laughed and cried too easily, but also that generosity. Frau Simon used the word “poise” for Trudi’s mother. An exuberant woman with beautiful ankles, Frau Simon had red hair that she piled into restless curls on top of her head. If anyone knew about poise, it was Frau Simon—after all, she talked about it constantly and made the most elegant hats in the region. Even women from Oberkassel and Krefeld came to her shop, which was on the first floor of the apartment house on Barbarossa Strasse that she’d bought with her own profits. People gossiped about her because she was divorced and liked to argue like a man, but they agreed that she had a natural eye for fashion and that—even though everyone knew Jews could talk you into buying anything—she refused to sell you a hat if it didn’t look right on you.
Trudi could tell that the women treated Frau Simon differently: they envied her outspokenness; they tried to get her to flatter them; but they kept her outside their circle. They were like that with Frau Doktor Rosen too, bringing her their respect and illnesses that the nuns could not cure in the Theresienheim, but not their friendship.
“Gertrud Montag always had poise,” Frau Simon said.
Frau Buttgereit wondered aloud why, then, Gertrud had agreed to marry Leo Montag. Varicose veins bulged through her support stockings, and her belly was so big that she stood cradling it with her linked hands.
“It’s his eyes.” Frau Blau sighed and took a long drag from her cigarette. “Leo Montag looks at you with those exquisite eyes of his, and you follow him anywhere.”
Frau Simon laughed. “At your age?”
“Any age.”
“Leo is a saint for taking care of Gertrud those last five years,” Frau Weiler declared. “A saint, and don’t—”
“I know a joke about a saint,” Trudi announced.
The women’s faces spun toward her.
“A joke.” Frau Weiler looked flustered. “This is not a proper occasion for telling jokes.” Her black scarf was still knotted around her frizzy hair that was parted in the center. No one in town could remember having seen all of her head uncovered because she always wore scarves that exposed only the front of her hair.
“I’d like to hear the joke,
Kindchen.”
Frau Abramowitz knelt next to Trudi and kissed her forehead. The collar of her black jacket was made of foxes—little claws and heads that came together in two pointed fox snouts between her breasts.
Trudi threw both arms around her neck and squeezed hard. The fox fur tickled her chin. She wished she could call Frau Abramowitz by her first name—Ilse, which was so much prettier than Abramowitz—but children had to call grown-ups by their last names and address them with
Sie
—the formal you. Only children were called by their first names and addressed with
Du
—the familiar you—by everyone. That was one good thing about being a child. Many grown-ups called each other by their last names all their lives, and if they agreed to switch to first names, they first had to link elbows while drinking beer or
Schnaps
to manifest the
Du
.
“Go ahead, Trudi,” Frau Abramowitz said. “You tell us your joke.”
“It’s about St. Petrus.” Trudi tried to remember the right sequence of the joke she’d overheard Emil Hesping tell her father last month when he’d come into the pay-library with the news that he’d been promoted to manage a second gymnasts’ club in Düsseldorf. It was larger than the one in Burgdorf and belonged to the same owner who’d talked with Emil about having him open other clubs as far away as Köln and Hamburg.
“The joke starts with the Virgin Maria,” Trudi said. “She wants to go to earth for three weeks. St. Petrus makes her promise to write every week.… The first week she writes that she saw three churches and two museums. She signs her letter ‘Virgin Maria …’”
Frau Doktor Rosen, who’d just walked into the kitchen, raised one elegant eyebrow. Eva was holding on to
Trudi could tell that the women treated Frau Simon differently: they envied her outspokenness; they tried to get her to flatter them; but they kept her outside their circle. They were like that with Frau Doktor Rosen too, bringing her their respect and illnesses that the nuns could not cure in the Theresienheim, but not their friendship.
“Gertrud Montag always had poise,” Frau Simon said.
Frau Buttgereit wondered aloud why, then, Gertrud had agreed to marry Leo Montag. Varicose veins bulged through her support stockings, and her belly was so big that she stood cradling it with her linked hands.
“It’s his eyes.” Frau Blau sighed and took a long drag from her cigarette. “Leo Montag looks at you with those exquisite eyes of his, and you follow him anywhere.”
Frau Simon laughed. “At your age?”
“Any age.”
“Leo is a saint for taking care of Gertrud those last five years,” Frau Weiler declared. “A saint, and don’t—”
“I know a joke about a saint,” Trudi announced.
The women’s faces spun toward her.
“A joke.” Frau Weiler looked flustered. “This is not a proper occasion for telling jokes.” Her black scarf was still knotted around her frizzy hair that was parted in the center. No one in town could remember having seen all of her head uncovered because she always wore scarves that exposed only the front of her hair.
“I’d like to hear the joke,
Kindchen.”
Frau Abramowitz knelt next to Trudi and kissed her forehead. The collar of her black jacket was made of foxes—little claws and heads that came together in two pointed fox snouts between her breasts.
Trudi threw both arms around her neck and squeezed hard. The fox fur tickled her chin. She wished she could call Frau Abramowitz by her first name—Ilse, which was so much prettier than Abramowitz—but children had to call grown-ups by their last names and address them with
Sie
—the formal you. Only children were called by their first names and addressed with
Du
—the familiar you—by everyone. That was one good thing about being a child. Many grown-ups called each other by their last names all their lives, and if they agreed to switch to first names, they first had to link elbows while drinking beer or
Schnaps
to manifest the
Du
.
“Go ahead, Trudi,” Frau Abramowitz said. “You tell us your joke.”
“It’s about St. Petrus.” Trudi tried to remember the right sequence of the joke she’d overheard Emil Hesping tell her father last month when he’d come into the pay-library with the news that he’d been promoted to manage a second gymnasts’ club in Düsseldorf. It was larger than the one in Burgdorf and belonged to the same owner who’d talked with Emil about having him open other clubs as far away as Köln and Hamburg.
“The joke starts with the Virgin Maria,” Trudi said. “She wants to go to earth for three weeks. St. Petrus makes her promise to write every week.… The first week she writes that she saw three churches and two museums. She signs her letter ‘Virgin Maria …’”
Frau Doktor Rosen, who’d just walked into the kitchen, raised one elegant eyebrow. Eva was holding on to
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