is to believe in what one is saying. Now she can’t look the student who has challenged her in the face.
Trudy shuffles her notes, coughs into her fist.
Excuse me, she says hoarsely. Long day.
Professor Swenson? somebody asks.
What now? Trudy thinks.
It’s five-fifteen.
Oh, says Trudy. Thank you. Sorry about that, folks...All right, get out of here.
The room erupts with activity as the students begin shoving their binders into their backpacks and pulling on their parkas. Trudy claps her hands.
Don’t forget to read the Goldhagen for next time, she calls.
As they file out, abruptly boisterous, Trudy turns to erase the board, scolding herself under her breath. What on earth was she thinking, bringing personal material into the classroom? She has broken one of her own cardinal rules: unlike many of her colleagues, who lace lectures with anecdotes of their families, travels, weekends, Trudy believes that a certain distance is necessary to maintain proper authority. She brushes in irritation at the chalk dust sifting onto her shoulders—teacher’s dandruff—but succeeds only in leaving a wide white swath on the dark wool. Trudy swears anew. She almost always wears black, and she shouldn’t.
Professor Swenson?
Trudy looks to the ceiling, praying for patience, then turns. Yes, she says.
There is a girl waiting on the other side of the lectern, cracking fluorescent gum. She is a freshman, Trudy knows, but she can never remember this student’s name and therefore mentally refers to her as the Pretty Girl. And she is, with her wide blue eyes and pink cheeks and long blond hair, a combination that should be a cliché but instead adds up to simple perfection. Trudy has sometimes resented the Pretty Girl, not for her looks per se but because they have led Trudy to form precisely the subjective opinions a good teacher should never harbor: the student is so pretty she must be dumb; she is spoiled, used to getting what she wants because of her appearance; she would make an excellent poster child for the Bund deutscher Mädel, the League of German Girls. She is the last person Trudy wants to talk to just now.
What can I do for you? Trudy asks.
The girl braves a quick glance at Trudy. She wears glitter makeup, Trudy sees, a constellation of sparkles scattered across her rosy face.
I just wanted to tell you? the girl says to her sneakers. That I’m finding this class, like, really fascinating?
Why, thank you, says Trudy. That’s the best thing a professor can hear.
She gives the Pretty Girl a cursory smile and makes a show of gathering her notes, tapping their edges against the podium to align them before putting them away. Her longing for the safety of her own home, to be in a hot bath washing off the residue of this afternoon’s embarrassment, is so acute that her skin itches.
But the Pretty Girl persists, keeping pace with Trudy as she walks from the classroom.
My grandmother was in the war? she says. She was hidden by a Catholic family, passing as a Christian? She was a— a whatchamacallit, a submarine?
A U-boat, Trudy supplies.
Yeah, a U-boat, the girl says, popping a small neon-green bubble.
Trudy looks sideways at her.
You’re Jewish? she asks.
Half, says the Pretty Girl. My grandparents were Hungarian Jews? I’m half-Jewish.
I see, says Trudy. Well, please give your grandmother my best regards.
I would, says the girl, but she’s dead.
Oh. I’m sorry.
But I wanted to ask you? I’m still not getting something. Like, it makes sense when you explain it, you know, historically, but I don’t get how those women could have done all those things. Like what you said about the SS officer. Or just not helping, pretending nothing was happening. How do they, you know, live with themselves afterwards?
That’s a good question, Trudy says. Denial, I suppose. Or . . .
She stops walking. She is thinking of the kitchen of the farmhouse, filling with black smoke. Where was Anna? Making a desperate grab with a dish towel for the pot forgotten on the stove? Or lying on her marital bed upstairs, eyes closed? Waiting for the heat to tighten her skin, letting her know that flames had claimed this room as well?
Professor Swenson, are you all right?
The girl’s quick touch on her arm, light as a cat’s paw.
Trudy gives her head a brusque shake.
Yes, she says. I’m fine. Thank you.
They are standing in the hallway now, next to a radiator that hisses and clanks. Somewhere overhead a janitor whistles a popular tune. Other than this, the building is quiet in the forlorn way