Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(6)

“I could mail it for you,” Jenny said impulsively. She was intrigued by the story of the lovers’ tree and the tale of the two lost girls. “I’m on my way out.”

Frau Hermann tapped the letter against the side of the table. She seemed to be assessing Jenny in some new way. Jenny hunched up her shoulders to keep her hair securely tucked in. “Well. Why not?” Frau Hermann extended the letter. The penmanship was elegant and formal. It fit her. Jenny tucked the letter into her bag.

“Didn’t anyone go looking for them?”

“You are curious about this story?”

“I just never knew anyone who disappeared before.”

Frau Hermann was looking at Jenny thoughtfully, the way a therapist might. “Come visit me again tomorrow and I will tell you more.”

Jenny felt a twinge in her belly. This was how it happened—you gave a lonely old woman half an opening and then you were committed to coming by and listening to her stories.

At the door, Frau Hermann thanked Jenny for mailing her letter. “They say the Bridegroom’s Oak is not really magic, but…” She tried for a smile that seemed like its own shrug. “I remain hopeful.”



* * *



The bus delivered Jenny into the heart of Berlin. She made her way back toward the U-Bahn station at Friedrichstrasse where she had seen the punks the day she arrived. They were out again today, drinking beer, lighting cigarettes from the dying ends of other smokes, and listening to frenetic music blasting from a boom box. The only punks Jenny had ever seen were friends of Richard’s outside the art-house movie theater in Dallas. This was before she and Richard had stopped talking to each other. But Richard’s friends were tame compared with this, just a little eyeliner and hair gel. These were two boys in painted leather jackets, one slight, the other stout like a boxer, his hair shaved on the side with a long, tall strip running down his scalp from front to back, stiff as blades on a soldier’s helmet. They both stood talking to a girl with spiky hair dyed a wine red. Her wary, searching eyes were coated in heavy black liner. Jenny sneaked out her camera. Even with the zoom, she was too far away. She inched closer and snapped one shot. Then another. On the third, the boxer boy turned to her, spewing long strings of angry German. Jenny dropped her bag, spilling out its contents. Her hands trembled as she tried to fit the lens cap back on, the punks closing in, surrounding her. The boy was shouting something about “?berwachung” and “Stasi.” Jenny’s mind blanked, all of her German locked behind a steel gate.

“I … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad…”

“You’re American.” It was the punk girl with the dark eye makeup.

“Y-yes. American.”

“She looks like a Popper,” the boxer sneered in English. “We are not your tourist photo!”

“Halt die Klappe, A-Blitz,” the girl said, and the boy backed off.

“What’s a Popper?” Jenny directed her question to the girl.

“Someone who looks like you. Very … conformist. Not interested in politics. Just want to shop and consume. Like that movie, um…” She snapped her fingers and cast her eyes upward, thinking. Under all of that black liner, the girl’s eyes were very big and very blue. “Night of the Living Dead! But in pastel shirts.”

Jenny laughed in spite of her anxiousness. Or maybe because of it. “Preppies! That’s what we call them in America.”

Them. As if she weren’t wearing a pink Izod shirt with the collar popped.

“Here. Let me help you.” The girl bent down and scooped up Frau Hermann’s letter. It was soiled now, and Jenny hoped it wouldn’t dim the woman’s chances with the tree.

The girl looked confused. “The Bridegroom’s Oak?”

“Oh, it’s not mine! It’s my neighbor’s. Apparently, there’s this tree that’s supposed to be like a matchmaking service, I guess? You write to it and if somebody likes your letter, they write back?” She didn’t know why she was babbling on like this. “Anyway. I promised my neighbor I would mail it for her. Since I was going out. And she … wasn’t.” God. Could she be any more embarrassing?

The girl nodded. “Oh. That’s … nice.” She handed the letter back. “I’m Lena.”

“Jennifer. Jenny.”

Lena cocked her head, scrutinizing Jenny. “Huh. You don’t seem like a Jenny.”

“Well. I am.”

“Mmm,” Lena said. She nibbled a ragged cuticle. “Where are you from in America?”

“Uh, Texas. Dallas.”

“Like the TV show?” Lena shot finger guns.

“Yeah. Like the TV show.”

“Mmm. Do you have any cigarettes?”

“Sorry. I don’t smoke.”

“Too bad.” A small sports car slowed as it passed. In the passenger seat, a boy rolled down the window and shouted something. Lena shouted back and flipped the bird but the car was already gone. She turned back to Jenny as if nothing had happened. “I’m in a band. Well, we just started. But we’re going to be getting gigs very soon.”

“Oh. Cool. I’m in orchestra. Or I was. Back home. I play violin.”

“Huh. It’s okay, I guess.”