The Pieces We Keep(40)

The single place she sustained any faith was at Brooklyn’s Cafe Labrec.

Once more now she sat in its courtyard. She dropped a sugar lump into her coffee, wishing her feelings would dissolve as easily. If only coming here were not so tempting. Near impossible to avoid, it was a short walk from her residence, enabling these morning visits before the chartered bus to work. Truthfully, even her job as an operator at Fort Hamilton served as a potential link to Isaak. Catching snippets of military discussions meant uncensored updates on the European Theatre. Which, more often than not, left her in a grievous mood.

Isaak could not have better described Hitler’s greed and thirst for power. In June of 1941, he double-crossed even Stalin by funneling 3 million Nazi soldiers into the Soviet union  , and his offensives continued. Across the English Channel, his ruthless bombing raids-the Blitz, they called it-placed all Londoners in danger. Vivian’s father remained among them, despite the option to come home. Never was diplomacy more in need, he claimed in periodic letters; his wired messages assured her of his safety. Still, she kept him in her prayers, the same as she did for Isaak.

Perhaps this, above all, was the cafe’s true appeal. It had become like a church, a sanctuary she frequented in search of peace, and answers.

Had Isaak’s plans gone awry with the black market and his mother? Was he imprisoned in Munich thereafter? Had he been injured in a raid? Did he return to London and stay to help? Did he join the RAF and take to the skies?

Had he simply changed his mind?

Every Wednesday morning, her usual wrought-iron table served as a personal pew. She relished this semi-cove, thanks to a stone wall behind her and, to her side, a pot of tall, vibrant flowers. Tucked away, she could be left to her thoughts, sometimes her tears. But always she found comfort in the fragrance of blossoms and freshly baked dough, accompanied by Isaak’s words.




My Dearest Vivian,

I am writing this letter only hours before departing London. Although I am anxious to see my family and confirm that all is as well as they claim, already I miss you terribly. It has taken every ounce of my strength not to abandon my mission and reunite with you this instant. As you know, however, I could never rest without first settling my personal affairs.

While my hopes are high that my travels will go quickly and without incident, I have arranged for a trusted friend to deliver this letter should I fail to return in time. Your safety, my darling, is of utmost importance. Please do not hesitate in evacuating as planned. Rest assured, wherever you are, I indeed will find you.

Until then, keep this necklace as proof of my promise. Wear it close to your heart, just as I hold my love for you in mine.

Yours for eternity,

Isaak




She fingered her blouse where the charm dangled beneath. On occasion she would pull the letter from her jewelry box, but merely to touch his scrawled words, not for fear of forgetting them. They were forever imprinted in her heart. Helplessly savoring them now, she continued to block out the city, until a man’s voice cut in.

“I said, ‘Sure is a swell day, isn’t it?’ ”

Vivian raised her eyes and discovered the question was directed at her. An Army private, roughly her age, smiled from the next table.

“Yes,” she said with a glance at the sky. The sun was elbowing its way through the clouds. “I suppose it is.” She gave him a cordial look, her standard for these situations, then conveyed disinterest by flipping through her issue of McCall’s.

“I’m Ian Downing, by the way.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his outstretched hand. Since the bombing of Pearl Harbor, military enlistment had spread like a virus. The service in itself was an honorable one, but not the common expectation that all dames lost their marbles over a starched and pressed uniform.

Don’t be rude, Vivian. Accept his hand, Vivian. She heard her mother’s prodding. A lifetime of drilled decorum was difficult to expunge.

Vivian obliged the greeting but promptly returned to her magazine.

“Mind if I ask your name?” He either couldn’t take a hint or chose to ignore it. “Course, I could always figure it out for myself.” He tapped his pointed chin as if crafting syllables customized for her face. “It’s ... Alma. No, no-Bessie.” He cocked his head. “Cordelia?”

Marvelous. He was going to scroll through the entire alphabet.

“Hmm ... Irene maybe.” Another tap. “Mildred?”

“Vivian,” she said, bringing this to an end.

“I knew it!” He snapped his fingers and beamed. “That was definitely my next guess.”

An eye roll would have been much deserved-did she really look like a Mildred?—yet the fellow exaggerated such surety Vivian couldn’t help but laugh.