Every face is uptilted toward Trudy, attentive, even rapt. In the front row, a pale boy is nodding.
In her excitement at having snared their attention, Trudy continues: Now, let's take our hypothetical situation a step further. You're still the same young woman, but the tide of the war is starting to turn. There's no fuel. You're cold. Rations are increasingly scarce. Your child is starving before your eyes. You're bombed every night by the British. The enemy is advancing, and all anyone talks about is how the Russians will rape and kill you when they arrive. But then, suddenly, you have a chance to be protected. By a, a high-ranking officer. An SS officer, even. What do you do? Do you use what you've got, as a woman, in the time-honored fashion, and become his… his mistress, say?
Somebody snorts. No, she says.
Not even if it means a better life for you and your child?
No, the student repeats. That's just wrong.
Yeah, says another student.
But-
All you have to do is hang on until the war is over. Most of them survived, didn't they?
Well, you know that in hindsight, says Trudy. It's easy enough to say now, but-
Being the guy's mistress, that's, like, proactive evil. It's as bad as turning in the Jews.
But you're not thinking, says Trudy, thumping the lectern in frustration. Or rather, you're not putting yourself in that woman's shoes. Aren't there some situations in which the ends justify the means…?
She falters and puts a hand to her throat, which is suddenly tight. The key to being an effective teacher, Trudy has always thought, is to believe in what one is saying. Now she can't look the student who has challenged her in the face.
Trudy shuffles her notes, coughs into her fist.
Excuse me, she says hoarsely. Long day.
Professor Swenson? somebody asks.
What now? Trudy thinks.
It's five-fifteen.
Oh, says Trudy. Thank you. Sorry about that, folks… All right, get out of here.
The room erupts with activity as the students begin shoving their binders into their backpacks and pulling on their parkas. Trudy claps her hands.
Don't forget to read the Goldhagen for next time, she calls.
As they file out, abruptly boisterous, Trudy turns to erase the board, scolding herself under her breath. What on earth was she thinking, bringing personal material into the classroom? She has broken one of her own cardinal rules: unlike many of her colleagues, who lace lectures with anecdotes of their families, travels, weekends, Trudy believes that a certain distance is necessary to maintain proper authority. She brushes in irritation at the chalk dust sifting onto her shoulders-teacher's dandruff-but succeeds only in leaving a wide white swath on the dark wool. Trudy swears anew. She almost always wears black, and she shouldn't.
Professor Swenson?
Trudy looks to the ceiling, praying for patience, then turns. Yes, she says.
There is a girl waiting on the other side of the lectern, cracking fluorescent gum. She is a freshman, Trudy knows, but she can never remember this student's name and therefore mentally refers to her as the Pretty Girl. And she is, with her wide blue eyes and pink cheeks and long blond hair, a combination that should be a cliché but instead adds up to simple perfection. Trudy has sometimes resented the Pretty Girl, not for her looks per se but because they have led Trudy to form precisely the subjective opinions a good teacher should never harbor: the student is so pretty she must be dumb; she is spoiled, used to getting what she wants because of her appearance; she would make an excellent poster child for the Bund deutscher Mädel, the League of German Girls. She is the last person Trudy wants to talk to just now.
What can I do for you? Trudy asks.
The girl braves a quick glance at Trudy. She wears glitter makeup, Trudy sees, a constellation of sparkles scattered across her rosy face.
I just wanted to tell you? the girl says to her sneakers. That I'm finding this class, like, really fascinating?
Why, thank you, says Trudy. That's the best thing a professor can hear.
She gives the Pretty Girl a cursory smile and makes a show of gathering her notes, tapping their edges against the podium to align them before putting them away. Her longing for the safety of her own home, to be in a hot bath washing off the residue of this afternoon's embarrassment, is so acute that her skin itches.
But the Pretty Girl persists, keeping pace with Trudy as she walks from the classroom.
My grandmother was in the war? she says. She was hidden by a Catholic family, passing as a Christian? She was a-a whatchamacallit, a submarine?
A U-boat, Trudy supplies.
Yeah, a U-boat, the girl says, popping a small neon-green bubble.
Trudy looks sideways at her.
You're Jewish? she asks.
Half, says the Pretty Girl. My grandparents were Hungarian Jews? I'm half-Jewish.
I see, says Trudy. Well, please give your grandmother my best regards.
I would, says the girl, but she's dead.
Oh. I'm sorry.
But I wanted to ask you? I'm still not getting something. Like, it makes sense when you explain it, you know, historically, but I don't get how those women could have done all those things. Like what you said about the SS officer. Or just not helping, pretending nothing was happening. How do they, you know, live with themselves afterwards?
That's a good question, Trudy says. Denial, I suppose. Or…
She stops walking. She is thinking of the kitchen of the farmhouse, filling with black smoke. Where was Anna? Making a desperate grab with a dish towel for the pot forgotten on the stove? Or lying on her marital bed upstairs, eyes closed? Waiting for the heat to tighten her skin, letting her know that flames had claimed this room as well?
Professor Swenson, are you all right?
The girl's quick touch on her arm, light as a cat's paw.
Trudy gives her head a brusque shake.
Yes, she says. I'm fine. Thank you.
They are standing in the hallway now, next to a radiator that hisses and clanks. Somewhere overhead a janitor whistles a popular tune. Other than this, the building is quiet in the forlorn way busy places are when the people who normally occupy them have gone.
I haven't been particularly helpful, have I, says Trudy. Was there anything else you wanted to ask?
I guess not, the Pretty Girl says.
She hoists her backpack more firmly onto her shoulder and trots off, breaking into a run a few meters away. At the door leading to the parking lot, she turns and yells, Have a good weekend!
You too, says Trudy.
The door wheezes shut after letting in a few whirling flakes of snow. Though now free to leave, Trudy stands in the fruity synthetic wake of the girl's shampoo, looking thoughtfully after her. How she envies the young woman, not for the obvious reasons but because she has a family history she can talk about and be proud of. A history somebody has related to her firsthand. A history she knows.
A nebulae of instincts coalesce, and from the brilliant vapor of their collision an idea emerges. Takes cogent shape. Grows. For another minute Trudy is paralyzed by its logic, its persuasive simplicity-why hasn't she thought of this before? Then she pivots and jogs up the nearest stairwell. She has to find Ruth before her sudden conviction deserts her.
Ruth is not in her office nor in the teachers' lounge, but Trudy finally spots her in the cafeteria. She is sitting alone at a long wooden table, picking withered blueberries out of a muffin and wiping them on a napkin with a child's scowl of distaste.
What are you doing here? she asks Trudy.
Looking for you, Trudy says.
Well, that's flattering, but I don't get it. I'd have thought you'd be home in a hot bath by now.
Trudy pulls out a chair and sits next to her.