Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(4)
“Howdy, Campbells,” her father said, bursting into the apartment while Helga hurried to take his umbrella and briefcase and whisk them to their proper places. He gave Jenny’s mother a respectful peck on the cheek—not in public, John—before bear-hugging Alison and tousling her hair. “Hey there, Sunshine! You know any German yet?”
“Achtung!” Alison blurted. “Attention!”
He kissed her. “Of course that’s the first word you’d learn.”
“Achtung means danger,” Jenny corrected.
“Does not!”
“Does too.”
“Uh, I’m sorry—who took the German immersion class here?”
“Okay, okay, let’s not start World War Three,” their father said through a strained smile. He hugged Jenny a bit more tentatively. “Hi, Honey.”
He had a nickname for all of them. Alison was Sunshine. Their mom was Gorgeous. Jenny was Honey, a name sweet and generic and ill-informed. Over a meal of veal schnitzel and roasted potatoes swimming in butter, Jenny’s father held court as if it were one of his sales presentations, telling them about the company and how well it was run and all the things they would accomplish in Germany and the rest of Europe. “It’s up to us to rescue the rest of Germany from the commies,” he said, pouring his Coke into a glass of ice. “You have to ask for ice here, by the way. They don’t understand it at all. I almost forgot: Susan, we’re throwing a little party here on Saturday.”
“Oh, John. So soon?” Jenny’s mother said. She’d left half of her food on her plate, but Jenny could tell she was still hungry by the way she kept touching her fork.
“We need to make a good first impression. Besides, you can throw that together in your sleep, Gorgeous.” He smiled at his daughters. “How’s your dinner, girls?”
“Gut!” Alison barked with the German pronunciation.
Jenny could feel her mother’s eyes on her. Dutifully, she rested her fork and knife on the edge of the plate the way she’d been taught. “Very nice. But I’ve had enough,” she lied.
“Good girl! Discipline. I think Germany’s gonna be great for us. Fresh start,” her father said, digging into his schnitzel with a smile he dared anyone to contradict.
Later in her room, Jenny unwrapped one of the Kinder bars she’d bartered out of Martina. The chocolate was creamier than American chocolate and absolutely delicious. But immediately after eating it, she was racked with guilt. She was supposed to be on a diet—her sixth in the last four years. It was as if she’d been forced into a war with her body when she’d never even fired a shot. Jenny undressed and examined herself in the mirror. Her thighs and arms were thick and muscular, her shoulders broad. She was fast on the volleyball court and soft around her middle. At five-foot-eight, she weighed 170 pounds.
“That’s too much,” her doctor had said, as if she’d committed some crime. He’d given her a chart that showed a range from 125 to 145 pounds.
“I’d have to chop off my arms to weigh a hundred and twenty-five pounds,” Jenny had complained to Richard as they ate fries in the car on the way to orchestra practice.
“That’s literally the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Richard had said. He was her best friend for a reason. “Those diet charts are evil. EEEEEVVIIIILLLLL!”
Jenny’s mom was fashionably slim. In Dallas, the other moms complimented her on her body all the time, as if she’d accomplished some Olympic feat. At every pool party, the moms traded diet secrets like spies in some secret deprivation war—“I just eat grapefruit for five days.” “Honey, Dexatrim is my little helper.”
Jenny pinched a thick roll of belly fat. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d eat cottage cheese and exercise and be the daughter everyone wanted her to be: a smaller version of herself.
* * *
On her third day in Berlin, Jenny was determined to get out and see the city. She slipped her camera around her neck. In her jeans pocket was her address and phone number written on a scrap of paper along with some German coins for the pay phone if she got lost. Halfway down the marble staircase, she froze. Frau Hermann was at the bottom. She was carrying too many groceries and she walked with a limp that seemed to be causing her some pain. Jenny knew she should help. That was polite in any country. But in her head, she could hear Martina’s whispered warning: “Eine Hexe!”
Frau Hermann glanced up at Jenny. “Guten Tag.”
“Guten Tag. Darf ich … Ihnen helfen, um, ma’am?” Jenny said, her manners winning out.
The older woman squinted up at Jenny, her eyes narrowing. Jenny felt cold and shaky. Witch, witch, witch! “Danke sch?n.”
Frau Hermann offered one of the bags and Jenny took it, retracing her steps up to the second landing and up another steep flight to the third floor, where Frau Hermann slipped her key into an ancient brass lock. “You’re the American girl, yes? Your family just moved in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jenny said. “I’m Jenny Campbell. It’s nice to meet you, Frau Hermann.”
Frau Hermann cocked her head at Jenny, her brow furrowed. “Ah, my reputation precedes me.”
Jenny’s mouth went dry. How could she have been so stupid?
“Martina. She thinks I am a witch.” Frau Hermann shook her head. “Come. Come in. I’ll make us tea.”’