Marta's Legacy Collection
Page 9
“Chef Brennholtz trained me.”
“Why did you leave?”
“To learn French. I’m here to learn English. There are more opportunities for employment for those who can speak multiple languages.”
“Very true. Do you speak French?”
She gave a prim nod. “Assez de servir.” Enough to serve, but little more.
“You’ve accomplished much for one so young, Fräulein Schneider.” He glanced over her form again. “Dressmaking, graduate of Haushaltungsschule Bern, trained by Frau Fischer and Warner Brennholtz, delivered a baby, and managed a boardinghouse in Montreux . . .”
“I am a long way from accomplishing what I want, Herr Reinhard.”
Herr Reinhard put her form on the top of the pile. “I will see what I can do.”
Marta moved into the Swiss Home for Girls and waited. She had spent more than she intended seeing Paris. While other girls came and went, Marta kept to the house, trying to shake the head cold she had contracted on the journey to London and helping the housemother, Frau Alger, keep the common rooms clean and neat. She wondered if she had made a mistake in coming to England. The drizzling rain and heavy, soot-scented mists of London depressed her, and Frau Alger said good jobs were scarce.
A message came from the consulate, signed by Kurt Reinhard. The wife of the Swiss consul needed an assistant cook for a dinner party that evening. Marta washed and put on her uniform, packed quickly, and headed to the consul’s mansion by taxi.
She went to the servants’ entrance and found herself greeted by a harried maid. “Thank goodness!” She waved Marta inside. “Frau Schmitz is frantic. She has twenty guests arriving for dinner in less than two hours, and Chef Adalrik’s wife became ill this afternoon and had to be taken to the hospital. Another maid quit this morning. We have only one upstairs maid and me.”
After the cold, damp air outside, the heat of the kitchen felt momentarily wonderful. The familiar smell of good Germanic cooking reminded her of the Germania Hotel and Warner Brennholtz. Other things struck her as well, but she decided it was better to be in a smoky, windowless kitchen than out in the damp looking for work. She set her suitcase aside and removed her coat as the maid introduced her to the grim-faced, gray-haired chef. Adalrik Kohler barely glanced at her. “Go with Wilda. Help her set the table for twenty.”
“How many courses?”
“Four. Frau Schmitz wanted six, but I can’t manage more without my wife. When you finish, come back to the kitchen. Oh, and, Fräulein, this is not a permanent position. As soon as Nadine recovers, you will go.”
“I came to learn English. It is more likely I can accomplish that in an English household.”
“Good. Then you will not be disappointed.”
With Wilda’s help, Marta covered the table with white damask and set out the Royal Albert Regency Blue dishes with crystal stemware and silverware. Two silver candelabras and an arrangement of purple and white lilacs adorned the center of the table. Marta folded the white napkins into peacock tails and set them in the middle of each plate. Frau Schmitz, a dazzling blonde woman in her forties, came in dressed in a blue satin gown. Diamonds sparkled at her throat as she walked around the table, inspecting each setting. “It will do.” Marta gave a quick curtsy and headed for the kitchen.
By the end of the evening, Marta’s legs ached from going up and down the stairs from the basement to the second-floor dining room. When the guests left and the kitchen had been cleaned from top to bottom, Wilda took her upstairs to the fourth-floor maids’ quarters.
Over the next week, Marta worked in the smoky, airless kitchen and carried breakfast trays to Frau Schmitz in her third-floor bedroom. She carried trays to the day nursery and served the nanny and the three polite, but rambunctious, Schmitz children. She carried trays laden with crumpets, cucumber sandwiches, and tea cakes to the second-floor parlor, where the lady of the house liked to have high tea using her Royal Albert Regency Blue dishes and silver tea service. She carried more trays into the dining room each evening when Herr Schmitz came home for dinner with his wife, and more trays up to the children’s dining room on the third floor, where the nanny presided.
Nadine returned, and despite Frau Schmitz’s complaints about money, Adalrik insisted Marta remain in her employ or he would leave. “Nadine is not fully recovered. She hasn’t the stamina to go up and down the stairs twenty times a day. Marta is younger and stronger. She can manage.”
After a month, Marta caught another cold, which sank into her chest. By the end of each day, her legs ached so much she could barely drag herself up the four flights to the cold room she shared with Wilda. Collapsing into bed, she dreamed of stairs winding up like Jacob’s ladder to heaven. Flights of stairs angled to the right and left, until they disappeared in the clouds. Even after a night of sleep, Marta awakened feeling drained.
“Your cough is getting worse.” Nadine poured hot water and brewed tea with lemon. “This will make you feel better.”
Adalrik looked grim. “See a doctor before you get any worse. You don’t want to end up in the hospital the way Nadine did.”
Marta had no illusions. Adalrik wasn’t concerned about her health, but about whether Nadine would have to return to upstairs duties. “A doctor will only tell me to rest and drink plenty of fluids.”
Nadine made certain she had plenty of broth and tea with milk, but rest proved elusive and the chest cold grew worse.
“She’s ringing again,” Adalrik told Marta. An evening soiree had lasted far into the night, and Marta had been on duty until the last guest left and everything had been washed and put away. “She’ll want her breakfast served in bed.”
Marta prepared Frau Schmitz’s tray. She managed to climb the first flight of stairs before a fit of coughing gripped her. She set the tray down heavily and coughed until the spasm passed. Lifting the tray, she climbed the rest of the stairs.
“This breakfast is cold.” Frau Schmitz waved her hand. “Take it away and bring me another tray. And be quicker next time.”
Marta made it halfway down the first flight of stairs when she began to cough again. Struggling for breath, Marta sank onto a step, the tray on her lap. Frau Schmitz came out and peered down the stairwell and disappeared back into her room. A moment later, Nadine went up the stairs. Marta managed to stand and make it downstairs to the kitchen.
Nadine came in right after her. She gave Marta a pitying look. “I’m sorry, Marta, but Frau Schmitz says you must go.”
“Go?”
“She wants you out of the house. Today.”
“Why?”
“She’s afraid of contamination. She says she doesn’t want her children getting croup.”
Marta gave a bleak laugh. Oddly, she felt relieved. Another trip up those stairs and she would have come tumbling down. “I’ll go as soon as I receive my pay. And would you ask Wilda to collect my things please? I don’t think I can walk up those stairs again.” Chest hurting, she coughed violently into her apron.
When Nadine left, Adalrik put the back of his hand against Marta’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“I just need rest.”
“Frau Schmitz is afraid you’re consumptive.”
Marta felt the shock of alarm. Was she destined to die like Mama? Nothing Dr. Zimmer had done had prevented Mama from drowning in her own blood.
“Do you know of a good doctor who speaks German?”
A nurse helped Marta dress after the examination and showed her into Dr. Smythe’s office. He rose when Marta entered and told her to sit. “I’ve seen this often before, Fräulein. Swiss girls are used to good, clean mountain air, not heavy smoke and damp fog. You should go back to Switzerland. Go home to your family and rest.”
Fighting tears, Marta imagined how her father would greet her. “I’ll get more rest in England.” If Papa’s heart had not softened over Mama’s illness, he certainly would show her no kindness. She coughed into her handkerchief, thankful when she didn’t see spots of red a
gainst the white. “What I need is work in a smaller house with fewer stairs and a kitchen with a door or window.” The pain built in her chest until she couldn’t hold back another cough. When the spasm eased, she raised her head.
“Rest is what you need, not work.”
Gathering her courage, she looked him in the face. “Do I have consumption?”
“You are as pale and thin as a consumptive, but no. Frankly, Fräulein, if you don’t take better care of yourself, this can kill you quicker than consumption. Do you understand me?”
Disheartened, Marta relented. “How much rest do I need?”
“A month at the least.”
“A month?”
“Six weeks would be preferable.”
“Six weeks?” Marta coughed until she felt light-headed.
The doctor gave her a bottle of elixir and ordered her to take a spoonful every four hours. “Rest is the best cure, Fräulein. Your body can’t fight infection when exhausted.”
Sick and depressed, Marta went back to the Swiss Home for Girls. Frau Alger took one look at her and assigned her a bed in a quiet corner of a street-level dorm room. Too tired to undress, Marta flopped down onto the cot, her coat still on.
Frau Alger came with a pitcher of warm water and a bowl. “That won’t do.”
Marta shivered as the woman helped her undress and put on her nightgown. She felt an unbearable longing for Mama. When she burst into tears, Frau Alger helped her get into bed. She took the bottle of elixir and read the directions. She went for a spoon and gave Marta her first dose of laudanum, then covered her with thick blankets and tucked them snugly around her. She put her hand on Marta’s head. “Schlaf, Kind.” Marta whispered a bleak thank-you. Already, her eyelids grew heavy.
She awakened at Frau Alger’s touch. “Drink.” She helped Marta sit up enough to drink a cup of thick soup, take another dose of medicine, and sink back into bed. She dreamed of climbing stairs up and up, flights turning right and left and disappearing into the clouds. She held a heavy tray balanced on her shoulder, then paused to rest. Her legs ached so terribly, she knew she would never make it to heaven. “I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.” Mama stood above her dressed in white. “Don’t give up, Liebling.”
She awakened to the sound of church bells and fell asleep again, dreaming Mama held her hand as they walked up the road to St. Stephen’s Church. Rosie called out to her, and Marta found herself in the Alpine meadow above Steffisburg, picking spring flowers with Rosie.
Rain battered the windows, awakening her briefly. Shivering, Marta pulled the blankets up again. She wanted to dream of Mama and Rosie, but instead dreamed of being lost in the snow. She heard Elise crying out her name over and over. Marta tried to run to her, but her feet kept sinking into the snow. Crawling on her hands and knees, she looked down at the rushing water of the Zulg and saw Elise lying asleep, a baby in her arms, and a blanket of snow covering them both. “No.” She moaned. “No. No.” Frau Alger put cool cloths on her brow and spoke to her. Mama sat in the graveyard, embroidering another dress. She looked up with sunken eyes. “Don’t come back, Marta. Fly, Liebling. Fly away and live.”
Marta awakened to the sound of coach wheels rolling by. She cried, afraid if she went back to sleep, she would dream again. She heard girls come and go, and she pretended to be asleep. Frau Alger came in with a tray. “You’re awake.” She set the tray aside and put a hand on Marta’s forehead. “Good. Your fever has broken.” She helped Marta sit up.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble.” Marta felt the tears come and couldn’t stop them.
Frau Alger patted her shoulder. “Hush now, Marta. You’re no trouble. And you will be well soon. It’s hard to be so far from home, ja?”
Marta covered her face, feeling the loss of Mama and Elise more acutely than ever. “I have no home.”
Frau Alger sat on the bed and gathered Marta close, murmuring to her as she would a hurting child. Giving in to her grief, Marta clung to her, pretending for just for a moment this kind, older woman was Mama.
After a week in bed, Marta felt able to get up. The house was empty, so she fixed herself a bowl of hot porridge. Why had she come to England? She felt lost and at odds with herself. Perhaps she should have stayed in Steffisburg and helped Mama. She could have watched over Elise. Too late now to think about those things. What sort of future would she have now if she obeyed Papa and went back? Mama had known. Mama had warned her to stay away.
She gathered her courage and wrote to Rosie.
I am in England. Papa sent a wire telling me to come home. He said nothing about either Elise or Mama, and I knew he would expect me to spend the rest of my life in the shop. If I had not received a letter from Mama’s cousin, Felda Braun, I would not have known Elise had died.
I fled, Rosie. I will never return to Steffisburg. The last time I saw Mama, she said I had to go. In truth, I would rather die a stranger in a foreign land than spend another day under my father’s roof.
Cousin Felda said it was you who found Elise. I dream of her every night. She cries out to me and disappears before I can reach her. I pray God forgives me for being such a poor sister. I pray God will forgive her for what she did to herself and her child. And I pray you will forgive us, too. I will be forever in your debt.
Marta
After another week of convalescence, Marta grew restless and discontented. Mama had told her to fly, not perch inside the walls of the Swiss Home for Girls. Rest, the doctor had said, but rest wasn’t just lying in bed tucked beneath a mound of covers. Marta leaned her forehead against the glass, feeling the walls of her prison close in around her. She imagined what Mama would say if she stood in the room right now.
“God is my strength, Marta. He is my help in times of trouble. . . . God has a plan for your life. . . . Perhaps it is God who has put this dream in your heart. . . . God is the one driving you away. . . . An eagle flies alone. . . .”
She thought of Elise, too. Mama’s little barn swallow spoke to her. “I gave in to despair, Marta. If you give up, you’re giving in, too.”
Marta dressed and buttoned up her wool coat.
Frau Alger intercepted her at the front door. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Out for a walk.”
Each day, determined to regain her strength, Marta went a little farther, pushed herself a little harder. At first, she could barely walk more than a block without finding a place to sit and rest. Gradually, she went two, then three. She found a small park and sat surrounded by trees and grass, spring flowers beginning to emerge, slivers of sunlight slicing through the clouds. Sometimes she rose and stood in a spear of light, closing her eyes and imagining she stood in the Alpine meadow with Mama or Rosie.
Soon, she could walk a mile before exhausting herself. When it rained one day, she sought warmth and rest in the Hare and Toad pub. Three men sat drinking from mugs of beer, giving her a cursory glance as she found her way to an empty table in a dimly lit corner. Though she felt out of place and uncomfortable, she decided to stay. At least here, she would hear English spoken.
The men talked in low voices and then, forgetting her presence, spoke more naturally. When another entered, the three greeted him and made room. He spoke to the proprietor, handed over some coins, and took a mug of ale to the table. A few minutes later, the burly proprietor came out with meals stacked up his arm—fish, judging by the smell, and cooked in some sort of dough. She listened, trying to pick up words. Some sounded familiar, no doubt derived from German.
Gathering her courage, Marta went to the counter and tried to make sense of the English words written on the menu overhead. She understood the prices well enough. The proprietor stood behind the counter, drying a beer mug. Pointing to the menu, Marta took out a few pence from her pocket and lined them up on the counter. She put her palms together and moved her hands like a fish.
“Fish and chips?”
“Fish and chips,” she repeated. “Danke.”
Marta ate slowly, experimentally, not sure her stomach could stand deep-fried fish caked in dough. Others came in over the next hour, and the pub began to fill with men and women. Some had children. Marta felt self-conscious taking up a table by herself and left. The sun had gone down and the mist had turned to rain. It took an hour to walk back to the Swiss Home for Girls.
“Look at you, Marta!” Frau Alger shook her head. “Do you want to catch your death this time?” She made her sit by the stove and drink hot tea. “Here. I have a letter for you.”
Heart pounding, Marta tore Rosie’s letter open.
My dearest friend,
I feared you would blame me for not keeping better watch over Elise. I went to see her the day after your mother’s funeral. I should not have waited. Had I gone right after the services, Elise might still be alive. But I did wait and will forever be sorry for it. My mother went with me.
Your father said he didn’t know where Elise had gone. He said she would not come out of her room on the day of the funeral. He didn’t look in on her until the next. Your father went out to call the alarm.
I remembered how Elise loved to sit by the stream and listen to the living water. When I found her, she looked like an angel asleep beneath a white blanket of eiderdown.
I don’t know how much Felda Braun told you, but I discovered why Elise hid herself away. She was heavy with child. May God have mercy on the Meyer men for what they did to your poor sister.
I found Elise curled up on her side, as though to embrace the baby inside her and keep it warm. My father told me people who freeze to death feel no pain. I pray that is true.
You asked me to forgive you. I ask now for your forgiveness. Please do not stop writing. I love you like you are my own sister. I miss you desperately.