It was my Thursday with Emma and we were sitting around the kitchen table working on a jigsaw puzzle I had brought with me. A Swiss mountain scene in the Alps with a large Saint Bernard dog, since Emma suddenly seemed in love with all things Swiss.
Mrs. Shearer stayed in the other room, putting away her newly ironed clothes.
“Aunt Trudi says the Saint Bernard is the national animal of Switzerland. ’Cause they always save people in the mountains. And they always come with a cask of schnapps around their necks.”
“I thought it was cognac,” I said.
Emma looked at me quizzically.
“It’s a liquor. It burns going down so it’s supposed to bring people back to life.”
“She called it schnapps,” she said, and placed a piece in the puzzle. “Look, Daddy, it fits.”
“Very good! So have you learned any more German words?” I asked her.
“A few. Let’s see. Blume,” she said. “It means flower. And Himmel. That means sky.”
“Sky, huh? Look at this.…” I fit a large blue-and-white squiggle myself right into where the snowcapped mountain met the blue sky. “Voilà!”
“Very good, Daddy. Oh, and lebens … Lebens to Betsy it sounds like. I like that word.”
“Lebens…?” I said. It sounded familiar. “You mean ‘heavens to Betsy’?”
“No, lebens. Lebens-room. Lebens-roof…” She tried to squeeze in a puzzle piece around the green meadow, but it wasn’t fitting. “Daddy, this is hard.”
“It is hard, honey. I agree. So, listen, lebens…?” I asked her again. She had said room or roof? “You don’t mean lebens-raum, do you?” Where would she come across such a term as this? I figured there wasn’t a chance in the world that this was right.
“Yes, that’s it!” Emma said brightly. “Lebensraum.”
I stared at her. That was the word I’d heard the other night on the newsreel. Lebensraum. Living space. Uttered by Adolf Hitler. It had sent a half million Germans into a frenzy of joy.
She continued to try to fit pieces into the puzzle without answering.
“Honey, listen to me a second.” I held back her arm to get her attention. “Where would you hear such a word? Lebensraum.”
“From Uncle Willi,” she said. “Where else? I heard him say it.”
“Willi?” I put down the puzzle piece I was trying to find a home for. “Heard him say it how, honey?”
“I don’t know.… He was talking to Aunt Trudi. Daddy, what makes the snow stay on the mountains when it’s warm?”
“A lot of it is the altitude. It’s cold that high up. Did he tell you what it means?”
“Who?”
“Uncle Willi. About Lebensraum. Did he tell you what the word meant?”
She didn’t answer. She just continued trying to fit pieces in the puzzle without much luck, repeating, “Lebens-room, lebens-raum. Lebens to Betsy,” in kind of a distracted, singsong voice.
“Emma, listen to me, honey.” I took hold of her arm. “Did Uncle Willi tell you what it means?”
“He told Aunt Trudi.” She put in a piece neatly and looked up with a grin of satisfaction.
“And what did he say?” I said.
“He said it was ‘the future.’”
“The future.” My heart stumbled to a stop. Mrs. Shearer came back in and seemed to hover near the kitchen, tidying up. And I didn’t want to involve her. I thought back to the newsreel speech I had watched the other day. A half million Germans cheering wildly. Hitler pounding his fist. Lebensraum. As soon as she left I went back to Emma. “I just want to be clear, honey. Lebens-raum? You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, Daddy, I’m sure. Why, is it a bad word?” She looked up at me.
“No, of course it’s not a bad word,” I said, with a glance to Mrs. Shearer. “But let’s not use it. Someone might get the wrong meaning.”
“All right,” she said. She tried a piece in the Saint Bernard’s face and it fit perfectly. “Look, it fits!”
As I was leaving later that day, I knocked on the door of the Bauers’ apartment across the hall. Willi Bauer came to the door. He was dressed in a vest and tie with his pocket chain showing. A pipe in hand. His ruddy face lit up in a wide smile. “Why, Mr. Mossman! How good to see you. Please, we were just having some coffee. Come in, come in.” I heard classical music in the background.
“Thanks. I can’t stay,” I said.
Trudi Bauer stuck her head out from the kitchen, wearing an apron. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mossman, what a nice surprise. We were just about to have an afternoon coffee.”
“Call me Charlie, please,” I said.
“All right, Charlie. But please, come in.”
I stepped inside the apartment. Their place was considerably larger than Liz’s. The living room was spacious, with a window looking out over the street; it was decorated with antiques, a navy embroidered couch and love seat, and a brass-filigreed coffee table. There was an arrangement of silver-framed photos on a front table and some oils, mostly landscapes, on the walls. A large phonograph sat on a side table; it sounded like Mozart playing. Willi went over and lifted the needle. The smell of pipe tobacco wafted in the air.
“Mozart’s Jupiter. One of our favorites. Come…” He pointed to the love seat. “Please sit.”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, taking a seat. “I’m just curious about a word I heard Emma use today. Something in German.”
“Of course,” he said curiously. He put his pipe down. “I hope you don’t mind us teaching her a bit. And what is that?”
“Lebensraum.”
“Lebensraum?” Willi’s face turned serious. “Are you certain that was it?”
“Yes. I asked her specifically. She repeated it several times. She even made it into a little song. Lebens to Betsy.”
“Lebensraum. Not a phrase I would ever use,” he said, somberly shaking his head.
“I only heard it myself for the first time the other day,” I said, “in a newsreel at the Orpheum. In a speech given by Hitler.”
“Who else, of course.” He nodded with a frown. Trudi Bauer stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “That man … He’s giving everyone with a German heritage a bad name.”
“Where would a child hear such a thing?” Trudi said, taking a seat next to her husband.
“Actually,” I said, looking at Willi, “she said she heard it from you.”
“From me?” Willi Bauer’s eyes grew twice their size. He looked as shocked and dismayed as I had. “Impossible.”
“Yes. In fact, she said you called it ‘the future.’”
“The future! Mein Gott. Not a future I would ever be a part of. She must have been mistaken.” He looked at Trudi, trying to put it together. “Liebsnatur, perhaps—a similar-sounding word. The love of nature, or something like that we may have said. I recall you were reading her a poem by Goethe, weren’t you, darling? About the linden trees.”
“Yes, yes,” Trudi said. “I recall now. So many German words, they are all long and sound alike. For her to have heard Willi say such a thing … The future … Ach, we would never say anything like that around Emma. She’s like a part of the family to us.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, outwardly giving in. But inwardly, I wasn’t as sure. Liebsnatur … That wasn’t even close to what Emma had said. Lebens-room, lebens-roof, she had playfully sung. Still …
I said, “Who knows what a six-year-old picks up? And where? Anyway, I’m sorry to have bothered you with this.” I stood up. “But you can imagine, if such a word was heard at school and interpreted the wrong way. With all that’s going on.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Willi Bauer said, standing as well. “We understand perfectly. Surely not any future we would want any part of, right, dear?” He placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Of that you can be sure.”