What Love Sees by Susan Vreeland Page B

their muscles tight, not on mixing with any people. As soon as the innkeeper gave them directions, they rushed upstairs to the single bathroom.
    “I don’t know how waiting forever to go to the bathroom will improve my character,” Lucy snapped, holding onto her arm at the elbow. Jean felt Lucy stop suddenly at the top of the stairs.
    “Don’t stop, Lucy. I can’t wait.”
    “Ssh.”
    Jean felt Lucy shift her weight back and forth. Jean did the same. Lucy fidgeted in silence. “Where’s Icy?” Jean whispered. Lucy’s arm muscles tightened and told her not to ask questions. She heard a toilet flush, heard a door open and shut, heard it flush again and heard heavy boots walk away down the wooden corridor.
    “What’s the matter?” she whispered.
    “There was a man ahead of us in a Nazi uniform.” Lucy darted for the toilet, leaving her with Icy.
    “So? Why did you shut me up?”
    “He was scary looking,” she said through the door. “He stood like he had a board in his back. No expression to his face. Didn’t even smile at us.”
    “And didn’t offer to let us go ahead, either,” Jean remarked.
    Icy giggled. “Even with his uniform he had to wait in line like anyone else.”
    “He was sort of handsome,” Lucy said through the door. “Too bad he’s a Nazi.”
    On their last trip to the bathroom that night they found rows of boots lined up down the hall. “There’s an army of Nazi officers on our floor,” squealed Icy. “They all must be over six feet tall to have boots that big.”
    “And all of them blond Adonises,” Lucy added.
    First thing the next morning Lucy gave her the hallway report. The row of tall boots gleamed.
    “Probably the job of the innkeeper’s wife to polish them during the night,” said Miss Weaver, none too cheerfully.
    The festival opera was Der Meistersinger . They had fine seats in the orchestra, right under and slightly in front of the imperial box. “Wagner’s daughter-in-law, Frau Siegfried Wagner, is supposed to make an appearance tonight, so watch that draped box,” she said.
    The opera house was packed. At an unseen signal, a hush settled through the audience. Three figures stepped from behind heavy velvet drapery into the imperial box. Immediately, everyone rose in silence and faced them. Jean heard sharp footsteps come out to the edge of the box, and the others craned their necks to see. Icy gasped. “Turn around, Jean. I think it’s Hitler.”
    “Quit teasing,” Jean whispered.
    “No, I mean it. I think it’s him.”
    “What’s he look like?”
    “He’s just standing there scowling with his chest puffed out and his lips tight.” From somewhere in the orchestra a voice shouted, “ Heil Hitler.” Then the thunderous response, “ Heil Hitler.”
    Above them, the man clicked his heels and his right hand shot out over the balcony. “ Sieg Heil ,” he bellowed, more a command than an acknowledgment.
    The audience thundered back, “ Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler! Heil Hitler!”
    The passions rose in the close, oppressive air of the opera house. Jean felt suddenly hot in her heavy quilted jacket.
    “We don’t have to do this. We’re Americans,” Miss Weaver muttered.
    Below the Führer , the six stood silent, arms at their sides. The Führer noticed and his scowl lines deepened. When the chanting stopped, he pursed his lips together, scowled down at the frozen American schoolgirls and their white-haired leader, muttered something and clamped his mouth shut just as the orchestra swung into the overture.
    Soon they were lost in the opera and its wealth of characters. The stage was alive with color, movement and song. Jean was swept away from the politically charged present. What did it matter to her, anyway? She thought of Madame Flagstad and surrendered herself to sound.
    After the performance they walked to a nearby restaurant. Seated by the window, the others could see the surge of life in the street. Against the hum of traffic, Icy described the