The German Girl by Armando Lucas Correa Page A

a house?” I asked him. As ever, Leo had the answer.
    “It’s the easiest way to obtain an entry permit. Having a house shows you won’t be a burden on the state.”
    I didn’t know where Papa went every morning; he had been banned from the university. He must have been going to the consulates of countries with strange names to get us visas, refugee papers. Or he was with Leo’s father, hatching some plot or other that could have cost them their lives.
    I imagined Papa as a hero coming to save us, in a soldier’s uniform and with a chest full of medals like Grandpa, who’d defeated the enemies of the German people. I saw him confronting the Ogres, who were powerless against his might and surrendered to his valor.
    I was starting to get confused by all these disturbing thoughts when Mama put a record on the gramophone. That was my father’s treasure, his most precious jewel. His territory.
    One day, as he was placing the shellac disk in the polished wooden box, Papa had explained the workings of this marvel that kept him in ecstasy for hours. It was a real magic trick. The sound box of theRCA Victor—which he called simply Victor, as though it were a close friend—had a moveable arm ending with a metal needle that followed at a perfect rhythm the grooves in the black disk that went around and around until I felt dizzy just looking at it. The sound waves changed into mechanical vibrations and came out of a lovely golden speaker shaped like a trumpet: an enormous bell. The first thing you heard was a whirring sound, a kind of metal sigh that lasted until the music started to flow. We would close our eyes and imagine we were at a concert at the opera house. The music poured out of the trumpet, the whole room shook, and we let ourselves be carried away. We rose into the air, an incredible experience for me.
    Then I could hear the words of her favorite aria: “ Mon cœur s’ouvre à ta voix, comme s’ouvrent les fleurs aux baisers de l’aurore! ”
    So there was nothing for me to worry about. Mama was carried away by the music of the French composer Camille Saint-Saëns, one of the records Papa used to look after carefully, cleaning them before and after he put them on Victor. It was a recent recording, with his favorite mezzo-soprano, Gertrud Pålson-Wettergren. He once went to Paris with Mama just to hear her sing. I could see the nostalgic look on Mama’s face. By now, yesterday was a distant notion for her. I on the other hand, while listening to the desperate woman’s aria, imagined myself running through meadows with Leo, climbing mountains and crossing rivers on the island where we would live.
    Nothing bad was going to happen. Papa would come home for dinner. I would go out to meet Leo, and in my atlas we would find the lost island in the midst of some unknown ocean.
    I knew what I had to take in my suitcase. The camera, with lots of rolls of film, of course. Only a couple of dresses; I didn’t need any more. I would have loved to see Mama’s luggage. She would be happy only if they let her take her jewels. The perfumes. The creams. We would need a car just to take all her baggage.
    Suddenly there were two loud knocks on the apartment door. No one had paid us a visit in months. Eva had the key to the service entrance.Mama and I stared at each other. The music went on playing. We both knew the moment had arrived, even though no one had prepared me for it. I looked at her for some answer, but she was slow to react; she didn’t know what to do.
    She rose from her bergère armchair and lifted the Victrola’s moveable arm. The disk stopped turning, and silence filled the living room, which now seemed as vast as a castle. I felt like an insect in the doorway. Two more loud knocks followed. Mama shuddered. Her lips started to quiver, but she stood very erect, lifted her chin, stretched her neck, and walked slowly toward the door—so slowly, there was time for not just two but four loud bangs that made the room