“How did you hear about this?” Sonya asked as they drifted home from a trio.
“I went to a music store looking for a job … met some other string players …”
Lotte began to play on street corners. Sonya warned her to watch for policemen. At first she played in outer London. But though small bands of admirers collected (she reported matter-of-factly to Sonya), too few coins fell into the open case at her feet. She moved toward the center of town. She played in Picadilly; in the Strand; near Whitehall. “I saw Churchill,” she exclaimed. Everyone knew that Churchill was directing the war from underground offices, but there were rumors of look-alike doubles, hundreds of them, deployed to fool the enemy and maybe the populace.
In Lotte’s new sites she collected enough money to meet the landlady’s rise in rent, to buy cheese and smoked fish and peaches, to insist that Sonya always take the greater share. “You are my patron, my benefactor, my angel.”
“I repudiate those roles. This peach is heavenly.”
“My mother, then … no, no, you are too young.”
“Hardly too young.”
“Big sister!”
Sonya was still on loan to Mrs. Levinger from the Joint, but Mrs. Levinger’s mandate had altered. Few refugees managed to get in now, but there was plenty to do for the ones already here. Families were starving. Sonya made rounds with ration books, with money, sometimes with piecework from factories — she might have been a foreman sweating workers. Lotte fiddled for coins.
One spring evening Sonya decided to cross the river before going home. No raids for a long time now, just a few planes every so often, scared off by the ack-ack guns. On the embankment she saw a clown … no, it wasn’t a clown, it was a girl. Yes, it was a clown: Lotte.
She was near a bombed-out site beginning to be rebuilt. Those plasterers — were the Romanian boys among them? Lotte wore wide plaid trousers underneath her usual skimpy jacket. She had found a diplomat’s homburg — snatched it, maybe — and she had blacked the space between her upper teeth and darkened some of her freckles. Her pale hair foamed beneath the hat. She played the street repertoire that she practiced at home — Kreisler, Smetana, Dvorák — with exaggerated melancholy and exaggerated vivacity. “To make their eyes water,” she’d explained. “To give them a swooping finale.”
After the swooping finale she walked among the loiterers, her hat upside down in her hand. When she came to Sonya she bowed. Teasingly she shook the hat. Sonya reached into the pocket of her raincoat but Lotte moved on.
The listeners drifted away. A smiling Lotte returned to Sonya. “Let’s feast!”
“Those clothes!” Sonya smiled back.
The homburg turned out to be a trick hat, collapsible. Lotte shed the wide trousers with one twist of her nimble hips, revealing a pleated skirt, one of the two she owned. With trousers and hat in one hand and the violin in the other she led the way to a pub.
They sat in a corner booth, the two of them — three, counting the instrument. Lamplight streamed through stained-glass windows into the noisy place.
“I did well today,” Lotte said, handing the money to Sonya, who knew better than to refuse. “But I would prefer a steadier income.”
“You should be at school,” Sonya moaned.
“Soon I will find a place in an orchestra. Or a nightclub.”
Sonya ordered a second whisky.
Roland Rosenberg appeared the next week and stayed for forty-eight hours. Though still fat he was thinner and worn. But: “You are losing weight, Sonya Sofrankovitch,” he had the nerve to say. “Take care of yourself.”
And then — Lotte’s mad dreams came true. A restaurateur heard her, hired her, provided crepe trousers and a sequined jacket. Café Bohemia was a hodgepodge of banquettes, murals, gilt, and salvage. Sonya dropped in one or two nights a week.
There were no more eye-watering swoops, no more glittering glissandi. She played Brahms, Liszt, Mendelssohn. She looked twice her age, Sonya thought. But then Sonya herself probably looked twice hers.
Lotte found a trio — two old men and one old woman — who wanted a second violinist. “They play very well,” Lotte commended, “though none of them is Jewish.” The recitals were free, but the performers were paid, sometimes, by a foundation in Canada. Lotte had to rifle the account she shared with Sonya to buy a blue dress with a collar — the sequined outfit was not considered appropriate.
She had every right to rifle the account. She was contributing more than Sonya. She bought a fold-up cot and no longer had to sleep on the floor. She bought a second geranium, and whisky, though she herself drank only an occasional glass of wine. And when Sonya turned fifty-three, Lotte bought a pair of train tickets. They journeyed to Penzance for a weekend and stayed in a hotel and walked on the beach, holding hands like sisters.
ONE pause TWO. ONE pause TWO.
A Sunday afternoon. Lotte was out playing with the quartet.
ONE TWO, ONE TWO.
Sonya opened her door. This time it was he.
THE WAR HAS GONE ON so long it seems like peace, Sonya wrote to her aunt. One day is like another. No new horrors, just old ones. She wondered if the letter would get by the censors.
Eugene was busy. Perhaps, to compensate for his unfair internment, someone was pulling strings. So many people were making so many unseen efforts. Sonya and Mrs. Levinger continued the quiet tasks of their agency, more and more of them against the rules. The yellow-eyed man upstairs spent weeks at Bletchley Park, the center of code-breaking efforts. Lotte fiddled on corners when she had a free afternoon. Mr. Smith, so adept at inviting confidential disclosures, was discovered to be a spy and was arrested.
Eugene wrote reviews for newspapers. Sonya helped occasionally with sentence structure. New families wanted him to teach their children, who were practicing Czerny in formerly grand neighborhoods now sparkling with shards. He gave performances, too. He joined Lotte’s quartet from time to time and played trios with Lotte and the cellist and duets with Lotte. When the two could, they practiced in the church where Eugene and Sonya had listened to the Czech brother and sister. “Such a good piano,” Eugene said.
Sonya brought her families to the concerts — the couple and their retarded daughter, once; the half-crazy mother and her little boys, several times; the young waitresses; the pickpocket plasterers.
Of course — she told herself — all couples who played together developed affinities. Some had affinities from birth — consider those Czech twins, consider the Menuhins. Eugene and Lotte were not brother and sister, though they could be father and daughter. Twenty years lay between them. She calculated again. Twenty-four! She thought of the tenor … Eugene’s brown profile bent over the keys. His mouth grimaced, sucked. Lotte nestled her chin onto her handkerchief. The fingers of her left hand danced. There were dark patches under the arms of the blue dress. At night, on her cot, she sometimes cried out, in French.
One evening Sonya came home to an empty room smelling of cigarettes. She put the milk she was carrying on the sill next to the geraniums. There was a chapel a block away — an ugly little dissenters’ place. She went there and sat in a back pew and rested her brow on the back of the pew in front of her, and lifted her head, and brought it down again on the wood, and lifted it, and brought it down.
III.
THE FIRST OF THE DOODLEBUGS struck a week after the D-day landings. They struck again and again. They were not like the bombs of the earlier Blitz. There was no time to get to a safe place; there was no safe place. People simply flattened themselves, waiting to be hurled, impaled, shattered, blown to bits, buried alive. If they were far enough away from the site they might be spared.