As the countess went on talking, Marta studied the translucent linen day dress with its tiny pin tucks, lace insertions, white embroidered flowers and leaves, and swirls of passementerie. She knew the hours and cost to make such a dress.
“Fräulein Schneider, stand.”
Marta rose, wondering why the countess had singled her out from among the others.
“I expect you to pay attention when I speak.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Yes, Countess. And you will curtsy when you rise next time, and curtsy again before speaking.”
Marta felt a rush of heat flood her cheeks. One hundred and fifty francs to learn how to be treated like a slave! One hundred and fifty francs Papa would expect to be repaid whether she completed the course or not. Clenching her teeth, Marta curtsied. “Yes, Countess.” She curtsied again.
Countess Saintonge’s dark eyes surveyed her coolly. “Did you hear anything I said, or must I repeat it all?”
Marta dipped again. “Yes, Countess. I heard.” She began to tell her word for word until the countess lifted one of those delicate hands to stop the flow. The countess gave a slight nod for her to sit. Marta remained standing. The countess inclined her head lower this time. Marta stared back at her. The countess’s cheeks flushed pink. “Why are you still standing, Fräulein Schneider?”
Marta dipped more slowly this time and a few inches lower. “I awaited your command, Countess Saintonge.” She heard the nervous shifting of bodies around her. With another curtsy, Marta took her seat.
When class ended, Countess Saintonge told her to remain behind. “Marta Schneider from Steffisburg, is that correct? What does your father do?”
“My father is a tailor and my mother is a dressmaker.”
“Ah!” She smiled. “That’s why you were staring. . . .” She looked at Marta’s shirtwaist and black skirt. “Did you make what you’re wearing?”
Wondering at the woman’s change in manner, Marta dipped just to be cautious. “Yes, Countess.”
The countess’s mouth curved with an odd, pleased smile. “Wonderful. You can make the uniforms.”
Marta stiffened. “Will I have spare time?”
“Most of your evenings will be free.”
Her evenings might be free, but she wasn’t. “If you have the materials, we can discuss wages.”
The countess’s dark eyes widened in surprise. “What would you demand?”
Marta made a swift mental calculation and named an elevated sum for the uniforms.
“That’s outrageous!” The countess named a lower price.
Marta raised it. “And if I am expected to provide the materials, I will require the funds for that in advance, and the rest paid before I hand over the uniforms.”
“You’ve been cheated, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t, but my father and mother have.”
“Is that any reason not to trust me?”
“This is business, Countess.”
The countess’s eyes lit up with amusement. After several rounds, she agreed on a price slightly above what Marta had decided was fair. When everything had been settled between them, the countess laughed. “Fräulein Schneider, you are not like any girl we’ve ever had before.” She shook her head, eyes sparkling. “I doubt you will ever be a proper servant.”
Marta wrote to Rosie and received a swift answer.
What do you mean you doubt the Countess Saintonge is a countess?
Letters flew back and forth with the speed of the trains.
The countess sounds German one day and French the next. I heard C and C speaking English in the parlor yesterday, though they shut up fast enough when they saw me in the doorway. Actors, perhaps? Frau Yoder says it is impolite to ask. The pair of them could even be Swiss! I intend to take Mama’s good advice and learn all I can. . . .
Perhaps they are just very good at languages and have absorbed the proper accents. . . .
Did I forget to tell you C and C have parties every Friday and often have overnight guests on the weekend? C and C say everything is planned in order to train us. If that is true, then I am a cheesemaker’s daughter. I have said nothing of my suspicions in my letters home, but I will tell you. This house is large enough to need eight full-time maids to keep it clean and neat! C and C have taught us how to wash windows, floors, and chandeliers. Frau Yoder has taught us how to wax and polish banisters and floorboards. We dust figurines, beat dust from the drapes, clean rugs. We change beds. This place turns into a hotel from Friday night through Sunday afternoon. How can I not admire such audacity? C and C found a way to make servant girls pay for the privilege of maintaining their mansion!
Are you writing all this in your journal?
I’m saving the journal for better things.
She had filled only one page, with recipes of the Beckers’ best-selling bakery goods.
* * *
Marta never worked Sundays. She walked down the hill and across the bridge, into the old city to attend services at the Berner Münster, the most famous gothic cathedral in Switzerland. She loved to linger at the portal, studying the carved and painted figures. Green devils with red maws fell into hell while white and gilded angels flew to heaven. After church, Marta walked the Marktgasse, its arcades lined with shops bustling with customers. She bought chocolate and a pastry and sat near the Samson Fountain, thinking of Mama and Elise. She went to see the Bundeshaus and the Rathaus. She bought carrots and fed the brown bears at the Bärengraben, along with a dozen other visitors to Bern who had come to see the city’s mascots. She liked to buy a cup of chocolate and stand beneath the western gate and clock tower, waiting for the show when the hour struck. By the end of two months, Marta knew every cobblestone street and fountain in the old city.
Mama and Elise sent a letter once a week. Nothing changed. Mama was making another dress for Frau Keller. Elise stitched the hem. Papa worked hard in the shop. Everyone was well.
We miss you, Marta, and we count the days until you come home. . . .
Every Sunday, before going back up the hill to the school, Marta sat near the fountain depicting Samson breaking the jaws of a lion and wrote to Mama and Elise. She told them what she was learning about housekeeping, leaving out her suspicions of the so-called count and countess. She described the city.
I love Bern. Standing in the Marktgasse is like being inside one of Frau Fuchs’s hives. . . .
Rosie suggested she stay.
Have you thought about living in Bern? Think of living in Zurich! Wherever you go, you must write and tell me everything!
Near the end of her six-month course, Papa wrote.
I expect you to return home as soon as you receive your certificate. Ask the count and countess for a recommendation.
He enclosed enough francs to buy a one-way ticket to Steffisburg and a notice. Schloss Thun had an opening for a maid.
4
On graduation day from the Haushaltungsschule Bern, Marta received a fancy diploma, a letter of recommendation signed by Count and Countess Saintonge, and a uniform with HB embroidered in black silk on the pocket of the white apron. She also had the francs she had earned tucked into the purse Mama had given her. She boarded the early train home. When she arrived in Thun, she went straight to the castle and asked to speak to the mistress of housekeeping.
When Frau Schmidt came into the office, Marta took an immediate, instinctive dislike to the woman as she looked down at Marta with disdain. “You asked to see me, Fräulein?”
Marta handed over her documents. The woman put on wire spectacles to read them. “You will have to do.” She handed the documents back to Marta. “You can start right away.”
“What pay do you offer?”
Frau Schmidt looked affronted. She took off her spectacles and tucked them into a small case on a chain around her neck. “Twenty francs.”
“A week?”
“A month.”
Marta forgot all the lessons Frau Yoder had taught on diplomacy. “An untr
ained dishwasher is paid more than twenty francs a month!”
Frau Schmidt harrumphed. “Everyone understands what a great honor it is to work in Schloss Thun, Fräulein!”
“As great an honor as working at the Haushaltungsschule Bern, I imagine.” She tucked her documents back into her knapsack. “No wonder the position is still open. Who but a fool would take it!”
When Marta arrived home, before Mama could reach her, Elise let out a cry of pleasure and flew into her arms. As Marta held Elise, she saw the changes that had occurred in Mama during the six months she had been in Bern. Dismayed, she set Elise aside. Mama patted her cheek rather than embrace Marta, who took her hand and kissed it.
Papa barely raised his head from the garment he fed through his sewing machine. “When do you plan to apply for that job at the castle? You should go now or it’ll be gone.”
Marta looked over her shoulder. “You could welcome me home, Papa.”
He raised his head and gave her a cold glare.
“I went to the castle before coming here. I turned down their offer.”
His face reddened. “You did what?”
“I assume you sent me to school so that I would earn more than twenty francs a month, Papa.”
“Twenty francs!” He looked taken aback. “That’s all the castle pays?”
“Frau Schmidt looked like Frau Keller’s twin sister. She seemed to think the great honor of working there is worth the lesser pay.”
Papa shook his head and pumped the sewing machine pedals. “The sooner you find work, the sooner you can repay the money you owe me.”
She’d hoped he might congratulate her on her graduation, that he might feel some pleasure in having his elder daughter home. She should have known better. “I’ll start looking first thing tomorrow morning, Papa.” He’d get his tuition and book money, though there had been no books! How she wished she could tell him he’d been duped, but he’d only take it out on her. Nor did she dare take the satisfaction of telling him she’d earned back twice what he paid those two scoundrels by demanding a fair wage.
Mama looked tired, but happy. “It’s so good to have you home.” She coughed. Unable to stop, she sank into her chair, covering her mouth with a soiled rag. When the spasm finally ended, she looked drained and gray.
Elise looked at Marta. “It’s been worse the last month.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“She doesn’t go to the doctor.” Papa pulled the garment carefully from the machine. “Doctors cost money.”
Marta got up early the next morning and prepared coffee and Birchermüsli so Mama wouldn’t have to do it.
Mama came into the kitchen looking drawn and pale. “You’re up so early.”
“I wanted to talk with you before I go out.” She took Mama’s hand and folded the francs she’d earned into it.
Mama gasped. “How did you come by so much money?”
“I made the school uniforms.” She kissed her mother’s cold cheek and whispered. “I did spend a few francs on chocolate and pastries, Mama. I want you to see the doctor. Please . . .”
“It’s no use, Marta. I know what’s wrong.” Mama tried to press the money back into Marta’s hand. “I have consumption.”
“Oh, Mama.” She started to cry. “Surely he can do something.”
“They say the mountain air helps. You must put this away for your future.”
“No!” Marta tucked them deeply into Mama’s apron pocket. “See Dr. Zimmer. Please, Mama.”
“And what would Papa say if I went?”
“Papa doesn’t have to know everything. And don’t worry about his money. He’ll get it.” A little at a time.
* * *
Marta found a job in the kitchen of the Hotel auf dem Nissau, famed for its magnificent view of the mountains. A dining platform had been built above the hotel, and guests made the climb each morning, enjoying a sumptuous breakfast and the sunrise.
After less than a month, Chef Fischer told Marta to report to the supervisor for reassignment. Herr Lang told her she would carry trays of meals up and dirty dishes down the mountain. Her pay would also be lowered, and she would receive only a small share of the servers’ tips.
“What did I do wrong, Herr Lang?”
“I don’t know, but Chef Fischer was furious. She wanted you dismissed. What did you do yesterday?”
“I measured out the meats and spices for her sausage. I had everything—” She grew indignant. “Why are you laughing?”
“You were too helpful, Fräulein.” He snapped his fingers and motioned to a woman in the blue Dirndl costume of the restaurant. “Guida will show you what to do. You’ll need to change into a Dirndl before you can go up to the platform.”
As Guida searched through the rack of uniforms in a small dressing room, Marta grumbled about being kicked out of the kitchen. “I could make her sausages if she wanted to take a day off.”
“You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? You’re fortunate Chef Fischer didn’t stick a fork in your back! The old crone guards her recipes the way a banker guards his vault. No one is allowed to know what she puts in her sausage. She’s famous for it.”
“I wondered why my questions always annoyed her. I thought she expected me to figure out things for myself.” It had taken three weeks of watching before Marta finally figured out all the ingredients and proper portions. She recorded everything in the book Rosie had given her.
On her way home, she ordered beef, pork, and veal from the butcher, asking him to grind them and have everything ready on Saturday. She purchased the spices she would need, then worked late into the night so the family would have Fischer sausages, Rösti—fried potatoes—tomatoes Fribourg-style, and cherry bread pudding for dessert.
She set aside enough for Rosie to sample.
Pleased, she watched her family devour the meal. Mama and Elise complimented her cooking. Even Hermann had something nice to say. Papa paid her no compliments, but when Hermann reached for the last sausage, Papa got his fork into it first.
* * *
“I hope you like it, Rosie.” She bit her lip, watching her friend sample the sausage. “I didn’t use all of the spices Frau Fischer does, but I added some allspice.”
Rosie raised her head, eyes gleaming. “It’s wonderful!” She spoke with cheeks bulging. “Mama would die for this recipe.”
“I’ll write it out for her.” Marta flopped back on the spring grass and put her hands behind her head. “I have others, too, for Streusel, Jägerschnitzel, and Züricher Geschnetzeltes.”
Rosie licked her fingers. “Are you going to start a restaurant?”
Marta snickered. “And have Frau Fischer coming after me with her meat cleaver?” She looked up at the cloudless blue sky and allowed herself to dream. “No. I’m just collecting the best so that someday, when I have a hotel or boardinghouse, I’ll know how to cook well enough to keep my guests happy.”
“They’ll be happy and fat!” Rosie laughed. She flopped back beside Marta. “It’s good to have you home, and not just because you’ve learned how to make the best sausage I’ve ever tasted!”
“I’m not going to stay long.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every muscle in my body aches. I’m nothing more than a pack mule carrying trays up and down the mountain. I need to find another job where I can learn more. And there are none in Steffisburg or Thun.”
Rosie grinned. “Think of the honor of working inside the walls of Schloss Thun!”
“Very funny.”
“Go to Interlaken, then. It’s not so far away you couldn’t come home every few weeks to visit. We could still have our walks in the hills. My father could help you. He knows the manager of the Germania Hotel.”
Herr Gilgan was more than willing. He wrote Marta a letter of recommendation. “Derry Weib always needs good workers. I’ll send him a wire.” A few days later, he told Marta that Herr Weib needed an assistant cook. “He’ll pay fifty francs a month, and you�
��ll have a room off the kitchen.”
Mama congratulated Marta on her good fortune. Papa didn’t care where she worked as long as she paid him twenty francs a month. Elise took the news poorly. “How long will you be gone this time? And don’t tell me to sleep with the cat. She purrs and keeps me awake.”
“Grow up, Elise!”
Her sister burst into tears and turned to Mama for comfort, then felt too sick to attend church the next day.
“Mama, you can’t keep coddling her.”
“She has such a tender heart. She’s easily bruised.”
When services ended, Papa stood talking with other business owners, discussing hard times. Hermann went off with his friends. Mama tucked Marta’s hand into the crook of her arm. “Let’s take a walk. It’s been a while since I’ve gone up the hill to the meadow. Remember how we used to walk there when you were a little girl?” They stopped several times along the way. “You’ve been restless all week, Marta. Something’s on your mind.”
“I’m worried about you, Mama. You work too hard.”
She patted Marta’s hand. “I do what needs to be done, and I enjoy it.”
She sighed. “So you’re going to Interlaken. I think this will be the beginning of a long journey for you.” She walked more and more slowly, each breath more difficult. When they came to the bench near the road to Hotel Edelweiss, Mama could go no further. “When I was a girl, I walked all day in the hills.” Her lips had turned a faint tinge of blue despite the warmth of the afternoon.
“We should go back, Mama.”
“Not yet. Let me sit awhile in the sunshine.” Mama didn’t look down over Steffisburg, but up at the heavens. A dozen finches flew by, chittering as they landed among the branches of a nearby tree. A crow had come too near a nest and smaller birds attacked wildly, driving it away. Mama’s eyes shone with tears. “Papa called you a cuckoo bird, once.”
“I remember.”
She had been five or six at the time, and Papa had flown into one of his drunken rages. He grabbed her by the hair and shoved her across the room to the mirror. “Look at you! You’re nothing like your mother! You’re nothing like me! Dark hair and muddy eyes. It’s like some cuckoo laid her egg in our nest and left us stuck with her ugly chick. Who will be fool enough to take you off my hands?” Papa had let go of her so abruptly, Marta fell against the mirror and cracked it. “And now bad luck on top of everything else!”
Her Mother's Hope Page 4
