The Pieces We Keep(32)

She spread her fingers, inched her shoes by feel. With the siren somewhat muted, she made out a scuffling sound from the side. She told herself it was Isaak, though her ankles awaited the slithering tail of a rat.

Then came the hiss of a match. Isaak used the sulfurous glow to locate a lantern. He returned the matchbook to his trouser pocket and transferred the flame to the wick. Adjusting the knob, he shrank the tall stretch of fire into an orange teardrop.

Shelves covered the walls, stocked with canned foods and dry goods, pickled vegetables and jarred fruit. Barrels of onions and sacks of potatoes huddled in the center of the rectangular space. The air smelled of stale dirt and perishables starting to rot.

Isaak set the lantern on the ground. “The father of one of my classmates owns the general store above us. We’d sneak in here for a snack on occasion,” he explained.

“They won’t mind that we’re here?” Not that it mattered at this point.

“His family evacuated a few days ago.” Isaak shook out a pair of burlap bags and laid them out like blankets. “Can’t say if they’ll ever be back.”

The comment struck Vivian as odd. Londoners would return from their rural hideaways eventually.

Then it dawned on her: “They went back to Germany.”

He affirmed this with his silence.

Saying no more, Vivian took a seat. A shiver from the cool ground moved through her. She thought of her parents. They would be safe in a shelter by now, her father at the embassy, her mother with her friends.

Vivian hugged her knees as Isaak walked around, scoping the area, fingering the shelves. He shouldn’t be so calm and collected. Envy itched at her until his circular stroll revealed itself as pacing from nerves.

“No chance of starving anytime soon.” He picked up a jar and wiped the dust to view the contents. “Are you hungry?”

The knots in her stomach gave no hint of untying. “Sit with me.” She motioned to the burlap. “Please.”

Replacing the jar, he smiled. “Of course.”

He settled beside her, his back against the shelves, and she nestled beneath his arm. His cologne smelled of pine, his jacket of a sweet cigar.

“Darling, you’re shaking.” He rubbed her arm over the sleeve of her sweater, brisk at first, then long and even.

For an eternal stretch, she focused on the rhythm of his breathing. The flow of air, in and out. Anything to drown out the siren’s ghost-like cry. Isaak took a few stabs at casual conversation, but the attempts swiftly died.

Lamplight glinted off the rim of his shirt collar. His necklace. She reached for the chain, desperate for a distraction, and followed its path to a golden charm. She traced the grooves of the foreign engraving, as she had done in the past. It was a gift from his late grandmother-his Oma he had called her.

A bedlam of voices broke out above. Vivian’s muscles recoiled, braced for an invasion. The yelling grew, then dimmed as the stampede passed the door.

“It’s all right, Vivian. We’re safe down here.”

The comment brought scant assurance. Any minute, an explosion could rip through the cellar and blast the jars into pieces. She fended off the image, sharp as razors in her mind.

Sinking into Isaak, she rested her cheek on his neck. How she yearned for comforts of the familiar, a vision of life before war. “Tell me again, will you? All the things back home you used to love.”

“In New York?” he said.

She nodded.

“Well ... let’s see....” His subtle German vowels became more pronounced in the dimness. He rested the back of his head against a row of canned soup. “The diners, for one. There was a spot by our house that had the best burgers and fries in town. Probably because they didn’t clean the grill very often, so the grease had loads of flavor. And they had the thickest milk shakes you’ve ever seen. They must have emptied a whole cow to make the shakes that creamy.”

A tight laugh slipped from Vivian’s mouth. She could almost taste the sweetness of vanilla malt on her tongue. “What else?”

Isaak stroked her hair as he continued. “Yankee Stadium. Pickup games of stickball. Penny candies at Mr. Burke’s drugstore—I must have bought a hundred large pickles at that place. After dipping my hand in, my fingers would smell like pickle juice for days.” He chuckled, remembering, and Vivian warmed at the idea.

“Then there’s the American picture shows-not having to wait for them to make it all the way here. Oh, and those fancy window displays. Better in New York than anywhere.”

“Like Macy’s,” she guessed.

“That’s right. They were splendid at Christmas, weren’t they?”