Bluebird, page 22
When Jake is the one who is too good for her.
Eva leans forward, like Jake isn’t there.
“And after his school, he will be able to choose any girl he wants. Any of them. That is true, isn’t it, Mrs. Katz?”
And out of nowhere, she feels tears behind her eyes. As if she isn’t German at all. She is so jealous of that future girl. Whoever she is.
Mrs. Katz looks her up and down again, penciled brows pushed together. “Jacob,” she says, “go get us some punch.”
He goes, one side of his mouth smiling.
Mrs. Katz takes Eva by the arm, and they walk into the parlor, where the flowers are in the vases and little groups chat and point, milling around the art. Mrs. Katz wants to know how long she has been in New York. Is she Jewish? Has she ever thought about being Jewish? That’s too bad. Where is her family? That’s too bad, too. Jacob lost his father two years ago …
Eva sees Augusta behind them, explaining how she based her sculpture of a little boy’s face on her own nephew. A rotund little man bends down, peering at it through his spectacles. Augusta smiles, and Eva smiles back.
“You were never married over there, were you?” Mrs. Katz is saying. “You’re not a widow or anything?”
“Go on, Mom,” says Jake, bringing her a cup. “Ask whatever’s on your mind. Don’t hesitate on our account.”
“They do things young over there, Jacob.” She turns to look at the painting on an easel in front of them. Three men lined up on a bench at a bus stop, one flicking his cigarette ash to the wind. Eva looks at it with her.
“Do you smoke, Miss Gerst?” she asks.
She thinks of Jake in the jazz club, stubbing out his third cigarette. “No. I’d rather not. Cigarettes are so expensive, and there are so many other things to buy. Like books.”
Mrs. Katz tilts her head again. “Hmmm.”
Jake leans down to her ear and whispers, “Remind me to kiss you later.” Which makes her blush, and Mrs. Katz notices that, too.
“Bring her for cake, Jacob,” she says. “We’ll bake her a cake.”
Then someone thumps Jake on the back. “Hi, Jake. Hi, Eva.”
It’s Larry, and Lucy is with him, and Colette. Larry sidles up next to Eva and smiles. “Destroyed any enemies lately?”
Eva shakes her head. She thinks he’s talking about Ping-Pong. Jake moves a little closer.
“Hey, Larry. This is nice, right?” He barely puts a hand on Eva’s elbow, steering her a little away from Larry and his mother. But it’s a move everyone notices. Eva sees Lucy’s eyebrows rise. “Hi, Colette,” Jake says. “How’s Jimmy?”
“Sick,” she says, tossing her head.
Lucy asks if anyone wants to go to Schrafft’s afterward, for Cokes and ice cream, but Jake says he has plans. Colette tells her that Eva has plans, too, and gives Eva a little wink. Eva smiles, but she is looking beyond Colette’s shoulder at the sculpture of Minerva. And she remembers exactly how it makes her feel.
Jake introduces her to Mrs. Rutowski, one of his previous assigned friends, and then to Mrs. Powell, a smiley, soft-looking woman who lent the AFSC her house, saying how pleased she is to be attending such an exhibition in her former living room. And then Jake is talking to Larry, laughing about nothing in particular, and Eva isn’t jealous of that girl from Jake’s future at all.
She hates her.
Eva drifts away, to where a pasty woman with cherries on her hat is standing just on the other side of Minerva, cleaning horn-rimmed glasses, whispering to her companion. “Offensive,” she says. And “unsanitary.” Though not loud enough for many others to hear. She looks right at Eva, lips set in a line.
“Ridiculous. Isn’t it?”
“It is,” Eva snaps. “They don’t have art half this good in Germany.”
The woman opens her mouth, and Eva spins on her heel, turning her back on her.
And looks straight into the face of Mr. Cruickshanks.
“JOIN ME, BLUEBIRD?” says Mr. Cruickshanks.
Eva glances down at the hand on her arm. This Mr. Cruickshanks’s fingers are stained, eyes blurred by the thick black glasses, and she feels something inside her shift into gear.
She’s never really afraid once the battle is on her.
He steers her out of the room in a way that looks friendly, but with a grip that isn’t. Martha is standing between the front and back parlors, tinging a spoon against a glass, and no one seems to notice them go. Into the foyer, down the steps, and through the door of the Refugee Office, where he gives Eva enough of a shove to make her stumble.
“Have a seat,” he says.
The ceiling squeaks with feet above them. Little shuffles while Martha talks. Eva sits in a chair behind a desk, as close as she can get to the door. Cruickshanks is wearing the same suit as the first time she met him in the kitchen, but he’s much more angry. He makes himself comfortable on the edge of the desk, wrinkling the papers he’s sitting on. She watches his fingers drum.
Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat.
“So did the Nazis not believe in using telephones, Bluebird? Or have you just forgotten how?”
She doesn’t answer this.
“We had a deal,” he says. “And you broke it.”
“I have not broken our deal.” Or not as much as she will tonight.
“Really?” says Cruickshanks. “See, that’s funny. Because one of the first things I said to you was, don’t be talking to nobody but me. And have I heard a word from you? Not a peep. But your boyfriend, now. I’ve heard from him, haven’t I?”
He leans back, propping his feet up on the arm of a chair, and looks Eva over in an appraising way. “That was quick work. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Mrs. Katz had thought the same thing.
“He found the card,” Eva says. “I haven’t told him anything about …”
And then the door bursts open, and Jake is in the room. He looks back and forth between the two of them, then shuts the door and puts out a hand.
“Cruickshanks, right?”
Mr. Cruickshanks doesn’t take his hand, but he does laugh. He laughs in a way that is not funny.
“Oh, dear. Oh, deary dear. Take the weight off, son.” And he shoves a chair toward Jake with his foot.
Jake shoots a questioning look at Eva. A look she has no answer for. He sits on the edge of the chair.
“So, did you get them?” Jake asks. “Down in the Bowery?”
“Oh, did we get them?” Cruickshanks grins at Eva. “He asks because he doesn’t know anything, right?”
Eva says nothing.
“No, son,” says Cruickshanks. “We didn’t ‘get them.’ They’ve skipped.”
Jake sits up. “What?”
“I mean they’ve taken off. Left town, probably. We lost the guard dog and his girlfriend on the subway. And not a soul’s been back to that apartment since you two were there. The window’s still open. And what if it rains, huh? What then?”
He laughs in his unfunny way again, but Eva doesn’t move. Her guilt and her anger are suddenly at war. She should have stepped out of that closet. She should have taken her mother’s gun from her purse. She should have left that photo in Rolf’s drawer. And now, she has failed them. Everyone. All the names. All the photographs on the wall.
She’s taken away their justice.
Jake is watching her. And it’s hard to find air.
Cruickshanks lights a cigarette. Slowly. “So here’s the thing I need to know,” he says. “Which one of you tipped them off?”
Jake’s gaze whips around. Eva shakes her head.
“Don’t look so innocent, you two. Somebody did it, and it sure wasn’t me. So after the apartment, where did you go? When we lost the guard dog on the subway, we picked you two back up at the drugstore. You were making a call, sweetie. Who were you calling?”
Now the questioning look Jake shoots Eva is a hard one. Because she was supposed to have been calling Cruickshanks.
But she is thinking. Fast. Cruickshanks missed the bus station. He doesn’t know about Anna Ptaszynska’s file. She looks back at Jake, willing him not to say anything. Then she levels her gaze at Cruickshanks.
“I was calling you. To tell you we had found them.”
“But I didn’t get a call from you, buttercup.”
“They said no one was there with … your name, so I … left a message.”
Cruickshanks blows smoke.
“I … must have … did I dial the wrong number?”
Jake’s brows are drawn together.
“And where did you go after the apartment?” asks Cruickshanks patiently.
“To the drugstore.”
Jake’s eyes jump back to her face.
Eva puts her elbows on the desk. Makes sure Cruickshanks is looking at her. She tilts her head at Jake. “He was only helping. He brought me the address. Helped me to get into the apartment. To do the right thing. To bring Nazis who have … escaped to trial. That is all. Nothing else. Maybe they knew, somehow, that someone had been in the apartment and were afraid.”
Cruickshanks studies her face. He studies his cigarette. “Yeah, I think I get it. The whole thing’s a crying shame, really.” Then he hops off the desk. “Well, we’ll just have to start again. Hey, listen, thanks for your help, pal.”
He walks over and sticks out a hand to Jake. Jake stands and shakes it. Reluctantly. He’s confused. And wary. Eva can see it.
“You’ll understand, of course, that the US government would appreciate you keeping quiet about all this. If word gets out, these guys will go so deep underground we’ll never nab them, right?”
Jake nods, still shaking his hand.
“And you’ll also get that I need to talk to the lady here alone. She still has good info for us. She can be a big help. So, if you don’t mind?”
Jake’s gaze cuts to Eva, and she nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Sure.”
He turns, moves slowly to the door. Cruickshanks goes back to the desk. And Eva watches Jake’s hand creep up to his jacket pocket, memory lighting up his lovely eyes.
And she pulls in a breath. The letter. To Dr. Schneider. Jake put it in his pocket and she’d forgotten.
“Hey, listen,” Jake says, “I have …”
His eyes meet Eva’s and she gives him one sharp shake of the head.
“What?” says Cruickshanks, turning around.
“Oh …” Jake hesitates. “Nothing. I just remembered I know where he works, but you got that already, right?”
“Yep,” says Cruickshanks. “See ya.”
Jake throws Eva a look, one she doesn’t have any trouble interpreting. She has some explaining to do.
As soon as Jake is out the door, Cruickshanks takes three springing steps, watching around the jamb until Jake is out of the hall and up the stairs. The noise from above them is almost deafening with the movement of so many feet. Martha must have finished her talk.
Cruickshanks spins on a heel. “All right, Bluebird. I kept your cover. What’s with bringing in the boyfriend?”
“I had to tell him something.” She gets up. Walks across the room. “With your man watching all the time, following us down the street. He noticed.”
“Wait a second, he didn’t notice us, Bluebird. Are you talking about your friend in the rusty car?”
Eva turns. “He’s not … one of you?”
“Nope. Which you would know, if you’d called in like you were supposed to. Where did the guy follow you to?”
“Nowhere. He lost us before we took a bus. He just sits in front of the house.”
“Yeah, well, he can disappear when he wants to, sweetie. We thought …” Cruickshanks takes the last drag of his cigarette down to the stub, grinding it beneath his heel on the floor. “Okay, leave the man in the car to me, Bluebird. So, where do you think Daddy went to?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you would tell me if you did?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I don’t think you’re being straight with me. Who else have you been talking to?”
“No one.”
Cruickshanks sighs, shakes his head. “I hate it when you lie. You keep forgetting that I can have you in a cell”—he snaps his fingers—“like that. It would be easy. One phone call. And you … disappear.”
She hasn’t forgotten.
“So if you haven’t been chatting with any other old friends, then where did you get this? Because you sure didn’t have it on the boat with you, Bluebird.” And he throws a photograph from his jacket pocket down on Olive’s desk.
The photograph of Inge, in her pink dress. Eva shakes her head. They’d followed her from the drugstore. Right into the Zanzibar. She remembers the man at the bar, raising his glass to her. He hadn’t been flirting. He’d been a Cruickshanks. And he’d probably bribed that girl in the red cap for a peek in her purse. And just how many other times had they searched her things, to know this wasn’t on the boat?
Luckily, they’d never thought to search the skirt she was wearing.
Eva sits down. Leans back. Crosses her legs. “It was in Rolf’s drawer. In the apartment. My father must have given it to him.”
“A keepsake, huh? Likes to look at your picture, does he?” Cruickshanks tilts his head. “Ah! But you don’t like that so well. Is this the real boyfriend, Bluebird? Did you have a spat? Or …” He tilts his head the other way, grinning. “Maybe this guy was not exactly your idea?”
Eva crosses her arms.
“All right. Then give me something. How’d you find the guy in the first place?”
“I saw him at the hospital. Rolf … Dieter.”
“Rolf Dieter. That was the German name? Yeah, okay, that might help. You think Daddy and his guard dog are still together?”
“Yes. Or they will be.”
Cruickshanks gets out another cigarette, but he doesn’t light it. He taps it on his palm. Rat, tat, tat. Dull and muffled. “Look. This Rolf doesn’t have to be part of the package. Maybe we can take care of it, you know? But you blew it, taking that picture. You tipped them off, and they skedaddled.”
Eva levels her gaze. “I didn’t want him looking at me.”
“Fair enough,” says Cruickshanks. “But if you could have let them know it was you, even a little note, they might not be on the lam right now.”
He taps a stained finger against his tooth, glancing up at the creaking ceiling.
“Listen, Bluebird. You did a good job finding Daddy the first time, so you’re just going to have to do it again. In the meantime, stay here with the turtledoves. This setup is sweet. And get rid of the boyfriend.”
He comes and stands next to her. And now he’s so close she can see the eyes behind the glasses. Two black holes. “This isn’t a game we’re playing,” he says. “I don’t want to put bullets in people, but I don’t hesitate. And I don’t get so bothered about it, either. It has to be us that gets the Doctor. The United States. Everything is riding on it. I’ll take care of the guy that’s been watching. You find Daddy.”
She nods, and he backs away.
“Check in every night. There’s the telephone. You’ll work it out. And don’t forget, you need to be useful, Bluebird. Daddy is what we care about. And we’ve got leads of our own. You get it?”
She gets it.
“What’s the word on Anna Ptaszynska?”
“I told you she was dead.”
“And I told you she wasn’t.” Cruickshanks grins. “How’s your friend doing? The crazy one? No dead bodies popping up, I hope?”
Eva doesn’t reply.
“You know, I heard she was your neighbor, a while back. Known your family a long time. Not much use now, is she? What did the doctor say? Any joy?”
He knows Brigit saw a doctor. Can Cruickshanks listen to the telephones?
“The doctor says there is nothing they can do for her.”
Cruickshanks’s grin broadens. It is much too wide.
“Do you think that’s funny?” Eva asks.
“All right, all right. Keep your shirt on. Keep her close by, that’s all. Okay, I’m gone. If you see any other old friends mopping floors or running a street sweeper, you let me know.”
And when Eva looks up again, Cruickshanks really is gone. And he’s left her photograph on the desk. She picks it up. She should rip it to shreds. Burn it. But there’s nowhere in here to get rid of the pieces.
She folds the picture in half and stuffs it in her bra. Gingerly picks up the cold cigarette butt Cruickshanks left on the floor and drops it in Olive’s trash can, wiping the ash from the floor tiles with her shoe. She straightens the papers on Olive’s desk, then she shuts the office door and walks slowly down the hall.
She’s a kaleidoscope. All the different pieces of herself shaken together. Fear. Because the only reason they haven’t taken Brigit is that they think she’s useless. Anger. Because she lost her father. Guilt. Because there will be no justice. Not tonight.
And there it comes, the relief. Because there will be no justice. Not tonight.
And that makes her angry. And guilty. And scared that she won’t be able to do it.
And someone grabs her arm from the dim of the stairs.
Eva gasps, but it’s only Jake. Or maybe it isn’t. Or not the Jake she knows.
He doesn’t say a word. Just takes her out the back door, up the stone steps, and into the little paved courtyard behind Powell House. Out the back gate, into the no-man’s-land between the backyards, startling the pigeons.
For a few seconds, the air is full of wings.
He sits her on an old, overturned crate, the last beams of the lowering sun making the tree leaves glow.
And he is just standing there. Looking down at her.
He kicks another crate over and sits on it, even though it’s dirty and he’s in his suit. He stares at her. And then he looks away. He puts his elbows on his knees.
“You know,” he says, very quietly. “The funny thing about old houses is they have their quirks. We’ve laughed about it, how when they put in the furnace and that little toilet under the stairs, that the vent goes straight up from the Refugee Office. And how, if you happen to go at the wrong time, you could have to pretend not to know some pretty personal stuff getting discussed down there. That’s funny, huh?”
