taking it out on some unruly body part that wouldn’t stay in line. Beating back his tears. He couldn’t stand it when Sadie or Ruby cried. His brow knitted, the dark clouds came, and Ruby knew it would be one of those days where she would just keep away, and keep quiet. She’d go to see Fanya and Jakob after dinner, and they would stay up late, talking about their broken hearts, their restless bodies and their dead parents again. To be able to calm Ilya down later, she needed to go where she could be sad and angry for a while—at him, and at how life had turned out so painful for them all.
• • •
Ruby was bringing her work to Gerte’s shop to show her what she had done with the beautiful red wool—fine dark blue stripes running through a red the color of wine. They were vertical, and would make Gerte look lovely and tall in this skirt. Ruby had had enough left over to make Gerte a vest, and that was going to be the surprise. She was hoping that it would fit. She had left the seams in long stitches that she could take out and do over again if the fit wasn’t right. She knew Gerte would love the matching vest, and together they would choose three perfect buttons. It was the new fashion among some of the women to wear vests—a kind of manly look, with very womanly blouses for some. Others, like Mala, would add a man’s tie with her blouse and vest. It made her look very serious. Gerte was the type who would add a flower to the vest or blouse just to be sure that it made a feminine effect.
This work with soft and warm and colorful fabric was something that fed Ruby’s soul. It was something she had learned to do back home, before the war, when she would watch her mother and aunt do embroidery on napkins, tablecloths, pillowcases, and it always made them seem so quiet and restful, even as they chattered away while sewing. She and Pearl would often sit with their mother and their Aunt Zusia and imitate them as they tried out the stitches they were taught. Now Ruby kept her sewing to the evening, and often for when she was alone, when work was done, and she could let her mind wander to those times before. When she and Pearl were a world to themselves.
Now she was the adult, and yet when she went into Gerte’s shop, especially today with the skirt finished and the vest nearly made, she felt like a girl again. She knew her handiwork would be judged, and fairly, and she awaited the look on Gerte’s face and the words she might say. If she was pleased, she might ask Ruby to make some more things, and she might even offer to sell them to some of the women in town who would love to have a new item of clothing, handmade. Gerte, and her friend Lotte, who sometimes helped out in the shop, had some beautiful fabrics that they’d been able to keep through the war, when no one was spending money on what they didn’t need and there were no men to admire their new clothes. She told Ruby that before the war they regularly took the train to shop for fabric in Munich, and sometimes they would even go to Belgium or France to find cloth. There the wool and cotton and linen were especially well made, and when you sewed with it you knew that the things you made would last a long time if you took proper care of them. Gerte’s was a small shop, but filled to the brim with bolts of fabric lined up like giant books on shelves and arranged by color and heaviness—wools for winter, cottons for spring or summer. That was part of the pleasure that first took Ruby into the shop one day—the sight of all that color just to look at and, when she overcame her hesitation, to touch.
She and Gerte had slowly overcome the predictable mutual suspicion between Germans and Jews and their own shyness. That first day her friend Lotte was in the shop too, so Gerte had someone in whose company she felt sure, and that was maybe what let her be especially curious about Ruby. And for Ruby, once she walked in, she was so enthralled by the sight of such luxury—and the possibility of such beautiful clothes—that she began to talk to both women with great enthusiasm, as strangers might have in any time and place, but not this one.
Here there were three kinds of people: the Germans, whose little town was now filled with American soldiers, and even more filled with Jews who had come there to revive and wait to leave for somewhere else.
Fanya wasn’t too thrilled by Ruby’s working for Gerte. She preferred to keep to those she felt knew her, and who were easier to talk with. But Ruby was more open to the world, always had been. Pearl, too, used to be shy when Ruby would readily talk to strangers or other girls and boys, on their way home from school. Ruby had a way about her that seemed to show that she trusted and could be trusted.
This world was one full of suspicions and strangers. But Ruby wasn’t going to let that keep her from taking a few risks. And besides, this sewing work was so soothing to her nerves. So different from the work in the camp office where she was dealing with paperwork and problems. With wool and cotton you got to make rough things smooth and give shapeless cloth a perfectly fitting form, once you cut the fabric and stitched the seams. It was a feeling of accomplishment different from anything else she was doing these days. So much was about waiting. About official permission. About decisions in your hands and then out of your hands.
“Grüss Gott,” said Gerte.
“Guten Morgen.”
Seeing Ruby had a rather large and seemingly delicate package in her arms, Gerte helped with the heavy door. The dust sparkled in the dark air of the shop where sun was coming through the front windows. Ruby’s entrance had stirred things up.
“So good to see you, Fraulein. What are you carrying?”
It was at least three weeks ago that the two of them had stood next to each other, with Ruby down on her knees measuring Gerte’s hem length to be sure she got it “not too long, not too short,” as Gerte had asked. They were both excited when Ruby laid the cloth in the bag down on the cutting table at the back of the shop. There the light was better and clearer. When Gerte saw the skirt, she picked it right up, handling it with care, trying out the back zipper, noticing how smooth the seams were. There, underneath the skirt, was the half-finished vest, and this produced a kind of smile Ruby had never seen on Gerte’s face. Both of them were a little bit embarrassed. Now came the moment of truth. Gerte had to go into the back room, a tiny space with a mirror, to try on the skirt and vest.
“Be careful of the vest, the seams are only partly done. I wanted to be sure it fits before finishing them properly.”
Gerte was impatient to try them on. Lotte wasn’t in the shop today, and she had to ask Ruby the favor of acting like the proprietor in case anyone should come by while she was changing clothes. These two women were finding ways to help each other, use each other. They both understood that trust was not complete but sufficient for this moment to pass without having to say more.
When Gerte came out of the back room dressed in Ruby’s handiwork, they both smiled broadly. The skirt fit perfectly over Gerte’s waist and hips, and the length was just the fashion of this time. Women were all showing more of their legs than ever before, especially young women like Ruby and Gerte. The vest was looking very promising. Now they had to come close to each other again, as Ruby inspected the armholes, the most delicate part of any vest. They had to be strongly sewn and fit perfectly around the shoulder to resist all the motion of the arms, and yet loose enough so that Gerte could wear a blouse or even a light sweater underneath.
“Das ist aber schön!” exclaimed Gerte. Yes, Ruby had to agree, it did look lovely on Gerte. She was glad to have pleased Gerte, and she herself was proud of the work.
Ruby wished Gerte a good day and headed to see Ilya, rehearsing in her mind all the details she would tell him about how things had gone so well in her effort to get to know one of the German women—someone so close in age and so far from her own experiences. Ilya loved the boldness that Ruby took with her everywhere.
• • •
A Bach partita it was. She’d know it anywhere. It came at her. Over her. Through the radio, somewhere, fingers ran across keys she remembered. Music she knew from her father’s practices. From her own halting, repeated efforts to make that music happen herself. Her own fingers couldn’t get anywhere near such complicated dances now. She rarely tried because when she managed to get some phrases right, it was all she could do to be pleased as tears streamed down her cheeks with all the loss. The losses. Her dear, sweet-smelling father. All mixed up with the salt of her drowning self—from her eyes all down to her tongue that tasted the present as she touched the past.
Now,