Someone to Watch Over Me

August 3, 1943

I turned twenty-eight yesterday. This is the third birthday I have known since war came to Budapest. I begged my father not to make a fuss, but he wouldn't be reasoned with. We had Mr. Bokori from next door and Mr. and Mrs. Feher from across the street over for dinner and a small party. The Solyms have gone to America. I cannot lie to my diary and claim that I did not miss their son Adorjan's company. I know that at one time, my father hoped we might make a life together, but we never cared for each other in that way. Still, I missed his ready laugh and his quick wit.

The crowning moment of the evening was when my father went to his room and pulled out this dairy. I had not expected to receive any presents. It was more than enough to have a reason to put on my green dress and smile at my neighbors. Money is scarce. But you know how Papa is, or, rather, you will. He handed me this leatherbound volume that he's been hiding since last October. Mr. Vadas from the bookshop sold it to him just before—before the bombing that destroyed the rest of his stock.

Mrs. Feher brought over her phonograph, and we finished the night by dancing to an American song called "Someone to Watch Over Me." Mr. Bokori twirled me around the living room with admirable solemnity, and admit that I did not regret my father's insistence on a celebration.

When the guests had finally left after drinks and embraces, Papa took me onto his knee as if I were all of eight instead of twenty-eight. "My daughter," he said, "you grow more beautiful each year."

I snorted. "You know very well that I am short and sharp-featured and overly outspoken."

"Yes," he agreed, smiling, "just as your mother was." I put my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

"I cannot write in the book, you know," I said. "It's far too lovely. I will save it for better days, when I have something beautiful to write."

"No," Papa answered with unexpected vehemence, "you are a writer, and you must write. Why do you think I didn't marry you off to one of the good boys from the synagogue years ago?"

"Because I'd have run away and joined the circus," I replied.

He laughed, but turned serious after a moment. "There is more in you," he said, "more than Adam Tisza or Joszua Toth could ever understand. I would rather have you single all your days, with only your pen for company, than unhappy with someone who could not understand you. Still, I wonder if I was wrong. These are difficult times, and if anything were to happen to me—" He couldn't finish, and I didn't answer. I simply put my head on his shoulder and let him hold me. There was nothing I could say. I am glad I am not married, but the days are dark.

I went to bed after a while, with this diary next to me on the pillow. I am a writer, or, at least, I was before the war. Now I work in Mr. Jonas's shop. Perhaps, some day, when my city is no longer more rubble than building, I will be a writer again. For now, I will do as my father asked and write what I can.

I awoke early this morning and fixed coffee, as I usually do. Papa was asleep in his easy chair with the Talmud by his side. He'd never made it to his bed, which wasn't unusual. While the water came to boil, I put on my gray wool dress with red buttons. I've had to repair it so many times it's a wonder it still holds together.

After drinking enough coffee to wake me up, I walked the three quarters of a mile to Jonas's establishment, one of the few shops left standing in the area. Mr. Jonas is given to pessimism and often says it's only a matter of time until a bomb finds it, but I prefer to hope otherwise.

I opened the store as I usually do, turning on lights and making sure everything was in its proper place. Before the war, we used to work in pairs or even three at a time. Now it's all Jonas can do to afford me. It's all right, though. The shop isn't large, and I enjoy my own company well enough. It's a good thing, too, because I didn't get a stitch of business until eleven o'clock, when Mrs. Halasz came in to buy her husband a white shirt. I was glad for the company, but the whole transaction took less than ten minutes, and I was left alone once again.

That was when something truly unexpected happened, and for once, it was a good something. Wartime makes one a little leery of surprises. I was rearranging the cufflink display for the tenth time when a stranger passed the front window, turned, and came back to the door. Mr. Jonas's bell dinged as the man entered, and I looked up.

He was very tall and fearfully handsome. I promise I'm not writing fiction. He wasn't in uniform, but I could tell he wasn't Hungarian. I'm not sure how to explain why; it's something about the bearing. Once you've met as many GIs as I have, you get used to the signs.

"Good morning," he said. He wasn't American. The accent was British. But the voice was the important part. It was like chocolate made out of velvet, which sounds rather disgusting, now that I think about it. His voice was not disgusting. I wanted him to speak more.

"Good morning," I said, self-conscious about my heavily-accented English. "May I help you find something?"

"A tie to go with a black suit," he answered readily.

I studied him for a moment. I make it a point to take customers' appearances into consideration when I suggest articles of clothing. He had gray-green eyes, brown hair, and the most charming smile I'd ever seen. Of course, you can't match clothing to a smile. But I took note of it nonetheless.

"How about this?" I handed him a tie with diagonal stripes in slate gray and seaweed green that echoed his eyes.

"May I try it?" he asked. I nodded. I confess, in that moment I wanted desperately to tie it for him. Silly. He walked over to the mirror and methodically knotted the piece of fabric around his neck in a Windsor Knot.

Now comes an embarrassing detail that I wouldn't tell anyone except my private diary. He caught me staring at him. His back was to me, but I was watching his reflection in the mirror. I didn't mean to. I could offer plenty of excuses, like the fact that we get few strangers in my part of Budapest or that I hadn't laid eyes on a man I didn't know for some time, but the plain truth was that I thought he was gorgeous.

He turned around quickly, and I tried to avert my eyes, but I knew he'd caught me. "This is a very lovely tie," he said.

"You are a very lovely man," I wanted to say, but I didn't. I'm sure I was blushing crimson.

"I'll take it," he said, but he was looking at me instead of at the tie. I went to the counter and waited, and he came over with money in his hand. He was at least a foot taller than I am.

"What is your name?" he asked, as I was making out a receipt.

"Anna," I answered.

"I'm Edwin Jarvis," he said. "May I see you again?"

It's a good thing I was only holding a piece of paper, because I was so surprised I dropped it onto the floor in front of the counter.

"Sorry," I said quickly, coming around to pick it up.

"No, no, let me," he said, smiling.

I went back to my place, trying to collecting myself. "I would—like very much to see you again," I said.

"I'll come back tomorrow," he replied. "Goodbye, Miss Anna." He dipped his head as he left, and I received a final smile, just for me.

I do not believe in fate, and I do not believe in love at first sight. I do, however, want to see Mr. Jarvis again. I am trying to sleep, but I can't stop imagining myself tying his tie for him. Perhaps twenty-eight is the year I grow silly.