One day, soon after the Enemy occupied the Capital, everyone in the city was ordered to go to one of a number of addresses and register for a new identity card. More or less everyone registered their name, occupation, and ethnic background.
Sofia went with Clara. Her mother signed her married name, which she never used publicly, and listed her occupation as housewife. Sofia was surprised. If there was one thing her mother loved more than being a writer, it was telling people she was a writer. That was how Sofia knew the country was in terrible danger.
Clara took her papers and documentation out of her purse. Officially, her lie seemed to hold up.
They asked her what her husband’s occupation was. She said he was a salesman. He was in another city on business at the moment. The soldier stared at her. Perhaps he was thinking, She is not a housewife at all.
Now that the country was occupied, Sofia’s mother began to take her everywhere she went. She never did this before. She said being a mother made a woman invisible. Whereas before the idea of being invisible made her feel horrible, now it was something she wanted.
She filled a grocery basket with her jewels and put a pile of potatoes on top. So it looked as though they were very ordinary people.
Sofia watched her mother try to pass herself off as an ordinary person. It seemed ridiculous. She knew her mother did not like to leave the house without her fur coat. She had bought the fur coat with the money she had won from an essay competition. When people looked at her coat, she felt they were acknowledging her writing. She put on a plain black coat. She tied a red kerchief with white polka dots around her head and fastened a perfect giant bow just to the left of her forehead.
“Whatever you do, when we go out, don’t act as if I’m a very famous figure.”
“I don’t know that I ever do.”
“No, I suppose you don’t. One day you’ll see the importance of your mother.”
“I am looking at a woman in a red kerchief who is about to sell her jewels to get a piece of ham.”
“Well, when you put it like that, there’s a certain down-and-out glamour to it, don’t you think? I’m like a heroine in a French naturalist novel.”
She was counting on Sofia to make her look drab. When a group of soldiers passed, her mother turned to her and said, “Walk swiftly. Don’t stop and declare your love to a cat or something like that.”
“Okay, don’t stop and tell me the history of every building and which poet once took a dump inside of it.”
And her mother laughed. Since the war, her mother had begun to find the things she said funny. That or she had become funnier. But she didn’t think it was that. She thought her mother listened to what she said now.
They walked by the long lineup to the grocery store. Her mother found it humiliating to purchase anything with ration coupons. Her mother could not stand waiting in line.
“They want us to wait in line for nothing. Our waiting has no purpose outside of itself. We are waiting to wait. They want us to believe our time has no inherent value. They want us to learn to be obedient with no reward. We are supposed to learn to thank them for nothing. As though nothingness has an inherent value.”
Waiting in line was far too democratic for her. Everyone was treated exactly the same in a line.
“They want me to wait in line with dishwashers and concierges so I know I have achieved nothing that sets me apart. In any case, I cannot be seen in line. Imagine how depressing it would be to witness your country’s greatest writer in line for bologna. It’s too much for morale. You must go for me. No one has any opinions about you or thinks anything about you.”
They went to a jewellery shop whose windows were now filled with empty display boxes. Sofia’s mother quickly pushed her through the jangling door. The jeweller’s wife waved for them to go through a small door at the back of the store. Since the war began, Sofia was always learning about doors that led to secret dingy rooms.
Her mother dumped her bag onto the table. “These are really elegant pieces. They were gifts to me. From people in foreign countries, when I travelled.”
Sofia wanted nothing more than to put on the glasses of the jeweller. They had round magnifying lenses on them. His eyes were enormous. Sofia thought if she had such a pair of glasses, she would crawl around on her knees. And make conversation with ants and grasshoppers.
Her mother lit a cigarette. “I know it’s normal to rob somebody, but not too much. We have nothing. The money in the bank was frozen. I didn’t keep anything in my mattress. Those of us who are modern suffered first.”
“Are you aware these pearls are fake?”
“No. But they were a gift from the ambassador. I should have known, shouldn’t I?”
“The one who went to prison years ago?”
“Yes. How much will you give me for this watch? It belonged to my father.”
“That I can give you something for. And that ring on your finger. Perhaps you don’t want to part with it. But I can tell you it is very valuable.”
Her wedding ring was so ostentatious. It didn’t suit her parents’ marriage.
Her mother often left her wedding ring on the soap dish on the back of the sink. Once it fell down the drain and she announced it was irretrievably lost. But the maids sprang into action and managed to rescue it from the drainpipe. Sofia could not say her mother was happy when it was retrieved. She simply shrugged, smiled weakly, and put it back on her finger.
“Take it,” Clara said. “If a soldier sees it, he’ll take it for his future wife. What am I supposed to do with it anyhow? What other people are doing? Swallow it and then crap it out? I can’t act in that manner. I’ve had it.”
She took the pile of money. She folded it and put it somewhere underneath her skirt.
“And the soldiers are taking everything good for themselves. They don’t even appreciate what they are using. They’ve never tasted pâté de foie in their lives. Now they eat it out of the can with a large spoon. They are bringing back stockings to women who live in the countryside. Can you imagine? What are they going to do? Milk the cows in silk stockings? The poor women will freeze to death.”
Her mother could have sent one of the maids to buy them treats and delicacies from the Black Market. She had always sent them to run errands before the war. But this was something she needed to do herself now.
“I have to assume the risk myself. I can’t ask anyone else to do it for me. They are trying to make us believe that things we adore are of no value and can be sacrificed. First they will take away our coffee. Then they will ask us to give up our freedom. Our books.”
She stopped to look in the mirror before leaving, applying her makeup. She didn’t resort to her usual colour palette, which was bright red lipstick and white powder underneath pink blush. Instead she applied makeup that was designed to look as though she was not wearing makeup. She put on a light peach lipstick that was similar to her lip colour. And a gentle brushing of blush over her cheeks to make it appear as though she’d been in the sun.
“Why can’t I go to the Black Market with you?” Sofia asked.
“It’s secret, darling. Please don’t be an idiot. They know I am safe to sell to. I am already a dangerous person. They trust me. I would never turn anyone in. I would rather kill myself.”
“I would not give them up either.”
“Of course you would. You won’t know how to resist torture. How could you? You’ve never suffered a moment in your life.”
Sofia tried to picture what the Black Market looked like. She could not imagine where it was. It couldn’t be far because her mother went there on the subway. She had heard the Black Market was underground. The girl pondered whether it was right beneath her feet. She passed a sewer grate and wanted to bend down and peer through the holes to see whether the market was there. She imagined it was in a black truck that moved around like the puppet show. Or maybe it was like a travelling theatre troupe.
When her mother came back from the Black Market, she had a large bag of coffee in her coat. She smelled so strongly of rich coffee, Sofia wanted to put her face into her mother’s lapel and inhale her. She did not know if the coffee was particularly pungent, or if she hadn’t smelled it in so long that she was no longer used to it.
“I was terrified riding the bus home. I thought everyone around me must be smelling the coffee on me. I got off the bus three stops early when it became crowded.”
They ate a roll of sausage. They made no preparations. Sofia’s mother took a knife, sliced large chunks of sausage, and handed them to Sofia. They both devoured it, like two dogs who needed nothing more in the world. She and her mother had never been so close.
She opened a jar of jam. Before she spread it on the bread, she stuck a spoonful in her mouth. Sofia was so surprised at just how good these things tasted. She thought they tasted much, much better than they ever had before the war. She felt she had never tasted fruit before. She used to eat while thinking of other things. She did not pay attention to the food. Now her mouth and body were completely focused on the jam. Sofia wondered if jam had always tasted this good, or if it was that food on the Black Market tasted better in general. Or if disobedience was a sort of spice in itself.
One day her mother brought home a book from the Black Market. “This was just written! Can you believe it! There’s such a perfect feeling reading something that has just come out from a writer who is alive and well. You get to be one of its first readers. Our reactions will be historic.”
She read the book out loud. It wasn’t a fanciful story, as Sofia was hoping. But rather a manifesto about how to go about writing poetry while under occupation. When she was done, she tossed it into the fire. It lit up in an explosive way. Sparks began popping out of it. Embers started leaping out of the fireplace. Like tiny bombs. Mother and daughter grabbed the hems of their skirts and pulled them away from the fire.
All she knew about the Black Market was that it seemed to possess everything her mother desired. It would have her smell hanging like a cloud over it. It would have her thrill for being alive like an electric field in the air. It would be carpeted with her old stockings. Her mother’s book might be there.