“It’s more complicated than that. But there might be”—he paused—“a possibility. I will ask around.”
“Really?” Could this be? She imagined telling Mutti: I was terrified to talk with him, but then I did. She felt a smile tugging to lift the corners of her mouth.
“I don’t want to say any more, not yet. Don’t get your hopes up,” he cautioned. “But I will try. Now go on, I have to get back to work.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bradford,” she said, wild with happiness, and spirited up the stairs to Margaret.
That was the last Rose heard about it. She felt as if Dr. Bradford looked at her differently from then on—there were moments over the next few weeks when she was certain he was about to speak—but a month after she approached him, the war started, and the borders closed for good.
Although there wasn’t a tinge of criticism in the words her mother had written, Rose had the most horrible feeling that her mother knew Rose hadn’t done all that she could. She sensed that Rose had waited too long to ask Dr. Bradford about sponsorship; why hadn’t she asked anyone else? Mutti knew that Rose was impertinent and lied to Mrs. Cohen; she deduced that Rose had secretly gone to church with Margaret last month; she sensed that on the day that war broke out and all the adults at the Cohens’ were crowded around the wireless in the drawing room, Rose crouched in the corner away from the others, immobilized by fear, but still she wondered what would happen on her birthday, which was the following week. She was a terrible daughter.
Rose remembered some things from that cold awful night she left Vienna. Walking from the tram with her parents and Gerhard, Mutti in her navy wool coat with the rabbit-fur collar, her face flushed. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and neither was Rose, and Mutti gripped Rose’s hand in hers, her fingers sweaty despite the chill in the air. Rose could remember her mother chatting about incidental things—a black cat she’d spotted in the neighborhood, Rose’s coat that was too big now but was sure to fit snugly next winter if Rose took good care of it. She remembered arriving at the field behind the train station, where the children were supposed to gather.
But Rose did not remember saying good-bye to her parents. She could not remember leaving the field and walking to the train platform. Did she say good-bye in the field? Did they come to the platform with her? What did Mutti say? Rose didn’t know. When she thought of that night, her mind snapped shut, leaving a shameful void. Why couldn’t she remember?
Her stomach was truly hurting her, fisted and knotted up. She resolved to go to synagogue. She would call Mrs. Cohen Auntie, if she still wanted. Rose would do anything to set things right again.
She felt shivery. The cramps were getting worse. She got up to go to the toilet, and as she was scurrying down the hall, she felt between her legs a small but definite leak. She shifted, and there it was again. A wetness to her underwear, against her inner thigh. She rushed into the bathroom, aghast, slammed the door shut. How could she have had an accident? She was twelve years old. She took care of herself. She hung her head in her hands but she didn’t cry. She didn’t cry anymore; she wouldn’t cry now.
It was only after she had been sitting on the toilet for a minute that she looked down at her underwear. There, instead of a yellowish hue, was a strip of stain winking back up at her, a shock of living, thick red.
All Rose could do was stare. She knew what it was. But knowing didn’t help her believe it. Her mind began tumbling: Margaret, a year older at thirteen, hadn’t gotten her monthlies yet. Her cousin Kaethe didn’t get them until she was nearly fifteen! (Rose remembered the sturdy belt, the thick woolen napkins her cousin paraded in front of her like a prize.) Was this too early? She took her index finger and tentatively touched the rust-colored blood. It smelled dank, earthy. How could she be sure it was her monthlies? How could she know that something wasn’t wrong with her?
Panicking, she tore off her wool pants, hopped out of her underwear. Still wearing her thick socks, she examined the damage. Her knickers were woefully stained, and she saw to her horror that a patch of blood had seeped onto her trousers too. Clutching them under the faucet, rubbing the material together, she thought how furious Mrs. Cohen would be if she found out. “We all have to do our part for the war effort,” she often declaimed. Their part included using only the allotted pat of butter for tea and not asking for meat or too much soap since they were rationed.
The soap and water were doing little to ameliorate the stain on her pants. Rose feared she was only making it worse. She scrubbed harder, splashing water onto the toes of her thick woolen socks. Finally she stopped. This wouldn’t do. She thought for a moment, and began searching the vanity. In the uppermost drawer, she found what she was looking for: scissors.
She sat back down on the toilet, grasped her pants, and was surprised to find that her hand was steady as she cut, then ripped, a tiny hole along the bloodied seam. She would say that she got caught on the gate outside of the Mullroys’ house. A tear was much better than blood. A tear was something that was understood.
Rose’s head ached and her chest felt both cold and hot at the same time, but she felt better, calmer, as she padded her damp underwear with a wad of toilet paper, put her ripped trousers on. Back in her room, she changed once more, pulling off the ruined knickers in exchange for clean ones. She balled up the dirty ones, looking around her room, hesitating. The pants she could explain away, but her underwear? She needed to get rid of them. But where? She couldn’t use the trash or stuff them in the back of a drawer; Mary would surely discover them. But Mary had turned over her mattress just yesterday and given it a good cleaning; she wouldn’t be there again for a while. Rose stuffed the product of her shame beneath her mattress.
As Rose was shifting the makeshift napkin between her legs once again, she heard a knock on her door.
“Just a moment—” Rose said, swiveling the pad around.
Another knock. “Please open up.” Mrs. Cohen’s voice.
“Coming,” Rose called, pulling her pants on.
“Rose, now!”
She opened the door to face a shaking, flushed Mrs. Cohen.
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing, I—”
“You seem to have recovered well from this morning,” Mrs. Cohen said in a tight voice. “I heard you went out earlier.”
“I am sorry,” Rose said, sliding away from Mrs. Cohen, onto the edge of the bed.