Hello in there, she calls, for the man has disappeared inside his truck, from which a ramp protrudes like a corrugated steel tongue. Are you my videographer?
The man pokes his head out, and Trudy sees that his eyes are so light as to be nearly colorless. Her stomach drops. She has always been uneasy around light-eyed men.
She reaches up to shake his proffered hand.
Trudy Swenson, she says.
Thomas Kroger, replies the man. Sorry to have kept you waiting, the damned tailgate was frozen shut… Just give me one more minute.
Again he vanishes from view, and a cart loaded with bulky equipment in padded blankets begins descending the ramp. The man follows, clinging to its handle. As more and more of him emerges, it becomes apparent that he is very tall, perhaps six-five. Once on solid ground, he smiles down at Trudy; he is about her age, a throwback to the hippie era. His face is so round that it is unlined except for the eyes, but he wears a red bandanna around his forehead beneath his shaggy graying hair.
Trudy imagines Anna's disdain over the bandanna and wishes she could ask him to take it off. Instead, she looks doubtfully at the cart.
I didn't expect you to bring all this, she says. This Project is a relatively modest operation-
Thomas laughs.
You did want this interview filmed, right? he says. I'm a professional, you know, Dr. Swenson, not a tourist. I don't work with a handheld camcorder.
Oh, I guess not, says Trudy, though she is a bit startled by the protruding tripods and sound booms after all Ruth's talk about operating on a shoestring budget. Forgive me; I didn't mean to offend. And please, call me Trudy.
Thomas shuts the tailgate and secures it with a padlock.
No offense taken, he says. Okay, Trudy, I'm all set. Lead the way.
Trudy does, Thomas and his cart trailing her through the chain-link fence to the proper building. The outer door is heavy steel and covered with graffiti; next to it is a security panel. Trudy presses B and waits. Nothing happens. Thomas reaches past her and pushes the door open.
It's broken, he says.
Trudy ventures into a hallway so dimly lit that she has to pause to let her eyes adjust. The building smells of mildew and urine and industrial-strength floor cleaner. Trudy approaches the nearest apartment, squinting to make out its number, and leaps away from the ferocious barking and snarling inside.
God in heaven, she says, putting a hand over her galloping heart.
Thomas chuckles again.
Somebody's got a rottweiler, he says. But not the somebody we want, thank goodness. Over here, Trudy.
She follows his voice down a few steps to a basement apartment near a stairwell and knocks on the door. No response. Trudy tries again, more emphatically this time.
Ja, ja, calls a voice, somewhat peevishly, from within.
Trudy hears a chair being scraped back and the scuff of slippers, but the door doesn't open. She gives Thomas a pained smile.
Sorry about all this, she says. I had no idea-
I've worked in worse places, Thomas says.
Well, I appreciate it. Especially that you were able to do this so close to Christmas.
Thomas shrugs, as best he is able. He is hunched in the triangulated space beneath the stairwell, his head bent so as not to bang it on the risers.
Christmas doesn't mean much to me, he says. I'm Jewish.
Trudy cranes to discern his expression, but it is impossible in the hallway's jaundiced gloom.
Ruth did tell you I'm interviewing Germans? she asks.
Of course, says Thomas. That's why I'm here. I'm dying to hear how these people could possibly justify what they did.
Trudy's queasiness increases. She should have known that Ruth's videographer would be Jewish. But this is the last thing Trudy needs, a cameraman who is not impartial. What if he disrupts the interview, interjects indignant questions or snorts in disbelief?
She has no time to envision how to handle this, though, for she hears a series of bolts being drawn and then Frau Kluge opens the door. An inch, anyway.
What do you want, she says.
Vhat do you vant. Trudy steps to the side so Frau Kluge can see her, trying her best to produce an ingratiating smile.
Frau Kluge? she says. I'm Trudy Swenson-
I am not interested in anything you are peddling, the woman says.
No, no, I'm from the university. We spoke yesterday on the phone, remember? About the German Project. You agreed to let me interview you? About the war?
There is a pause, and then the woman says, Ach, ja. This slipped from my mind.
The door opens halfway.
Trudy squares her shoulders and steps into Frau Kluge's studio, a little box of an apartment redolent of mothballs and tomato soup. The blinds are half-drawn, and beneath them through the window Trudy sees the fender of a car. Frau Kluge is lowering herself, with some difficulty, into a chair at a Formica table, the only place, with the exception of a second chair and a sagging daybed, where it is possible to sit.
You have a, um, a cozy home here, Trudy says.
Frau Kluge dismisses this with the wave of an arthritis-bunched hand.
It is a dump, she says.
Trudy looks somewhat desperately at Thomas, who is inspecting the room with narrow-eyed concentration.
Is it all right if I set up over here? he asks, indicating the daybed.
Ja, Frau Kluge says, shrugging.
Trudy refreshes her smile and sets the bakery box on the table.
What is this? Frau Kluge asks.
Cookies.
Frau Kluge picks at the striped string. Trudy reaches over to help, but Frau Kluge whisks the box away and gets up to fetch a knife from the sideboard. She slashes the lid open and peers inside.
Ach, Makronen, she says. My favorite.
She fishes out a macaroon and begins to eat, scattering crumbs on her cardigan. Trudy takes advantage of the conversational lull by sitting and consulting her notes, stealing glances at Frau Kluge all the while. She is approximately Anna's age, Trudy guesses, in her late seventies, but the resemblance ends there. Frau Kluge is a small squat woman, her face pouched and creased, her eyes hidden behind large square drugstore glasses. Her hair is a mushroom cap of such uniform gray that it can only be a wig. One real hair, long and white, grows from her chin.
Frau Kluge roots through the box in search of more macaroons; then, having apparently consumed them all, she pushes it toward Trudy.
No, thanks, says Trudy. I'm glad you enjoyed them, though.
They were stale, Frau Kluge says.
Trudy inhales deeply and looks down at her portfolio.
Frau Kluge, I thought we might talk about the interview-
Where is the money?
Excuse me?
The hundred dollars. Where is it?
From her purse Trudy extracts a check embossed with the university logo and slides it across the table. Frau Kluge fumbles it up and holds it close to her eyes, then folds it and makes it vanish into a pocket.
Ja, she says. Gut.
She struggles to her feet to stow the bakery box string in a drawer. Then she removes something from the refrigerator door and scuffs back to the table with it.
My grandchildren, she says, holding it out.
Trudy takes it from her and looks obediently at two children encased in magnetized Lucite. From against the marbled suede backdrop favored by school photographers, they grin up at Trudy, the girl's hair so tightly bound in ribboned barrettes that her eyes are pulled in a painful squint, the boy's mouth brash with braces. They appear to Trudy deeply ordinary children. She turns the photograph over and through the yellowing plastic reads the inscription: Andi und Teddy, 1989. Seven years ago.
Trudy looks up at Frau Kluge with new interest.
Your grandson must be quite a young man by now, she says.
Frau Kluge mumbles and tugs at a loop of yarn on her sweater.