just a rumor,” Benny said. We reached the subway but he seemed hesitant to go through the turnstile, as though we needed to resolve the truth about Mama before we left the Upper East Side and went home. “You know how rumors are. Once they start, they’ve got legs and there’s no stopping them, even if there isn’t a whiff of truth in it.”
He was right. We were in high school, after all, we knew how rumors began. All you needed to do was wear a tight sweater or a different shade of lipstick or skip class with a notorious Italian hoodlum and suddenly your reputation was being questioned.
But would one German say that sort of thing about another? It was, I had to imagine, the worst possible thing you could claim. To call another girl easy because of the way she dressed was one thing, but this? Was this really the sort of thing you would tell someone—total strangers at that—without evidence? What could Anna possibly gain by doing so?
And was there evidence? The worst part of Mama’s death was how incomprehensible it seemed. Everything had been so normal until Pearl Harbor. Mama had seemed so happy. She had always been independent—she had to be with Pop being gone for months at a time—and it wasn’t unusual for her to go out at night. Although she left on her own, I assumed she didn’t remain that way—it wouldn’t have been proper for a woman to walk the streets by herself. She had lots of friends, including a number of German ones who she often spent hours talking to on the phone in her native tongue. And she received mail from Germany, from family members who still lived abroad. Those were in German, too, of course, so I never knew what they said and relied on the brief translations she shared with me. I’d never had any reason to doubt the explanations behind the phone calls or the letters, but it’s not like I could’ve questioned her honesty. I didn’t speak the language, after all, and there was no Mrs. M. back then to translate it for me.
“Iris?” said Benny. I snapped to attention. He dropped his token into the turnstile and waited for me to do the same. “You going to be okay?”
I forced a smile. Why was I
“Easy, Iris,” Benny whispered in my ear. The arm around my waist grew tighter, holding me back.
“I’m sorry if that upsets you, but Ingrid Anderson was not a good person. That is why I take the money.”
“How can you say that? You didn’t know her.”
“No, but I know her kind.” She stabbed the air with her finger. “We all do. And it may be hard to hear, but no one cares how she died, they are just happy that she did. We don’t need people like her here.”
Finally, I understood what she was saying. Pearl was right: Yorkville was nothing but a hotbed of anti-Semitism. This woman, the police—everyone thought that Mama’s faith justified her murder.
No wonder Pop didn’t want to talk about it.
“Get me out of here,” I whispered to Benny.
“Why are you so angry?” asked Anna. “You know what she was, don’t you?”
I met her, cold stare to cold stare. “No. Why don’t you tell me?”
I braced myself for her to declare that Mama was a Jewish pig. But she surprised me.
“Poor little girl, don’t you know? Your mother was a Nazi.”
* * *
I DON’T REMEMBER leaving the Biergarten. The time between when Anna declared Mama a Nazi and when I found myself on the street, crossing the imaginary line between Yorkville and the rest of the Upper East Side, vanished.
“She was yanking our chains,” said Benny.
“Of course she was,” I said, though I didn’t feel nearly as certain as I tried to sound. On the surface, it was a crazy accusation, but in some strange way it made sense. Of course the police didn’t care that she had been murdered. Wasn’t one less Nazi a reason for rejoicing?
But then why claim it was suicide? To protect her killer?
“It was probably just a rumor,” Benny said. We reached the subway but he seemed hesitant to go through the turnstile, as though we needed to resolve the truth about Mama before we left the Upper East Side and went home. “You know how rumors are. Once they start, they’ve got legs and there’s no stopping them, even if there isn’t a whiff of truth in it.”
He was right. We were in high school, after all, we knew how rumors began. All you needed to do was wear a tight sweater or a different shade of lipstick or skip class with a notorious Italian hoodlum and suddenly your reputation was being questioned.
But would one German say that sort of thing about another? It was, I had to imagine, the worst possible thing you could claim. To call another girl easy because of the way she dressed was one thing, but this? Was this really the sort of thing you would tell someone—total strangers at that—without evidence? What could Anna possibly gain by doing so?
And was there evidence? The worst part of Mama’s death was how incomprehensible it seemed. Everything had been so normal until Pearl Harbor. Mama had seemed so happy. She had always been independent—she had to be with Pop being gone for months at a time—and it wasn’t unusual for her to go out at night. Although she left on her own, I assumed she didn’t remain that way—it wouldn’t have been proper for a woman to walk the streets by herself. She had lots of friends, including a number of German ones who she often spent hours talking to on the phone in her native tongue. And she received mail from Germany, from family members who still lived abroad. Those were in German, too, of course, so I never knew what they said and relied on the brief translations she shared with me. I’d never had any reason to doubt the explanations behind the phone calls or the letters, but it’s not like I could’ve questioned her honesty. I didn’t speak the language, after all, and there was no Mrs. M. back then to translate it for me.
“Iris?” said Benny. I snapped to attention. He dropped his token into the turnstile and waited for me to do the same. “You going to be okay?”
I forced a smile. Why was I
Similar Books
