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31
Sofie
Huntsville,Alabama
1950
I found Lizzie’s address in the telephone book. She lived just a few blocks away in a very large house by a young but extensive garden. I went there unannounced. It seemed safer to arrive on her doorstep unannounced with a gift, and to look her in the eyes while I apologized.
“Just wait here a moment,” I said to Felix, who was sitting in the back seat, playing with his wooden truck. He nodded, distracted by the toy.
I walked up the path to knock on the door, then waited, hovering on the little porch with the cake in my sweaty hands. The door swung open and there stood the man in the brown uniform, the one who walked up and down my street each day. Up close, I could see the embroidery on his shirt.Henry, and below that,Walt’s Lumberyard.
“You,” he said. His tone was flat, almost emotionless, but there was something dark in his eyes that unnerved me. I took a step away from the door.
“Hello,” I said nervously. “Is Lizzie home?” The man stared at me, his gaze intense and unblinking. “I’m looking for Lizzie,” I said again. “Lizzie Miller? Is this the right house?”
“What do you want with Lizzie?”
“I just wanted to say hello and to drop off a gift,” I said uneasily, as I motioned toward the cake with my chin.
“She’s not here.”
“Could I just leave this here for her?” The man—Henry—ignored the question, staring at me with narrowed eyes. I extended the plate down toward him, but he made no move to take it.
“Yousaid segregation is worse than the camps.”
He knew about my argument with Lizzie. Worse, he knew exactly who I was. My breath caught.
“No. No, th-that wasn’t what I said,” I stammered. “I was just trying to explain that anytime you separate a group of people—”
Henry reached for the cake, and for a split second I thought he was going to take it and give it to Lizzie, as I’d asked... But his face was red and his nostrils flared. I only realized I was in trouble when the weight of the plate left my palms.
I cried out, automatically covering my face as he threw the cake, plate and all, into a brick pillar on the front porch, rightbehind my head. Shards of ceramic and dense cake and sticky lemon frosting rained down the back of my dress. I turned and ran toward my car. If he gave chase, I was done. He was easily twice my size, andso angry—
“You don’t get to judge us, Nazi!” he called after me, and I was too scared to look back, but weak with relief to hear he was some distance behind me. His voice broke with frustration and anguish as he added, “Stop cominground here. Why do you people keep coming here!”
My hands were too sweaty to grip the key properly when I tried to start the car.
“Come on,” I choked out. “Please, start.”
“Mama...” Felix said uncertainly. “Mama, is that a bad man?”
The car roared to life. I pulled out onto the street and turned the car toward home.
“Something awful happened today.”
As soon as Jürgen came home from work, I pulled him into our bedroom and shut the door. He cupped my face in his palms and stared down at me, concern in his gaze.
“Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I took a cake to Calvin’s house for Lizzie,” I whispered. “A peace offering.”
“Sofie!” Jürgen groaned as his face fell. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“It wasmewho argued with her at that picnic, but it wasyouthe police came for. I thought I could apologize before she stirred up any more trouble.” My voice grew more desperate as I tried to explain myself. “I wantto build a home here, Jürgen. I don’t want some woman whispering to other Americans about me, telling them not to talk to me, telling their kids not to play with ours—gossiping about the worst moments of our lives. We need to build bridges here—not let rifts develop between us and your colleagues’ wives. So I tried to reach out to her.”
Jürgen dropped his hands from my face and rubbed his eyes. “Christ.”
