“Please, bitte, I just want to say…” He looked away, as if studying the purple evening sky was the most important thing he needed to be doing at that moment.
“Well?” Galina glanced around. The few people about seemed not to notice them, hurrying to finish their errands in the gathering dusk. She heard the rudeness in her own voice, regretted it. But this was no time or place for polite conversation.
“You are a fine young woman, hardworking and talented, and so beautiful.” Franz brought his gaze back to her face and spoke faster, as if aware of her growing discomfort. “I can get papers for you and your family. Work papers. Germany needs help with farming. Here.” He took a photograph from the black leather billfold in his breast pocket. “Look. Das ist meine Mutti. My mother. She is alone now, with my grandfather. She needs some help.”
Galina started to walk away, then, her curiosity piqued, stopped to glance at the picture. A short, pretty, youthful woman looked back at her, unsmiling, her face framed with tendrils of light wavy hair. “It is a small farm,” he went on. “Near Munich. My father was an engineer before he was killed in the fighting. Now everyone with even a little land must grow some vegetables or grain to help for the war. My mother has little experience of farming, but the need for food is great in my country, too.”
Not just here. Galina decided to ignore the implication.
For the first time since their meeting at the theater, she noticed how young he was, how like a boy, far from home, holding a picture of his mother for her to see. She looked at it again, this time taking in the whitewashed cottage with lace curtains at the window and roses, yes, roses, blooming on a trellis near the open door. Something in her rankled at the bucolic cliché the scene portrayed. This was no picture of need or hardship; it had no relevance to the bleakness of her life at all. She shook her head, took a step back.
Franz seemed to read her unspoken reaction. “This was three years ago, before the Russian bombing. It is not so lovely now. But listen, please. After the war we can marry. I am in love with you, Galina.”
He still held his hat in his hand, like a supplicant, but he looked at her with unwavering confidence, the blue of his eyes clear as morning light. She did not question the honesty of his admiration, and his love of music was clearly genuine. But how did those things translate into love?
These boys—Filip, Franz, Borya, even Vova, the reckless soldier—they seemed to play at everything, their games growing more complicated, with higher stakes and greater risks as they grew older. When would they become men? How did that happen? She wondered what incident, what irrefutable knowledge would turn them into stalwart, dependable people capable of tenderness. Like her father.
Surely Franz could see that she would never be more than an indentured servant to the woman in the picture. His idea was no more than a dreamy vision that had nothing to do with anyone’s happiness but his own. She, Galina, was the answer to several of the pressing problems in his life. How fortunate for him, she thought, that he also found her appealing enough to love.
Maybe he imagined a placid domestic scene, playing chess with his grandfather, his Mutti sipping her coffee while she, his wife, sang the babies to sleep before washing the dinner dishes and making sure the chickens were safe in their coop for the night. Or maybe his world was full of easy camaraderie, frequent gatherings, boisterous card games. Bring more beer for our friends, Galina. And sing for us! And where, exactly, did her family, with their own customs and expectations, fit into either picture? She was ashamed, now, of ever having harbored the beginnings of affection for his open, naive, overconfident nature.
She had also moved toward her own solutions.
“Thank you, but this is no proposal, Franz,” she said, meeting his eyes with a flash of her own, matching his lapse into the familiar form of address. “This is a plan. I cannot help you feed your people while mine starve at the hands of your government. And I am already married.”
She moved off to stand with her back to him, ready to board the approaching streetcar, her face raised to catch the fading rays of the setting sun. From her seat by the window, she saw Franz put his cap on, using both hands to center it properly on his head. He squared his shoulders, spun on his heel, and walked away in the opposite direction.
6
SHE MIGHT AS WELL make it true, now that the words were spoken. It was as if Galina had needed the release, the confessing out loud to someone other than Filip what had weighed on her mind since her impetuous pronouncement. Then we must marry. So why not marry Filip?
She knew him better than any of her friends. Galina had never been one to trade secrets with other girls. She preferred the anonymity of social gatherings, being one of the group without having to reveal many of her thoughts or expose the details of her life. With Filip, there was no need of much talk; they had been the closest of friends since early childhood. They understood each other.
She knew his bookish nature. He could bury himself in his stamp collection to the point of oblivion—an occupation for which, admittedly, she had little patience. He was self-centered but also deeply sensitive to beauty; she had learned to see art, music, literature in new ways through his eyes. If he was inept at solving problems of daily living, well, they were both young. They would mature together. She had enough practicality for them both.
If marriage would save Filip from forced labor, what was the harm in it for her? It was just a matter of living together, sharing meals and obligations. The other thought, the one about the bedroom, frightened her. She banished it from her mind. Eventually, she would know about that, too. But it could wait.
Filip turned eighteen in mid-May. On his birthday, a Wednesday, they arranged to meet downtown early, skipping school for the first time in both their lives. “Don’t forget your documents,” Galina had admonished. “And bring a witness.”
By nine o’clock they were outside the building, its limestone facade austere in its respectable solidity, an emblem of order and calm. Borya, their witness, was late. Out on the street, Filip stood rooted, an air of vague anxiety on his face, his shoulders slightly hunched.
Galina paced. “Did you tell him Wednesday? Are you sure?”
Filip nodded.
“What will we do if he doesn’t come? And why won’t you talk to me?”
“He will come. He promised,” Filip answered dully after a lengthy pause, his voice hoarse. With a quick glance, he consulted a wristwatch pulled surreptitiously from his pants pocket. “It’s only quarter past.”
Galina stopped pacing. She could feel the day’s warmth beginning to radiate from the building’s rough-hewn exterior. “Is that yours? For your birthday? Let me see it.” She admired the brushed silver case and elegant face. “Umm, nice,” she said, holding the leather band up to her nose, then handing the watch back to Filip, who slipped it quickly back into his pants pocket.
They stood side by side in silence a few minutes. Along the Black Sea wall, the palm trees swayed in the breeze, waving their leafy fronds like handkerchiefs to unseen departing travelers.
“Do you want to do this?” she said finally, looking straight ahead, her voice low but steady. “Can you see me as your wife? I mean, we could just go to school, and only miss a class or two.”
Filip lowered his head. He spoke softly. “It’s not… yes… I’m sure you will be a fine wife. But this is not how it happens, is it? We are so young; we know nothing. I have no work. There are no rooms for us. It’s just not… normal.”