The Puzzle King (15 page)

That night, as Edith and her parents ate dinner, she told them about her first day back at school. “They must have missed you terribly,” said her father.

“I missed them, too.” Edith paused. “Pappa, what do you know about lice?”

Her father scratched his head. “They live in the hair,” he said. “During the war, they were responsible for a lot of typhus. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just that, while I was gone, there was a lice scare, and Fräulein Huffman said that Jews have lice more than other people, so she made all of the Jewish kids in the class get their heads shaved, and now they have this club called the Baldies Club. So I was wondering: Is it true that lice like our blood better than other people’s?”

Her mother turned to her father. “Don’t be bothered by such nonsense,” he said. “You hear this kind of thing all the time; it’s just ignorance, nothing that should trouble you.”

Before he went off to war, Frederick had convinced Margot to turn over to the German government the one heirloom she’d inherited from her grandparents: a pair of gold candlesticks in the shape of entwining serpents. At first, she’d hesitated: “It’s all that I have from them.” “That’s the point,” he’d said. “Think how proud they would be to know they’ve helped in the war effort.” He was a devoted patriot, and nothing—certainly no schoolgirl gossip—could shake Frederick’s belief in his country.

Edith saw her mother’s unease and tried to change the subject. “Anyway, tomorrow’s some big assembly and we’re all supposed to wear gray woolen caps. Pappa, do you have one?”

“You go look with your father,” said her mother. “I’ll clean up here.”

Edith watched as her father pulled things from the shelves of his armoire and rummaged through an old hat box. “This must be some assembly,” he said, carefully placing everything back into the armoire. “I have nothing even close. Could you perhaps make a hat?”

“Sure,” said Edith. “I’ll figure out something.”

That night, after her parents went to bed, Edith sneaked into her mother’s sewing box. She moved aside the remnants of beige muslin her mother had used for making curtains and rummaged around the spools of purple, green, and yellow thread—colors that none of them wore. Underneath the wooden darning egg, she found what she was looking for: a pair of silver scissors that had belonged to her grandmother. They were in the shape of a crane, with the blades forming its beak and the handles its long stalky legs. The scissors were no larger than her hand, but they would do the trick.

Her mother loved to sew, and she made all of her clothes by
hand. When she sat at her Pfaff, her foot bearing down on the pedal as if she were tapping along with a popular song, her fingers came alive and she was as at ease as she ever was. The thought of it made Edith smile as she tucked the scissors into the pocket of her dress and carried them into her room. She sat down on her bed and, without looking in a mirror, began grabbing clumps of her hair in her hand and cutting them off. She clipped away all of her curls, then cut more and more until she could feel her scalp, soft and spongy. She chopped away as much hair as was possible to cut. After twenty minutes or so, she ran her hand over her nearly bare, thatchy scalp. There were ridges and dents on the back of her head that she’d never known were there.

It would startle her parents to see her this way in the morning, so she swept the chunks of hair into a paper bag and hid it under her bed. Then she took the red plaid woolen scarf that her mother had kept wrapped around her neck while she was sick and wound it around her head. As she lay down, she could feel the wool bristle against her naked head. She fell asleep wondering how she’d look with her hair all gone.
I’ll look like everyone else in the Baldies Club
, she thought.

H
ER FATHER WAS
the first to step into her room the next morning. Edith’s back was to him, her head sunk into her pillow and the scarf pushed behind her ears. At first, he didn’t notice anything different, but as she stirred he saw the back of her head, smooth but for some stubble and wisps of hair. Seeing his beautiful daughter lying there like an old man, he wanted to scream. Hadn’t she suffered more than most people do in a lifetime? She couldn’t know that her hair had fallen out overnight. He must break the news to her gently.

“Edith,” he whispered, rubbing her shoulder. “Edith, wake
up.” He sat on the edge of her bed. She rolled over on her back and looked up at his worried face. She put her hand up to her head and felt that the scarf was gone. “It’s okay, I know,” she said to her father.

He folded his hands in his lap. “You mustn’t worry. It’s a common thing when someone’s been so sick. It will grow back, to be sure.”

Edith sat up. “It didn’t fall out, Pappa. I cut it off.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“The others are bald,” she said. “If I hadn’t done it, I’d be the only Jewish kid in school with hair.”

He stroked her cheek. “This is a terrible thing, what they tell children these days. You mustn’t let that kind of foolishness go to your head.” He paused and smiled. “Well, it’s safe to say it’s already gone to your head.”

“Yes,” said Edith, banging her knuckles against her skull. “It has gone to my head. Or whatever’s left of it.”

“Your mother,” he said. “You must find a way not to startle her.”

“Okay, but what shall I tell her?”

“The truth,” he said. “Tell her that you did it so you could make a show about what Fräulein Huffman said about Jews and lice, that this was your way of pointing out her foolishness.”

“But it wasn’t,” said Edith. “I did it because the other Jewish kids in the class had to shave their heads. If they were going to do it, so would I.”

Her father leaned forward. “My Edith, I don’t know whether what you’ve done is stupid or brave, but you will certainly make an impression on Fräulein Huffman. Come now, I have to go to work. You have to face the music.”

Edith pulled the woolen scarf from under her pillow and
wrapped it around her head. She would give her mother time to get used to the change. She dressed and came into the kitchen, where her mother was boiling water.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Oh very,” Edith answered. “Listen, I don’t want you to be mad at me, but last night I did something that you might find a little, um, strange.”

Her mother turned and saw her daughter sitting at the kitchen table, the woolen scarf tied around her head. “Are you cold?” she asked. Edith shook her head no. Her mother looked again. “You have a new hairstyle. Come, take off the scarf and let me see.”

Edith put her hand on top of the scarf and held it to her head. “I suppose I have a new hairstyle,” she said. “Though it’s not really a hairstyle at all. I mean, I guess it is a style, but not of hair.” Edith pulled off her scarf. Her mother stepped closer. “God in heaven,” she cried. “What did you do to yourself?”

As Edith explained, her mother’s eyes narrowed with a ferocity she had rarely seen. “Listen to me,” she scolded. “We are not wealthy people. Your father works hard at the store, and I do my best to keep up a good home for you. We can’t afford for you to do crazy things because you think they’re faddish or will keep you in good standing with the rest of your classmates. People like us have to be careful.” She shook her head. “There are these disturbances from time to time, but you mustn’t let them get in the way of your life. It’s nothing that you have to worry about. Believe me, no one could ever accuse us of being religious Jews.”

Edith wondered what her mother meant when she said, “People like us have to be careful.” She gathered up her books and coat. “Don’t worry Mama, I won’t get into any trouble.”

Outside the air was still crisp but without the bite of winter. It
was the kind of morning when women threw open their windows and men pushed up their jacket sleeves. So people noticed Edith as she walked to school, still wrapped up in her blue winter coat and a woolen red-plaid scarf tied around her head.

With Frederick and Edith gone, Margot began to straighten up the house. As she made up Edith’s bed, she discovered spidery strands of hair scattered about her pillow. She thought little of it until she went to clean underneath the bed. That’s when her broom struck something that moved easily as if it weighed nothing. She gasped as she pulled the item from under the bed and saw that it was a bag stuffed with her daughter’s curls.

Staring at the hair, Margot thought back to how terrified she’d been to try and have another child after Gilda. She believed that getting pregnant again and giving birth to Edith was the boldest thing she’d ever done. She remembered Frederick kissing her and calling her “my brave little woman,” and how courageous she’d felt. Then she thought about how sick Edith had been and how hard it must have been for her to go back to school. She’d never complained about any of it. This business of her cutting off her hair was foolhardy, of course. But Margot understood that it was Edith’s way of ingratiating herself with the others. The school couldn’t possibly be singling out Jews like that. Anyone could get lice; it was the most common thing in the world. It must be the teacher. She was young and new and maybe a little stupid.

Edith was feeling anything but courageous as she made her way toward school that morning. Inside the classroom, she took her seat. As she had the morning before, she kept her coat wrapped around her shoulders. She removed her woolen scarf and deliberately kept her head down so no one would catch her eye. She waited for the other children to stare or laugh, but nothing
happened until noon, just before lunch. Fräulein Huffman poked her on the shoulder and said, “You stay put for a moment. I want to speak with you.” Edith remained in her seat as the classroom emptied.

“So, what’s this all about?” asked the teacher, folding her arms in front of her chest.

“What’s
what
about?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Oh this,” said Edith, touching her scalp. “I knew you would want to check my head for lice. I thought I would make it easier for you.”

“Young lady,” she said, staring at the top of Edith’s head. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

“No, I’m not.”

But Fräulein Huffman kept talking, as if she hadn’t heard what Edith said. “Because if you are, it won’t do you any good. The school has its policies and there’s nothing you can do to change them. It is only because you have been ill and I am a forgiving person that I am not reporting you to the headmaster. But let me tell you, should you pull any more shenanigans like this, I will have no problem taking you to his office in person and demanding your expulsion. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Fräulein Huffman.”

“Good then,” she said. “We understand one another.”

When Edith got home from school that day, her mother was waiting for her with a cup of tea and some of her favorite butter cookies. They sat down together at the kitchen table.

“So how did it go today?” asked her mother.

“Well, I am a member of the Baldies Club.”

“And what did Fräulein Huffman have to say about your hair?”

“She said she thought I did it to get under her skin,” Edith said.

Her mother’s eyes softened as Edith related the teacher’s words. Then Edith let the tears come. “She was so mean. She hates me. I know she does.”

“You are not the kind of child one can hate,” said her mother. “It might be that Fräulein Huffman is scared about something in her own life. For all we know, she feels guilty about sending you home on your own that morning.”

Edith’s tears plopped into the tea. “I know she hates me and she hates all the other baldies. But I don’t understand why.”

“Some people are just like that,” said her mother. “You can’t take it personally.” Then she got up and walked into her bedroom. When she returned, she kept her left hand behind her back.

“I found the bag of your hair under your bed this morning,” she said, taking her seat. “And while I don’t necessarily think you did the right thing by cutting off your hair, I think I was able to put the hair to good use.”

She pulled her hand from behind her back.

At first, Edith didn’t understand what she was seeing. It was a small pillow made from muslin in the shape of a heart. Across the heart, in bright green thread, was embroidered the word “Courage.”

Edith recognized the muslin. It was the same material her mother had used to make all of the curtains that hung in the house, the same beige material she’d found in her mother’s sewing box the night before.

“My hair,” cried Edith, getting up from the table and throwing
her arms around her mother. “You made me a pillow filled with my hair!”

“I don’t know who’s a bigger fool, you or me,” said her mother, hugging her back.

Edith rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, and her mother rubbed her cheek against her daughter’s head. It felt soft and tender, like a flower bud. Like a newborn baby.

The seagulls flew along the horizon and were nearly indistinguishable from the flock of clouds that scuttered across the sky.

“Those birds, they’re so loud and angry,” said Flora. “What’s all the fuss about?”

“Food. Territory. Pecking order. What’s it ever about?” said Simon.

It was the first temperate day of April, a Saturday. Flora and Simon, as they did every year at this time, marked the change of season by a drive down to the beach at Coney Island. She looked smart in her summer navy-blue suit, a pair of spectator heels, and a new plum-colored hat with white petals. He looked distinguished in his gray, double-breasted, light wool coat and felt fedora. They nodded at the other couples strolling the boardwalk that day, all of them infused with the promise of spring.

They watched the gulls, eyes closed and chests puffed as they perched on pilings and let the sun bathe over them. When Flora and Simon came to a nearby bench facing the ocean, they sat
down and pretty much did the same as the birds. The sun seeped through their clothes and warmed their bones, which had become weary with the cold winter months and the worries that they carried. Simon let his head drop against Flora’s shoulder and fell into a half sleep. Her softness became his mother’s arms. She was covering him with blankets so gently it was as if the lapping sea were embracing him. Flora placed his fedora in her lap and kissed the top of his head. He smelled like camphor and brine. She noticed his graying sideburns and how his hair was thinning on the top. He was only forty, still a young man. The thought that they could have forty more years together, that she would be there when his hair was white and the top of his head bald and smooth, settled over her and made the world seem smaller and safer than it had in a long while.