“You should,” Maggie said, smiling, but with some caution. Just the mention of her mother irritated her, Eva could see. “It’s hard to generalize too much. There is a growing Black middle class in America. But on the other hand, one in every eight Black men has been in jail, or something awful like that.”
“I wonder if you’d like rap music,” said Tom. Now that he’d settled into his chair, Eva felt she could see him better. His eyes were glassy.
“Rap music?”
“It’s what the young African Americans are doing,” explained Maggie. “I’m not sure what you’d think of it, actually. It’s quite vulgar and violent. It’s not as soul searching as the blues or jazz can be.”
“African Americans?”
“Yes, that’s what Blacks are calling themselves.”
“Not the West Indians,” shot back Tom. “The West Indians prefer to call themselves Black. They’re not African Americans.”
“Not every Black person in America calls themselves the same thing, I suppose,” Maggie said.
“Mostly, they like to call themselves ‘niggas.’” Tom said wryly. “Mind if I smoke?”
“No, please smoke,” Eva said, getting up to get an ashtray.
“I hate that word,” Maggie said.
They were fighting, in front of her, too. It wasn’t a good sign.
“Tell that to the rappers,” Tom said, and lit a cigarette.
Someone knocked. “That will be my neighbor, Krista. She must hear you. Do you remember her?” asked Eva, quietly walking to the door. “She was so fond of you.”
“Yes,” said Maggie, nodding her head.
But it wasn’t Krista. It was Hans.
“Hans! Komm rein, bitte. Meine Nichte, Maggie und ihr Freund, Tom. Das hier ist der Hans.”
Maggie and Tom stood, wanting to shake hands.
“Hallo, hallo,” Hans said, quickly, not really looking at them. He turned, as if he were leaving.
“Warte doch! Geh nicht. Warte!” Eva said.
“Ich warte in meinem Auto,” Hans said and then, to Maggie and Tom, “Nice to see you.”
“Oh, Tante Eva. Is this a bad time? We can come back anytime, you know.”
“No, no. I didn’t know he was coming. I never know when he is coming. I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s fine. We’ll see you soon. We want to walk around here, check out some of the squats.”
“Yeah,” said Tom. “A friend of mine lives near here. We were going to visit him, too.”
“That’s so nice you have a friend around here,” Eva said, with relief.
Maggie hugged her. Her niece smelled sweet, like vanilla. She said, “I’ll call you. We’ll go to Café Einstein. Do you remember going there with me? We won’t be able to sit in the garden, because it’s too cold. But it would be fun to go back there.”
“Yes, yes,” said Eva, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She could only think of Hans, downstairs, waiting for her.
When she got downstairs, she looked for his old car, but then she saw the Cadillac. She felt bad for hurrying Maggie and Tom out and for not inviting Krista as she’d promised. Hans leaned over the expanse of car and opened the door for her, from inside. “Komm,” he said. “Wir fahren nach Wandlitz.”
“Wie lange? Kann ich etwas mitnehmen?”
“Nein, nein. Wir haben keine Zeit. Komm.”
She didn’t ask where Paula and the kids were. She had her purse with her pills, and she had grabbed the present for Hans. Hans was always in a hurry, often for no reason. But that was okay. He would maybe buy her something then, she thought, giddily. A new toothbrush. A sweater.
The drive was lovely. They were warm in the car, the sun shining brightly on the windows. Eva looked at Hans: he was calm, happy.
Wandlitz was a suburb of Berlin, about a forty-minute drive if there was no traffic. Built by the Party for the well connected, it was really one big neighborhood of similar two-story houses, with, at the time they were built, state-of-the-art kitchens, good heat, and most of all, privacy. Nestled in the thick woods, each house was nearly invisible from the far end of its driveway. Built in the early 1960s, it had once had a guard twenty-four hours a day at the entrance, and East German military men drove around the quiet neighborhood, guns hanging out of their windows. They drove slowly, looking left and right, in their thick gray uniforms, their loaded arms shining with a yellow fluorescent band.
Now, the area had faded some, Eva noted as they entered. It seemed quiet. She had heard that many people had left. Many people had left Berlin and the East in general. And so many others from farther East had arrived. But not here—no immigrants had made it out here.
Hans clearly still lived here. He had taken her here once for an entire week, years and years ago. They were very much in love then. They were new together. Paula had been gone for two weeks. He didn’t feel the need to try to be secretive about her. Why try? Everybody knew everything. It was the way things were then. And yet they had been somewhat discreet. During Eva’s stay there, she almost never left the house. No one saw her. He brought her things. Once, they went to the private restaurant of Wandlitz. Beef stroganoff, wonderful, buttery spaetzle. Chocolate cake. One of the most wonderful meals she’d ever had. They didn’t touch once, though she had wanted to. She tried to put her foot on his, under the table, but he had pulled away. It was enough that they were out together. Discreet, but not trying to fool anyone. Who didn’t have a mistress?
Inside, the house smelled airless and stale, as if no one had been there for a while. Hans put down his car keys on a table in the hallway and lit a cigarette.
“Bring mir ein Bier. Du weisst noch, wo die Küche ist, no?”
“Ja, sicher.” Eva took off her shoes first and rubbed her feet for a moment. She padded quietly into the kitchen; it hadn’t changed
