The Empire of the Senses (24 page)

At the next stop, Lev stumbled off. Leaning against a low brick wall, he gripped his knees, his knuckles white.
Not like this—I can’t return like this
. Again, it was true; he would need focus and control for this next step as well. He stood up and breathed deeply, acknowledging the chestnut trees, their bare branches impervious to the wind.

Only a short distance more to the house.

Angrily, he pushed away the images of Leah. She’s with her Zalman now, he thought, starting down the familiar route to his house. Enjoying him. Taking him into her arms. Into her bed. He inhaled the sharp air, his chest expanding, his stride more decisive.

Even though he knew his anger was false, and these images were counterfeit, he clung to his jealousy. It was the only way he could come home, without collapsing with rage, with grief, over what he had lost.

He started to run but then stopped and tried to maintain a steady pace. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He broke into a run again. Two officers conferred in a doorway, and Lev suddenly called out, “I’m going home—I was in a Russian POW camp.”

“Good for you,” one of them said kindly. The other one nodded with approval. Lev grinned back stupidly, self-conscious of this blatant lie.

He slowed his pace again and hoped they were not still looking at him.

Two blocks away, he broke into a sweat. He leaned against a lamppost and touched his face. Would she still find him handsome? He had been unable to dislodge the dirt from under his fingernails. His hands looked ugly. A familiar woman strode past. The baker’s wife? She wore a wide lace collar, a jovial smile. He smoothed down his hair, kept walking, his legs unsteady. The apartments and buildings appeared the same, the same brick and stone, the same ivy flowering on fences, the same corner where he used to turn left, the house in sight. Dirty snow covered the low gate enclosing the courtyard. The two windows facing the street on the upper floor were dark, the curtains drawn. He unlatched the gate and treaded into the courtyard. The blue door gleamed with its brass handle. Resting his hand on the door handle, he drew in a breath. Should he open it? Then he pushed down. Locked. Would he have to ring the bell to his own house? Just then he heard the back door to the kitchen open and saw Marthe shaking out a rug. She gazed into the gray morning, her face expressionless.

“Marthe,” he whispered, breaking into a smile. Inside the house, he
thought he heard the shrill vibration of a piano key landing on a high note. He imagined the admonishments of Josephine, who did not like the children to play with the piano. “A musical instrument is not a toy,” she used to say, running her hand over the music stand where she kept sheet music.

Marthe inspected the rug, frowning. Lev wanted to speak to her before entering the house. This felt hugely important.

She saw him. “Herr Perlmutter,” she gasped, dropping the rug.

“Hello, Marthe.”

She bent down to retrieve the rug, but Lev stopped her, holding her shoulder for a moment. She took his hand. “When did you arrive?”

“Just now.”

She nodded. “You look …” Her voice trailed off.

“Filthy. I know.”

“We hadn’t heard anything from you for the past two months.” He tried to figure if her tone sounded accusatory or just worried. Or was she trying to tell him bad news?

He peered over her shoulder, through the half-open door to the kitchen. The walls were still that gray blue, because the color blue, he remembered Josephine saying, warded off flies. Nonsense, he had said. Flies are color-blind.

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs. Dressing.”

“And the children?”

“In the nursery.” Thank God they were safe in the nursery with the white miniature furniture, the floor of flower-patterned linoleum, the frieze on the walls depicting summer, fall, winter, spring. The stuffed bear with wheels for feet. The life-size ballerina doll Vicki loved.

Lev touched his face. “What if I frighten the children? Do you think they’ll recognize me? What if I frighten her?” He shivered in the damp air. His head pounded.

Marthe took him by the arm and led him into the kitchen, where the stove radiated heat. “Don’t think of it.”

He sat down at the table, his head in his hands.

“It will be all right,” she whispered. She pressed a warm wet cloth
to his face. He took it and breathed in the soapy scent, running it along his forehead and neck. For a while, he just sat there with his face covered by the cloth, his mind blank and dark. He couldn’t believe he was here in this kitchen, with the same red cast-iron pots on the stove, logs of wood piled in the wicker basket, the same blue-and-white china from which he had eaten many meals. It all appeared still and serene, as if he had stumbled into a doll’s house, a place too small, too neat for his clumsy body. When he opened his eyes, Marthe placed a cup of coffee in front of him. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.” Her hand trembled holding the delicate saucer.

Lev took a long greedy sip, and Marthe started to ask him how he got home, but Franz ran through the doorway, at first not seeing Lev, only demanding a warm roll. “Can I please—” He stopped short, his mouth hanging open.

His ash-blond hair hung in his eyes, which were large and blue and darted around the kitchen, settling on Lev’s face.

Lev smiled wryly. “Don’t you recognize me?” His voice caught in his throat.

The boy barreled into Lev, clung to him. Lev felt his fine soft hair, so bright and blond, like his mother’s.

“Papa, you smell!” He laughed, throwing back his head. A sharp pointed laughter.

Lev looked at Marthe and shrugged. “I suppose I do.”

She suppressed a laugh, her eyes wet and shining.

Franz touched his rough beard. “Do you have any medals?”

“I lost them all.”

He tugged at his father’s shirt. “Did the French take them? Where’s your uniform? Your saber?”

Lev hoisted him onto his knee. “How did you grow so tall?” The boy felt much heavier and his long legs dangled down, his feet touching the floor. A lean face had replaced the one Lev remembered—the round childish chin, the faint dimples.

Franz narrowed his eyes. “Did you kill loads of Englishmen? I bet you did. I bet you blew them to smithereens!”

“Loads of men killed and were killed.”

“Germans too?”

“Loads,” Lev said, absently stroking Franz’s hair.

“When we meet the trains, soldiers come out without legs and arms and faces. It’s quite terrible.” For such a young boy, his voice sounded affected, theatrical.

Marthe gently touched Franz’s arm. “Why don’t we—”

Vicki shouted down the hallway, “It’s not fair if Franz gets a roll and I don’t.”

Josephine’s voice, clear and crisp with that innate melody to it, called after her. “Vicki, don’t run. Don’t run. You’ll fall and hurt yourself. Vicki, don’t run.” She paused in the hallway, probably stopping in front of the half-moon table upon which lay a few unopened letters. He imagined her fingertips grazing the edges of the envelopes.

Lev bolted upright in the chair. He gripped the table, feeling a new wave of sweat break over his body.

Marthe whispered something into Franz’s ear.

“But I can’t,” he said loudly.

“You can’t what?” Vicki stormed into the kitchen. She wore wool tights paired with a ballerina tutu. Her hair parted down the middle in two braids.

Lev stretched out his arms.

She paused, studying his face. Thin and angular, she’d lost her round little body, the body of a four-year-old. She doesn’t remember me, Lev thought, running a hand through his hair. And why should she, with my dirty beard, gaunt face? He leaned forward, whispering, “Vicki, it’s me.”

Her lower lip trembled.

Franz stomped his foot. “It’s Papa, stupid!”

Vicki ran to Marthe. Safely in her arms, she turned her face toward Lev. When he smiled, she swiftly looked away, squeezing her eyes shut. Then she slowly turned to look at him again, her cheek pressed against Marthe’s apron.

Sentences floated through him from the soldier’s manual:
What to
expect upon your return home? Shock and excitement. Try to prevent frightening your children; attempt a gentle, slow reintroduction into domestic life. Send word first of your return to prepare family members for your arrival. It is especially important to alert your wife in order to avoid finding her in any unexpected circumstances
. They had laughed over that one and rephrased it among themselves:
to avoid finding your wife fucking the neighbor, to avoid finding your wife in flagrante delicto, to avoid finding your wife receiving vigorous cunnilingus from your best mate
, and so on. Whenever they needed a laugh, which was often, they just murmured:
to avoid finding your wife …

He watched Josephine moving down the hall with envelopes in her hand. He couldn’t see her clearly at first because she was backlit with the light coming through the rectangular windows flanking the front door. “Franz?” She sounded tired, put out. She walked into the kitchen studying the return addresses on the envelopes.

Not bothering to look up, she asked, “Franz?”

“I’m here. With Papa.”

Lev stood up.

She clenched the envelopes, staring at him. The way the morning light hit her hair instantly brought him back to the Ice Palace, where he had first seen her so many years ago, how unreachable she appeared, how anxious and inadequate he had felt peering down at her from the upper balcony. How uncouth he must have looked in his new suit and tight shoes, and now, he was equally uncouth in his tattered civilian clothes, with his dirty fingernails, gaunt face. When he looked into her eyes, the initial excitement of this first encounter pulsed through him, shortening his breath, making it hard to breathe, and then so many other memories crashed down. Infinitesimally small ones mixed together with grand ones: Franz’s birth, his tiny body swaddled in white muslin, Josephine holding him to her milky breast, her long elegant fingers playing the piano on Sunday afternoons, her dulcet voice calling to him in the forest, the sweet sound ringing through the coniferous trees, her hair long and wet down her back when she ascended from the bath, how he spied her clean dripping body reaching for a towel, and when he hugged
her, the scent of pine and lavender tingling his nostrils, a scent belonging only to her.

His eyes watered and he choked back a sob—so many images, so many days and years.

Franz grabbed his hand, shaking it. “Papa.”

“Franz,” Lev said, shielding his eyes with his hand.

Josephine held his other hand—her cool touch, her smooth palm. He inhaled sharply, gulping down air.

“Lev.”

He opened his eyes, taking the measure of her. Gone was that certain lustrous quality to her skin. Her hair was still golden and thick, but her face appeared tighter and more fragile, her skin paler and more translucent than Lev remembered. Once, he thought her delicate, but now she seemed breakable, on the verge of snapping, a brittle reed. So many tiny blue veins ran down her neck.
To avoid finding your wife …
 Of course, the severe food shortages, the British blockade. She never mentioned hunger, but he could see it on her face.

“We thought … after you stopped writing—” She looked away and started to cry. He took her into his arms. Her cheek pressing to his chest, she murmured, “You’re here.”

Then she pulled back, her eyes flickering over his civilian clothes. Before she could ask about this, Lev said, “When the Russians came, we caught the first transport train heading west. We only got so far. Then we had to walk the rest of the way from Poland. Our uniforms—”

She shushed him, putting a finger to his lips.

Marthe started banging around the stove, making more coffee. He wished Marthe would talk, to lessen the cool detachment leaking into his chest.

He hugged Josephine again and felt her body stiffen. “I know. I’m filthy,” he apologized, thinking it absurd, this apology.

She touched his face. “A bath will do you good.” Her lower lip was dry, oddly whitish. He ran his thumb along it.

She flinched, pursing her lips. “Franz, Vicki—give Papa a hug. Tell him how happy you are that he’s returned to us in one piece.”

He winked at Vicki and she gave him a half smile. Franz clasped Lev’s hand with both of his hands, as if greeting a dinner guest. “So glad you’re back, Papa. We read the casualty lists every day, you know.”

The kettle let out a shrill whistle, but Marthe had left the room, knowing when to make herself invisible.

The four of them stood in the center of the kitchen, their arms interlocked. Cold air blew in from the back door, which had been left open.

Josephine blinked and rubbed her eyes. “I’m so happy.” Her voice, pinched and clipped, held back all the things she couldn’t say in front of the children.

“I’m happy too.” The words sounded false. Again, he noticed Josephine staring at his tattered clothes. He touched his chest, the worn sleeve of his shirt, and told her how they burned their uniforms when the Russians invaded, and to avoid getting killed, they jumped onto transport trains at the very last moment while it was still possible. “Many of us didn’t make it out.” The words, once uttered, sounded believable and real. He even felt a pang of guilt for the men he imagined still stranded in Mitau.

“Oh, I don’t care about the particulars.” She squeezed his hand.

The children watched them, transfixed.

“It’s so cold in here,” Josephine said, breaking the momentary silence. “Let’s move into the sitting room.” She looped her arm around him. “You’re much thinner.”

He tugged at her waist. “So are you.”

“Not too, I hope?”

“Still lovely,” he reassured her, thinking of how easily Otto could convince a woman of her beauty even when she had none. “Just as lovely,” Lev added.

Josephine blushed. “Every woman worries, after such a long absence.”

Lev stroked her back. The warm bodies of his children pressed against them. They moved down the hallway toward the sitting room.

Vicki grabbed his free hand and kissed it.

“Sweetheart,” Lev said.