Book Of Ruth

Reanimation

Germany, British Occupied Zone

January 1947

The chill permeates the marble halls of the municipal building. Removing my mittens, I keep my hands in my pockets. I finger a slip of paper, waiting for a British Tommy to stop and check my traveling permit. Despite the number of people drifting along the corridors, its deadly quiet. The occupying British forces are hungry too.

The second winter after the peace is proving to be more difficult than the previous one.

Germany has been cut up and the pieces divvied out to the victorious Allies as it rebuilds after years of war. The saying goes that the Soviets got the food, the French got the wine, the Americans the scenery, and the British got the ruins. The more I read about the ordeal in the newspapers that I practice my German with, the more I see the roots of another power play taking hold in Europe. This time, the key figures are the Russians and Americans. It is yet another game of barely restrained blood lust, no different from the last fifty years.

A mother and child wrapped in raggedy coats stop at the door across from where I sit on a wooden bench. The little girl's emaciated face makes her seem younger, but she can't be more than five. Back at the Wagner's home, Elya is the same way. He's ten, but looks seven or eight. He's a slender boy naturally, but the aftermath of the war was taken its toll on him.

Leon slips him his own share of dinner at times, complaining that he isn't feeling well enough to finish it. It's the only way Elya will take it from him. Even for a child, his staunch sense of pride is unrelenting.

Restlessly, I make my way out the wide front doors into the city. Hamburg is a frozen shell. The people shuffle about in their threadbare layers, British soldiers longing for home watch with hollow eyes from street corners.

On the other side of the street, an old man grasping his fists to his chest hobbles down the sidewalk. He lets out a racking cough and topples over. He is swiftly surrounded by a group of concerned citizens before I can race to his side.

A couple soldiers watch nearby are unfazed. They have been ordered to maintain a strict non-fraternization policy and follow it to the letter. They couldn't approach to help even if they wanted.

"What happened?"

Leon is on the stairs behind me, gazing across the street. He makes his way down to the sidewalk on one crutch. Tipping his grey, trilby hat to the side, his eyes swing over to me.

"Another one?" he guesses.

I nod wordlessly. Since being in Hamburg for the day, we have seen multiple people drop in the streets from starvation or cold. Or both. 

Leon gives me a swift kiss on the temple before I pull my woolen toboggan over my braids. We make our way towards the lorry stop. The snow starts to fall again. It has been relentless since I arrived in Germany over a month ago. These short weeks have felt like a lifetime. 

I rest my back against his chest where we stand on the corner, focusing on the rise and fall of his breath.

"Don't worry, we'll be home soon." 

His breath is warm in my ear.

I close my eyes. There have been times I wondered if staying behind was the right thing to do. I wonder if taking on the physically and morally starved ruins of this country is worth it. Leon brushes his nose across the side of my neck and cradles my hand. I cannot think of anywhere else I'd rather be.

∆∆∆

Summer 1947

Germany

Ruth is ripe. Like the trees in the courtyard that bear apples in the autumn. She is golden. Leon wonders at how quickly such a deadly winter has fled both from his country and from the woman he loves.

In June, the new currency brought life to veins of their world. It's been a month since the economy has slowly begun to reanimate. Three months since Ruth told him the news. She didn't have to say a word. He had guessed it.

Picking up the pitcher, he pours it over the back of her head. The frothy trails of soap snake down to the back porch and onto the grass. Leon wrings the water from her dark hair before folding the towel around her shoulder over the strands. 

Ruth stands, her dress loose. It's difficult to look at her sometimes. She had lost so much weight since arriving in December. He is thankful that their diet has been steadily improving.

She lifts her delicate arms over her head and runs the towel over her hair. There is the beginning of a tell-tale slope between her hip bones and the end of her ribs. Leon reaches out and lays a hand flat to her abdomen.

"If it's a boy," she comments solemnly. "He'll be Paul."

Leon swallows the tick in his throat. "Yes. That would be good. And a girl?"

"I don't know."

"How about Frances?"

"Frances?" She furrows her brow, "For whom?"

"For  A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I should think that would be obvious."

"For a character in a book?"

"Stranger things have happened."

"This is true."

Ruth gives him a quiet smile and lays a hand over his in quiet contemplation.