In Our Midst

Here at least was one fragment of their sweet world, untouched for the moment by yesterday’s news—but only for the moment. Perhaps that was why the boys had gone on in their usual pattern. Every day, all the year round, even when it meant wrapping themselves in wool and oilskin against the weather, these two met at 5 a.m., walked together down to the river and back again. They would let themselves into the restaurant, and while Hugh warmed up his fingers playing scales, Gerhard made coffee in the kitchen, vocalizing as it brewed. While they drank their coffee, they would decide on the morning’s repertoire, and then, for an hour or more, they would play and sing, stopping only when Bess tapped at the door, signaling it was time to go to school, or do the Saturday marketing, or, on Sundays, for Hugh to walk with her to church.

Article continues after advertisement

Behind Nina, Otto stirred in the bed and sat up. “What Lied does he sing?” he asked. “Can you hear?”

Nina stepped to the door and opened it, leaning out to listen. “’Du bist die Ruh,’”she said. You are the calm, the restful peace—the tone softly worshipful. It was a love song that might also have been a prayer, with words as easily addressed to a loving god as to a beloved girl, a pledge of gratitude to one who was at once his longing and the satisfaction of his longing. When her son sang this piece, Nina had to struggle against weeping, yearning to know to whom he was singing, imagining how he might bid farewell to his love if he were called to war.

In a voice that was pure, not bold and round like his father’s, Gerhard’s phrasing was driven by such intelligence of heart, as subtly and intricately layered as a tapestry, that even listeners who understood no German at all felt the poetry.

How different from Otto and Kurt, who both loved to sing, but who, even more, loved to be heard singing. With Hugh at the piano, they met with half a dozen others every Thursday evening just before closing time, inviting anyone who wished to linger over coffee to listen as they wandered from folk song to Wagnerian aria, visiting all that lay between those musical poles. They favored the drinking songs, meant to be sung by a chorus of men booming together, their arms thrown about one another’s shoulders.

Though Gerhard cheerfully swung his voice in among the rest, his particular gift was lost in these performances, as was Hugh’s. Hugh played the chorus songs with crisp confidence, but when it came to Lieder—Schubert or Brahms or Wolf—he played not so much for Gerhard as with Gerhard. It was something divine, the music they created together, as if these two had been the ones born twins, instead of Hugh and Bess.

Standing beside the bed, Otto stretched up his arms, as if to touch the ceiling, then brought them down, slow and controlled, to press his palms to the floor, stirring his blood to waken his body. “So,” he said, stretching again to the ceiling. “Are we to open?”

Nina shrugged, shaking her head. They had talked it over late into the night and had come to no decision. Like Otto, she had felt they should not open, but not for the same reason. He had suggested that to do so might seem disrespectful—a flagrant pursuit of commerce at a difficult time, like selling cakes at a funeral—and when Nina agreed, Otto went on: “I think many of the shops will close. But some people must come to their offices, and they will want their lunch—so perhaps for them, we should open.”

“No,” Nina said. “No one will want to miss hearing the president speak. Everyone will stay in to listen to their radios.”

“We have a radio.”

Nina had not known how to reply. They should not open the restaurant—of this, she felt certain—but she could not find a way to explain her reason to Otto.

There had been a moment yesterday—after everyone had listened to the news about Pearl Harbor and the strangers who had come in from the street had left—when the guests in the restaurant sat suspended, as if keeping still would teach them what to do next. At first, Nina had thought this was what every person in the dining room, as one, must be feeling.

Then, the thrum of the piano, changing all.

When the talk began, it came hesitatingly and hushed, slowly smoothing to a stream of whispers, almost soothing until Nina noticed the sharp glances—at her, at Otto, at Kurt and Gerhard. Furtive little darts, and all the time, whisper whisper whisper. Nina listened, trying to locate a thread she might follow toward understanding, but she could hear only the stream of sound, moving faster now, rhythmically. Like a chant—Hitler, Hirohito, Hitler, Hirohito, Hirohito—Hitler Hirohito. Hitler. Hitler. Hitler.

Like snakes, hissing.

She knew it had not actually happened, the hissing, but she had felt it then and felt it now: a relentless simmer under her skin. For all his depth of feeling, Otto was a man of logic, and she could think of no way to make him understand.

“Whether we open or not,” Nina now said, “we need bread, so I am going down.”

As Otto stretched again toward the ceiling, she stepped in front of him, and when his arms descended, he wrapped her in them. She hugged him tightly about the waist, pressing her cheek into his breastbone, still bedazzled, after more than twenty-five years, at how perfectly her cheek fit there. “I’ll make the bread and start a stew,” Nina said, squeezing her husband with all her strength so that he would answer by holding her tighter still. “And then after the sun comes up, you can watch to see who opens their shops. The druggist must, I think, but maybe no one else.”

Coming down the steps, Nina stepped squarely on each stair tread, not wanting to disrupt the boys’ rhythm with the clack of her heels. She waited until the song ended before she opened the door that shielded the staircase from the restaurant dining room. To her surprise, Bess was there too, standing beside the piano, sipping from a teacup.

“Is it so late?” Nina lifted the edge of one of the window shades, suddenly alarmed that she might have overslept.

Bess shook her head. “Hugh said I could walk with them this morning.”

“I like to see you in the morning,” Nina said, kissing the girl’s cheek. “All of you. My treasures.”

“I haven’t seen Kurt come down,” Bess said. “He hasn’t left yet?” Her skin pinked a little along her cheekbones.

Ah—there it was. Another happy clue. Over the last few months, Kurt’s manner toward Bess had sweetened. Years ago, he’d made up a pet name for her, Bess the Blest, always speaking it teasingly, like the squawk of a jay. But lately when he said it, his tone had been more as the purr of a cat, and Nina had noticed Bess responding shyly, but in kind.

Almost from the moment when Gerhard returned from his first day of school, gleefully dragging Hugh by one hand and Bess by the other, Nina had hoped that one day, one of her sons would settle his heart on Bess—for if Bess were to wed either of them, Nina would become to her Mutti instead of Tante Nina. A marriage would tie them all together, as true family.

“Kurt’s just getting up.” Nina said, taking Bess’s hand. “Come. You will help me with the bread, yes?” She nodded to the boys. “And play us something cheerful.” Hugh struck out bright notes in a skipping rhythm, beginning a silly tune their music master, Herr Vogel, had taught them years ago about a man boisterously proud of his enormous nose.

In the kitchen, Nina handed Bess the bowl of eggs and a whisk. “You can do the whites for the Brötchen and I will finish the rye loaves.”

While Bess separated the eggs, Nina lit the oven and then carried the bowls with the sourdough sponges to the work table, quickly mixing in flour, salt, and caraway seed. “How is your mother?” she asked.

“All right, I think. I hardly see her. When she’s not at work, she spends most of her time with Mr. Beale.”

Nina had hoped for a less familiar answer, but she had not really expected it. She had never known Iris Sloan to spend more than a few months without a gentleman friend, perpetually anticipating a marriage proposal that never came.

The children’s father had walked away the summer they were seven. While Iris was at work, he’d borrowed a car—he said he’d borrowed it—and had driven Hugh and Bess to a park a dozen miles outside of Newman. He’d packed a hamper with more food than they had ever seen—bread, ham, cheese, cold roast beef, fruit, and small cakes—and told them they were to have an all-day picnic. He set the hamper on the ground between them, telling them each to take a handle, and while they giggled and stumbled and worked to match their steps, he walked away. Left the car—which, along with the food, turned out to be stolen—and walked away.

To keep her children dressed and fed and in school, Iris had worked as a maid, a store clerk, a factory seamstress, and now as an aide in a convalescent home. Despite their long years of acquaintance, Iris would not accept directly from Nina’s hand even the smallest gesture of help, no matter how much she needed it. Every gift passed through the children—a roasted chicken, a loaf of bread, a half-dozen potatoes, a length of cotton or a skein of wool—as well as Iris’s simple notes of thanks. Mrs. Sloan was proud—and deservedly so, Nina thought—for despite all, she had brought up a pair of bright and healthy children in times so trying that many other women in her place would have surrendered their little ones to the county home. And no doubt she had been lonely—Nina could not imagine living without Otto any more than she could imagine living without her head or her heart—but year after year, Iris was drawn to flashy young men with film star charm, men who disappeared as quickly as they came, leaving her gloomy and snappish with the children. So Nina worried for Hugh and Bess, bruised along with their mother each time she fell.

Turning the dough onto the counter, Nina drove her fists in deeply—pushing, lifting, twisting. “And what do you think of him? Of Mr. Beale?” She knew he made his living as a jeweler—some years ago, she had taken Otto’s watch to him, to replace a broken crystal. He seemed to her different from Iris’s other men, but what could one tell about a person, really, from a single visit to his shop?

“He’s all right, I guess.” Bess whipped the egg whites in such a frenzy Nina had to press two fingers into the girl’s wrist to calm her strokes.

“Gently,” Nina said. “Whip in time—like a waltz.” She opened the kitchen door and called out to Hugh, “Your sister needs a bit of Strauss, for the beating of eggs.” He struck up “The Blue Danube” and Gerhard sang, “Donau so blau, so schön und blau  ” Nina hummed along until Bess caught the tempo.

“Your mother is happy with this gentleman, I think. Is it so?”

Bess nodded.

“Do you believe he wants to marry her?”

“Maybe,” said Bess. Her whipping slowed. “He’s crazy about Hugh.”

Nina drizzled water over the dough to make it easier to work. “Hugh only?”

“Oh, he’s nice enough to me. Very kind, really. But it’s a son he wants.” She tilted the bowl so Nina could judge whether the egg whites were ready.

“Another minute,” Nina said, and Bess started beating again. She watched the girl a moment longer before gently adding, “Darling, you must not persuade yourself there will be no room in his heart for you. Natural it is for a man to see his younger self in a boy—like a second future. If your Mr. Beale wanted only a wife, he could find a woman without children. And if he wanted only a son, he would bring a young man into his business and not bother to court your mother. I believe this is a man who wants a family. And he could dream for none finer than yours.”

Bess shrugged.

“You must invite them here, your mother and Mr. Beale. For tonight, as my guests.” She rapped the edge of the bowl so Bess would stop beating the eggs and look at her. “And I promise when Mr. Beale comes, I will make him see you are dearer than rubies. I will make them both see.”

A smile nudged at Bess’s cheeks. “I’ll ask.” She set aside the whipped whites and began separating more eggs into a clean bowl.

Nina had taught her that to make the best Brötchen, she must not whip more whites at one time than were needed for a single batch. From the beginning, Bess had been able to feel under her fingers when the dough was right for its purpose. With time and attention, and good instruction, she could become an excellent baker and a fine cook. “Come back after school,” Nina said, “and I will teach you to make Sauerbraten. We start with how to choose the cut—you can go with me to the butcher. And the spices are different for beef than for pork. The meat must rest in the brine all week for the best flavor and tenderness, so this will be for our next Sunday lunch.”

In the dining room, the music was pierced with a jeer, “Stop the Danube, brother!” Kurt had come down. Often he jokingly challenged Gerhard to a singing competition by bellowing out a phrase from one of his own favorites, but there was none of that this morning. Instead, Nina heard Otto’s voice, too. He and Kurt seemed to be quarrelling.

Nina opened the kitchen door halfway and leaned out. “What’s all this?”

Otto was holding a small American flag, like a child’s toy—something one of the boys had gotten once at an Independence Day parade.

Kurt’s jaw was tight with anger. “Everyone will think you’re mocking.” He looked at Nina, gesturing at the little flag. “He wants to put it up. Outside the door. It’s ridiculous!”

Otto pressed the flag’s small stick against the doorframe, judging its mounting height. “I can get a larger one. But this will do, I think, for today.”

“Vati, it’s not our place. Do you want to ask for trouble?” Kurt moved nearer the piano, as if he thought doing so would bring Gerhard and Hugh into a triangle of solidarity. The younger boys looked down at their music.

Otto stepped toward her. “Nina, what do you think?”

She believed Kurt was right—putting up the flag might bring trouble—but she would not say so in Kurt’s hearing. She would not let her son believe he had gained the upper hand over his father. “Let me see it, please,” she said, and Otto gave her the flag. She tested its weight, rubbed the cloth between her fingers, examined the slender dowel on which the flag had been fixed. “This is not sturdy enough for the weather, Otto. It would be a shame to spoil it. And I think there is nowhere we can hang it inside that will seem to have enough importance.”

Otto took the flag back and rolled it onto its dowel. “Yes,” he said. “I can get one meant for outdoors.”

Kurt smacked his fist into his open palm and started to speak, but Nina checked him with a glance.

Otto went on. “I must get a mount for the pole at the hardware store. Surely someone there can tell me where I might buy a flag.” He looked around at all of them, in turn—even Bess, who had come to stand beside Nina. Letting his gaze rest finally on Kurt, Otto said, “But your mother is right. This is not good weather. The wind is too harsh. In the spring, perhaps.”

Nina held the door fully open and gestured for the men to come into the kitchen. “Now, all hands to work if you want your breakfast. Otto, you slice the meats. Kurt can do the cheese. Gerhard and Hugh—find what bread remains from yesterday and get out the mustard and the jams. I will make more coffee.” She put her arm around Bess’s waist. “And you will finish today’s Brötchen.”

Hugh and Gerhard slid past her to search for bread, but Kurt stopped his father with a hand on his shoulder. Otto turned to face him, and they stood looking at one another for a moment—eye to eye, now that Kurt had grown so tall.

“My son,” Otto said, with three gentle taps on Kurt’s cheek. “Time to eat.”

__________________________________

From In Our Midst by Nancy Jensen. Used with permission of the publisher, Dzanc Books. Copyright © 2020 by Nancy Jensen.