Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

  He took her hand. “Oh, Emilee. I’m so sorry.”

  She wiped quickly at her eyes. “It’s hard, watching her going down and down. For most patients with congestive heart failure, no cure exists. So we just try to maintain her quality of life and keep her comfortable.” She squeezed his hand. “I am just so thankful that we got her out of Königsberg and down here. She has her family with her now, and she’s happier than she’s been in years. We owe you a lot for making that happen.”

  “I’m glad I have gotten to know her. She’s a strong woman. Like my mother.”

  Emilee pulled her hand free from his and clasped her hands together in her lap. “My mother is fifty-nine years old. Fifty-nine, and she looks seventy-five. And do you know why? Because my father was handsome and charming and my mother loved him with all her heart. She stayed with him through all the years of chasing rainbows that were just over the next hill. She stayed with him through the women, the drinking, the gambling, through the countless jobs.”

  Her hands were in her lap now, but he could see they were trembling. “When I was a teenager, I came to hate my father, because I saw what he was doing to my mother. And one day, being the snotty person that teenagers can be, I asked her what had ever possessed her to marry a man like that. Oh, I was so bitter.”

  “And what did your mother say?”

  Emilee didn’t look up. Her voice was very low. “At first, she didn’t say anything. I could tell I had hurt her very deeply. I started to get up and leave, but then she began to speak. I had to come back and sit beside her, she was speaking so softly.

  “And what did she say?”

  Her shoulders lifted and fell. “One sentence. That was all. She looked at me in a way that I shall never forget and said, ‘Life doesn’t often conform to our expectations.’”

  “Wow,” he murmured. “That says a lot, doesn’t it?”

  Emilee barely heard him. “We sat there for several minutes, neither of us saying anything. And then finally she spoke again. It was strange, actually. It was as if I weren’t there, as if she were speaking to . . . I don’t know. It was almost like she was a teacher talking to her class, like she wanted me to understand something. It was really odd.”

  Hans said nothing, watching Emilee carefully, sensing that this was very hard for her and wondering why she felt compelled to tell him.

  “When they were first married, Papa got a job as a dock worker in Königsberg. The pay wasn’t good, but she said they were very happy. Having children didn’t come easily for Mama. Ernst didn’t come until four years after they were married. I came two years after that. When I was four, Papa got a job in a new steel factory that was opening up there. The pay was about the same, but the work wasn’t nearly as hard.

  “And that was when the pattern first began. That’s what Mama called it—a pattern. And she said it was a pattern repeated among the families of the poor countless times.”

  “What kind of a pattern?”

  She went on as if Hans hadn’t spoken. “My younger brother was two when Papa started at the factory. A year later, Heinz-Albert was born. It wasn’t just Papa and Mama anymore. Now there were six mouths to feed. And one of their children was mentally handicapped. So things were really tight for them. On payday, which was every Saturday, they would sit down together and budget their money. Most of it went for food, of course. And that was when the pattern began.

  “They would buy what food they could afford, which was never enough. And gradually, as the week went by, there was a little less food each day, even though they tried to spread it out evenly across the week. I remember that there were some weeks where we had nothing in the house on the day before payday. We went to bed hungry.

  “Mama talked about the guilt they felt, listening to their children whimpering in their beds on those nights. But on payday it was wonderful. We had food again. And Mama said that they couldn’t help themselves. Even though they knew what it would mean by the end of the week, they didn’t have the heart to limit how much food we ate that first day or two.”

  Hans nodded. His thoughts were on his childhood, and he realized that he could not remember ever in his life going to bed hungry. There was always bread and milk, if nothing else. Sometimes he made himself whipped cream sandwiches. He’d take the cream they skimmed off the buckets of milk and beat it into a fluffy texture, add sugar, and spread in on his mother’s warm bread. Pure heaven. What a far cry from what Emilee was talking about.

  “Then Mama asked me a question,” Emilee went on. “She asked me how I thought it made my father feel hearing his children crying because there was no food, knowing that he wasn’t making enough money to give them what they needed. ‘Ashamed, I guess,’ I said, angry that she was trying to excuse him. Then one day, when I was six or seven, Papa came home about an hour late. He was very happy. He’d bought little gifts for each of us.”

  “He got a raise?”

  “No.” Her mouth turned down. “He had stopped by the beer hall ‘to lift a pint’ with some of his working buddies. Between the beer and the gifts, he had spent half of the food money. Soon, mother started going to the factory on Saturday afternoon and taking the paycheck from him. She did it in front of his fellow workers, hoping to shame him into being more responsible.”

  “Which didn’t work,” Hans guessed.

  “No. They cut a hole through the back fence of the factory yard and slipped away to town. Often he would be out all night and come home with nothing but a few Pfennige left. By the time I was twelve, Mama was the breadwinner in our home, and Ernst had joined Papa at the factory. It was an interesting division of labor. Ernst worked in the factory. Mama took in washing and ironing or walked into town and cleaned other people’s houses. And I. . . .”

  She bit her lip and looked away.

  “And you what?” Hans asked softly.

  She finally looked up, and he saw that she was crying. “It was my job to go to the pubs or the beer halls or into some flophouse hotel. And I’d kick aside the empty bottles and breathe through my mouth so that I didn’t have to smell the stale beer and the vomit and his pants where he had wet himself, and I’d drag my father home.”

  She was staring out the windows, far away from him now. “I wanted so much to love my father,” she whispered, “and I couldn’t. Not when I saw what he had become. Not when I saw my mother aging before my eyes every day. When she gave me my little lecture that day, it seemed like she was excusing him for what he did, trying to help me understand why he did it.”

  “And did it work?”

  “Oh, I understood, all right. I understood his pride and his shame and his weakness. But . . .” She looked over at Hans. “But now my mother is dying of congestive heart failure. At the age of fifty-nine. How can I ever forgive him for that?”

  Hans said nothing. Why had she felt compelled to tell him all of this? Was there some kind of unspoken message she was trying to give him? He finally shook his head. He didn’t think so. It was just something that she needed to share with someone.

  Hans got to his feet and went over and pulled Emilee up. He encircled her in his arms and held her closely, softly rubbing her back as the tears came more freely. After a minute, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t know what came over me. I—”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her. For a moment she stiffened with surprise, but then she put her arms around him and kissed him back.

  “I’m glad you told me. I had no idea.”

  She brushed at the tears and gave a short, bitter laugh. “It’s terrible to say, but it wasn’t until after my father died that our lives gradually began to improve. I do miss him. He was always a loving father to me. But I’m still glad that he’s gone.”

  Hans just held her, stroking her hair.

  Finally she pulled free and looked at the clock. “Oh, dear. We have to leave for the train station in a few minutes.” She reached up and laid her hand on his cheek. “I don’t want you to go.
”

  “And I don’t want to. This has been a wonderful weekend for me.”

  “Really? We live a pretty boring life in the Fromme home.”

  He laughed. “Actually, that was kind of what I expected it would be.”

  She punched him softly. “Thanks.”

  “But it wasn’t, Emilee. It’s been wonderful for me. Most of that is being with you, of course, but I’ve enjoyed getting to know your family, too. Actually, as you probably sensed, I was a little wound up when I got here. It’s been a crazy week for me. And being here has been like . . . I don’t know. Like ointment on a burn, I guess.”

  There was genuine pleasure in her eyes as she looked up at him in wonder. “It makes me so happy to hear you say that, Hans.” Then a smile stole across Emilee’s mouth. “When you fell asleep mid-sentence yesterday, I wondered.”

  Hans laughed. Shortly after his arrival, they had been seated in the living room with her family. He had felt his eyes getting droopy and tried to fight it. He lost—which said something about how exhausted he was. When he awakened, he was on the divan with a blanket over him and was told that he had slept for two hours.

  He nudged her. “You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Well, it does make a girl wonder if she’s losing her charm.”

  “Hardly! I . . . I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, but we haven’t had much time alone.”

  Emilee’s eyes widened a little. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. I’m not complaining.” He glanced at the clock on the mantle.

  She looked at it too and then said, “I plan to walk you to the train station. Do you want to talk about whatever it is while we walk?”

  Hans almost said yes. There would be no chance of being disturbed. But then he shook his head. “No, this is good. It’s quiet now.”

  Emilee sat back again. “All right, Herr Eckhardt, I’m ready.”

  Suddenly he was fumbling for words. “I . . . uh . . . how old are you?”

  Emilee laughed gaily. “Really? That’s what you want to talk about?”

  “No. I just remembered that I’ve been wanting to ask you that for quite a while. I especially want to know when your birthday is.”

  “I was born on July 23, 1896. So I am—”

  “Twenty-three years old. Just like me.”

  “You are too? When is your birthday?”

  “February 20.”

  “So, old man,” she teased, “you are five whole months older than I am. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wanted to know. Plan on something nice for your birthday.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Not expensive, but nice.”

  “I shall hold you to that.”

  “Which brings me to what I want to talk to you about.”

  “My birthday?” Emilee asked in surprise.

  “No.” In the light of the overhead bulb, her blue eyes looked darker, larger, more beautiful. “Did I ever tell you that I love your nose?” he blurted, losing his nerve again.

  She cocked her head. “Are you serious?”

  Laughing, he nodded. “I do. I love how it turns up ever so slightly on the end.”

  “Hans Eckhardt,” Emilee chided. “First it’s my birthday. Now it’s my nose. What is going on?”

  “Okay, okay.” He took a deep breath. “Here goes. I . . . I had some unexpected good fortune a few days ago.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Oh?”

  He dug in his pocket and pulled out the wad of banknotes Fritzie had given him, glad that he had brought the money with him. He wanted to impress her.

  “My goodness, what is this?”

  “I am now two thousand marks richer than I was when I last saw you.”

  “Two thousand. . . . What did you do? Rob a bank?”

  That almost caused Hans to choke, but he recovered quickly. “No, actually, I got an unexpected letter from the War Ministry on Monday and. . . .”

  She clapped her hands in delight. “They changed their minds about your severance pay?”

  Just as he was about to nod, he thought of his last conversation with his mother. So instead, he shook his head. “I wish. No, I’m pretty sure I’ll never see that money. Actually, an unexpected opportunity came up at work. Uh . . .”

  She leaned forward. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “Well, as I told you, I got a part-time job at that Bavarian restaurant by kind of forcing myself upon them, cleaning off tables and doing the dishes and so on. The owner almost threw me out, but when he saw I was a good worker, he let me stay—one free meal each day for two to three hours of work. Then he hired me on full time.”

  “And now he’s paid you two thousand marks?”

  “No. Well, kind of, but not for nothing. The other day he happened to mention this guy—a supplier of his—who owed him a lot of money but was refusing to pay. He told me that if I could get it back, I could have half.”

  Emilee was watching him closely. “That’s a pretty hefty reward.”

  “Yeah, well, the guy was somewhat intimidating. He was making threats against my boss.” Hans shrugged, “So I went and talked to him.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And he paid your boss back? Just like that?”

  “Uh . . . no . . . not just like that.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “What does that mean?”

  “I had a pistol, and that seemed to persuade him. He gave me the money—the full amount—which was over four thousand marks. The boss was so grateful that he paid me half of that. And he says he has other debts he may need my help on.”

  “That’s astonishing,” Emilee said, finally accepting his story.

  “Yeah,” Hans grinned. “I thought so too.”

  Emilee’s face lit up and she leaned forward and slapped Hans playfully. “And you waited all this time to tell me this? What am I going to do with you?”

  “Well, actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about. What are you going to do with me?”

  Her eyes instantly fixed on his. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my life this week. Things have been pretty grim since I got out of the hospital, but they’re finally looking up. So, I’ve been thinking about the future.”

  “As have I,” she murmured.

  “So . . .” Hans was grinning again. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking. I want to go to the university eventually. But there may not be money for scholarships anymore, so I may have to work full time while I go to the university. So, with this sudden windfall, I have been thinking about another possibility, and I’d like your opinion on it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Aside from the time commitments, I’m not sure I’m cut out to work in a restaurant. Not even as a cook. Don’t get me wrong. I was very lucky to find work, and my boss is great. But it sounds awful, actually.” He grinned. “And besides, I’d probably get all fat and paunchy.”

  Emilee chuckled. “I find that hard to picture. So what will you do?”

  “Guess,” he said impishly.

  “I . . . I have no idea.”

  “Yes, you do. Actually, it’s you who gave me the idea.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You and Ernst. In Königsberg.”

  “Königsberg?” She was thoroughly baffled now.

  “Yes. I’ll give you hint. On my twelfth birthday, my father gave me my own tool set. Not a kid’s tool set. A full adult tool set. And over the next few years I added to it substantially, because I’ve always loved mechanical things.” He reached out and took her hands. “And those tools are still there. Out in the barn. Wrapped in oilskin to keep them from rusting.”

  Emilee’s eyes grew suddenly wide. “Are you thinking that . . . ?” The thought was so astonishing she had to stop.

  “Ja. What if I became an auto and truck mechanic?”

  “Yes!”
she cried. “Oh, Hans. That’s a marvelous idea.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I do. I really do. Ernst and I were so amazed at how quickly you fixed the engine in Königsberg. And . . . and . . .” She had to stop again.

  “And what?”

  “You’d be doing something you love. And that way you’d have more control over your hours. And it would be in the same field that you want to study at the university. It’s a wonderful idea.”

  Hans was immensely pleased with her reaction. “I agree. It feels right, Emilee. I’ll put this money in the bank and use it as my seed money. Then maybe I’ll try to find a second job. I’m going to have to rent a garage to begin with. I know it will take a lot of work to get started, but I could study for my exams and. . . .”

  “Yes, Hans!” she exclaimed. “You don’t have to sell me on the idea. I think it’s brilliant.”

  “Really?” he exulted, thrilled at her reaction. “I was afraid you’d think I was being stupid.”

  “No! Just the opposite.”

  “Really?” He could scarcely believe it.

  “Yes, really.”

  “Okay, then.” He took a quick breath. “Then there’s one more thing I want to ask you.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good. I . . .” Then he stopped. “Yes? Yes what?”

  “Yes, I would like to get engaged.”

  Hans gaped at her, so completely stunned that he didn’t know what to say. And suddenly Emilee was a brilliant red. “Wasn’t that what you were going to ask me?” she stammered.

  “Yes, but how. . . .”

  “Then ask me.”

  Hans was still reeling. Emilee got to her feet and pulled him up to face her. “Just say it!”

  “Emilee Greta Fromme, will you marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t be for a while. I’ll have to go back home and get my tools, and—”

  Her look stopped him. “What?”

  Emilee stepped closer and took his face in her hands. “Do I have to teach you everything?” she said, her face radiant. “I said yes. So just kiss me. That’s all I need for right now.”

  January 12, 1919, 11:40 p.m.—Hotel Lindenberg, Prenzlauer Berg District, Berlin