The First Emma

by Di Maio, Camille

Mabel’s chest felt heavy hearing these things. Her own English lineage, with a touch of French on Mama’s side, deemed her safe. But if a German immigrant could be interned, even though there appeared to be just cause in this case, what did it mean for people like Mrs. Koehler’s extended family? For Erik? If, indeed, he was foreign-born like many of the others. He had no accent that she could detect, so it was difficult to be certain. But the mere threat of it worried her.

  In all likelihood, this beau of Ernestina’s had merited the detention, but Mabel had read of thousands of Japanese descendants sent to similar camps merely for having the blood of a land that was an enemy of this country.

  “Is your family safe, Emma? I hadn’t considered it before, but the sentiments against German immigrants are substantial in some circles.”

  Helga peeked in and spoke in her unceremonious manner. “Coffee for either of you?”

  Though the offer was a welcome one, Mabel was sorry for the interruption.

  Perhaps coffee was another resource that her employer had special access to. Mabel knew that a ration of one pound every five weeks was not enough even for one cup a day. It occurred to her that she should offer her ration card to Frieda. So far, she’d been fed breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day and it was only fair that she contribute to it with her own allotment.

  “Yes,” answered Mrs. Koehler. “Extra sugar for me today, Helga. I’m still quite tired after last night.”

  “I’ll take mine black, thank you,” said Mabel. Before the war, she’d added at least three teaspoons plus milk to cover up her dislike for the flavor. She’d never taken to coffee as anything other than a pick-me-up before heading to work, a necessity to get through the day. But as the rationing began, she used less and less until she’d gotten unexpectedly used to its bitter taste. Now the idea of putting so much sugar in it sickened her.

  When Helga left, Mabel returned to her question. She did not mean to delay Mrs. Koehler in telling her story—the job she was here to do—but the reality of being surrounded by so many foreign-born people and their descendants was an oddity to her and she wanted to know more. And considering that there must have been similar challenges in the previous war, no doubt it would be part of Mrs. Koehler’s narrative.

  “I was wondering,” she said again, “how safe your family is from having the same fate as Ernestina’s lover?”

  It felt scandalous to say such a word so casually, but Mrs. Koehler had used it first and there really was not one that served better.

  Mrs. Koehler removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. The words she spoke were flavored with a burdened weariness.

  “The government couldn’t round everybody up if they wanted to. They already have their hands full with the Japanese and the Italians living here. There are over six million Germans and descendants in the United States. And most of them, like my family, have been here long enough to have assimilated and prove themselves productive members of society. Even those who have not yet been granted citizenship are still entwined in their communities and give no reason for concern. For my part, as I was born in Missouri, I have no such worry. And I have properly filled out the sponsorship paperwork for each of my relatives who have immigrated. If the authorities were to come knocking on my door, they would have more than just me to reckon with.”

  She paused and spoke with pointed deliberation. “I have powerful friends.”

  Of that, Mabel had no doubt. It was part of the story she was eager to learn. But she shouldn’t distract Mrs. Koehler from that anymore.

  “I’m sorry to have sidetracked us,” she offered. “Shall we begin?”

  She looked through her notes. She could tell that the shorthand of each day’s entry grew sloppier by the end. Not so much that she couldn’t transcribe it, but she vowed to be more diligent with her neatness.

  “I believe we left off when you and Mr. Koehler arrived in San Antonio so that he could work for the Lone Star Brewery and that the chocolates and chili peppers …” she blushed thinking of its implications, “assisted you in keeping him from working long hours.”

  “Yes,” started Mrs. Koehler. But Helga knocked on the door and entered with a tray of two steaming cups. She set it down on the table between them.

  “I’ve had a telephone call from Mr. Garrels. He said that he can pick Miss Hartley up around nine o’clock tomorrow morning to tour the brewery as you requested.”

  “Not later in the week?”

  “I asked him, but he said that it is the best day for him if you don’t mind.”

  In this household, the brewery was spoken of in devout tones, voices softening with affection as if it were a member of the family, flesh and blood instead of brick and stone. She was eager to lay her eyes on this legendary place. All that could be seen from the mansion were its smokestacks. Surely it would be magnificent, befitting a woman as formidable as Mrs. Koehler.

  She tried to convince herself that this was the only reason that merited the excitement she felt. But the mention of Erik being the one to show her sent a flush to her cheeks.

  Mrs. Koehler took a sip of her coffee and nodded. “Ring him back and tell him that we’ll make it work. Miss Hartley and I can skip a day. No doubt she’d rather spend the time with a man like Bernard than with an old lady such as myself.”

  Mabel opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off. Mrs. Koehler raised her finger even as she slipped her glasses back on.

  “Don’t pretend that’s not the truth. I may be older than Moses, but I remember what it was like to be a girl your age. You’ll be going and I won’t entertain any dissent.”

  Helga left the room and before Mabel could speak up, Mrs. Koehler jumped right into her story.

  “So, yes. Otto came home to me more often in those first months. But it wasn’t long before he reverted to his old habits. And soon after that, he left Lone Star. Rather high and dry, I might add. It was quite a scandal. But you see, he received a visit from his lawyer that changed everything. For the rest of our lives.”

  .

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MRS. KOEHLER WAS ONLY half an hour into the day’s narrative when the doorbell rang. Moments later, Helga entered the parlor.

  “Ann Mauerman is here. She said she has an appointment with you at two o’clock.”

  The old woman sighed and once again rubbed her eyes. “I’d forgotten. Send her in.”

  It wasn’t like Mrs. Koehler to be unaware of the time, though the constant interruptions couldn’t be helping. The minutes on the clock pulsed through her veins as steadily as blood. Mabel knew her well enough by now to worry about this decline, though Helga and Frieda had seen signs of it for some time.

  She turned to Mabel. “The mayor’s wife. She’s purportedly here to discuss plans for the Battle of Flowers Parade. But as I’m in no condition to accept an invitation to march, I have no doubt that she’s sniffing around for funds to cover the expense.”

  An elegant woman entered wearing a green floral dress with a matching hat, a peacock feather standing tall from its velvet band. A whiff of jasmine followed her. More than a whiff. A shower of it that tickled Mabel’s nose.

  She walked into the room as if it were her own home, pulling fitted gloves from her fingers one by one and settling onto the sofa without formality. “Emma, dear,” she said in a voice that filled the parlor, “you’re looking like a marvel today.”

  Mabel looked at Helga, who was rolling her eyes behind Mrs. Mauerman’s back.

  Helga cleared her throat and held the door open. “Miss Hartley?”

  It was Mabel’s invitation to leave and she had a feeling that Helga was rescuing her from it, though she would have enjoyed staying for the saccharine encounter.

  “They’re all like that,” she whispered, leaning in to Mabel as she closed the door of the parlor. “And yet she never says no.”

  It fit the impression of Mrs. Koehler that Mabel had formed. Someone with a tough exterior and a soft inside. Like a turtle. Or a porcupine. Yet ne
ither was quite accurate. A turtle was too simple. A porcupine too bristly. Emma Koehler was really her own creature, beyond definition.

  Mabel returned instead to her bedroom to straighten up her notes, disappointed that she’d not yet gotten to the heart of the story. All she possessed so far were a lot of facts, and those were at Mrs. Koehler’s direction. She recalled her eleventh grade English teacher pressing her students: “Who’s your audience? What is the purpose of what you’re writing?”

  Mabel had complied enough to get good grades, but had not thought about it since, as none of her work required more than the automation of listening to dictation and taking it down. She reread what had been told to her this morning, but the purpose in all of it continued to elude her.

  Lawyer named Oscar Bergstrom told Otto K. that stock in association called City Brewery was going up for auction.

  Sherriff’s sale happening because an employee named Belohradsky embezzled two thousand dollars

  Financial trouble for brewery

  Oscar wanted Otto to invest. Begged him.

  Otto risked security and the goodwill of Anheuser and Busch families for venture that had no promise of succeeding

  These facts came from Mrs. Koehler’s own lips.

  But Mabel had taken to making observations of her own.

  Mrs. K. spoke of Oscar Bergstrom with agitation. My imagination? Or no?

  What was two thousand dollars worth at the time? Better narrative if I can learn that information.

  When did relationship with Anheus./Bus. get repaired? Recall Mrs. K. mentioning continued friendship/communication with that family.

  She added these to her previous notes and set her papers on the desk. Released for the day, she decided to clear her mind and find a Walgreens. Her face cream jar was almost empty and she had to use a fingernail to scrape the last bits of her favorite lipstick out of its container. She’d hardly indulged in more frivolities than those back at home as she reasoned that there was no sense spending money on them when sacrifices could be made instead for the war effort.

  But it would not keep the Bucks of the world from coming home if she purchased a little mascara, a little rouge. Why not look her best for her tour of Pearl Brewery? She tried to convince herself that it had nothing to do with seeing Erik.

  The cosmetic counter made it difficult to deny, though. It was four shelves wide, colorful boxes and bottles promising instant beauty for pennies and romance if you cultivated luscious looks.

  Pond’s called their new lipstick Beau Bait.

  Seventeen’s powder created the Natural look men go for.

  Flame Glo Keeps you kissable.

  Jergens suggested that you Be his pin-up girl.

  Maybelline said there would be More flowers for the lady with beautiful eyes.

  That was only the beginning. Barely a package could be found that didn’t convince a woman that a man would love it.

  The effect of seeing them all displayed so outlandishly hit her in a new way. Was it so impossible that a woman might want to look her best for herself and for no other reason? Should her aspiration be to look exactly like Judy Garland or Irene Dunne?

  What was wrong with being Mabel Hartley?

  Ginger knew her way around a cosmetics counter better than anyone else and had a talent for shaping an eyebrow and outlining a lip. Mabel had given it little thought until she’d met Artie, but something about getting to know Mrs. Koehler made her consider things she’d never thought of.

  Would there be a future where a woman could be celebrated for her abilities rather than how she might look in a cocktail dress and pearls?

  A flush of excitement raced through her. Maybe that could be the angle in which she would view Mrs. Koehler’s story! A woman owning a business in a time when it was unheard of. And not any woman. A widow. A widow in a wheelchair. Mrs. Koehler’s story was interesting, yes. But more than that, it offered hope to girls who were only beginning to see a world where opportunities were available to them that were never there before.

  Suddenly, mornings of dry dictation took on a new meaning and her fingers ached with an eagerness to get back to work. That’s how she needed to look at the tour of the brewery. Not merely a chance to spend time with Erik—why pretend that she wasn’t looking forward to that—but to get inside Mrs. Koehler’s world in the most literal way. Marveling at what she’d accomplished. Inspiring young women like herself with what they were capable of.

  How funny that the revelation could come in an aisle of a Walgreens, but it did. Like lightning striking.

  She made her purchases and returned to the mansion on Ashby with a sense of lightness. One that she couldn’t remember feeling since childhood. The war had weighed her down and she had let it. She’d run away from her troubles in Baltimore, but maybe that had not been the case at all. Maybe she’d been running toward something and hadn’t realized it.

  Mabel found it difficult to sleep when she went to bed that evening. Her mind was bustling at this renewed excitement and her scalp was sore from the Tip Top button curlers she’d purchased. The packaging had promised that they were “soft to sleep on” and that she would be able to “make pin curls easily,” but neither had proved to be true. Pink plastic dug into her skin and she didn’t have any aspirin on hand.

  Beauty was pain.

  This was still a man’s world and women had to look good in it. It would not change overnight and until that happened, she would slip her legs into hosiery, stuff her toes into pointed shoes, and pin her hair like her life depended on it. Certainly doors had opened for Ernestina because of how she looked. It was just the way it was. But Mabel would find ways to chip away at these notions as best she could. Perhaps through telling Mrs. Koehler’s story.

  Mabel unsnapped the round discs and laid them on the bureau next to the bed. She ran her fingers through her hair and took a deep breath before looking into the mirror. Ginger would have been proud. They were nearly perfect, cascading down her back in light blonde waves.

  She brushed them out a little more to soften them and conceal the impression that she’d gone to as much trouble as she had. Trying too hard was irrelevant if looked like you were trying too hard.

  She dabbed a light pink lipstick on, having decided against the sultry red shades advertised at the store. That would have been too much.

  Her wristwatch said eight fifty-eight.

  With the punctuality she’d come to admire in the short time she’d lived in this household, Erik ran the doorbell precisely at nine o’clock.

  Helga made it to the door first.

  “Guten morgen, Herr Garrels.”

  “Good morning, Helga. Is Miss Hartley ready?”

  Mabel reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner. “Hello, Mr. Garrels,” she said. Such formalities to maintain when everything in her body felt so askew.

  He held out his arm to her, and she took it, hoping that Helga didn’t think that the gesture was anything but chivalrous.

  Erik had pulled his car up to the house, taking the long curved driveway that started at the gate. In front of her was a shiny Ford Deluxe convertible, a model whose name she knew only because Robert had always spoken of getting one when he returned from the war. This one was baby blue with a camel-brown cover that was open despite the January date.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said as if intuiting what she was thinking. “It’s a few degrees warmer than it was yesterday and there’s no breeze. I haven’t been able to take the top down in months and I can’t think of a better occasion on which to do it.”

  She smiled and didn’t even try to keep it small and modest. It would be a true joy to ride in it, a bright spot in the sadness of losing the brother who would have loved it so much. Even if the weather had been frigid, she would have welcomed the chance.

  Erik came around to her side to open her door and she slid into the creamy leather seats. When he returned to his seat and started the engine, it sounded like a robust purr: strong and
smooth.

  “This isn’t the best way to start a friendship, but I have something to confess,” he said. “I was not entirely truthful to Helga when I called yesterday.”

  Mabel turned toward him, but his eyes were looking ahead, beginning the curve toward the bottom of the driveway.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told her to tell Auntie Emma that I was only free to give you a tour of the brewery this morning instead of later in the week. But that wasn’t true. I just didn’t want to wait any longer to see you.”

  If Mabel had been the one driving, she might have slammed on the brakes when he said that. She’d thought about seeing him again ever since they met by the empty pool in the park. Then he showed up at the family dinner. And now he was suggesting that he’d been thinking the same things.

  Women’s advancement didn’t have to exclude romance. It was the most fundamental building block of existence. But even this, she saw with new eyes: she could have a romance because she wanted to. Not because she needed to.

  She should be cautious. Such enthusiasm so quickly, on both their parts. But even if Artie had turned out to be a heel, it didn’t mean that all men were like him.

  “That is so kind of you to say,” she began. Simple and safe.

  If her restraint disappointed him, she couldn’t tell. His face was turned left toward West Ashby, waiting for the traffic to thin. She knew that the drive would not take long and decided to ask what was on her mind straightaway.

  “So, why did you tell me that your name is Erik when your aunt and everyone else calls you Bernard? And, while we’re at it, why didn’t you tell me when we met that you work at the brewery?”

  He came to a stop sign and glanced over at her. “I figured that would cause some confusion. Though in my defense, when we met at the pool, I only knew you to be a fellow soul enjoying the winter beauty of the park. I had no idea until I showed up at Auntie Emma’s dinner that you had any connection to her. I was as surprised as you no doubt were.”