“Ten percent?” His voice raises. “Fifteen percent?”
“I don’t know, Aaron. We didn’t discuss it.”
“No? Well, why not? I mean, let’s face it—your uncle…” he says but doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“He says we’d have a contract.” Which is true. This was the agreement when they spoke over the phone. Everything aboveboard. Everything in writing. That was the price of Feter’s ticket back into Rachel’s life. “That he’d have a lawyer draw it up so there’d be no confusion.”
“Yeah, well. Whose lawyer? That’s my question. One of those shysters downtown who specialize in chasing ambulances?”
“I don’t know what that means,” Rachel tells him.
“It means, honey, that we gotta be careful is all. I know, Fritz is your family, but we just gotta be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
“And we will be. As it’s said, we’ll take one step before the next.”
“Yeah,” Aaron replies. “Is that what is said? Also one step at a time, that is said too, and you wanna know what else? Don’t stick your head in the lion’s mouth. This is also said.”
“Are you upset,” she asks, “because you don’t trust Feter? Or are you upset by the idea that I might actually have some kind of career?”
“Career?” Aaron repeats the word. “What are you talking about, career?”
“That Feter Fritz might actually find a gallery willing to take me on. Willing to show my work.”
Aaron frowns. “Honey,” he says. Trying not to sound smug as he explains the facts. But not trying very hard. “What artwork? What have you got? Not much as far as I can see. You got a bunch of little sketches. And you got a big, empty canvas without a spot of paint on it. That’s all.”
Rachel stares. She would like to hate him at this moment. She would like to, but how can she? He’s only speaking the truth.
Daylight. She wakes to the sound of clanking. To bumping and banging. She shakes sleep from her mind and dons her pink chenille robe, following the noise out of the bedroom, where she discovers her husband seated at the kitchen table in his shirtsleeves, smoking a cigarette. “Ah, the lady of the house emerges,” he says but in a loaded tone, as if he’s talking to someone else and not her. Kneeling on the linoleum by the kitchen sink with a toolbox is? The German.
Rachel stops. Wraps her robe tightly across her chest.
“Mr. Bauer here came by to replace the trap in the sink,” her husband informs her. “Apparently he’s had a hard time catching anyone at home. So lucky I was up early.”
“Good morning. Missus Perlman,” the Boche says, as if he’s as innocent as any dumb animal.
She frowns, feeling her heart thump. Her first instinct is to retreat to the bedroom and lock the door. But “Good morning,” she mumbles in return. Pushing through the panic, she circles around her husband to an empty chair.
“I made coffee,” Aaron says, nodding toward the stainless-steel percolator.
“You made coffee?”
“Somehow, I managed.” Then he confesses. “Actually, it’s only the instant stuff. I just stuck it in the percolator and poured in the water.”
Rachel swallows. Blinks at her distorted reflection in the percolator’s shiny stainless-steel skin.
“So Mr. Bauer here was telling me about how he came to America, honey,” her husband enlightens her. Obviously he is trying to prove a point. Trying to teach her a lesson. “He comes from… What was the name of the town again, Mr. Bauer?”
“I come from Rengschburch in Bayerich, Mr. Perlman,” the German declares. “I think in America it is called Regensburg. In Bavaria.”
“And you said you immigrated here when? In forty-seven? Is that right?”
“Forty-eight,” the German replies, squeaking his wrench around a pipe.
“Right, forty-eight,” Aaron corrects himself. “That was the same year you came, Rachel, honey,” he says, as if she needs reminding.
Rachel issues him a look as she filches one of his Luckies, igniting it from his Zippo. “And what did you do, Mr. Bauer, before you came?” she inquires, expelling smoke.
The German shoots her a quick glance, frowning. “Before?”
“Before you came to America. During the war? Was hast du während des Krieges gemacht?”
Another glance, another frown. He answers her in English. “I was a ‘Sanitäter.’ In the army, Missus Perlman. As I told to your husband. A medical soldier,” he says.
“Right. A corpsman.” Aaron offers clarification. “Or. Or a medic.”
“Yes. Medic,” the German confirms. “But only because I was—how is the word said? Forced into the army? Eingezogen.”
“After he was conscripted,” Rachel translates dully, expelling smoke.
“Oh yeah. Drafted,” Aaron says. “Me too. I was drafted too. I ended up assigned to the Quartermaster Corps in California. Course it was the Japs who were our problem,” he assures the German.
But the German only nods and grunts again, clunking about with a wrench before he announces, “That should finish the job, Mr. Perlman.” Standing with a huff, he opens the tap on full. Water gushes. “The drain flow is now correct.”
“Terrific,” says Aaron and makes a point of shaking the German’s hand. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Bauer.”
“Oh yes,” Rachel chimes sardonically. “Wir sind so glücklich, dass ein ehemaliger Reichssoldat unsere Pfeifen bewacht,” she says.
The German looks at her warily. Then nods once with a half frown. “Missus Perlman.”
After the German leaves, lugging his toolbox, Aaron shuts the apartment door behind him. “So ya see, Rach. Not so bad,” he declares. “Not some mad-dog Nazi after all. Just another poor shlub who got drafted like everybody else.” Grabbing his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair, he bounces a quick kiss off her temple. “Anyhow. I gotta get going. We’re down two busboys, so I’ll probably end up schlepping dirty dishes all afternoon.” And then he says, “Aren’t you supposed to go see what’s-his-name today?”
Rachel raises an eyebrow. He’s Mr. Absentminded when it comes to things like picking up milk or dry cleaning, but he seems to have her schedule with the psychiatrist engraved on his brain. “Yes. At three o’clock,” she says.
Flapping his arm into his overcoat sleeve, he says, “Okay. Don’t forget.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t forget a thing,” Rachel replies.
At the door, though, Aaron pauses. “By the way, what was it you said to the super right before he left?”
“Nothing,” she answers with an innocent frown. “Just how lucky we are to have a former soldier of the Reich guarding our pipes.”
Aaron looks pained. Releases a breath.
“So I understand, Aaron, what you’re trying to prove,” she tells him directly. “Shaking hands with that man. I understand that you’re trying to help. Trying to show me that there’s nothing to fear. The world is not so dangerous. Not all Germans are murderers. I understand,” she repeats, “and I appreciate your effort. But here’s the truth: The world is dangerous. And if to me every German is a messenger of death, it’s only because that is what history has taught me.”
Aaron sags slightly. Starts to speak but instead just shakes his head. “H’okay” is all he can utter, eyes dropping to the floor. “H’okay, I get it,” though it’s clear he doesn’t want to. Flopping on his old snood, he says, “See ya later.”
She watches the door close and hears her eema on the couch. If you truly hope for him to understand you, Ruchel, she says, then you must show him your true self. Not housewife or refugee but the true person. Mais l’être humain authentique.