The Extra (22 page)

The car door opened. The edge of the blanket lifted. Luminous gray eyes peered into the darkness. “Don’t worry,” the woman whispered, and gave Lilo’s hand a squeeze. Her skin was quite fair in contrast to her dark, almost-black hair, cut in a short bob that framed her heart-shaped face. “Bruno will take you to my flat, but he will keep you in the car until I get there. It won’t be long. He’s going to take you in this blanket. Curl up so no one will see your feet. Try and look like a sack of potatoes.” She laughed softly.

“All right!” Lilo whispered. She was now for the first time since she had left Krün scared, really scared. These people seemed to care for her. But for so long she had lived in a world of fictions, it was impossible to know what was real and what was not. How did one learn to trust again? Trust was a casualty as much as she was, certainly. Did these three men and the heart-faced lady named Marta really care whether she lived or died? Were they really willing to risk their lives for her — a Gypsy girl? They could all be killed. All sent to the camps to die. It had all seemed so simple when she had been running mindlessly through that void of time and space. But now she had acquired a new encumbrance. The precious burden of good people who might die if they were discovered harboring her. “Don’t worry,” Marta said again, and ran her fingers through her hair.

Lilo looked at her closely.
Maybe I should worry. Maybe I am being taken into the gingerbread house.

Lilo was lifted out of the car and slung over Bruno’s broad shoulders. Her heart raced. She felt the panic rising like an immense tide within her. What if she jumped from his shoulders and ran? But Frank and Dieter were close behind and on either side. What chance would she have? They said the streets were crawling with Gestapo. She felt Bruno tense. She froze.

“Heil Hitler!”
Three voices rang out. She slipped a bit as he raised his arm.

“Ah, Herr Doktor Molken. I plan to attend your session tomorrow at the conference.”

“I am pleased. I hope you enjoy it, General Graff.”

“You should hope I understand it.” The general laughed. “Looks like you’ve got a load there. I shan’t detain you.”

Lilo could see the jackboots as they passed within inches of her.

Suddenly a glockenspiel rang out.
My God,
Lilo thought,
they’re playing Mozart’s “Mailied.”
Her father had often played this tune at the restaurant in Vienna. It was a favorite accompaniment to bringing in a cake for an anniversary celebration.
But Papa isn’t here. This is no celebration. I am a human sack of potatoes, and the streets are filled with Gestapo.
Some more shiny boots walked by. A Gestapo agent? Or another Nazi officer? And all while the din of those crazy chimes rang out the hour from the clock tower. How could two such worlds exist in the same moment — Mozart and the shine of jackboots?

“Two tickets to tonight’s performance for
Der Rosenkavalier.
Good seats. Cheap! Come on! Come on! Step right up. Don’t let war stop opera. Hans Knappertsbusch conducting — the Führer’s favorite conductor!”

Swirling through the air with the glockenspiel music was the sweet scent of
Nockerln,
the puffy pastries heaped with billowing meringues said to celebrate the hills of Salzburg. These had been served in the Café Budapest. Lilo felt as if she were the dark, dirty secret being whisked through some manic celebration. In the car she had thought she had finally encountered reality, but now she wondered if she had merely escaped from one bit of artifice to another. Django’s words came back to her:
“Nothing’s real here — the village is fake. The Spanish dancer is a Nazi. The shepherd is an Austrian ski instructor. It’s all fiction. What’
s a little bit more?”

But she wondered, if one were to peel away all the layers of deception, like the skins of an onion, like the shells of the nesting
matroyshka
dolls, what was left? Was she, Lilian Friwald, the last
matroyshka
doll?

S
he heard a door open, then a soft voice. “Yes, right into the parlor. Shut the door quickly.” Lilo felt herself being set down. The blanket dropped away. Standing in front of her was Marta. She was so tiny, she might have been one of the marionettes from the theater where she worked. But her mouth, which had been half open in shock, suddenly closed. Her lips compressed as she tried to stifle a cry. She walked stiffly forward and then lurched toward Lilo and embraced her.

“Poor child. Poor, poor child. That it has come to this!” she whispered into her ear. She squeezed Lilo’s thin arms tightly. “You are like a stick. I shall feed you, bathe you. You are safe here.”

Marta backed away from her but still held on to her arms as if she were fearful that Lilo might blow away. She tilted her head, looking as if she were on the brink of tears. “B-b-b-but,” she stammered, “it might be difficult for you because you really are not going to be able to go outside. You can’t be seen. No one must know you are here. It’s like jail, I’m afraid.”

Lilo looked around at the cozy flat. No, not just cozy, but pretty. How long had it been since she had been in a place that was pretty? There were curtains with ruffles and an oriental carpet on the floor. There was the scent of furniture polish. In the living room there was a small chandelier. The prisms cast a shifting embroidery of light on the walls. Oh, it was all so pretty! She turned to Marta and the three men. She smiled slightly. “I’ve been in worse prisons.” She paused. “But why would you do this? This is a huge risk for you.”

Marta grew very still. “Doing nothing is a greater risk,” she said softly.

That night was the first night Lilo had slept in a real bed with a real mattress since her arrest, almost nine months before. It had clean sheets and a fluffy pillow. Marta sat down on the edge. She took Lilo’s hand and began to stroke it gently. “Lilo, you must understand a few things. During the day, when I am gone, you must not ever answer the door or the telephone. And you must always be in your stocking feet, not shoes.”

“I have no shoes except the ones I tried to steal from Dieter and Bruno and Frank.”

“Ah, yes, that’s true. I forgot. But during the day, you had better not run any water for tea or baths or even flush the toilet. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course, Marta.” She began to cry softly and turned her head into the pillow. No one must hear her. No one!

Marta rubbed her back. “You poor child.” She rubbed her back until Lilo fell asleep.

Their days quickly fell into a routine. Marta would get up close to seven in the morning and make them both breakfast. She always came home for lunch, so they would eat together. Although Marta complained of the shortages, it was the best food Lilo had eaten in months. There was always milk and eggs and heavy cream. Sometimes bacon or sausage and always pastries. Salzburg was nearly as famous as Vienna for its pastries. During the day, Lilo mostly read. She read and she cried, as she could not help thinking about Django. She was careful, however, to not just muffle her tears so the people in the flat below or next door would not hear her but to freshen her face with the water from the pitcher that Marta always left for her to drink. She crept around the flat as quiet as any cat. When Marta returned, they would play some of her records to camouflage their conversation. Still, they kept their voices low.

Marta usually brought a newspaper home with her, and Lilo devoured it for news of the war. One day, however, when Lilo came out from taking a bath in the evening, Marta was stuffing the paper or at least part of it in the trash receptacle. Lilo said nothing. She even pretended not to notice, but she knew there was something Marta did not want her to see in the evening edition of the
Salzburger Nachrichten.
In the morning, Marta always took out the trash. The rules of the building did not permit setting out of trash before seven o’clock. So Lilo waited until Marta was sound asleep and then crept out to the kitchen. She didn’t have to dig far into the trash to find the sheet. As soon as she smoothed it out, she saw what Marta had tried to hide from her. The headline leaped out at her.
“Juden im Dachboden des Apotheker Entdeckt,”
“Jews Discovered in Pharmacist’s Attic.” There was a photograph of the Gestapo leading four people down some front steps. She had just started to read the article when she felt a hand touch her shoulder.

“I didn’t want you to see that.”

“Of course not,” Lilo said hoarsely.

“We agreed from the start that it was a risk. It’s a risk I want to take. Don’t argue with me.”

“I’m not arguing.” Lilo felt a sob rising in her throat and reached out and buried her face against Marta’s thin chest. “I’m not arguing,” she whispered. “Let me cry. Even if I can’t cry out loud.”

“No one will find you here. Not if we’re careful, Lilo. I promise you.”

It was a foolish thing to say, as Lilo knew that such promises should not be made, but she did not argue.

The days slipped by slowly. Sometimes Lilo felt as if she were watching sand slide through the most enormous hourglass, one with a ton of sand and a passageway from one end to the other that was perhaps one-thousandth of a millimeter wide. It could be excruciating. And it was those times when she thought of Django. Marta must have noticed Lilo’s frustration, because one day after Lilo had been there nearly four months she whirled into the flat and immediately turned on the record player. Her color was high, but it was not just the nip in the late autumn air. She held up the satchel she was carrying.

“You said your mother was a lace maker. Are you any good with a needle and thread?”

“Pretty good,” Lilo said. “Why?”

“Here’s why!” She dragged a marionette and a bundle of tiny garments from the bag.

“What is it?” Lilo asked.

“A dummy.”

“Aren’t they all dummies?”

Marta giggled. “Absolutely, but this is a costume dummy. We use it when we have to make completely new costumes. We are not allowed to take the actual marionettes home for fittings. They are too valuable. Would you believe that two were stolen last spring? Probably bartered for something on the black market. In any case, we have a lot of work to do, what with the Christmas season nearly upon us. So we start taking work home. You want to help?”

“Sure.”

“Meet the Queen of the Night.” She waved the dummy in the air.

“Queen of the Night?”

“A major character in the opera
The Magic Flute.
She needs a complete redo of her costume. So here’s the costume.” Marta pulled out a midnight-blue velvet gown that was edged with black beading. “You must remove the beading very carefully. We save that for the new gown, and then you will put it back on. You want to try sewing it? I have the pattern right here.”

“Sure.”

“And I also brought home some decorative materials. We like to sort of spruce up the design a bit. That way the costumes don’t look exactly the same every season. So if you want to get a bit creative, it’s all right.”

By the time Marta returned from work the following day, Lilo had completed the costume.

“Mein Gott!”
Marta whispered when she saw the gowned dummy. “It’s beautiful. What have you done?”

“Not much, really. Just made a wide inverted pleat in the front and set this lovely black-on-black fabric in it.”

“But that’s what’s so great — the subtle contrast between the midnight-blue and the black fabric. That’s the fabric used for the queen’s attendants, so now it will all . . . all come together visually so well when they appear onstage.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that was the fabric of her attendants. I just thought it was nice.”

“And then you added that bit of flouncy lace around the neckline. That, too, is sheer genius. The puppeteers love it when the fabric can move a bit and accentuate the motion of the marionettes.”

Marta came over and gave Lilo a hug. “Such a shame that I am going to get all the credit.”

“Don’t worry — it keeps me occupied,” Lilo replied.

And it did occupy her through the Christmas holidays, which she and Marta celebrated quietly together. The day after Christmas, however, Dieter and Bruno and Frank surprised them by bringing a somewhat scrawny goose along with jams, jellies, and an assortment of pickled vegetables from Frank’s grandmother. They had even brought Lilo a present — a pretty scarf.

“We thought the color was right for you,” Dieter said. They were all quiet for a moment. It was a strained silence, for they were thinking the same thing:
Where will she wear this
?

Bruno suddenly spoke up: “It’s a gift of hope, Lilo. Hope and faith that this war will end and you will be able to walk out into the sunshine, a young lady with this scarf tucked smartly in your collar or perhaps like a movie star on your head.”

“Ja!”
Frank boomed. “Like Marlene Dietrich.”

“But then we’ll have to invest in some sunglasses for you. All the movie stars wear them,” Dieter said, and they all laughed, even Lilo.

Thank God they didn’t say Leni Riefenstahl!
she thought.
And movie stars wear sunglasses so they won’t be recognized — just like me, except I’m not a star but a Gypsy.
She said nothing, however. It was so sweet of them. She liked to think of these three young scientists going into a department store, shopping in the ladies’ section for something to bring to her for Christmas.