“Of course.”
But Lizzie couldn’t shake the feeling that if Rose left, she would never see her again. She could just hear Sarah: You met who? She claimed to have owned what? And this fear lent a particular urgency. “You said you were born in Vienna,” Lizzie said. “During the war—where were you?”
Rose touched the bright silk at her neck. Her eyes in her lined face were like polished dark stones. “I was in England,” she said.
She said it so simply, seemed so matter-of-fact about it that Lizzie decided to add: “So you got out.”
“My brother and I did,” Rose said. “My parents did not.”
“Oh,” Lizzie said. It was terrible, what Rose was saying. She didn’t have to say more. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s happened,” Rose said firmly, as if Lizzie were trying to convince her otherwise.
2
Vienna, 1938–1939
They were nearly prepared. Bette had filled the wooden bucket halfway with water and set it next to the tiled stove. A cast-iron ladle leaned against the bucket, and a collection of small tin balls nestled in a snowy dishcloth, as if preparing for the alchemy that lay ahead. Rose had purchased them earlier in the week with her own money, from the bounty of the two shillings that Oma had given her for her eleventh birthday last month, forgoing a chance to see One in a Million at the UFA movie house. When she slid her coins over the counter, the wizened shop clerk had cracked a lopsided grin at her. “And a happy new year to you, young lady.” Rose pocketed the tin balls with a smile, feeling giddy and shy with belonging.
Now she fingered a pellet and rolled it around in her palm. It was light, to be sure, but it still felt substantial, hard. She liked the feel of the cool metal against her skin. “Are you sure it will melt?” she asked.
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve been doing it as long as I can remember,” Bette said, and she punched the heel of her palm into the dough. “It’s heat to metal; it’s what happens.”
Bette was from the country, nearly half a day’s train ride outside of Vienna—a village where chickens ruled the dirt streets, water was drawn from a well, and a movie house was an inchoate fantasy. Rose thought of herself as having a good imagination, but when she tried to picture herself living in such a place, the movie in her mind simply stopped, unspooled itself off the reel.
Rose moved closer. “When can we start?” She felt itchy in the woolens that her mother made her wear, her feet sweating in her thick black boots.
“I need to finish my work first.”
And my parents have to leave, Rose thought, but she knew it would annoy Bette if she said it. After Rose had bought the tin balls, she tucked them deep into her knapsack, never mentioning her purchase to her mother. Lead pouring is an old wives’ tale, she could hear Mutti say. That’s what they learn in the country. But how would Rose know it wasn’t true unless she tried? Everyone else was having fun on New Year’s Eve—Gerhard was staying at his friend Oskar’s for the weekend, her parents were going to a party at Tante Greta’s—why shouldn’t she too?
Rose watched Bette’s slender fingers ribbon the edges of the dough, the smell of the yeast tickling her nostrils. “Heinrich says too much bread isn’t good for your constitution,” she said.
“Is that so?”
Rose nodded. “He says in the future we’ll probably swallow a pill instead of taking meals.” She dipped her fingers in the water of the bucket and swished them around. She had just reported the entirety of one of her conversations with Heinrich. They had had two in total. She had met him last summer at the holiday camp she had attended at the foot of the Alps. He was a reedy redhead a year her senior who spent most of his time ferreting out shade to read Jules Verne. When she saw him crossing the grounds, holding his book like armor to his concave chest, such a fluttery feeling arose in her stomach—Rose had never felt something like that before.
“Only people who have an excess of food would complain about it,” Bette said when: brrring! The bell sounded. Rose started. “Let’s go see what the missus wants,” Bette said, wiping her floury hands against her apron and heading toward the door. Rose followed. “Not you.” Bette let out one of those thin knowing laughs Rose hated. “She rang for me, not for you. I’ll be back soon.”
After Bette left, Rose tried to amuse herself by attempting to toss the tin balls into the bucket. But each time she failed. Finally she decided to go to her parents’ bedroom, see what Bette had been summoned for.
She took the long hall—still harboring a new-paint odor—past the pantry and laundry and turned down the second hall that led to the drawing room and her father’s study, guarded by the double swords her grandfather had purchased in Constantinople. In their old flat, the swords had hung in the drawing room, but her mother had argued that the new home demanded a new start. Nothing was where it used to be. The one exception, Rose thought as she cut through the sitting area to knock on their bedroom door: the portrait of The Bellhop. In the bedroom it remained, despite her father’s objections. (“I should be the only man in here,” he said.)
“Come in,” Mutti called. For Rose, the shift was as great as stepping from the darkened movie house into bright afternoon sunlight. She registered the smell of lilies and the rustling sound of silk before she could take in the dazzle of her mother in her entirety.
Charlotte was giving her nose a final pat of powder. A smooth lock of hair dipped down below her left eyebrow, giving Rose the unsettling impression that Mutti was winking. She wore a navy silk gown that made her pale skin look paler, her dark hair darker. Her beauty made Rose feel light-headed and envious and wistful and proud, all at once.
“Where’s Bette?”
Mutti tsked. “Manners, child. What kind of greeting is that?”
“I don’t know,” Rose said, and looked down at her toes. Her feet felt even sweatier, entombed in her boots.
“An honest one,” Papi said. Wolfe was short but nimble, always in motion. He fiddled with his tie. “We should go.”
Mutti shook her head—at Rose or Papi, Rose wasn’t sure. “Bette is fixing the fastener on my cape. It should only take a moment.”
Her father frowned. “We’ll be late. We’re expected at Greta’s in less than an hour.”
“And it will take us less than half an hour to get there. We’re not in the nineteenth district anymore.”