twenty

It was growing colder by the day. I took time to make myself a muff from a small piece of velvet I had found in the Uncle’s pile of fabric. I stuffed it with cotton and tucked my hands into it when I went to the park to meet Johann.

“But today it is too cold to stay outside,” he said.

I nodded, disappointed. I thought of not seeing him for the rest of the winter and then reminded myself I was going home one day; better not become too fond of him.

It was hard not to, though. His hair curled down over his forehead, and there were just the beginnings of a dark beard over his lip and his chin.

“There is a bakery nearby,” he said. “It is owned by people from Freiburg.”

“Really?” I said, digging my hands deeper into the muff, hunching my shoulders just a bit against the wind as we walked. “Brooklyn is everything the most,” I said.

He stopped, his hand on my elbow. “What does that mean?”

“In the summer it’s the hottest, in the winter, the . . .” I searched for the word.

“Coldest,” he said. “But never mind, we will go to this bakery and sit at a table. We will have chocolate and cookies and I will teach you English.”

“Do you know it that well?” I asked.

He smiled. “You will not know the difference,” he said.

We hurried along, laughing, and slipped into the bakery, where the air was steamy, the chocolate lightened with cream, and the cookies still warm. The Black Forest clock ticked over the counter, the minutes passing quickly as I learned words from Johann and forgot them two minutes later.

He told me more about wanting to be a locksmith, and I told him about Papa. I told him about Mrs. Koch’s hat, too, and he said the strangest thing. “Your eyes light up, Dina, when you talk about making the hat.”

“I don’t like sewing,” I said.

“I think you do.” He popped the last of his cookie into his mouth. “I think there are parts of it you love.”

“Not those long seams,” I said. “Not the sewing machine. Not the plackets, the zippers . . .” I hesitated, thinking about the hat that was half finished, a flat plate of rose petals shot through with green velvet ribbon. “But the hats . . .”

“You see?” he said, laughing, and reached across to touch my hand. His hand was warm, and I could feel my face begin to flush.

We finished our chocolate, then went back out to the cold again. There was a pale sun over the houses, softening them. And the bare branches made lacy patterns against the walls. I could hear the German band playing even on such a cold day.

I left Johann at the park and went on to our street, feeling strange inside. What would it be like to go home, I wondered, and never see Brooklyn again? What would it be like never to see Johann again?