Days of Winter

by Cynthia Freeman

  “Indeed she has, and it’s about time. I’m not going to live like a poor relation …Also, I can’t go on wearing your sable, so I’m buying one. The furrier will be here at five.”

  Solange shook her head and sighed. “I think you’re being terribly extravagant. Remember, Rubin isn’t made of money. I think a little restraint on your part is in order.”

  “If I couldn’t afford it, I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Well, I’ll say one thing for you. If you joined Kitchener’s forces, the war would be over tomorrow.”

  “I may suggest that to the war office.” Magda laughed with delight.

  “Any other plans, Magda?”

  “No. That’s about it for today. But tomorrow the painters are going to start on the nursery. This child of mine … ours … is going to be treated like the princess she is. After all, her great-aunt is a countess.” Whereupon Magda got up and walked out of the room like an empress.

  That morning the letter came, only the second since the one responding to the news of the baby.

  Dearest Magda

  My thoughts are always of you …Your beauty and love keep me going …The war is terrible, but probably much exaggerated in the papers. Don’t believe everything you read …Take care of yourself, I beg you …We have so much life ahead of us …I hoped the war would be over by now but it seems there’s a good deal of real estate to be taken. And I probably won’t be with you when the baby is born … although I pray I will. Well, give my love to Solange and gratitude for all she’s done …Tell her that France is on the right side … thank Mother for the cakes.

  Love to all, Rubin.

  Magda went straight to the phone and put through a call to the Hacks.

  “Hello, Martin. This is Mrs. Hack … Mrs. Rubin Hack …Well, thank you, you’re very kind to ask. Yes, I got a letter today. Is either Mr. or Mrs. Hack in …? Would you be good enough to take a look at the post and see if there’s anything from Mr. Rubin …? Yes, I’ll hang on …Two, you say …Oh, thank you, Martin. Please tell the Hacks I’ll speak to them later. …”

  Hanging up, she sighed deeply. At least it seemed Rubin was safe … for the time being.

  No feelings stay the same, not pain, not boredom, not happiness. Emotions change, like circumstances, as life and events move forward.

  In the weeks that followed, Magda and Solange finished the nursery and bought all the clothes, the toys. A nurse had been hired to live in. She would help with the birth, and take charge of the baby later.

  Magda rarely went out. Her abdomen was so large she moved about only with a great deal of effort. Occasionally, they went for a drive in the gray Rolls-Royce. Magda loved it. It was just like Nathan’s. But she wasn’t happy with the chauffeur. He was much too old for service, but he was the only chauffeur she could find. And he looked presentable in his uniform. His manners were good, his credentials were not only excellent but many—he had outlived any number of employers. Still, Magda held her stomach each time he turned the corner a little too close to the curb, and was always grateful to get home in one piece.

  She had dinner in bed, with Solange for company. Each night she wrote Rubin about the day’s events … describing the nursery in great detail … the layette … the nurse. Rubin would like her. She was not what Magda expected an English nurse to be. She was jolly … reassuring, and a joy to have around.

  “July 12, 1915. Dearest Rubin,” she began. “Your bravery touches me deeply. You try to shield me, I know, but I want to share with you everything—” She stopped writing and touched her abdomen. The first pain had started. Quickly she put down the letter and went to Solange. “I think it’s started,” she said joyfully.

  “You’ve had a contraction?”

  “Yes.” Magda smiled. “By tomorrow Rubin will have his son.”

  Nurse Williams summoned the doctor. Methodically, she went about the business of bringing a new child into the world, a thing she’d never quite become matter-of-fact about. She still marveled at the miracle of each new baby born.

  The birth was an easy one. Magda had been in labor less than five hours. The doctor slapped the child on the buttocks and a new cry was heard in the world.

  Magda lay back, soaking wet. She smiled at Solange, who was holding her hand. “We did it!” she said. “We did it.”

  Stroking Magda’s damp hair, laughing, Solange said, “You did it, my dear …You …”

  Magda smiled up at her. “I want to see my son.”

  “I made a slight error, Magda …It’s a beautiful little girl.”

  Magda cried, happily. “I wanted a daughter, Solange. I did. And I love this baby as you said I would … I hope God will forgive me for the things I said. …”

  When the infant was placed in Magda’s arms, she trembled with shock …The child was her … a small replica. At birth this baby was like no other child Magda had seen. Although she weighed only six and a half pounds, she was not red or scrawny or wrinkled as most newborns were. She was plump, delicately pink and white, with a perfect head of burnished light-brown down. Her tiny hands, which Magda held, were tapered as though they’d been sculptured. In awe, Magda said, “Did you ever see anything so marvelous? She’s going to be a princess, the talk and envy of London society. She’s a Hack. Her father is the son of respected barristers going back three hundred years. Her grandfather is a member of the House of Commons. Her grandmother is a great and revered lady. But most of all she is Magda Charascu’s child. And … she’s the godchild of her great-aunt, the Countess Boulard. Now what do you think of that?”

  Solange smiled. Magda, my dear, naïve little Magda. We’ll be fortunate if she’s accepted into a good school. But today Magda was entitled to her dreams. “I think she’s fortunate to be so loved.”

  “Oh, Solange, she is. You don’t know how many nights I laid awake and felt her body moving and kicking.”

  “What will we name her? We never talked about a name.”

  “Jeanette,” said Magda. “That was my mother’s name.”

  Solange repeated, “Jeanette. Jeanette Hack, it’s a beautiful name.”

  “Well,” Magda said, “her namesake was a beautiful woman.”

  Miss Williams came in to take care of her charge. Reluctantly, Magda let her go.

  “I’ll bring her back when she’s ready to be nursed,” Miss Williams assured her.

  Magda got ready to give her the news. The time was now. “Miss Williams, I’m not going to nurse.”

  “But you discussed nursing with Doctor Bemiss.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Solange frowned. “Magda, I know you’re tired, but I think you should nurse.”

  “No, Solange. I’ve thought about it. When I’m up again, I want to do volunteer work for the war effort. Nursing would be very confining.”

  “But your first duty is to your child.”

  “You don’t need to remind me of that, Solange.” Magda spoke without anger. “Now, darling, I’m really very tired. …”

  As Solange stood in the hall just outside Magda’s closed door, she thought, Isn’t it too bad not to have any illusions …? To be blinded by love is better … Magda would love her child, of that Solange was certain, but on her own terms, as she loved Rubin … in her own fashion. Magda was a bundle of contradictions. She loved and hated with equal passion. She was restless, arrogant, compassionate, generous, selfish and kind. Solange wondered what there was about this girl, such a paradox of nature, that made her love her so much. She shook her head, unable to figure it out. But one thing she knew: Magda would always be a free, uncontrolled spirit.

  She would always keep a part of herself that was only Magda’s … and Magda’s alone.

  The battle at Verdun had been fought in the terrible August heat. The men lay exhausted in the trenches, their lips parched dry and blistered. Listlessly, they talked of what kept them going. …

  “Bloody well to survive, I’d say …Self-preservation, first bloody law of nature.”
<
br />   “I hope the next one doesn’t miss me. …”

  “If I can make it today, I’ll live to be a hundred.”

  “For God’s sake, why don’t they blow up the whole bloody world and let the rats take over?”

  “At least they’re not killing us with gas.”

  “I’d like to ram a bayonet up the Kaiser’s ass.”

  “Hell’s got to be better than this.”

  “If I ever get back, I’m going to stay in bed with a girl for a whole bloody year and never take my pecker out. Of her, I mean!”

  Rubin lay back against the wall of the trench, completely spent. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. Every day was the same, filled with carnage, the explosion of cannonfire, suffering, killing, dying. And for what …? To gain a little more ground. Shutting his eyes he tried to go to sleep.

  “Hack!”

  “Yeah?”

  Someone handed him a letter. It was from Magda, postmarked July 14. What was today? He’d lost all track of time.

  “Hey, somebody, what’s the date?”

  “August 22.”

  My God, he’d completely misplaced July. He tore open the letter and began to read. …

  “Hey!” he shouted, bolting upright and throwing his helmet in the air. “I’m a father. It happened yesterday, I mean, the day before this letter was sent.” Jesus …For a moment it didn’t seem possible. But somewhere in the world there was sanity. Somewhere there were beautiful things … like a beautiful new person named Jeanette … Jeanette Hack … a daughter …

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS WINTER, AGAIN. And Sara Hack was busy in London. Daily, troop trains rolled in and out of Victoria Station … returning the sick and wounded. She was a Red Cross volunteer. She served biscuits and tea in all kinds of weather, snow … sleet …Aching with fatigue, still she served until she could no longer stand on her feet.

  One night after she’d collapsed into bed, Nathan chastised her. “You know, Sara,” he said, “you can’t go on working this way. It’s beyond your endurance.”

  Sara smiled at the face she had loved for so long. “Nathan … would you really have me not do my share?”

  “You do more than your share … that’s the trouble.”

  “But we’re so fortunate. Our sons are still alive. And Phillip is home to stay.”

  “Yes, he’s home … minus an arm.”

  “I work with a woman who’s lost six sons, Nathan. Six. And still she never stops giving.”

  “I’m sorry for her,” said Nathan, “but I must insist that you devote yourself to less strenuous efforts.”

  She smiled.” Like what?”

  “Rolling bandages. Attending charity functions the way Matilda and Sylvia do. Work that’s less demanding.”

  “We’ll see, Nathan. We’ll see. …”

  “You’re a very difficult woman, Sara. Very difficult.” But her eyes were already closed in sleep.

  That night, Sara’s cough became so bad that Nathan summoned the doctor. He waited outside their room while the doctor examined Sara. Finally he came into the hall from the bedroom. Nathan could tell from the look on the doctor’s face that Sara was seriously ill.

  “She has pneumonia.”

  Nathan had to lean against the wall for support. The doctor promised to try to send a nurse.

  Nathan sat up with Sara through the night. Her condition worsened. By dawn she was coughing blood. The nurse arrived at nine.

  At four that afternoon Sara was gone. Nathan sat at her bedside, alone in the silent room, bewildered … disbelieving, looking at Sara’s uncovered face in repose. Incoherently, he spoke to her as though he expected an answer. “How could you leave me, my dearest Sara …? Come back … come back …” On and on he grieved. He lay his head against her face, weeping uncontrollably, unaware that he was doing so.

  The family had been summoned …They sat in somber silence. Nathan seemed to have the strength of a fortress in his bereavement. He wouldn’t accept a word of consolation. This was a sorrow not to be shared …What comfort could mere words bring him …? The sorrow was his alone to bear.

  Maurice whispered in his father’s ear. “Father … I leave it up to your discretion … but for the sake of Rubin’s wife, wouldn’t it be kinder if she didn’t attend the service?”

  Nathan shook his head in disbelief. Even in the face of death, Maurice’s prejudices were in the forefront. Firmly, Nathan answered: “Magda is Rubin’s wife. She will be respected as such …In my son’s absence, Magda Hack will be present.”

  Maurice looked meaningfully at Phillip, a look they both understood. Neither wanted Nathan to think the suggestion had been made for anyone’s sake except Magda’s.

  “You’re quite right, Father. I’m sure Maurice realizes how thoughtless he was.”

  Maurice agreed. “Indeed I was. Please forgive me, Father.”

  Nathan did not answer …There was no need to.

  The family crypt—home to the departed Hacks for many, many years—was opened to receive the last remains of Nathan’s beloved Sara. Maurice and Phillip stood on either side of their father as Matilda, Sylvia, and the six grandchildren stood behind him. Magda and Solange stood to one side. In Nathan’s grief, he realized that three of his loved ones were not present. Families should be together. Leon, Rubin, and Deborah were missed.

  After the eulogy, the rabbi left the family alone and waited outside. Finally Maurice said quietly, “Father, I think it’s time to go.” Nathan looked at him vaguely, and nodded.

  They left the small chapel, going out into the freezing December afternoon. Nathan lingered briefly, watching the heavy bronze doors being closed. He whispered, “Sleep well, my love … my life … my dearest Sara. I will lie with you each day and night until God wills that I be beside you.”

  Maurice, Phillip and their wives rode with Nathan in one limousine, the grandchildren in another. Solange and Magda were in Magda’s Rolls-Royce as the funeral procession slowly drove off.

  At sundown, after Magda had lit a memorial candle for Sara and said the traditional Hebrew prayer for the departed, she joined Solange in the drawing room. Sitting down, she looked at Solange’s tear-stained face. “Solange, I don’t know what to do.”

  “How to tell Rubin, you mean?”

  “Yes … what should I do? How should I tell him about his mother’s death?”

  “I honestly don’t know …Perhaps it would be better to hold off a while …”

  “Would it be better if the letter came from his father?”

  “How can one ask that broken man to write? Hold off for a little while, Magda.”

  “I suppose you’re right. The mails are so bad anyway. Let Rubin have a small reprieve …Knowing won’t bring his mother back.”

  In the days that followed, the only comfort Nathan found was with the baby in the flat on Wimpole Street, though secretly he wished her name was Sara. He held the child in his arms the same way he’d held Rubin so long ago.

  Of all his present children, Magda was the most understanding, the most compassionate. Perhaps, Nathan thought, it was because she, too, had lost dear ones and understood the pain. They developed a friendship that went beyond the bond of blood.

  At tea one day Magda said, “Do you remember the little synagogue on the East Side where Jeanette was blessed?”

  “Yes, of course … Sara and I were there that day.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like Jeanette to be named again. I’ve spoken with the rabbi.”

  Nathan was enormously pleased.

  When they arrived at the synagogue Nathan held his youngest grandchild in front of the rabbi. He began with the blessing of naming this child, a name to be added to the book of life. From this day on, Jeanette would be known as Jeanette Sara Hack.

  Nathan seemed to be rooted to the worn wooden floor, unable to move. Then, to Magda, with tears in his eyes: “Oh, my dearest child, that you would do this … I love you as Rubin does, but my thanks are beyond words th
at you have given me back my Sara. …She will live again through this child.”

  Sara had been gone a month, almost to the day, when Nathan was stricken with a massive coronary. Carried to his room, he was put to bed … the same bed in which Sara had conceived life, and known death. Lying against the pillows, he stared unseeing into the room. He had no fears. …What was there to fear …? Death was only the absence of life, after all. …But looking at the whole expanse of it, he thought how strange the excursion was. …A man is born into the world with a veil of placenta; it is peeled away layer by layer and exposes him, scrawny and red. He takes a look at the world for the first time upside-down, held by the feet, and is swatted on the rump but he is told, “Don’t cry, little one, this is only the beginning. You’ll feel the sting of life’s hand on your buttocks many times from the cradle to the grave.” He lies in his crib, in his excrement, and waits for someone to attend him, and one day he discovers he has feet, stands up, wobbles back and forth unsteadily, takes his first step, falls flat on his bottom, gets up and tries again. One day he stands and waddles into someone’s waiting arms, and he becomes a child, goes from puberty to adolescence, and the next day he’s a man, young and vigorous, ready to scan the heights, except by the time he reaches middle age, halfway there he becomes tired of the dizzying heights he couldn’t reach, sits back and awaits old age. His body bends over, his face wrinkles, his hair turns gray and sparse as it begins to expose the once-tiny baby head. He lies back, naked again in his excrement, and where once there were arms held out to help, now he finds there are none, and he falls asleep, never to awaken, and once again he becomes the infant, snug in the womb of the earth. …

  The nurse was standing at his bedside, pulling him back from his dreamlike reverie. “Time for your medication, Mr. Hack.”

  Laughing inwardly, he thought, You foolish old woman, how long do you think that will keep off the inevitable? Pills are for the living. …He opened his mouth and swallowed the tablet

  When he awoke, Maurice and Phillip were seated near the bed. He looked at them. How wonderful to have children. One doesn’t always approve of the things they do, but when all’s said and done, they are of one flesh. …“Have you been here long?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.