by Alice Duncan
Totally honest. After I admitted I earned my living as a phony. Well, I never claimed to understand rich people. I could only gaze at her in wonder.
“You and your husband have suffered so horribly from that war. You understand what I’ve been through.”
“I know lots of people who lost loved ones, including my aunt. She lost her only son.”
I saw tears well in her eyes again, and they surprised me.
“The Kaiser is a devil,” she said. I got the impression she meant it.
“I agree.”
“But, you see, it wasn’t only France, Belgium, England and we who suffered under his hand. His own people have endured dreadful hardships. They were just his toys in the whole mess, and now they’re being punished for it.”
With a grimmish sort of half smile, I said, “Yes. That’s just about exactly what my husband says.”
“I’m surprised he’s so . . . so generous.”
“Billy’s always been a levelheaded sort of fellow.” Yet another deep sigh preceded my next difficult confession. “And I guess you’re both right. It’s just . . . it’s just that I’m so resentful of what the Germans did to him, it’s difficult for me to be fair.”
“I know. They killed the only man I’ve ever loved.”
We both sat there, staring across the magnificent lawns surrounding us that were interspersed every now and then with a piece of statuary or a grand tree or what have you.
Emmaline broke the silence. “But I truly would like to help Kurt if I can. In order to do that, of course, I’ll have to sponsor him.”
“Yes. I understand immigrants to this country require sponsors.”
“It’s terribly difficult for Germans to get into the United States, even with sponsorship. Providing I can manage that part, then I’d have to find him employment somewhere. That’s when I thought of the Salvation Army. I’ve supported the organization for years now. They’re about the only religious entity I respect, because they behave the way Christians are supposed to behave—at least, they behave the way Christ behaved.”
“I agree,” said I, rather surprised, since I’m a lifelong Methodist. Still, I admire the Salvation Army because they really are like Jesus in that they don’t turn up their noses at people who are poor and hungry—or even drunks or dope fiends. Maybe even if they’re Germans. And when Harold told me you were teaching a class there, I thought you might be willing to speak to the captain about Kurt.”
“Kurt is in Mexico now?”
“Yes. I doubt he’ll be able to enter the country legally unless I can get my father to write strongly worded letters to the immigration folks and to his congressman and have my sponsorship and the Salvation Army back up my claims that Kurt is both employable and has a job waiting for him after he completes the Salvation Army’s program. Then he can become a United States citizen and be safe. He’s not safe in Germany, and he’s totally alone in Mexico.”
“What sort of job do you have for him?”
“I figure he can be my chauffeur or something.”
And then, as if I didn’t already have enough on my enfeebled mind, I thought of Hilda Schwartz. I sat up straighter in my chair and said, “Oh!” I didn’t mean to. The word just slipped out.
“What?”
“I just thought of a woman in my cooking class.”
“Oh?”
Clearly, Emmaline didn’t have a notion in the world why I’d changed the subject. But I hadn’t changed it at all, and I enlightened her.
“I think she’s German, although she says she’s from Switzerland. If she is German, I’m sure she’s in the country illegally. If . . . I hate to ask you this.”
“Go ahead. If you want me to sponsor her, I’d have to meet her first, but I don’t see why I couldn’t do that.”
“And get your father to write a letter, too,” I said, greatly daring.
She eyed me and grinned a little. “I thought you hated Germans.”
“I do. But I don’t hate Hilda.” I shook my head and actually chuckled. “Very well, I’m inconsistent. But Hilda seems like a lovely woman, and I get the feeling she’s scared and lonely and needs help. Just like your Kurt.”
“He’s Stephen’s Kurt,” Emmaline corrected me gently. “Although I’ve met him.” Then, as if she couldn’t keep the emotion contained any longer, she burst out, “Oh, Daisy! He’s a boy! Even today, with nineteen twenty-one almost over, he can’t be more than nineteen years old! I don’t know how old he was when the war started, but he must have been an infant when he enlisted.”
“The Kaiser is a devil,” I said, echoing Emmaline’s sentiments.
We parted on the friendliest of terms, and I hoped we’d remain friendly. You never know about these things. Sometimes you’ll meet someone and hit it off, and you never make contact with that person again. Then again, sometimes you’ll meet someone like Harold Kincaid, who becomes a fast friend. I had to admit that I hoped Emmaline and I would stay in touch. I liked her very well. Of course, we’d have to be in touch in the near future because of our aims regarding Hilda and Kurt.
I could scarcely believe I was actually going to help a couple of Germans become United States citizens. My mind was boggled.
In my still-boggled state, I drove directly to the Salvation Army and found Johnny Buckingham in his office. He looked up and frowned, which took me aback for a moment, until he said, “Is Billy all right, Daisy? I meant to visit him, but I got busy. That’s no excuse. I’ll visit him this afternoon.”
See? I told you he was a good man.
“Billy’s as fine as he ever is, Johnny. I’m here about something else.”
His eyebrows rose inquisitively. “Have a seat.” He gestured at the chair in front of his desk.
So I did, and then got right to the point. “Johnny, I just had a meeting with Miss Emmaline Castleton—”
“Shoot, Daisy, you’re traveling in exalted company these days.” He grinned to let me know he didn’t fault me for it.
“Yeah. I know. And it’s not necessarily a wonderful thing, either.”
“Oh? Does your visit today have something to do with Miss Castleton?”
“Yes, it does. And Hilda Schwartz, too.”
“Hilda Schwartz? Isn’t she one of the ladies we’re sponsoring?”
“Yes, she is. And she claims to be from Switzerland, but I’m pretty sure she’s a German.”
“Oh?”
Johnny rose and walked around his desk to the door, which he closed gently. I guess he didn’t want anyone to overhear the rest of our conversation.
“Yes. I’ve spoken to her several times, and I’m . . . well, as I said, I’m pretty sure she’s from Germany and not Switzerland.”
He sat at his desk again and folded his hands on some papers scattered there. “Is this because you don’t want to have a German lady in your class, Daisy?” He looked so disappointed in me, I practically leaped to correct his impression.
“No! I mean, yes, it’s true I told you I hated Germans, and I do.” Frowning, I amended my statement. “I mean, I did. I still do, in general. But Hilda is a nice lady, and I’d like to know her story and, if it turns out she’s worth it, I’d like to help her become a citizen.”
“And you think you can determine who’s worth it and who’s not?”
The question was asked gently, but I knew Johnny meant to teach me a lesson. I sighed heavily. “No. Well, I mean yes. Oh, blast it, Johnny! Just listen to me, will you?”
He nodded, so I told him Kurt’s story.
“So you see,” I concluded, “we’ve got Kurt Grünfeld on the one hand and Hilda Schwartz on the other, and Miss Castleton wants to help Kurt, and I want to help Hilda.”
“If she’s worth it,” said Johnny rather dryly.
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.”
“Well? What do you think?”
He didn’t speak for at least a minute. I was getting a little anxious in the prolonged silence, but I
didn’t want to interrupt it, as I expected Johnny was considering all aspects of the situation. After a couple of moments he said, “Miss Castleton truly believes her father will write letters for these people?”
“She says so. I got the feeling she doesn’t anticipate that he’ll be easy to convince, but I don’t think she’ll give up until he does. She’s a very persuasive woman.”
He grinned at last. “She must be, if she’s got you helping a couple of Germans.”
I primmed my mouth but didn’t say anything nasty.
“Let me pray about this, Daisy. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure,” I said. I’d forgotten that Johnny always prayed about things before he made decisions. Maybe I should try the same path, although I doubted I’d do it. Too impatient, I suppose.
I made as if to rise, but he stopped me with another gesture. I remained in my seat.
“Do you really think Miss Schwartz is German?”
“Well . . . yes, I do.”
“How did you come to that conclusion? She came here as a Swiss immigrant. At least she said she was, and the Salvation Army in Mexico City believed her. Why don’t you?”
So I told him.
“You think she’s German because she likes dachshunds and doesn’t yodel?” Johnny sounded incredulous, drat him.
“It’s not just that! I’ve talked to her, Johnny. She doesn’t know any more about Switzerland than I do, and I don’t know anything. Except about the cuckoo clocks.”
“Oh, dear. This may prove to be a problem if you’re right.”
“I suppose it might. But you’ll think about it, right? You’ll let me know?”
“I’ll pray about it,” he repeated, grinning to let me know he understood my own hesitation to use that word. “And I’ll be in touch with you when God and I reach a decision.”
This time he let me get up from my seat. “Thank you, Johnny. I really appreciate this, you know.”
“I know you do.” He rose, too, because he’s a gentleman, and went to open the door for me. “Anyhow, I expect I owe you one for helping Flossie and me out with the cooking class.”
Believe it or not, I hadn’t even thought about that aspect of the situation. Now that Johnny had pointed it out to me, however, I told the truth. “You owe me considerably more than one, Johnny Buckingham!”
His laughter followed me down the hall and out the building.
Chapter Eleven
The rest of that week went as normal. I worked a couple of séances, although not for anyone interesting. Well, that’s not entirely true, since séances are, by their very nature, kind of interesting. Nevertheless, nothing eventful occurred. Rolly showed up, like the helpful chap he is, and everyone thought he and I were both wonderful. Gee, I wish my family thought as the people I worked for did. I didn’t hear from either Emmaline Castleton or Johnny Buckingham, and I wished Johnny, at least, would call and give me a progress report so that if Emmaline did call me, I could tell her something.
No such luck.
Aunt Vi and I had discussed what I should teach my students at class that day, and eventually, we’d decided upon scalloped meat.
You know, before I began teaching that stupid class, I’d always thought scallops came from the ocean. I never did figure out why cookbook makers had decided things prepared with bread crumbs should be called “scalloped.” Since chickens were the cheapest meat available at that time, Johnny said he’d get some and Flossie would cook and debone them. Thank God for that, since I’d never deboned a chicken in my entire life. But you had to use chopped cooked meat in the recipe, you see, so we figured we’d be better off if that part of the process was done early, just as we’d done when we’d prepared the chicken croquettes. Otherwise, with my talent, we might have been there for days, burning chickens. This time, moreover, I aimed to chop the stupid chickens during the class. Poor Flossie had already done enough. I was supposed to be the teacher; it was time I learned how to chop a chicken. As I’ve already said several times, thank God for Aunt Vi.
I’d just parked the Chevrolet in front of the Salvation Army and was making my way to the fellowship hall when Gertrude Minneke leaped out at me from behind a pillar. I nearly dropped my copy of Sixty-Five Delicious Dishes. Unfortunately, the book would assuredly have remained undamaged. “Good heavens, Miss Minneke! You scared me to death.”
She appeared suitably abashed. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Majesty, but I was desperate to talk to you before the class started.”
That didn’t sound good. “Oh?” I said cautiously. “Why is that?”
She actually, really and truly, wrung her hands! I’d never seen anyone do that except on a motion-picture screen. “I need to talk to you,” she whispered. “Desperately.”
There was that word again. I didn’t like it. If there was one thing I really didn’t need right then, it was to get involved in another person’s problems. I already had plenty of my own to worry about, and had been handed another, and a whopper at that, by Miss Emmaline Castleton. “Um . . . can this chat wait until after the class is over? It’s about time for it to begin.”
“Yes. I suppose so. But please don’t leave before I have a chance to speak with you. Please, Mrs. Majesty. It’s so important.”
Gertrude’s tone of voice, which clearly expressed the desperation she’d already mentioned twice, made my blood run cold. Every now and then I wished people would take care of their own problems and leave me to my own. Her problems were important to her, I had no doubt; I wasn’t so sure they would turn out to be important to me.
That however, was, I’m sure, a totally unchristian attitude, and I told myself I should be ashamed of myself. Scolding didn’t help, and neither did it help when I reminded myself that Johnny Buckingham relied on prayer and I should probably do likewise. I still wished Gertrude would find herself another confidante.
The class went pretty well, in spite of the looming threat of Gertrude’s conversation in which I didn’t want to participate.
“Let’s all turn to page ten, ladies,” said I in the teacherish voice I’d cultivated, much as I’d cultivated my Rolly voice years earlier in my career.
“Today we’re going to prepare scalloped meat. The first thing we need to do in this case is prepare approximately one cup of breadcrumbs. In order to do that, we will use stale bread and prepare the crumbs as we did when we made the chicken croquettes. This is yet another case in which stale bread need not be wasted.” Did I sound like an authoritative cooking expert, or did I not?
After we’ve prepared our breadcrumbs by placing stale bread between two pieces of paper (each) pounding them into submission with whatever heavy object was at hand—I used a hymnal I’d confiscated from the sanctuary—Flossie passed out the cooked chicken.
“We need to chop our chicken now,” I said with feigned confidence. This was the only part of the operation that frightened me, even though I’d managed to chop chicken in our kitchen at home. Still, there’s not much a slice of stale bread can do to one if one wants to crush it. The chicken, however, needed to be chopped into little bits via the use of a large, sharp knife or cleaver. Aunt Vi had drilled me in the art, which she performed with the ease of long practice. I feared I’d chop off a finger or something worse. The knife was very sharp. And that sapient point needed to be conveyed to my students.
“I know we’ve discussed this before, ladies, but it’s worth another mention. In order to chop meat safely,” I said, quoting my aunt, “you need to make sure your knife is the proper size and very well honed. A dull knife is the worst implement you can use for this task. Even though it might sound as if it would be safer to use a blunt knife, it isn’t. Dull knives can slip, and they can still, being knives and all, inflict severe wounds.” I only knew that, of course, because Aunt Vi had told me so. Well, I’d always known that knives could cut one, but I hadn’t realized that dull knives were more dangerous than sharp ones, until Vi told me. The notion still didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, b
ut I trusted my aunt.
“Mrs. Buckingham has secured the proper cutting utensils for each of you to use.” I eyed Gertrude during this speech, hoping she didn’t aim to stab me with her long, sharp knife—or cleaver—after class.
But that was silly. The poor thing was worried, not homicidal. Every now and then, I wished my imagination didn’t take off and soar as much as it liked to do.
“And,” I went on, “it’s always best to use a wooden cutting board.” Flossie passed out wooden cutting boards to the students. “Then you need to place your piece of meat on the board and, holding the knife like this”—I demonstrated, hoping I’d correctly remembered Aunt Vi’s directions, which she’d given me several times over the past few days—“and chop like this.”
It worked! I’ve seldom been so surprised in my life. Why, I could have chopped a whole side of beef if I’d been asked to do so. At least that’s what it felt like at the time. God bless Vi. She was such a trooper to teach me this stuff. I held down that piece of chicken and chopped it up like a pro.
“Of course, tastes vary,” I said, as if I knew what I was talking about. “Some folks like their chicken chopped into fine little pieces, and others prefer a larger dice. I like to use smaller chunks.” Actually, as you’d probably already figured out, I didn’t care. Vi preferred a smaller dice, and as far as I was concerned at that point in time, Vi was Queen of the Culinary Arts. Therefore, wielding my knife as if I did this sort of thing every day, I chopped and chopped until I had a little mound of chicken bits. Boy, was I ever proud of myself!
“After you get your breadcrumbs ready and have your meat all chopped up, you need to butter your baking dish.” At last we’d come to a part of the process I couldn’t botch. Probably. Hopefully.
I buttered my baking dish. My students buttered their baking dishes.
“After we have our baking dishes prepared, we’ll start filling them. Begin with a layer of chopped meat followed by a layer of breadcrumbs. You’ll need to salt and pepper each layer as you go along, and drop dabs of butter on top of each layer. Keep layering until your dish is full. Your last layer should be breadcrumbs.”
