Stardust(28)

Kaltenbach finished, the sudden quiet like a touch to Ben’s shoulder. His eyes went to the rabbi, placing the box in the square, then handing Liesl a flower to put with it. She stood still for a second, then took Ben’s hand, drawing him with her to the wall. He was given another flower and then, as if it had been rehearsed, they put them in together, one on each side of the box. When she finished she gave Ben a weak smile, her eyes confused, still not sure how to feel. He looked at the box, suddenly overwhelmed, feeling a loneliness he’d resisted before. Danny was gone, for good. Not just gone, taken away. By what right? And it wasn’t just Danny. A death spread out in shock waves, touching other people, changing them, taking pieces of them, too. Demanding some kind of justice. You owed the dead that much. How could he want it for millions and not this one?


ONLY A few Americans came back to the house afterward, so the lunch turned into a German gathering, the language floating warm and familiar around the buffet table like the wisps of steam from the chafing dishes. The caterer had come through with the salmon and what looked like a dozen other dishes, but people had brought things, too, brisket and cakes, an unexpected homey touch. All of it was being eaten, heaping plates and seconds. Liesl, who might have sat in a corner, receiving, instead was everywhere, seeing to people, playing hostess. Ben watched her, waiting for signs of strain, but he saw that the nervous activity, with its chin-high assurance, was also a kind of protective screen, like sunglasses. There were no whispered concerns, no side glances to see how she was holding up. She was right in front of them, busy, in control.

Instead, to his surprise, he found that he had become the center of attention, new ears for old complaints. The curfew during the war. The five-mile restriction for aliens. Gas coupons. All that over, thank god. And then, in lower tones, what was it really like now in Germany? You hear such stories. And the newsreels. You can’t recognize things anymore. That madman. Ben heard half of it, distracted, back at the Cherokee, his head noisy with questions. A bottle that shouldn’t be there. Someone else. An idea, once there, you couldn’t leave behind, not for polite conversation. So he nodded, answering with only part of his mind, and they backed away, respecting what they took for grief, not wanting to trouble him further. But keeping an eye on him, intrigued.

“It’s like any colony,” Liesl said when they got a moment. “They like to be with each other, not the natives, but they get a little bored, too. So you’re something to talk about. Here comes Heinrich. Be nice. I don’t know how he lives.” She leaned forward to kiss Kaltenbach’s cheek. “Heinrich, thank you. It was lovely.”

“From here,” he said in German, tapping his chest, then turned to Ben, the rituals of introduction.

“I didn’t know,” Ben said, “about his time in France. Getting people out.”

“Yes, many,” Kaltenbach said, still in German. “Some by boat, but that was difficult. So, Spain.”

“Over the Pyrenees?”

“Yes. The mountain crossings were easier than the trains. Not so strict. One guard, maybe two. Sometimes you could walk in. If you got up there. Imagine, Franz and Alma, at their age. Not hikers, you know, not young men like your brother. It’s a very dramatic story.”

“Excuse me,” Liesl said. “There’s Salka.”

“Very dramatic. A film,” Kaltenbach said. “I think so. Think of it, everybody waiting to get out. The noose tightening. You know what we called the house? Villa Espère Visa. But your brother acted. It would be a tribute to him. His story. I have a treatment of this, I’ll show it to you. Exit Visa. See what you think. They could do it at Continental. That’s where you are, yes? Your brother’s story. It would be a gift to his memory.”

Ben looked at him, feeling ambushed.

“I’m not really at Continental. Just putting something together there for the Army.”

And how had he heard about Continental anyway? Ben marveled again at the speed of news here, Lasner in touch even on a train.

“But you’ll read it. You’ll see,” Kaltenbach said. “An exciting film. And you know I can work with another writer. For the English. But who knows the story better? Who lived it?”

“Ben,” Liesl said, coming up to them, a short, plump woman in tow, “you have to meet Salka. She’s everyone’s mother.”

“Everyone’s cook,” the woman said, taking Ben’s hand. “They come for the chocolate cake, not for me.”

“No, your good heart,” Kaltenbach said.