Marlene Read Free

pondered what she’d said, and more important, what she had not.
    Liesel’s experience with the opposite sex mirrored my own. Since our father’s demise, the only man we saw with regularity was our uncle Willi in Berlin. But I didn’t point this out because Liesel and I weren’t close, not as siblings should be. We weren’t antagonistic, either—we shared a bedroom and rarely quarreled—but our temperaments were so disparate that even Mutti remarked on it. Physically, the differences were apparent. Liesel was thin and wan, like a faded lamp under a shade, with our father’s sallow complexion. I’d inherited Mutti’s plump build, her blue eyes, upturned nose, and near-translucent skin that turned as red as a beet if I stayed out in the sun for too long. But our differences ran deeper than that. As I’d grown older, I began to realize that my reticence in public was due to Mutti drilling into me that it was how girls ought to behave. She never had to remind Liesel, to whom it came naturally. Calling attention to herself terrified my sister; it was why she never left home except for our Sunday social calls, trips to the market, and monthly outings to Berlin.
    “Are you saying boys might tease me?” I said, with a deliberate lift ofmy eyes. She went rigid on her chair, betraying the fact that it was precisely what she was trying to say.
    “Do they?” she breathed.
    “No. Or at least not that I’ve noticed.” I paused. “Why? Should I—notice, that is?”
    “Never.” She was appalled. “If they ever tease you or say something improper, you must ignore them and tell Mutti at once.”
    “I will.” I caressed my bow across the strings. “I promise.”
    I wasn’t lying. No boy had paid me any mind. But today someone had. And I knew the way she’d made me feel wasn’t something I should admit to.
    Your secret is safe with me.
    I’d never had a secret before. I intended to keep it.
    MUTTI ARRIVED AT PRECISELY FIVE PAST SEVEN . We’d already cleared the table of Liesel’s study materials and set it with our chipped ceramic dishware, as the Meissen porcelain was reserved for special occasions. I was heating up a pot of weisse Bohnensuppe, a white-bean potage I’d prepared the day before. Mutti refused to let the maid do any cooking and had put me in charge of our daily supper. I enjoyed cooking and was better at it than Liesel, who always ended up with a scorched sauce or an underdone roast. Much like playing music, I found a soothing orderliness in following a recipe, from mixing specific ingredients just so to create a desired result. Mutti had trained me herself, but as with everything else, she did not trust anyone’s skills but her own, coming directly to the kitchen with her hat and gloves still on to peer into the pot.
    “More salt,” she pronounced. “And reduce the flame. Otherwise, it’ll turn to mush.” Turning away, she went to her bedroom. She emerged minutes later in her housedress and apron, her dark blond hair coiled at the nape of her neck. I’d never seen Mutti with her hair loose, not even when she used the washroom; unbound tresses were not something widows showed, it seemed.
    “How was school today?” she asked as she directed me to bring the potage to the table.
    “Good,” I replied. She nodded. I wondered whether she’d notice if I told her the school had burned to the ground. I didn’t think so. She made the daily inquiry only because it was the polite thing to do. My answer was superfluous.
    We ate in silence, idle conversation discouraged at the table. When I wiped my plate with my bread (I had a hearty appetite), she clucked, “Lena, what did I tell you?” I could have recited her litany by heart: “Girls of good breeding don’t sop up their food like peasants. If you want another helping, ask.”
    I never asked. If I did, she’d tell me that girls of good breeding didn’t require second helpings. An uncontrolled appetite displayed a lack of suitable