1936 WINTER NEW
YORK CITY
The cinema was
nearly deserted, and the two girls took the best seats in the house. They
opened their bags of peanuts and chocolate covered raisins, silently munching
until the movie got to their favorite part.
Marigold mouthed
along with the woman on the screen who spoke first. “Not because I love
England, but because it will pay me better.” She continued, “The
very brilliant agent of a certain foreign power on the point of obtaining a
secret vital to your air defense.”
Trude whispered, “I
tracked two of his men to that music hall. Unfortunately, they recognized me.”
The two girls took bites of their candy. Trude continued, “That’s why
they’re after me now.”
Marigold smiled
from ear to ear. She loved this part. “You ever heard of a thing called
persecution mania?”
Trude’s eyes grew
wide and she said, “You don’t believe me?” As if from nowhere, the usher
came over and shushed them.
Marigold scowled
at him and turned back to Trude. “Frankly I don’t.”
They had been
doing this for days now. Rather than go to math class, they skipped school
instead. How it was that nobody reported them must have been because they were
the kind of girls who were rarely in trouble. They did well enough that their
absences didn’t seem to matter. So, for two weeks running, they faithfully
bought tickets for the 2:55 show and watched The 39 Steps until they
knew it cold.
Afterwards, they
stood by the window outside the ladies’ room, where one could see the traffic
below.
Trude stopped
Marigold and said, “Go and look down into the street then.” She always
said this with a campy accent, like her father’s. Trude’s father was Swiss. Her
late mother had been British and Marigold thought everything about Trude was
glamorous in the most spectacular way.
Marigold pretended
to be afraid. “Are they there?”
Trude looked
terrified. “Yes. I’d hoped I’d shaken them off. I’m going to tell you
something which is not very healthy to know. But now that they have followed me
here, you are in it as much as I am.”
Then she grabbed
Marigold’s hand and they bolted down the stairs, out through the back door
gasping and chuckling on the short walk to the pharmacy.
When they arrived,
Trude stopped short. “Oh, mein Gott!”
“What is it?”
“It’s Will
Carrington!” Trude pointed to the counter.
“I love him.”
Marigold spoke with as much gravity as she could muster. It was part of their
shtick. Whenever Trude saw a boy they knew, Marigold would simply say, “I love
him.”
These declarations
of love always made Trude laugh, then respond by either sticking something up
her nose, or putting her spectacles on sideways. Anything, anything to make
Marigold laugh back and Trude look like a freak.
Silently, they
went to the counter. “Oh hi, Will,” Marigold said, in her most modest, simple
style. Trude looked away.
Will was blonde,
handsome, an athlete. He was in the boys’ section at school, so they rarely saw
him outside of class. “Hi.” He leaned past Marigold. “Hi Trude,” which didn’t
surprise Marigold. All the boys were in love with Trude, who was beautiful, smart,
and kind.
Trude turned to
face Will. She’d stuck a raisin into each nostril, so they hung out just the
smallest amount. “Will, hi!”
Will stopped short
of recoiling. He paid his tab and said, “See you.” Then gestured to his own
nose, discreetly, for Trude’s benefit.
She continued to
smile, oblivious. “See you tomorrow.”
“Girls.” Home was
on Riverside Drive, where Marigold’s mother stood in the foyer, surrounded by
boxes. Some were on the floor, others stacked upon the table, which normally
held only letters and an orchid. On top of the boxes were large oblong tickets
indicating their contents. The tickets were stamped with round and dashed
holes, like eyelet made of cardstock.
Marigold opened
one of the boxes. “What are they?”
There had to be
thousands inside. She passed a dozen cards over to Trude, who fanned herself
with them.
“These could be
dollahs, thousands of dollahs, nicht so, Schatze,” Trude said.
“Jahwohl, they
could.” Marigold held up a card to the chandelier, examining the tiny square
holes in the light. She held it over the face of her friend and it created
dashes and dots upon Trude’s skin. She moved to look through the dashes at her
mother. Cool and elegant in her grey silk dress, with her creamy colored pearls
and her white, white skin.
“They’re some sort
of punch cards, darling,” her mother said. “They’re for your father.”
“I love them,”
Marigold said.
Trude raised an
eyebrow. “Even more than Will Carrington?”
Marigold bit her
lip to keep from laughing. Her mother didn’t know about her silly crushes.
“Yes, even more than he.” Marigold spread the cards out upon the table. They
looked vast and impersonal, like in that film. What was it? Metropolis.
Oh, yes, she thought, just like Metropolis. “Say, Moms, how about I take
some pictures of you and Trude with these cards?”
“Aren’t you girls
supposed to be doing your algebra or something?”
“Yes, but let me
take your picture first, Moms, and you should wear that dress, you know, with
the print just like these cards.”
“Marigold.” She
loved the way her mother folded the R in the word Marigold. It was always under
the tongue with a delicate precision used by those whose English is flawless
albeit foreign.
“Come on, Momsy.
You’ll be the living embodiment of industry, and Trude will be the future.
It’ll be fun!”
Her mother
chuckled and left the room, only to reemerge in her dress with the printed
dashes and circles just like the punch cards. In her hand was a large silk
scarf printed with the same design.
“We’ll stack them
like this. Then Trude, lean on them here and look up at Momsy, like so.”
Marigold opened
her camera case. She looked through the lens and adjusted the aperture. Her
models struck a pose. The light in the foyer was bright, bright. Her mother was
cool, aristocratic, and Trude simply brimming with life. Both of them were
beautiful. Marigold wound the film and pressed the button.
“Perfect,” she
said and wound the film again.
Suddenly, her
mother waved an arm and the scarf fluttered outward, like a wing. Trude moved
her own arms upward.
“Wonderful!”
Marigold pressed the button. “Wonderful!”
She did it again,
then her models adjusted their poses in varying degrees, leaning away and
toward each other.
“Fabulous!”
“What are you
doing? Put those down.” Marigold’s father stood in the doorway. “Don’t touch
those. Put the camera down.” Suddenly, he roared, “I said put the camera down!”
“Sorry.” Marigold
looked down at the ground. There was a tense silence It was the same silence
which often occurred when Marigold’s parents were in the same room.
Her
mother said, “She was merely experimenting.”
“Not
with my cards, she’s not. Stupid girl.”
“Ta
gueule, Arnold.” Her mother had been from Arlon, in Belgium. But she rarely
spoke French. “Don’t talk to her so.”
Marigold
watched her mother go into the kitchen as Trude gathered her coat and slipped
out of the apartment.
Make
amends, Marigold warned herself. “Excuse me, Dad.” She stacked the cards and
returned them to their boxes. “I just thought—”
“Don’t
think. They’re not for you.”
“Sorry.”
“They’re
for my German clients.” He glanced at himself in the mirror, his reflection
confirming his golden hair and hazel eyes were still handsome, still
distinguished.
“Sorry,”
she said again. “What are they used for?”
“These
cards store information. Who is doing what and how much of it they’re doing.
Like who’s buying how many apples, or how much money is withdrawn from a bank.
Who lives where in what part of town. It’s the latest technology, Marigold.
They revolutionize how records are kept. And they come from IBM. They’re the
future. Not props for a childish fashion show.” With a small nod, he took a
lapel pin out of his pocket. “Help me with this.” He held it out to her and
Marigold obliged, fastening it behind the worsted wool as he added, “I’m going
to present them at tonight’s dinner.”
She
turned the pin. The black lines echoed themselves as they had when the symbol
meant good fortune, in Asian religions, long, long before it was used by the
German government. Marigold rotated the pin the other way, so the black lines
inside the white circle with the red background appeared in a more upright
position.
