18
March 1942
Brooklyn, NY
The mystery continued to swell with time. It had been well over two years, and still Isaak’s disappearance trailed Vivian like a shadow. Her telegrams and letters produced no response. She fared no better with calls to his dorm. She had even tried Professor Klein, who she was told had evacuated at the start of the war. She liked to think Isaak had followed him, that in the safety of the English countryside they were biding their time until peace returned.
Most days, though, she simply regretted boarding that train. Whether staying in London would have reunited her with Isaak she would never know, but at least the distance dividing them would not have been so vast.
After arriving in New Hampshire, her mother had instantly melded into the social realm of her youth. Vivian soon learned that Luanne Sullivan, an old school friend from DC, had relocated to Brooklyn. The girl was receiving room and board in addition to pay for working on a switchboard. The fact that the company was still hiring had struck Vivian as a sign. New York. That’s where Isaak would go once he made it to the States.
So that’s precisely where Vivian went.
The company’s boardinghouse was a lovely brownstone in the center of Park Slope, an affluent section of the borough. Naturally, this reduced her mother’s objections, though Vivian would have settled for a shack. Location was all that mattered. Her bags were barely unpacked when she began diligent rounds of Isaak’s favorite spots: the shopping strips of Manhattan, the carriages of Central Park, the window displays at Macy’s. But with the passing of time and escalation of the war—America, too, had joined the fray-her efforts waned with her hopes.
The single place she sustained any faith was at Brooklyn’s Cafe Labrec.
Once more now she sat in its courtyard. She dropped a sugar lump into her coffee, wishing her feelings would dissolve as easily. If only coming here were not so tempting. Near impossible to avoid, it was a short walk from her residence, enabling these morning visits before the chartered bus to work. Truthfully, even her job as an operator at Fort Hamilton served as a potential link to Isaak. Catching snippets of military discussions meant uncensored updates on the European Theatre. Which, more often than not, left her in a grievous mood.
Isaak could not have better described Hitler’s greed and thirst for power. In June of 1941, he double-crossed even Stalin by funneling 3 million Nazi soldiers into the Soviet Union, and his offensives continued. Across the English Channel, his ruthless bombing raids-the Blitz, they called it-placed all Londoners in danger. Vivian’s father remained among them, despite the option to come home. Never was diplomacy more in need, he claimed in periodic letters; his wired messages assured her of his safety. Still, she kept him in her prayers, the same as she did for Isaak.
Perhaps this, above all, was the cafe’s true appeal. It had become like a church, a sanctuary she frequented in search of peace, and answers.
Had Isaak’s plans gone awry with the black market and his mother? Was he imprisoned in Munich thereafter? Had he been injured in a raid? Did he return to London and stay to help? Did he join the RAF and take to the skies?
Had he simply changed his mind?
Every Wednesday morning, her usual wrought-iron table served as a personal pew. She relished this semi-cove, thanks to a stone wall behind her and, to her side, a pot of tall, vibrant flowers. Tucked away, she could be left to her thoughts, sometimes her tears. But always she found comfort in the fragrance of blossoms and freshly baked dough, accompanied by Isaak’s words.
My Dearest Vivian,
I am writing this letter only hours before departing London. Although I am anxious to see my family and confirm that all is as well as they claim, already I miss you terribly. It has taken every ounce of my strength not to abandon my mission and reunite with you this instant. As you know, however, I could never rest without first settling my personal affairs.
While my hopes are high that my travels will go quickly and without incident, I have arranged for a trusted friend to deliver this letter should I fail to return in time. Your safety, my darling, is of utmost importance. Please do not hesitate in evacuating as planned. Rest assured, wherever you are, I indeed will find you.
Until then, keep this necklace as proof of my promise. Wear it close to your heart, just as I hold my love for you in mine.
Yours for eternity,
Isaak
She fingered her blouse where the charm dangled beneath. On occasion she would pull the letter from her jewelry box, but merely to touch his scrawled words, not for fear of forgetting them. They were forever imprinted in her heart. Helplessly savoring them now, she continued to block out the city, until a man’s voice cut in.
“I said, ‘Sure is a swell day, isn’t it?’ ”
Vivian raised her eyes and discovered the question was directed at her. An Army private, roughly her age, smiled from the next table.
“Yes,” she said with a glance at the sky. The sun was elbowing its way through the clouds. “I suppose it is.” She gave him a cordial look, her standard for these situations, then conveyed disinterest by flipping through her issue of McCall’s.
“I’m Ian Downing, by the way.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his outstretched hand. Since the bombing of Pearl Harbor, military enlistment had spread like a virus. The service in itself was an honorable one, but not the common expectation that all dames lost their marbles over a starched and pressed uniform.
Don’t be rude, Vivian. Accept his hand, Vivian. She heard her mother’s prodding. A lifetime of drilled decorum was difficult to expunge.
Vivian obliged the greeting but promptly returned to her magazine.
“Mind if I ask your name?” He either couldn’t take a hint or chose to ignore it. “Course, I could always figure it out for myself.” He tapped his pointed chin as if crafting syllables customized for her face. “It’s ... Alma. No, no-Bessie.” He cocked his head. “Cordelia?”
Marvelous. He was going to scroll through the entire alphabet.
“Hmm ... Irene maybe.” Another tap. “Mildred?”
“Vivian,” she said, bringing this to an end.
“I knew it!” He snapped his fingers and beamed. “That was definitely my next guess.”
An eye roll would have been much deserved-did she really look like a Mildred?—yet the fellow exaggerated such surety Vivian couldn’t help but laugh.
She shook her head at him. “You do realize this is a pitiful approach, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know,” he said with a shrug. “But if it made you smile, it was worth coming off like a heel.”
Vivian would have taken this for the continuation of a practiced pickup if not for the sincerity in his voice, the kind gleam in his greenish-brown eyes. Maybe he didn’t deserve the coldest of shoulders. Besides, they were seated at separate tables, affording a buffer of comfort.
“Food sure is great here, don’t you think?” He lifted the Danish from his small plate and took a generous bite.
“I enjoy it.”
“So, Vivian,” he said, after swallowing, “you from this area?” The pastry had stamped him with a yellow mustache that flitted when he spoke. “Or are you just in the Big Apple visiting?”
She tried to keep a straight face, yet found it impossible. “You have ... some crumbs. Right here.” She brushed her own lip to illustrate.
He snatched his napkin and cleaned off the flakes. “Better?”
She nodded.
His eyes lowered, as if shielded by embarrassment. She was only trying to help but somehow wound up the one who felt like a heel. And now she was stuck, forced to soften a conversation she had hoped to avert.
“I ... take it you’re stationed in the area,” she said.
“Just across the river, at Fort Dix.” He wiped his chin to be thorough and wadded the napkin. “Lucked out actually. I’m from Michigan-that’s where my whole family is, back in Flint-but I got some friends from around here. It was nice to already know people in such a big city.”
“Sure. I know how that can be.”
He crossed his legs, confidence returning. Beneath his dark, close-cropped hair, he had a pleasing oval face and the kind of smile any dentist would gladly take credit for.
“You know,” he said, “my buddy Walt and I, we were planning to hit the town Friday. Maybe go to the USO over by Times Square. His girl, Carol, is wild about swing bands.”
“Oh?” She knew of the place, mainly from her roommate, who welcomed any opportunity to dance. Vivian had yet to go, despite Luanne’s urgings; an evening of laundering socks had more appeal than a hall packed with servicemen in heat.
“How ’bout it?” he asked.
“How about ... ?”
“Golly, you sure don’t make it easy on a guy, do ya?” he teased. “About going out with me? Making it a double date?”
How dim-witted of her. Of course. A date.
They were strangers, though.
As she mulled it over, a flutter formed in her stomach. She barely recognized the sensation. Could she really accept? He seemed like a keen fellow. Luanne might even be willing to come, for both safety and decency.
Vivian straightened in her chair, invigorated by the offer, just as Isaak’s image barged into her thoughts, and with it a feeling of betrayal.
“I—I can’t.”
“All right,” Ian said. “Then how about Saturday?”
She shook her head.
“Sunday?”
“I’d love to, but ... I’m engaged.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize.” Ian glanced toward her hands resting on the table. Too late she recalled the absence of a ring. She curled her fingers under, yet already it was clear: He viewed the decline as a brush-off.
“Well, I’d say he’s one lucky man.”
She sought a way to explain. The engagement wasn’t formal, but a promise had been made, without expiration.
Ian rose from his chair. “Guess I better shove off. Hate to sit around goldbricking all day.” He gave her a smaller version of his perfect white smile and tossed a crinkled dollar next to his plate. “It was real nice talking to you, Vivian.”
“Likewise.”
When he started away, she focused on her magazine to avoid watching him leave.
Her beloved sanctuary suddenly felt isolated rather than secluded.
“Bonjour, chérie.” The manager of the cafe seemed to magically appear. He wore his signature gray vest, loose on his aging frame, and a pin-striped bow tie. “You are enjoying your coffee, yes?”
“It’s splendid. Thank you, Mr. Bisset.”
He began to clear the soldier’s table, his usual waitress out with a cold. “You have the day off, I see.”
With the way she was feeling, she wished that were so. “Not today,” she said, before it dawned on her why he would assume as much. She glanced at her watch. “Oh, criminy! I’ll never make the bus.” With operators to deliver to two other locations, the chartered bus waited for no single person.
Vivian gathered her belongings and jumped to her feet before remembering she hadn’t paid. She fumbled through her purse for change.
“Allez, allez.” He waved her off. “You pay me next time.”
She would not have agreed, but her stodgy supervisor deemed tardiness a cardinal sin. Vivian’s last infraction had induced the firmest of warnings. She thanked Mr. Bisset with a peck to the cheek, inducing a chuckle.
“I won’t forget!” she called out, and scurried toward the street.
Block after block every taxi was taken. Up ahead the streetcar dinged. She sprinted in a flourish, propelled by benefits she refused to lose. Beyond wartime scoops, her job allowed her financial independence, a counterargument to her mother’s matrimonial crusade-not to say the woman didn’t supply plenty of other reasons her daughter required a husband.
Vivian still had her special savings, of course, stored in the back of her closet. But she had sworn not to squander those funds on anything mundane. They were for her and Isaak, their excursions from coast to coast, the honeymoon she had envisioned too many times to count.
In the event that would ever happen....
Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back and picked up her pace, as if ample speed could outrun her doubts.