were expected to entertain the clients, so that their evenings too were often not their own. They ate dinner in restaurants with heavy, mustachioed men, the customers of the pencil company, who seemed delighted with the situation: to the honeymoon couple, they said, winking raffishly, and raised their glasses high. They had orchids delivered to the table, they flirted with her and pinched her cheek. They told her about their mothers,crossing themselves; they ordered special, peppery dishes for her, and roared with laughter when she gasped and sputtered. They were almost brutally jovial, with an edge of cruelty, she thought—Rolf protested at the idea—but she wasn’t frightened. Nothing could frighten her just then.
And then, when the gentlemen had dropped them off at their hotel, kissing her hand, they went upstairs to their room and shut the door. Sometimes, while he was shaving at the sink—for he did not want to scratch her—she would take a bath and, stepping naked out of the tub, do a mock-Spanish dance behind him, until he caught sight of her in the mirror and turned around, laughing. She always felt a thrill when she made him laugh, though really it wasn’t so hard to do, even if he seemed taken by surprise each time. Otherwise she might have felt too humble, a cheap silly person compared to him. She would like to work with him on the refugee committees when they got back, she said; she wanted to do something to help. It hurt her feelings when he did not seem pleased, when he only said she might find it very boring. “I’m not expecting to be entertained,” she said.
He worried that after a while he too might bore her. He told her that in bed; he told her many things in bed. She remembered supposing, before she went to bed with Julian, that two people could say anything to each other then. Only it had never happened. She had not learned until now how talking could feed desire, make it urgent again.
Nobody had any right, living in those times, to be happy. She knew that, and yet she was. She had never anticipated loving him like that, she had only expected to feel grateful, relieved, full of good intentions. To find herself joyful when she caught sight of him in the lobby, to get such pleasure fromtouching his face, so that she had to shut her eyes: it seemed remarkable to her, more than she deserved. The smell of bougainvillea and hibiscus came in through the balcony windows as they lay in bed. She marveled at that, and at the balminess of the night air: it was the first week in November. In New York, they read in the paper, there had already been some light snow.
They took a taxi from the airport to the apartment on Bogardus Place, another unwonted luxury. Among the bills crammed into their mailbox was an airmail envelope containing a letter from Franz and a photograph of the two sets of parents, who had celebrated the marriage together in Nuremberg. There they were, on the horsehair sofa in Jeannette’s drawing room, in front of the portrait of Jeannette’s brother, raising their glasses in a toast to their children.
The women’s heavy silk dresses are cut square at the neck, to let them display the double strings of pearls their own fathers gave them when they got married. On the table beside them are a plate of iced petits fours and a large open box of chocolates, their crinkled papers mostly empty. The glasses they hold aloft are of leaded Bavarian crystal; so is the chandelier above their heads. From the way they are smiling at the camera—even Louisa’s mother has mustered a smile—one might almost think that their snug and prosperous lives had gone on uninterrupted since the departure of their children five years before. Of course the chocolates and the cakes had to be purchased at certain hours, the times set aside for Jews to do their shopping; Mrs. Müller and Ilse had long since departed, Aryans no longer being permitted to work in Jewish households; the chandelier itself had been taxed
And then, when the gentlemen had dropped them off at their hotel, kissing her hand, they went upstairs to their room and shut the door. Sometimes, while he was shaving at the sink—for he did not want to scratch her—she would take a bath and, stepping naked out of the tub, do a mock-Spanish dance behind him, until he caught sight of her in the mirror and turned around, laughing. She always felt a thrill when she made him laugh, though really it wasn’t so hard to do, even if he seemed taken by surprise each time. Otherwise she might have felt too humble, a cheap silly person compared to him. She would like to work with him on the refugee committees when they got back, she said; she wanted to do something to help. It hurt her feelings when he did not seem pleased, when he only said she might find it very boring. “I’m not expecting to be entertained,” she said.
He worried that after a while he too might bore her. He told her that in bed; he told her many things in bed. She remembered supposing, before she went to bed with Julian, that two people could say anything to each other then. Only it had never happened. She had not learned until now how talking could feed desire, make it urgent again.
Nobody had any right, living in those times, to be happy. She knew that, and yet she was. She had never anticipated loving him like that, she had only expected to feel grateful, relieved, full of good intentions. To find herself joyful when she caught sight of him in the lobby, to get such pleasure fromtouching his face, so that she had to shut her eyes: it seemed remarkable to her, more than she deserved. The smell of bougainvillea and hibiscus came in through the balcony windows as they lay in bed. She marveled at that, and at the balminess of the night air: it was the first week in November. In New York, they read in the paper, there had already been some light snow.
They took a taxi from the airport to the apartment on Bogardus Place, another unwonted luxury. Among the bills crammed into their mailbox was an airmail envelope containing a letter from Franz and a photograph of the two sets of parents, who had celebrated the marriage together in Nuremberg. There they were, on the horsehair sofa in Jeannette’s drawing room, in front of the portrait of Jeannette’s brother, raising their glasses in a toast to their children.
The women’s heavy silk dresses are cut square at the neck, to let them display the double strings of pearls their own fathers gave them when they got married. On the table beside them are a plate of iced petits fours and a large open box of chocolates, their crinkled papers mostly empty. The glasses they hold aloft are of leaded Bavarian crystal; so is the chandelier above their heads. From the way they are smiling at the camera—even Louisa’s mother has mustered a smile—one might almost think that their snug and prosperous lives had gone on uninterrupted since the departure of their children five years before. Of course the chocolates and the cakes had to be purchased at certain hours, the times set aside for Jews to do their shopping; Mrs. Müller and Ilse had long since departed, Aryans no longer being permitted to work in Jewish households; the chandelier itself had been taxed
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