“I just want you to be comfortable and happy.”
I patted the expanse of sofa next to me and she joined me, carefully folding her dust rag before sitting.
“I am incredibly happy, darling. And it would take more than a lumpy sofa or a wobbly leg on the kitchen table to change that. What’s got you worried?”
“Nothing at all. My father always says, Whatever job you have, act like it’s the most important one in the world. My job is to take care of you and run this house. I don’t want to do a passable job; I want to excel at it.”
“You do,” I assured her. “I know we’re only two days in, but you’re already due for a raise.”
“Hardy har har,” she said, kissing my nose. “If only my position were paid.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” I asked, batting my eyes and pulling her to my chest. I laced my fingers in her hair and pulled her mouth to mine, kissing her deeply until she pulled away.
“Oh, I suppose it’s sort of a payment in kind,” she said, winking.
“Rebecca, I don’t just appreciate what you’ve done here. I admire it,” I said, kissing her cheekbone. “If anything is amiss, I promise I’ll let you know. Or better yet, fix it myself. I don’t want you to drive yourself crazy trying to please me.”
She leaned in to claim another kiss. “I believe you, Max. I really do.”
“Forgive me for saying this, but I’m not Saul. I’m not going to lord over you and this house like a tyrant.”
Rebecca exhaled and her shoulders sagged. She clapped her hand over her mouth but managed to fight back a sob.
“What’s wrong, darling?” I asked, wrapping my arm around her.
“With Saul it wasn’t just the food or the furniture. If anything wasn’t as it should be, he—he would lose his temper.”
“Did he hurt you?”
She nodded.
“That son of a bitch,” I said, pulling her to my chest again. “I’m just sorry the enemy killed him so I didn’t get the pleasure of doing it myself.”
She stood and went to the case where we displayed our books. She removed her copy of her Haggadah that she would use as her guide for preparing the Passover Seder. She opened the cover and removed a photograph that had been tucked inside and handed it to me. It was maybe six years old and showed her heavily pregnant. Her hand was poised on her belly and she wore a tentative smile.
“Two days later he beat me so hard I lost the baby,” she said, crossing an arm over her chest, bracing herself against the agony of the memory. “It was the only time I ever saw him contrite. He promised me we’d have another. I couldn’t get pregnant and keep it after that, though. I should have told you.”
“Yes, you should have,” I said. “But not for the reasons you think. I want you to always feel safe, happy, and loved. Knowing what you went through in the past will help me be better at my job. Let’s promise to not keep things from each other, OK? I want us to get started off on the right foot and stay that way for the next sixty years.”
“It’s a deal,” she said. “Anything you need to get off your chest?”
“Not that I can think of,” I said.
She crossed back to the bookcase, returned the Haggadah to its place, removed a stack of papers that hadn’t yet been filed away, and handed them to me.
The letters asking for information leading to Margarethe and the baby.
“Do you think you can really move on from her?” she asked, regaining some of the confidence that had flagged. “I love you, Max, but I don’t want to live in her shadow for the rest of my life.”
“I haven’t sent one out since I met you,” I said. “I can’t promise that she won’t haunt me from time to time, but I won’t make it your problem.”
She reclaimed her seat next to me and snuggled into my side. I set the papers on the end table and circled my arms around her once more.
“You’re not angry that I brought it up, are you?”
“No, I was going to thank you for trusting me enough to tell me how you feel.”
We sat, with her curled up in my arms, for what seemed like hours. I felt her breathing grow even, her muscles relax as she became more comfortable in my presence. At length, she sat up and announced that it was past time for her to start preparing lunch.
She walked to the kitchen and began to hum softly over the rattle of pots and pans. I crossed the room to my den, already cleverly appointed by Rebecca so I could review patient files in the evening or unwind with a book and a glass of scotch in comfort. I tossed what remained of the letters Sarah had printed for me in the bin, hoping that wherever Margarethe and the baby were, they were loved and cared for.
We spent three weeks on the north shore of Kauai, near Hanalei Bay. For the first few days, Rebecca was still just as tightly wound as the nervous housewife in the living room of our tiny Los Angeles bungalow. Then one day, as we toured some of the lushest gardens I’d ever seen, I saw the muscles in her neck uncoil, her shoulders drop, and her breathing grow deep and even the longer we walked.
“Roses and pansies seem positively prosaic after this,” she said, more to herself than to me or anyone else. One of the blooms, a yellow-and-white plumeria, hung on a low branch. She reached over to smell it and seemed consumed by the scent of lemon that emanated from the heart of the delicate flower. Her lips turned upward, her eyes closed, and she looked more at peace than I’d ever seen.
In that moment, I vowed that she would feel this tranquil at home, even if it meant bringing the islands to her.
CHAPTER FORTY
ACROSS THE WINDING RIVER
JOHANNA
March 10, 1945
Near Remagen, Germany
Metta returned the next day with a splint and some pain medication. She was dressed in a sturdy maroon suit and perfectly coiffed—the picture of a smart young German matron. There were dark rings under her eyes, and a trace of regret in their blue depths that contrasted with her smile. I wanted to know what she was thinking, to know what she’d really been up to these few years, but there wasn’t time to probe her. What’s more, the pain in my arm was a skilled thief of words. I could barely unclench my teeth long enough to utter more than a syllable or two.
“You need to save the rest of this painkiller for your trip unless you think you’re going to faint,” she warned, seeing the pain in my face. “These are your travel papers, and a tidbit from Ansel’s desk to make the American refugee camp a little more welcoming. A friend told me there’s always room for those willing to share information.”
“I can tell them plenty,” I said. “Don’t make Ansel angry.”
“They want proof. They’d have to take whatever information you gave them on trust. This is concrete. We can’t risk them turning you back. Take it. I promise it will all be fine.”
“If you think it’s necessary,” I said. “I wish you’d come with me.”
“You need those papers more than I do. The war is ending, whether Ansel and his cronies want to acknowledge it or not. Crossing the border will be a lot easier to do soon enough. I’ll do what I can to follow you in a few days.”
“You’d better.”