Isabel’s War Read Free Page A

Helga and I cross over in the slanting sunlight to Moskin’s main building where the dining room is located. Believe me, though, it’s nothing fancy, just big and buzzing with noisy conversation, as the guests ofShady Pines whet their appetites with glasses of tinkling water and vigorously tear apart Minnie Moskin’s home-baked rolls.
    Helga is wearing a flowered chiffon dress that is much too pretty and dressed up for the occasion. But I didn’t say anything to her. Maybe it’s all she has in the way of dress-up clothing. I have no idea what people have been wearing in wartime Germany and England, but I imagine it’s something drab and practical.
    We head for the big round table where my parents and Mr. and Mrs. Frankfurter, Helga’s aunt and uncle, are already seated, watching our approach with appraising eyes. Everybody oohs and aahs at how lovely Helga looks. Before they can say a word about me, I spot Ruthie at the far end of the dining room where the Moskin family has its own table, and I dash off to tell her my news about Roy, the sailor I met in the woods.
    Ruthie is having a quick bite because she has to watch the little ones while their parents are at dinner.
    Ruthie’s eyes widen. “Really? A sailor. How old do you think? Cute?”
    â€œVery. You’ll see. I’m sure he’ll show up at the social hall later.”
    Ruthie nods in the direction of the table where Helga is sitting and chatting with my parents and her aunt and uncle. “What about her ?”
    â€œOh, well, I don’t think she’s his type. She’s sort offoreign, you know. Anyhow, I’m still recovering from the shock of having her dumped on me like that. I was supposed to have my own room, you know.”
    Back at the table, my mother gives me a sour look. “What was so important that you had to tell Ruthie?” She turns to Helga. “You must excuse my daughter. Her manners...well, she tends to be a little impulsive.”
    Helga looks at me forgivingly. I doubt if she even knows the English word impulsive . Meantime, Harry the waiter is bearing down on us with a tray laden with plates of soup. Harry, with his polished black hair, his dark seamy face, his swirling dancer’s movements, has been the headwaiter at Moskin’s ever since I can remember.
    â€œSo Miss Isabel, who’s your new friend, the beauty?” Harry asks me familiarly as he elegantly sets a brimming soup plate down in front of Helga.
    â€œShe’s Helga. From Germany,” I reply.
    Harry is already halfway around the table, and my parents and the Frankfurters are filling in the details of Helga’s presence at Moskin’s. With his free hand, Harry lifts two fingers to his lips and tosses a kiss of approval in Helga’s direction.
    I turn to Helga. “Don’t mind him,” I tell her confidentially. “Harry is such an old flirt. He blows kisses to all the ladies around here. He does it for the tips, you know.”
    But Helga isn’t really listening to me. Nor has shetouched her soup. She’s looking up at one of the busboys who’s been standing, mesmerized, just behind Harry’s shoulder. I think his name is Ted. And Ted’s gaze, in turn, is riveted on Helga.
    Aha , I think to myself. So this is how it’s going to be. Helga, the pale green-eyed beauty, the waif, the teenage princess from abroad, adored and admired by men from sixteen to sixty. And me, the twelve-year-old kid, with the semi-developed body, a mop of black hair, and a nose that’s just crying out for a plastic surgeon who can be spared from the front lines.
    The evening meal at Moskin’s goes on much longer than usual tonight. People from other tables come over to talk to the Frankfurters and to question Helga with curious, pitying expressions on their faces. “Did you ever see Hitler, that bum?” one of the guests inquires.
    Helga shakes her head, mouthing a silent no