the goosebumps on her arms, Charlotte headed for the steps and the indoor bathroom. Ten minutes ago she'd seen a line winding up the stairs, heard people flushing. But now she entered the empty bathroom, breathing in and out slowly. Holding everything back, she grinned into the mirror until her mouth hurt.
You have such a pretty smile.
Her mother used to say it. The door opened. Gisela's taut face appeared in the mirror. Her friend giggled, and Charlotte pictured Gisela's long winter of thigh squeezes under the silent gaze of sheep. They stared at one another. Then Gisela opened her arms. Charlotte buried her hot eyes in her friend's shoulder and moved her trembling lips against the stiff fabric of her dress.
"It'll be over soon," Gisela said, patting her back.
Arm in arm, they reached the top of the stairs too quickly. Charlotte could see the old woman sitting in the front row, a silk scarf with a rose pattern over her shoulders. A circular cap of black silk lay on her braids. A silver serpent climbed her tassel holder, warding off the evil spirits that threatened marriages.
The minister had arrived. He stood at the altar in a white robe topped by a ruffed collar big as the moon. Nonni from Butterdale's wife sat at the organ now, her hands held high above the keys. The minister pointed toward heaven, and the organist's fingers pounded out the hymn, I am a lonely flower in God's sight. The old woman often sang the words when she crushed yarrow between two stones. As if he'd suddenly found Charlotte, the minister gestured toward her, and the fibroid tumor farmer jumped to his feet and grasped her arm.
Walking to the altar on the farmer's arm, Charlotte sensed something leaving her, floating out through the window, and gliding over the dark green grass out to sea. When she married Ragnar, she would be taking the entire hillside into her arms, the wind in the tussocks, the rain that stalked you, the sun that burned your face at noon, then ignored you for a week, and the sea that insinuated its bitter seaweed stench into your dreams. And she'd lose something precious. She shuddered.
Eyebrows bristling, the minister began to chant words that everyone but she understood. Obey or burn in Hell, she thought he said. Ragnar mumbled something. Here and now, she told herself and thought about her red dress and Petronella preparing for the mating dance. The minister raised his voice. Focusing on Christ's suffering, Charlotte nodded assent. She extended her hand for the ring and wondered what she'd promised.
Afterwards, at the farm, she and the old woman served coffee and rhubarb cake with whipped cream. The farmers sat in silence, examining their fingers for cuts. They nodded their heads for refills whenever Charlotte brought the coffee pot. At last, they argued about the poor yield from the winter fishing season.
"Akurey brought in nothing this year, just enough for Butterdale," Nonni said, sitting next to Gisela on the sofa.
Gisela did not respond.
"We lost our catch several times. Didn't survive the surf landing. Once the keel comes up in the surf, you lose fish."
She eyed him with interest. "And do you lose men?"
Nodding, he brought his head closer to hers, his shoulders level with his ears.
Her lips were forming another fishing question when he placed his hand between his thigh and hers. Gently, she slapped his hand. Several of the farmers raised their chins from their cups. Charlotte made a diving motion, indicating the strip of sofa between Gisela and Nonni. Reluctantly, Nonni moved.
Gisela leaned against her. "I was afraid you'd run away," she said.
"I tried to, but the big farmer held my arm," Charlotte said.
Soon they were laughing and hugging each other. Nonni rose to his feet and stared. The old woman followed him to the window and filled his cup.
When the guests were gone, and Gisela had climbed into the loft, the old woman nudged Charlotte and handed her a cup of raspberry-seaweed tea. Ragnar's empty cup was on the table.
"Honeymoon tea," the old woman said.
Charlotte blushed. The drink was the color of her dress. She held her nose against the fishy taste, and—her heart hammering from the coffee—drank it quickly while the old woman watched.
In the bedroom, the curtains were open. Outside, the daylight blurred into the summer night. Ragnar lay on his back in the center of the bed. He looked as if he were sleeping. She whispered his name. Like a big dog, he rolled over and opened his eyes.
She started to unbutton the dress. The old woman had spent hours on the buttons. A zipper would have been better, but the cooperative store hadn't gotten its shipment. When the dress finally sank to the floor, she remembered Petronella and kicked out her foot and raised the fabric with her toe, dropping it on the chair.
His gaze burned her skin. Travelers in the desert, they suffered from the same thirst. How long had it been for both of them? With a deliberate slowness, she pulled her slip over her head, enjoyed his eyes on the swell of her breasts above her brassiere. Max had loved this ritual. Languidly, she rolled down her stockings. She regretted she had nothing prettier than the big square cotton underpants that everyone wore during the war in Berlin. At last, she unhooked the brassiere and let her breasts fall forward. His eyes drew an arc under each breast, and her nipples hardened.
He lifted the sheet.
"Come."
She slipped under the sheet and rolled toward him. His hardness brushed against her thigh. When her breasts touched his chest, she felt his whole body quiver. Through the rush of her own blood came the sound of a horse neighing somewhere in the home field.
Ragnar's voice was a ragged whisper.
"He's happy for us."
His large hands stroked her shoulders, her breasts, her thighs, the backs of her knees. She raised her body to his. He slid his hands under the small of her back, ran them over her buttocks, squeezed gently. She vowed to make love to him all night long. But suddenly he opened her legs and thrust himself inside her. It was over too quickly. She and Max had always dawdled, prolonging the stroking and caressing.
Ragnar lay on his side, touching her hair the way he did the lead horse's forelock before bringing it to the barn. Beyond his shoulder, through the window, she glimpsed the outline of the hillside in the gray summer night. For ever and ever. What had she done?
In the morning, Charlotte was startled when her arm brushed against his. Remembering the weight of his body on hers, she stretched her arms above her head and arched her back, wanted his hands on her breasts again.
The sound of chickens fussing in the henhouse broke through her desire. Another reality passed over her happiness. Had she rubbed the life out of the memory of Max? Forgotten Lena? She'd wanted to flee her ghosts. But now she mourned them and wished Ragnar would go away.
He reached for her. Pretending a daytime shyness, she pulled back and watched his fingers on her arm, how they clasped her like a rake. She had a vision of cleaning sheep pens and turning hay until she too slipped over that leaden horizon. How many aprons would she wear out with no reward but this man's hands on her at night? After he was gone, she swung her legs onto the floor, pulled on her work clothes, tied the old apron around her waist, and went to feed the chickens.
II - Max
Jewish Jokes
In the fall of 1928 Charlotte was twenty years old, and Berlin felt tight as a rubber band. The Communists fought the Nazis on the streets. Nude women danced with midgets on the stage while couples in tuxedoes and furs laughed. Poor people rented out their own beds when they weren't sleeping in them.
Certain Germans, according to the Nazis, had less value than the rest of the population. Jews with thick lips or bulbous noses felt the knuckles of the brownshirts. But, like the center cyclist of three, blond, pug-nosed Jews went unnoticed. Max Bernstein