Pictures of the Past (13 page)

Then, suddenly, there is an emotional maturity with the realization that life is a journey and not a destination, and that they want to enjoy the ride together. And for Sarah and Taylor that moment occurred on the train to Potsdam. Their eyes met and held, and independently and wordlessly, they reaffirmed their desire to be forever connected. Caught by the ebullient glow of Sarah’s face, Taylor stroked her hair, twirling a section with his fingers and bringing the strands to his nose, to breathe in her fragrance. Sarah raised her own hand and began to play with the untamed strands from his casually groomed locks, unaware that few women were able to resist that same impulse. Once, twice, she repeated the gesture, and when she finally pulled away, embarrassed, he pulled her back to him. He laced his fingers through the thickness of her full blond hair, and kissed her with an assertive passion that made her glance around, selfconsciously. But then Taylor simply and gently closed her eyelids with his fingers and continued with the kiss accompanied by progressively less innocent caresses. And when she pulled away once more, even he understood that their intimacy was approaching a level inappropriate to the setting and he too began to straighten and smooth his garments and to more demurely reposition their seating.

An older couple, situated with a purposeful distance between each other, he awkwardly leafing through the oversized pages of a newspaper, she slowly working with yarn, obviously struggling with dropped rows of knits and purls, kept turning in their direction. The elderly woman, glancing from time to time over the rims of her reading glasses, offered a sweet smile to the younger couple, perhaps thankful for a glimpse back into her own fond memories of a youthful romance. The man, however, sour faced and intermittently scratching his bearded cheek or pulling at the graying hairs protruding from his ears, emitted only disgusting groans every now and then, as if Sarah and Taylor were in some way poisoning his territory.

Finally, Taylor was regaining his composure and modulating his breathing. “Quick,” he said. “No thinking— first things that come into your head. Favorite things.”

“God, this is too hard.” She didn’t even question his motives, simply understood that they needed to begin conversing or they would certainly be drawn, once more, to their embraces.

“You’re thinking too much,” he countered. “You’re not being graded, little Miss Teacher’s Pet.”

“OK—but these are quick thoughts—superficial— last month’s favorite things—butterflies, cloudless days, star-filled nights, apple strudel, heated, served with sweet cream…”

“My—you are good at this…” he returned.

“Books, of course,” she continued, “and china collections, mainly tea cups—enameled and embellished.”

“Good, good. I am gathering a great picture of you— but what’s this about ‘last month’s favorite things’— have they changed?”

She knew he was being coy, knew she had played right into his script, but she continued pretending to be naïve to his intentions. “But now maybe a man would join that list. Oh, yes—leave room on that list now for an extremely passionate man.”

And so it was his turn to feign innocence. “Passionate, you say,” and once again he was moving closer to her on the seat.

“Extremely so,” she continued, “passionate and talented.”

“Talented,” he echoed, thinking now that she was recalling his amorous techniques, the soft massage of her throat as he had edged titillatingly close to the mounds of her perfect breasts.

“Oh—yes. A recognized talent.”

And now he thought she was referring to his reputation as a ladies’ man to which he had alluded.

“Oh, yes—incredibly gifted—gifted hands and an eye for beauty.”

“Yes, now. Your favorite thing—a man—his name, please,” he coaxed with a self-satisfied expression.

“And you haven’t guessed?”

“I want to hear that name from your lips.”

And just as his finger reached to touch those lips, she answered. “Henri Lebasque.”

“Henri Lebasque?” He was angling away from her again, offering her a confused, doubtful expression…until he remembered. “The painting—of course…and the painter, now one of your favorite things—my own introduction, and yet I find I am still jealous.” He knew that she was just teasing him. But could it really have been less than two weeks ago when he had been captured by the artist’s work? Such an entrancing painting, and yet he had discovered it, purchased it, held, and cherished it for the briefest period of time, for too soon he was distracted by his infatuation with Sarah, an Impressionist’s model come to life.

And now Taylor took her face in his hands and studied it, as if he were an artist examining his own work, tracing the lines of her high cheek bones with his thumbs, following the curves of her arched brows with his fingers. He shook his head. “You are a fire. You are consuming me. You are hot to my touch. Do you know that? Do you feel it? Don’t answer. Back to questions. What makes you scared?” The need to pose this question came to him so suddenly and pointedly that he now understood his own intentions. He needed to know more about Sarah— he needed to know everything about her. He wanted to feel her past, for it to become his past, for that was the only way they could proceed—that her future could become his future— that their destinies would forever be entwined.

The question only confused her. “Of everything there is to know, you ask me this—you ask what scares me?” And he loved that response from her, because it implied that she knew, that she understood, that they did, indeed, need to know everything about each other.

But then she decided not to be obstinate or challenging. “Loud noises. Uncertainty. I am a planner. I have no fear of being lost, because I will always find my way. But I must always know where my mother is—and my father. Bullies at school, I fear—and not for myself, I am tougher than you know—but I hate that powerless feeling of being unable to help others.” She lightened the moment again. “Don’t laugh, you know I fear being called on and not knowing the answer or sometimes, knowing that the teacher didn’t give the right answer and fearing that I will not hold my tongue.”

As she completed her list of fears with the almost trite recitation of rodents, and dark, moonless nights, he was unprepared for the direction this innocent game suddenly took. “My greatest fear—again a man tops this list.” She paused and looked directly at Taylor. “Hitler— Adolph Hitler.”

He put his arm around her and silently, heads leaning into each other and hands clasped together, they traveled on to Potsdam.

Along with droves of tourists, they strolled the picturesque grounds of Frederick the Great’s Park Sanssouci. Entering through the Obelisk-Portal and passing the Grosse Fontane, they admired the abundance of ornate gardens, sculptured fountains and classical statues, and then they visited the exquisite rococo country palace, Schloss Sanssouci. Fronted by large, lush terraces of vines and orange trees, the elaborate one-story castle was home to the king’s impressive art collection, with many by Rubens, van Dyke, and Caravaggio. They walked the halls and read the accounts of King Frederick entertaining the elite of his era, including his friend Voltaire.

“Sanssouci—coming from French—’ without a care,’” Sarah said as they exited, pointing to the sign. “The king sought this town as his country retreat. We are royal then, with the same need to escape.”

Taylor thought for a moment. “Or maybe he was just human,” he said. “Maybe he was just like us.”

Sarah’s Aunt Ilse, accompanied by a teenage daughter, Margarete, brought a full picnic array of treats and a large blanket, and they all ate lunch along the shore of the Havel River. The cousin could not stop staring at Taylor and was pulling at Sarah’s sweater, urging her to explain about her handsome boyfriend. They stayed only a brief time, as Margarete had an afternoon piano lesson scheduled, but they fulfilled their role as chaperones.

After they left, Sarah and Taylor walked hand in hand along the riverbank, skirting the bikers and watching the boats go by. Taylor was trying to focus only on the carefree beauty of the setting, as that was their purpose in coming to Potsdam. But he was unsettled when a tourist steamer passed with a bold message across its port side,
“Wer beim Juden Kauff stiehlt Voksvermogen.”
When he saw the word
“Juden,”
he wanted to know. “I’m sorry… Please, tell me. What does it say?”

“The same—we’ve seen it in many windows in Berlin—‘Those who buy from Jews are stealing the people’s property.’”

The mood interrupted, they both acknowledged it was time to head for the train station.

Back in Berlin, they made a brief stop at a floral shop, as Taylor was intent on bringing flowers back for Sarah’s mother. The store was busy with customers assembling bouquets from the assortments of fresh flowers in large pots and vying for the attention of the proprietor. Taylor saw how the older woman behind the counter was hesitant to wait on certain customers. She seemed to have her eye trained on the door, and overreacted to the clanging of bikes into the metal barriers, as if afraid that brown-shirted storm troopers would be rushing in at any moment.

Taylor had never before understood what a great thing it was to be an American. This was partially because he had never before truly understood geography on a global scale. Just yesterday, in cartography stores on this Berlin street, he sought out maps and Sarah was eager to translate for him. It was dawning on him that nations across continental Europe were like states in his own country. Traveling by train from Paris, France, through Belgium and on to Germany was like heading across the Midwest at home. He never analyzed the literal meaning of the U.S.A. It was the United States of America, and uniting states and keeping them stabilized and secure was certainly not a thing to be taken lightly. Across an ocean, he had not clearly comprehended why countries were always at war, fighting about borders on the pages of his school history books. Suddenly, he understood the proximity of “states” that were nations, without common languages, religions, currencies, ethnicities, or governments. He thought about Wilson’s quest for isolation during the last war. He had studied about it, but now he could visualize and verbalize it—these people are far from us and on top of each other. Neutrality, from that perspective, only made sense.

But when you are here and you develop empathy for the people, when you see them as mothers, fathers, shopkeepers…and lovers, maybe a great nation like the United States has a moral responsibility to do something. We take for granted that our police and army will protect us against thugs. But what if the police are the thugs? What if your army is armed against you?

“Sarah,” he said, when they finally paid for their bouquet and exited the shop, “the Germany of your youth was beautiful, but open your eyes. The climate here is not normal, not acceptable, and not safe. There is tension everywhere; there is a fear.”

There. He had said it. “Fear.” It was the word that she had kept tucked in a drawer at her home, in her handbag as she strolled, and yet he had articulated the word so easily. “Oh, Taylor, I know you are right,” she said, as she bit her lip. “I say these very things to Papa and he tells me it will be all right. But you do not. You are scaring me.” They were walking toward her home, where the street lamps were fewer and they had the privacy that they longed for. Taylor turned to Sarah and took her in his arms, lifting her face to his and smoothing back the strands of hair that had escaped her barrettes.

“Darling, you must leave Germany. You and your family. I can feel it—maybe an outsider can see more easily what others cannot.” He walked with her for a moment and then he remembered something important. “Even your brilliant Albert Einstein left Germany some time back—and now he lives in the United States. And I think maybe that’s where you should be.”

She faced him with a sad, scared expression. “I know what you say is true—that my father must consider removing us from Germany—but you worked with him for some days—you must understand his commitment—he cannot bear to abandon his work and his employees. No, I want to find a better phrase. He is passionate about his work—married to his job.”

“Sarah, I understand. But I won’t be like that. I’m passionate about you and I want you to be safe.”

As they turned the corner of her block, he smothered her in his arms and gently laid his cheek on hers. Their eyes met as she raised her face, and when her lips parted, he gave into the sweet intoxication of her breath.

“See, I was right,” he continued as if no physical contact had interrupted him midsentence. “Passionate about you…married to you. Do you know this? I love you so much.”

And she smiled and responded simply, “Yes…we are one heart.”

While Taylor was eager to present Inga with the flowers and accepted her kiss on the cheek, he was not as quick to broach the topic with Emanuel that had been weighing on him. He waited until the meal was over. The women left the house to deliver a dinner plate to a neighbor who was ill, and so the men moved into the front room and the maid followed them with the coffee service.

Walking by Emanuel’s side, Taylor turned to him. “Sir, I thank you for being a part of the most interesting, educational, and pleasurable weeks of my life. You have been generous of your time and your hospitality.”

“And, Taylor, I will echo your own words. The pleasure was ours.”

This time each of the men chose to sit in the high-backed chairs and Taylor continued. “But I may press that hospitality by approaching you with my feelings now.” He paused because he needed courage to continue and he wanted to find the right words. “You can tell, I think, that I love your daughter. And already I love your family.”