Maggie did try to understand. With her political activism, her work with the mentally ill—a college job she was very proud of—her aspirations to make the world a better place for the poor. Her profound criticism of the United States. Of course, here is where the irony ran deep. Not only did she loathe her mother for all things capitalist that she saw her as standing for—personal advancement, exploitation, materialism—but her ability to be so critical and harsh seemed to stem from the very education that Liezel was so proud of giving her daughter.
The truth was, Eva didn’t really care much for politics. She cared for the human race, and she had moral ideas both vague and specific, but politics? She had trusted the chancellor. She had trusted Hugo. She hated to think of the poor and uneducated, the malnourished and homeless. But she would never vote, would never go to a rally. Indeed, she avoided all such things. Politics embarrassed her, but morality made sense. It seemed the minute people adopted a strong stance, they became hypocrites. It just seemed unavoidable. Better to be humble and trust in God, trust in what was good and right, on a daily basis.
She could hear them on the stairs, the loud American voices, one distinctively Maggie’s and one from a man, speaking English, the laughing. Elena’s voice, too, seemed loud, in her accented but good English. Eva stood nervously and smoothed her skirt, touched her hair, put a finger to her lipstick. Her spoken English was not great, but they were here to improve their German, she reasoned, to practice their German.
In they came, carrying heavy backpacks, and Elena, too, helping with a duffel bag. Maggie still looked young, but she was not exactly the same. How could she be? Is that what Eva wanted, for Maggie to still be a wide-eyed girl, in thrall of everything new to her in the world? In jeans still, as Eva imagined her, but with a tight-fitting black sweater, and larger breasts, a black coat draped on her arm. She carried herself differently; she stood more upright, more securely. Her hair had changed, too—it was bleached white-blonde and cut fairly short. She had grown up, as Eva supposed she would. But she still seemed like a girl. She still was, perhaps. What it takes to grow up, college, even a lover, can’t necessarily deliver. Her skin had dark spots on the chin, and as Eva came closer, she noticed they were acne. They hugged excitedly and kissed on the cheeks, and then Maggie broke away and said, “Tante Eva, this is Tom, Tom Bellen. My boyfriend.”
“How do you do,” Eva said and shook his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Tom said.
But something was not right with him. His hand was clammy, cold and moist. He looked very pale and thin. Perhaps it’s the jet lag, thought Eva.
“The flight must have been difficult. You both must be tired and hungry.” She and Elena had made some sandwiches beforehand.
“It wasn’t so bad,” said Maggie. “I guess we are tired. But we ate on the plane. We even requested vegetarian meals, so that was nice.”
“We made sandwiches, but they’re not vegetarian,” Eva said. “I didn’t know. Or I forgot.”
“Well, I’m not really a vegetarian, but Tom is,” Maggie said, somewhat embarrassed.
“Sit down! Sit down! Would you like a beer then?” Elena said. It was fairly early in the day, but Elena drank beer all day long.
“That would be great!” Tom said, lowering himself to one of the pillows. He was very lanky, all legs and arms. He sported a ponytail, which Eva thought quite charming. One didn’t see them so often anymore. Certainly in Kreuzberg, but she never imagined them on American men, just aging German hippies.
“I want to thank you, Maggie, for the Nina Simone record you sent me. It was such a treat.”
“You’re very welcome, Tante Eva.”
“Nina Simone record,” Elena said. “I gave you a Nina Simone record, Mutti.”
“I know, I know, Elena. Maggie gave me a different one. A live recording.” She maybe shouldn’t have said anything. She still didn’t want to tell Elena about breaking it. She still had it, in the hopes of getting it fixed. Silly, she knew.
Elena went into the kitchen and returned with beers. “Prost!” they all said, and clinked glasses.
Tom looked straight at Eva with his watery, tired eyes. She adjusted her skirt, touched her hair. “Maggie has told me so much about you, Eva,” Tom said. “About your life in Berlin, in East Berlin. About your husband, Hugo.” He added, “And you, too, Elena.”
“Von mir wohl eher nicht, eh?” Elena said dryly.
“I’m sorry?” Tom said, confused, looking from one person to the next. His face was long and narrow, like the pictures Eva had seen of Frank, Maggie’s father. The veins in his forehead were green and visible. He seemed too thin, much too thin. But maybe that’s what vegetarians look like, she thought. She remembered during the end of the war, when meat was almost impossible to come by.
“Tom doesn’t speak German very well,” Maggie said. “Aber ich möchte mein Deutsch verbessern. Hoffenlich klappt das.”
“Aso, machts nichts,” said Eva. How would they all stand each other? Already, Elena was being cheeky. “Tom, where are you from in America?”
“I’m from Connecticut. From Darien, Connecticut. But I haven’t lived there in years. I lived in New York for four years, then Boston. Now Chicago. And now Berlin, I guess.” He grinned and raised his glass before drinking some more.
“Tom doesn’t really talk to his family anymore,” Maggie explained, somewhat proudly. “They are very conservative people. Republicans.”
Tom nodded. Eva wasn’t surprised, but still found this information a bit disturbing. Regardless of how different our parents are from us, we should still
