Stefano asks to borrow the pipe Michal salvaged from the ruins. Michal hands it to him reluctantly, fearing it won’t return. Stefano pretends to light invisible tobacco in the pipe bowl and puts his mouth on the bit to make the puffing action, and Michal is absorbed in the display, his expression open. When Stefano gives the pipe back to him, the boy mimics the actions he just witnessed.
During supper Rosalind is courteous; the fact that he is working for her has released some of the tension in their conversations, and her eyes tend to linger on him longer. She doesn’t volunteer information, yet she answers everything. She knows a lot. She can describe places in Berlin. She can describe the people, patients she met. But throughout she is looking over his shoulder at the door that Georg has exited. And only a short time later Georg walks inside and sits next to them at the table to stare at the empty table space in front of him.
Rosalind stands up quickly and moves to the bench near the sink. Her own meal not quite finished, she prepares a plate of food for Georg and places it in front of him.
Stefano can see that Rosalind’s breathing is more rapid, her movements more erratic. She is nervous about Georg.
“Hello, Georg,” says Stefano, but he doesn’t respond, his eyes following Rosalind’s hands as she fusses with his utensils. Rosalind looks at Stefano and shakes her head. It is best he doesn’t speak to him.
Georg is tall with a long neck. His pale red-gold hair is kept short, his features fine: small nose, girlish lips, pointed chin. He might have been handsome once before the scar, before the damage forced his head to droop, his mouth to drool.
Without warning Georg picks up his plate and throws it on the floor. Michal jumps beneath the table in fear, and Stefano stands suddenly, in readiness to protect the others.
“No,” says Rosalind to Stefano, stopping him from interfering. “Everything is all right. You must go. I will fix this.”
He looks from Georg to Rosalind, attempting to determine whether she is safe. But he must also protect the boy. He talks softly to him under the table in an effort to coax him out. Michal doesn’t move, still staring up at Stefano, too afraid. Stefano reaches for his arm and pulls him out gently, then puts one arm around him protectively as he remembers the smashed things next door, an act of rage, and wonders now if Georg was responsible for the damage—not squatters as he was told.
Georg remains seated, his head back to drooping.
“I appreciate what you’ve done, but after tomorrow, once you are finished, I think you should move on without Erich’s help,” she says curtly, perhaps for Georg’s benefit. “This place is not for you. It was not a good idea to have you here. You should not be staying in the house with Erich.”
Her tone and words confound him, giving him the feeling of a cold shower directly after a warm one.
He nods. “Thank you for supper,” he says. Though there is still food on his plate.
Georg starts to sob and moan, and Rosalind turns to the sound. It is a long-drawn, desperate cry for help, thinks Stefano.
Michal pushes forward the marble from his basket, which rolls shakily across the table toward Georg and stops in front of him, and everyone watches Georg, curiously, wondering, waiting to hear thunder. And Georg raises his head, crying stopped suddenly, picks up the marble to examine it, then rolls it gently back across the table toward Michal. The boy doesn’t catch it; instead he watches it roll slowly off the table and fall to the ground.
Michal moves to pick it up, and Stefano nearly stops him, not wanting any sudden movement, but Georg’s expression is now one of curiosity. Michal picks it up and rolls it back toward Georg, but the push is too forceful, and it bounces, landing on Rosalind’s plate that still has food.
Georg stares at it a moment before breaking into laughter, and Rosalind looks at Stefano as if she has never seen him before, and then they hear it, too—small gurgles of laughter from Michal. And the laughter continues for several more moments, and Stefano’s half smile turns nearly into a full one, and Rosalind, uncertainly at first, can’t help but smile, too, to see Georg happy, to hear the joy. And the clock makes its plocking sound, and Georg laughs again, when he never once noticed the clock’s sound before.
Stefano stands and reaches for the boy and says good night to Georg, who is smiling with the marble that he still has in his hand, which Michal has left for him.
Stefano shuts the door and walks to the dark house next door, listening for sounds of breaking and crashing behind him that do not come. He looks at the boy and wonders at the power of children that he has never known before.
22 April 1940
Dear Papa,
You should see the pile of letters I have for you now. I like to reread them, and occasionally I correct a word here and there. I guess I have Rosalind to thank for that. She was always pedantic about my spelling. I’m sorry it has been many months since I have written.
We did not go to the river house last summer. Georg has left to fight somewhere, though he would not say where. I miss him so terribly. I miss all the wonderful times that we had. Sometimes I think I will go mad if he doesn’t send me a letter. He thinks about lots of things. He looks at the bigger picture. He makes fun of the situation. He showed me a paper that is run by an underground organization. It had funny pictures of Hitler in extra-large boots and behind him an army of tin soldiers who had fallen over. He had to throw it away, of course. It is a severely punishable offense to make fun of our leader.
I have a new job as a shorthand typist for one of the Reich officers, which pays quite well. It was Erich, Georg’s friend, who recommended me for the job. The education reports I type are rather dull, but I discovered after a couple of weeks that some people in the office have a sense of humor at least, and even joked about the assassination attempt on our führer that happened last year. But when the minister is in attendance, we pretend that life has no joy, and we stare at our typewriters as if our lives depend on it. Perhaps they do. It seems you are punished, shot, sent to prison, for anything these days.
You would not recognize me in my dresses and suits. I sometimes worry that if you are released and we pass each other in the street, you will not recognize me. Uncle Max says I look like Mama, but when I look in the mirror, I see both of you.
I wrote and told you that Rosa is madly in love with Georg, though she always denies it. She is so strange, Papa, like a frightened little mouse too afraid to tell people how she feels.
I do have to tell you that I have lots of friends, and I have grown close to one in particular. He is not what you would expect, Papa. Alain is half African, and he is a performer in an African troupe that sings and dances; there are acrobatics, and their music is truly unique, and the whole show is vibrant and colorful. I have played matchmaker between him and Emmanuelle, my friend. Alain said his father is French, but he does not remember him.
Alain is not allowed in any bars. In fact, he is only to stay with his troupe. Rosalind tells me that I should not be seeing Alain or Emmanuelle. She says that I will get in trouble, and we are not allowed to mingle. But they break the monotony that is this new Berlin, now filled with dreary, awful conversations about war.
Anyway, the war is here to stay for a while yet it seems, though the war for you started long before now. I wish to never hear the transmissions that burst into our living rooms. I heard the propaganda minister, Goebbels, talking about our nation gathering strength, about our future shining victory, and about our desire to trust “our Hitler.” With you in prison I see no reason to trust. You saw this coming. I now understand a lot more clearly what you were trying to do. You could see where our country was headed; perhaps you could see that somehow it would become part of Germany. I hope that people out there will remember what you did and what you tried to do. When the war is over, I am sure that people will see sense, and you will be released.
I know that I appear flippant to some, but I care about you and everyone. I really do. I want to make my life count for something, Papa. Berlin is stifling here.