what are you, the Gestapo?
Ruth maintains an unwavering stare. The historically impossible friendship between the two women, the unlikely alliance between a professor of German history and the head of Holocaust Studies, requires black humor, a way of acknowledging and thus defusing possible tensions. But neither has ever applied it to the other personally.
Sorry, says Trudy. I’m not quite myself today... My mother’s all right, it was nothing serious, but it’s obvious she can’t live by herself anymore. So I had to arrange to put her in a nursing home.
Ruth screws up her face in sympathy.
That’s rough, she agrees. I know how it is. When we put my aunt in a home, she didn’t speak to us for six months.
My mother hasn’t spoken to me in fifty years, Trudy says, and laughs.
Again Ruth gives her a penetrating look, but she lets the subject drop.
Well, kid, she says, unfolding herself from the chair, if you want to talk about it, I’m here...Oh! I almost forgot the other reason I came in here.
What’s that?
Ruth braces her palms on Trudy’s desk and sways forward.
We got it, she says dramatically.
Got what? Trudy asks.
Ruth gives the blotter an emphatic slap.
For the love of God, woman, wake up! The funding for the Remembrance Project.
Oh, says Trudy. Oh, good for you. How much did you get?
Ruth rolls her eyes. Not as much as I’d hoped for, naturally. But enough to contact area survivors, to hire interviewers and videographers. I can cut corners by having one of my doctoral students encode the tapes for the archives. And if all goes well, next year I can ask for more money—the sky’s the limit.
That’s fantastic, says Trudy. Congratulations—This is such a feather in our cap. This’ll put our program on the map in terms of recording Holocaust testimony, put us right up there with fucking Yale. And not even fucking Yale has survivor interviews on camera.
I know, says Trudy. You must be so proud.
I am, I have to admit, Ruth says, grinning. Her teeth are tiny and pearly and crooked; like baby teeth, Trudy thinks, milk teeth, Anna would call them. This Project is my baby . . .But sometimes I think, what am I, nuts? There’s so much work to be done—Well worth it, Trudy assures her. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.
Ruth settles a pert khaki-clad hindquarter on the corner of Trudy’s desk, wrinkling the term papers.
Actually . . . , she says.
Oh, God, groans Trudy. I was just being polite, Ruth!
I thought you might want to try out, Ruth says.
Try out?
For an interviewer’s position.
Me?
Yes, you.
Trudy shakes her head.
I don’t understand, she says. Why would you want me? The Holocaust isn’t my field of expertise.
Ruth waves this objection aside.
We have to get this off the ground quickly, she says, and we need historians who really know their stuff to be interviewers, and that means you. I think you’d be a natural. And you’d really be doing me a favor.
Trapped, Trudy swivels to the window and looks out. The quadrangle is deserted, the sleet being whipped sideways by a relentless wind, the Gothic red sandstone buildings gloomier than usual in the premature dusk. Her reflection hovers among them, transparent and watchful, a streetlamp in its throat.
It wouldn’t matter that I’m not Jewish? she asks.
Well, of course you should be, since we are the Chosen People, Ruth says tartly. But no, it wouldn’t matter.
Huh, says Trudy.
Then she swings back around, reaching over to tug the papers from beneath Ruth’s behind and stuff them into her briefcase.
I can’t, she says. I’m sorry, Ruth. I’m truly flattered you asked. But I have such a full courseload this semester, as you know, and now there’s this situation with my mother on top of everything else . . .
She feels herself flushing. Anna’s transfer to the Good Samaritan Center having already been arranged, there is nothing much left for Trudy to do except make a weekend visit to ensure that she’s settled in. And this won’t take much time. But Ruth doesn’t need to know this.
And, as Trudy has expected, she buys the excuse.
Forgive me, she says, hopping off Trudy’s desk. I forgot. But maybe, when things settle down with her...Will you at least think about it?
Of course, Trudy lies.
Ruth goes to the door.
Good, she says. Because I’m going to keep after you.
She cocks a thumb and forefinger at Trudy in imitation of shooting a gun. You know where to find me if you change your mind, she adds, and leaves.
Congratulations