Three Words for Goodbye

by Hazel Gaynor

  “Are you hurt? Here, let me help you,” I said, offering my hand and pulling a handkerchief from my pocket to stem the flow of blood from his nose. “It’s Madeleine. Madeleine Sommers. From the Queen Mary. I was coming to visit you.”

  “You are very kind, Miss Sommers, but you shouldn’t be here.”

  As I helped Mr. Klein to his feet, someone shouted. I turned to see one of the soldiers gesturing to the others. The trio started back toward us.

  Mr. Klein shot me a warning look as he pulled himself up, fumbled in his pocket, and turned the key in the lock. “Be careful, Miss Sommers. It isn’t safe.” He slipped inside his office, locking the door behind him.

  I didn’t know whether to flee, or wait to hear what the soldiers had to say. If I ran it would make me look guilty of something, which I wasn’t. And my instinct was to stay and protect Mr. Klein. Still, my heart pounded as they approached.

  “Fräulein!” one of them barked, and continued to say something I didn’t understand.

  “Ich spreche nicht Deutsch,” I said, shrugging nonchalantly in spite of my thumping pulse.

  The soldier who appeared to be in charge—or was at least the biggest bully of the three—eyed my handbag. “Papers, please,” he said in heavily accented English.

  “My passport is at the hotel. I’m a tourist. Visiting from America.”

  “How do you know that man? Klein.”

  “I don’t,” I said. I could see where this was going and didn’t like it one bit. “I met him briefly on the Queen Mary, traveling from the United States. I saw that he was hurt and wanted to help.”

  “Are you a Jew?” one of the other soldiers asked, his bright blue eyes filled with disgust.

  I stuck out my chin. “No, not that it’s any of your business. I’m not Austrian, either, and in my country we can be whatever we want.”

  I instantly regretted provoking them, but I never could hold my tongue, and I wasn’t about to start now.

  The man in charge grabbed my arm and yanked my handbag away.

  “That’s mine,” I said, reaching for the bag, but I was too late.

  He turned it over and dumped its contents onto the ground. Coins and writing utensils scattered, and my lipstick rolled into the drain. My journal thudded to the ground. When he picked it up and fanned through it, the newspaper clippings and antifascist propaganda leaflets I’d collected during the trip fell from its pages and settled all over the street.

  Heart racing, I bent to collect them, but the soldier in charge pushed me away and shouted something at one of the others. He gripped my arm again and dragged me upright.

  “That hurts!” I said, trying to pull away.

  As the two others flipped through the articles, they sneered.

  “I see we are famous, no?” the leader said, gesturing to the dozens of headlines and photographs I’d kept about the Nazi Party. “You want a Nazi man, fräulein?”

  The men laughed.

  I wanted to slap him in his smug face, for me and for Mr. Klein, and for every other Jewish person he’d laid his hands on or insulted.

  “If by famous, you mean most hated, then yes. The Nazis are reviled everywhere.” At the look on the soldier’s face, my mouth snapped shut. I couldn’t believe I’d said that.

  He let go of me, pushing me hard enough to make me stumble and nearly fall.

  “Go back to America where you came from,” he said. “Next time I won’t be so nice.”

  They sauntered off, laughing and talking among themselves.

  My hands shaking, my breathing shallow, I stooped to collect my things and then turned to check again on Mr. Klein. He had seen everything from the window. He offered a small smile of gratitude and motioned urgently with his hands for me to go.

  I hurried away. The image of Mr. Klein’s bloody nose was imprinted in my mind, and the odor of the soldier’s breath still lingered.

  Vienna had turned out to be unpredictable and volatile, in spite of its picturesque homes, stunning architecture, and the beautiful river winding through the city. I was glad we were leaving soon. We’d visit Margaret one last time tomorrow, pack up our things, and go.

  I was never so anxious to be back among the frenetic but happy bustle of New York, where a person’s religion didn’t matter, and a woman could help an elderly gentleman without getting into trouble. But one thing was for certain: those Nazi bullies had firmed my resolve to write about them and expose them for what they truly were. I owed it to Mr. Klein and his family, and to every other person suffering from their despicable show of force.

  Still shaking, I walked quickly back to the hotel. For the first time since we were young girls, the only person I wanted to see, to offer some reassurance and a sense of normality, was my sister.

  Clara

  While I’d assumed that calling off my engagement would be the most distressing thing to happen that day, it was the discovery of Madeleine’s article about Charles that upset me the most. After everything we’d been through together, she still hadn’t been honest with me, hadn’t valued the connection I’d thought we’d established. My delight for her in getting published was now tempered by my anger at the manner in which she’d done it. But even though I wasn’t yet prepared to admit it to her, I accepted that it wasn’t Madeleine who’d ruined Charles’s reputation. Charles had done that all by himself.

  We spent a frosty evening together at the hotel and went to bed early. Madeleine muttered something about running into Nazi soldiers and I could tell she was rattled by whatever had happened, but I wasn’t in the mood to offer any sympathy. Perhaps getting a fright would knock some sense into her head.

  The following morning, as we dressed to go to Margaret’s house one last time, Madeleine broke the ice.

  “Are we talking again, or not?” she asked.

  “Not,” I replied.

  She flopped onto her bed and let out a weary sigh. “I wanted to tell you about the article, Clara. Truly. You’ve no idea the number of times I almost confided in you, but I didn’t see the point in causing an argument between us, not when the piece was unlikely to be printed anyway. Or at least, that’s what I thought.”

  I turned to her, my hands on my hips. “You caused an argument between us anyway, so that didn’t work out too well, did it?”

  Her expression contrite, she shrugged and then winced as she rubbed her arm.

  “How is it?” I asked.

  “Still bruised, but I’m more concerned about Mr. Klein. They really gave him a horrible beating. I hope they didn’t crack his ribs, poor man. I really think we should go and check on him.”

  Her run-in with the Nazi soldiers had really shaken her, but besides leaving a bruise on her arm, it had also left the telltale steely resolve in her eyes that I’d come to recognize.

  “Be careful, Madeleine. Don’t go meddling in things you don’t understand.”

  “But that’s my job, Clara. To do exactly that.”

  I decided to let the conversation drop. There was no talking to her when she was in one of her stubborn moods.

  I dressed in a dusty rose silk shirtwaist with a wildflower print and pinned a few curls to the crown of my head, leaving the rest of my hair loose around my shoulders. I wanted to look my best for Margaret and needed the extra boost of confidence to confront her again.

  Meeting Margaret had affected us both. It was the culmination of the entire trip, an end point we’d been heading toward since the moment we’d departed from New York. With so much happening along the way, so many twists and turns, I’d almost forgotten how much depended on reaching Margaret and passing on Violet’s final letter. It wasn’t just the end of our journey, it was the purpose of our journey. One thing was clear: a satisfying conclusion would not come wrapped up in a pretty bow. It looked as though the end would be as messy and disjointed as the beginning had been.

  “Let’s hope she’s more welcoming today,” I said as we set out. “If she’s read Violet’s letter and it has stirred old resent
ments, she might not even let us in.”

  “Helga might see us off the premises with a bratwurst,” Madeleine added.

  I tried to conceal my laughter as a cough, but she heard it.

  “Good to know I can still make you laugh,” she said, as she started to laugh, too.

  I tried to compose myself, but the image of Helga wielding a sausage was too funny. “You’re infuriating, Madeleine Sommers. You do know that.”

  “But you still like me,” she replied. “Even if you’d prefer not to.”

  “Maybe,” I said, smiling.

  Helga wasn’t quite as frosty as we’d anticipated when she opened the door to us the second time.

  “Ah. You are back,” she said.

  “We did say we would come back today,” I replied, “but if . . .”

  “Come inside,” she added. “Margaret has been expecting you.”

  I threw a hopeful glance at Madeleine as we followed Helga into the now-familiar little home.

  This time, Margaret was sitting in a different chair. The window shutters were open, letting in a soft light that settled around her. Her hair was neater than it had been the day before and there was a little rouge on her cheeks. She wore a matching skirt and cardigan, finished with a string of pearls. She looked much more like Violet.

  “Hello, girls.” She offered a thin smile as we entered the room. “Sit. Please. Will we have some tea?”

  We both nodded. “That would be lovely,” I replied. “Thank you.”

  This was already much better than the unenthusiastic reception we’d received yesterday.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come back,” she added. “I’m afraid I was unwelcoming.”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “We must have given you quite a shock, arriving unannounced and bringing up difficult memories.”

  At this, she nodded. “It was a little unexpected, yes. But I’m glad you came.”

  “So are we,” Madeleine said. “We were so keen to finally meet our great-aunt.”

  Margaret’s smile reappeared briefly. “I don’t know anything about you. Tell me more about your trip. Your lives.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. She was trying, at least.

  As Helga returned with a beautiful tea tray, we shared tales from the Orient Express and the Queen Mary, and our lives back in New York. We talked about Violet and her famous garden parties, the charities she ran with Mother, and excursions we’d taken with her and Nellie Bly.

  “She kept in touch with Nellie?” Margaret asked, her blue eyes alight.

  “We called her Auntie Nellie,” Madeleine explained. “We spent a lot of time with her when we were little girls. She liked to shock us with her stories and her view on life.”

  “She was a remarkable woman. So confident and self-assured. And courageous,” Margaret replied. “I’ve never met anyone like her, full of energy and that devil-may-care attitude of hers. Violet followed her around-the-world race so meticulously, it was no surprise she guessed the closest time in the competition!” She paused for a moment and stirred her tea absentmindedly, as if her thoughts were far away. “Violet was so starstruck when we first met Nellie that January after her return, she could hardly speak. She thought Nellie Bly was the absolute bee’s knees. ‘Nellie this’ and ‘Nellie that’! When Violet eventually returned from Venice, we met Nellie again. She wrote about us in her newspaper, what the trip had meant to us, and how we’d changed.”

  “Yes, Violet gave us a copy of the article,” Madeleine said.

  Margaret looked surprised. “She did? She’d kept it all this time?”

  “Violet has kept everything,” I added.

  “I met Nellie again, in Austria, shortly before the outbreak of war,” Margaret continued. “She came here with her husband’s business but soon had her hand in all sorts of things. And then war broke out, and she went to report from the front line. The newspapers were shocked and said it was no place for a woman. Nellie’s response to that was typical of her.”

  “What did she say?” Madeleine asked.

  “She said the front line was no place for a man, either, but there they were all the same.” She smiled at the memory. “I think some people are meant to be in your life for a long time, the way Nellie was in mine and Violet’s. Others only stay briefly. Some aren’t meant to be there at all,” she added quietly.

  I agreed as I thought fleetingly about Charles, but felt a pang of regret as an image of Edward immediately followed.

  Margaret saw Madeleine’s eyes settle on a stack of greeting cards on the dresser behind her.

  “Christmas cards,” she said. “From Violet.” She picked up the bundle and held them toward me. “She sends a Christmas card every year to tell me about you all. I enjoy reading all the news and seeing the occasional photograph.” She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “I kept them all, but of course I was too stubborn to reply. And then . . .” She glanced at Helga, who offered an encouraging smile. “Well, the tea is going cold. Shall we?”

  When at last the sweet rolls were eaten and the tea drunk, Margaret broached the subject we’d all been avoiding.

  “I suppose you’re wondering if I read Violet’s letter.” She reached for the envelope on the table beside her. I saw it had been opened.

  “You read it?” Madeleine asked.

  Margaret nodded. She rubbed her fingers lightly over the envelope. “Many times,” she said. “It is not a letter you can read only once.” She held it out to me. “Read it. It might help you understand.”

  I hesitated, but she nodded her encouragement.

  Picking up the envelope, I removed the folded sheets of paper inside, cleared my throat, and began to read.

  My dearest Maggie,

  Where should I begin? What can I say after all these years? Every time I put pen to paper it never seems to be enough. I wish I could see you, that I could take your hand and look into those blue eyes of yours and tell you what I want to say in person. But age and geography are not my allies, so I must try to find the words and hope against hope you will understand what I am trying to tell you.

  I still remember, so vividly, when we were the best of friends. It has been so many years since we talked and laughed together, and yet I remember it all as clearly as if you were here beside me. I think of you all the time, wonder what you’re doing and where you are, what you look like now, what you think about when you look out of the window at the start of a new day. You always used to look for shapes in the clouds. Do you still? I wonder.

  I cannot say I’m sorry for what happened between me and Matthias. We didn’t mean to fall in love, nor did I plan on becoming pregnant. And yet, if I hadn’t returned home carrying his child, that little girl would not have grown up to be my beloved Celestine, who married a good man and had two beautiful daughters of her own: Clara and Madeleine. My three girls are my world. I cannot possibly regret them. But I do regret that I caused you embarrassment and shame, and most of all, I regret that we have been separated all these years because of it.

  I wrote to you each Christmas. A few lines to pass on our news and to ask how you were. You never sent a reply, but I kept writing. If I stopped, it would mean I had given up, and I will never give up on you, Maggie. As long as there is breath in my lungs, my arms are open and waiting for you.

  There is very little time left for me. It will mean everything if I can go with your understanding. What I want to tell you is that I love you, as only a sister can. I hope you are happy and that life has been kind to you.

  Auf Wiedersehen, my dear sister. To seeing you again, one day.

  Violet

  The room fell silent as I refolded the pages, returned the letter to the envelope, and placed it back on the table beside Margaret.

  “I’ve missed her so much,” Margaret said. “I started so many letters but threw them all into the fire, half-written. I wasn’t sure, you see, if I could tell her.”

  “Tell her what?” Madeleine asked.

  M
argaret glanced again at Helga, who offered an encouraging smile and a slight nod of her head.

  “I was afraid to reconnect with my family not because of Violet’s child,” Margaret continued, “but because of the life I have made here, in Vienna, with Helga.”

  As she reached for Helga’s hand, the impact of her words, of the two women’s gentle gesture, settled around the room. I was shocked, and could tell Madeleine was, too, but suddenly it all made sense, and I was pleased to know there was a reason beyond Violet’s pregnancy for Margaret’s silence all these years.

  “So here we are,” she continued. “Years spent without each other, Violet and me, because I was too stubborn, and then too frightened, to do anything about it.”

  I leaned forward and took Margaret’s hand.

  “She so desperately wants your understanding, your forgiveness, if that’s the right word. And I know she would give you hers in an instant.”

  Margaret squeezed my hand and shook her head. “Too much time has passed, Clara. It is too late.” When she looked at me, I saw such sorrow in her eyes. “Perhaps we were meant to travel different paths, Violet and I. To journey apart, rather than together.”

  I glanced at Madeleine, who shook her head lightly, indicating we had done our best.

  “We should go,” I said as I stood. I leaned forward and kissed Margaret lightly on the cheek as Madeleine began to gather our things. “Thank you for inviting us into your home.”

  “Before you go, I have something for you both.” Margaret rose from her chair. “I’m being honored tonight at the opera house. They’re giving me an achievement award after my final performance.” She reached inside the drawer of the lamp table, produced an envelope, and handed it to me.

  “I’ve secured two tickets, orchestra seats in the third row. I do hope you can come. It would be a shame to come all the way to Vienna and not visit the opera.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Madeleine said enthusiastically. “Thank you.”

  “We’d love to,” I added.

  “Well then.” Margaret smiled. “I look forward to seeing you tonight.”

  We made our goodbyes but as we started to leave, Margaret grabbed my hand.