14. Emilie

FOURTEEN

Dachau, Germany

Otto has put Charlie His Orchestra on the gramophone for background dinner music. We’ve never played this record. In fact, I’m not sure when we acquired it because it’s not something I would have bought.He’s made good on his promise to help prepare the house and food for our guests arriving shortly so I certainly don’t want to stir up any tension, but this music is known for its controversial, pro-war innuendos.

“Otto,” I call out, finding him in the kitchen wiping down the countertop.

“Yes, my darling?”

“When did you bring this record home?”

The circular motion he’s pushing the rag around slows to a stop. “My uncle gave it to me yesterday and said it would be good dinner music.”

Otto has mentioned seeing his uncle at work. He’s said he hardly sees any one of the men including his father and our neighbors who are joining us tonight. They all work in different departments, assigned to a variety of roles integrating into the cancer-cure research.

“Have you listened to the words of the music?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a neutral form of entertainment for all. It’s just jazz music.”

“I don’t like it. The words are demoralizing to the Allied forces.” Otto continues wiping the already clean counter, dragging the rag in a repetitive circular motion. “Our guests might find it to be offensive, as I do. I’ll need to put on another record. Your uncle should know better than to suggest such precarious ideals.”

Of course, ever since spotting the Das Reich newspaper folded over Ingrid’s magazine rack the first day I stepped into her house, I’ve been questioning their level of loyalty to the Reich. Though, as for anyone in Germany now, it’s impossible to truthfully know how everyone feels. The fear of speaking up against our country’s imposed policies masks any division between the two sides. For most, at least externally, there’s only one side—the Reich side.

From the time I was a child, I’ve been taught to avoid political topics of conversation similar to how we wouldn’t share how rich or poor we were. I’ve remained faithful to keeping my beliefs private, but that’s the problem this country has. Like Otto and me, all who despise Hitler’s plans and beliefs are silenced with fear.

“Sure, okay, I see what you mean. We can play something else,” he says. He doesn’t seem aghast at his self-proclaimed diplomatic uncle for giving him this record to play tonight.

“Thank you,” I say, spinning on my heels to switch out the record.

Upon returning to the kitchen, I arrange the hors d’oeuvre assortment and the meat and cheese platter, placing each selection neatly across each dish. As the clock ticks, my stomach tightens in anticipation of our guests’ imminent arrival. After hanging my apron, I head to the washroom for a quick mirror check.

My cheeks are rosier than the blush I applied earlier, but my perspiration has washed away the powder. I retrieve my compact and lipstick from my dress pocket and freshen up my face, giving the appearance that I’m ready to host this dinner party. I’m not.

As I step out of the washroom, headlights flash through the narrow side windows framing the door, which triggers a flash of stress that heats me from my core. The only guests driving here tonight are Otto’s parents, coming in from Munich. The others only have to make their way next door or across the street. I feel like I might need to physically force a smile onto my face before Otto opens the door. His parents make him feel uneasy. It wasn’t always like that. Their household was as warm as mine, or maybe not as warm, but the difference wasn’t noticeable unless one really looked. I’ve gone through life thinking people are who they were born as, but too many people have proven this to be false.

Otto reaches for the door, and I take in as much air as my lungs can hold before releasing it through my nose. I should have had a glass of bourbon with Otto, but Frau Berger would smell the liquor on my breath and ask me why I’m not pregnant yet.

“Mama, Vater,” Otto greets his parents with open arms.

“So, you’re finally settled in after a few months. We were wondering when you were going to have us over,” Herr Berger says, eyeballing me at the tail-end of his statement.

“But we wanted to give you time to make your new house into a home, so we didn’t want to bother you,” Frau Berger adds, nudging her husband with her sharp elbow. “Emilie, dear, you look wonderful. How are you?”

Frau Berger reaches for an embrace; one I can’t say no to. Along with her hug comes a startling aroma of potent rose-scented perfume. My eyes threaten to tear from the burn. “I’m doing wonderful,” I answer through my tight throat.

“Something smells scrumptious, doesn’t it, Marion?” Herr Berger says to his wife.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she says, releasing me from her grip to see her way into the kitchen. She’ll have her fingers in the hors d’oeuvres and the tinfoil off the roast so it can breathe within seconds.

“Son,” Herr Berger says, slapping Otto on the shoulder. “I heard you took time off today for this dinner party.” The scoff doesn’t go unheard. “Emilie, how are you, dear? Otto says you’ve been a bit tired lately. I hope you’re taking care of yourself,” he says, pressing his hands to his hips, smirking down at me.

“Vater, she does more than I could ever ask of her, as I said earlier,” Otto says in my defense.

“Yes, yes, of course. I want her to get well if she’s been under the weather. That’s all,” he says, faux surprised by Otto’s assumption.

“Where is Uncle Dietrich?” Otto asks.

“Ah, I forgot to mention…He sends his regards as he can’t make it tonight. Something came up at the last moment.”

One less person is fine by me, especially his uncle Dietrich who’s known to make dinner conversations awkward.

As I go to close the front door, I spot three couples walking up the stone path with dishes in their hands. Their heels clap against the stone as they walk in, all chattering at the same time. I can hardly make out a word anyone is saying but arms are tugging at me and folding me to various wool and silk textures. It’s as if we’ve all been lifelong friends, except I’ve only spent time with Ingrid on occasion. I’ve only met her husband, Karl, once, for a short encounter on the weekend when I was bringing groceries into the house.

Ursula lives across the street with her husband, Hermann, who works with Otto. Ursula and I have exchanged words a few times, but we only cross each other’s path once in a while. She seems kind enough, although a bit tough to warm up to. Each of the three wives who live around us looks distinctly different. Ingrid with her stark red hair, Ursula and her gaunt figure reminds me of a colored pencil with a white eraser. Whatever clothes she has on, the entire outfit, whether a dress or blouse and pants combination, is the same color and hue from her hat to her shoes, always in startling contrast to her flour-white chin length hair.

Then there’s Helga. We’ve met three times to be exact, once as we were both about to slide into our husbands’ cars, the second time, when we both arrived at the same restaurant, and the third time, when we arrived home and slid out of the cars that same night—none of which was planned. She’s quiet as far as I can tell. Her husband does all the talking, but I’ve only seen them when they’re together. She seems to have an artificial smile pinned to her face, one that doesn’t fade. Her dark blonde hair is flawlessly pinned back into tight curls, not a strand out of place, and her makeup looks as if it’s been professionally applied—so much so that I think her makeup does a good job of making her appear cheerful and energetic. Yet, I get the feeling she has a different story locked up inside of her.

Each of the women follows the same path as Frau Berger, into the kitchen with the dishes they graciously brought with them.Otto offers a quick introduction to Hermann, Ursula’s husband, since he’s the only one I’ve yet to meet in passing. After our quick hellos, Otto ushers the men off into his study, leaving me standing in everyone’s dust between the room full of women and the one full of men.

My kitchen looks like it belongs to an upscale restaurant with the flurry of activity, hands on every dish, preparing plates and pouring drinks. The roast is the only untouched item, so I squeeze between the others and add the garnish I was waiting until just before serving time to sprinkle over the top.I glance over my shoulder as I replace the foil, spotting a cloud of smoke billowing out from beneath the closed door of Otto’s study. It doesn’t take long for the musty scent of cigars to fill the kitchen.

“You ladies must have done this a time or two,” I say, unsure if my voice is loud enough to hear over the commotion of plates and dishes shuffling around.

“We sure have, and now you’ll be joining us too. Another set of hands is never something to complain about when it comes to keeping our husbands happy. Am I right, ladies?” Ingrid says, her red curls bouncing behind her as she mixes up a bowl of greens.

“You’re right,” the two other neighbors echo each other.

“It’s been a while since I’ve hosted a dinner party, but I must say, I do miss the camaraderie of being around other housewives,” Frau Berger says. “See, Emilie, it’s essential to make good solid friendships at the start of your marriage. That way by the time you have children, you’ll have a village around to support you.”

I knew she wouldn’t make it ten minutes without mentioning children.

“She isn’t wrong,” Ursula says. “Our two kids are older now and we’re lucky if they spend a night at home with us, but those early days were quite tiring, and I didn’t have anyone to call if I needed a hand. Thankfully, you will have us, as your mother-in-law says.”

Smile, I tell myself. “Yes, absolutely.” I must sound like I’m biting down on a piece of leather with the way I’m clenching my teeth.

“Or you could end up like us and be content as a couple without children,” Helga adds, her words meek and hushed.

“Nonsense,” Frau Berger responds. “She’ll have children. They’ll have children,” she says. Maybe Helga thinks the way I do in that the thought of having a child during a war sounds frightening and stressful, and likely the worst time to enjoy what should be the happiest time of one’s life.

“Do you and Wilhelm ever plan to have children?” Ingrid asks, peering over at Helga with a hint of judgment.

Helga shrugs against her blonde shoulder-length curls. “I’m not sure. Only time will tell.”

“I see,” Ingrid says. “I might have some tips for you. We can talk more later.”

Tips? Shouldn’t pregnancy come naturally? I want to have children someday, but not now.

Frau Berger rinses her hands in the sink and dries them on one of my decorative hanging towels that Mama gave me when I moved out. They’re my grandmother’s and she told me if I have these in my kitchen, I’d always make wonderful meals. Frau Berger was there when Mama handed the towels to me and commented that it was such a sweet sentiment. I’ll assume she forgot what the grape-purple laced towels looked like.

She claps her thick heels across the kitchen and down the hall to Otto’s study. She gives a terse knock, pauses a moment then knocks once more. “Gentlemen, dinner is about to be served. You can have a seat in the dining room, assuming the table is already set.” She mutters the last part under her breath, acting as though I can’t hear her. She’ll later follow her mutterings with the fact that her hearing has gone bad in recent years because aging has been difficult for her.

“Mother-in-laws are all the same,” Ingrid says. “Don’t pay any attention to her. She probably still sees Otto as a little boy and can’t handle the fact that some woman—one better than she, as she probably sees you, stole him away.”

She gave him away at our wedding with his father. They pushed us to move up our wedding since our engagement was lasting too long in a time of war. As soon as the ring slid onto my finger, it was like she suddenly despised everything about me. I’m not sure what made her feel differently after inviting me into her house from when I was a young girl, offering cookies and milk, or even help with homework if Mama was busy, but I often question if I’ve done something to offend her.

“I didn’t steal him,” I reply. “Otto asked me to marry him.”

“She’s being funny, dear,” Ursula says. “She’ll act like she loves you again after you give her grandchildren. I promise.”

There’s a fire burning inside of my chest as I take in the unnecessary amount of unsolicited advice and warnings.

“Well, you know what I said to that,” Karl shouts as he steps out of the study. “The hell with them. What have they done for this country? Nothing. They can burn in hell for all I care.”

“Karl,” Ingrid snaps. “Watch your mouth. We are guests here.”

“Who can burn in hell?” I ask, repeating his remark.

Laughter grows among the men but then Otto loops a lazy arm around my waist. “Sorry about him. He slugged two glasses of bourbon without rocks within the first two minutes of arriving. He just likes to hear himself talk.”

“Well, what’s he talking about?” I ask again.

“He’s—uh, he’s been going off about the overpopulation of rats because we were talking about testing in the lab and Hermann doesn’t like to hurt animals. Ignore them, trust me. It’ll be easier that way.”

Animals? I wasn’t aware the research had reached the testing phase…