Homeland Page 15

  “I find nothing of a serious nature. He is suffering from exhaustion, malnutrition, and a bad case of the grippe. I prescribe, first, bed rest; second, plenty of nourishing food. I will have the apothecary deliver some medications to address his various symptoms.” Dr. Plattweiler stuck a finger in the air. “Follow directions to the letter.”

  “What else?” Uncle Joe replied, with great gravity.

  A few minutes after the doctor left, Paul made another wonderful discovery. In the corner immediately to his left, there was a three-cornered whatnot, perfect for his globe, the paper flag, and the stereopticon card.

  But where were they?

  Alarmed, he reared up on his elbows. Wildly gazed around the room. Then, with a gasp of relief, he fell back. His old grip was resting on the carpet, partially hidden by an expensive marble-topped washstand. He relaxed and lay marveling at the play of winter sunshine through the two tall windows.

  He couldn’t get over his good luck. On his third day, when he was allowed out of bed to visit the separate bathroom down the hall instead of using the enameled chamber pot, he was overwhelmed by the size and opulence of the house. There were twenty-four rooms on the three floors—Aunt Ilsa filled in this detail—and a large storage and work area in the cellar. The family quarters were on the second floor. A narrow back stair just beyond the large bathroom led up to rooms where some of the servants lived. Everything was modern, from the porcelain toilet with its pull chain to the brilliant electric lights. Ceiling and wall fixtures in the rooms and hallways, and huge chandeliers elsewhere, illuminated any area at the throw of a switch.

  Because of the season, the house was full of lovely and tempting smells. The freshly cut greens hanging everywhere brought the sharp tang of the pine woods indoors. Even through his closed door, he could smell the smoky tallow odor of holiday candles and the yeasty aromas of baking bread and pastries. He was almost delirious with happiness.

  He lay in bed for six days, fussed over constantly by his aunt and by a short, heavy woman with a pale freckled face and a cheerful disposition who introduced herself as Helga Blenkers. She was the housemaid. Her husband, Manfred, was the steward, in charge of the servants. Paul guessed that he was the unfriendly man who’d first opened the door to him. Based on that incident, he had already decided that he didn’t like Manfred.

  But Mrs. Blenkers was fine. She brought him trays laden with good German food. Thick slices of home-baked pumpernickel and its lighter cousin, Schwarzbrot. White bread sticks, warm and soft on the inside, the golden crust sprinkled with caraway seeds. There were roast pork and roast veal—always with dumplings—and to start every noon and evening meal, Hühnersuppe, hot chicken soup. For desserts he had either Kompott, stewed fruit, or one of Aunt Ilsa’s delicious Torten.

  Beginning on his second day in bed, he was visited by the different members of the family. He had seen them as little more than blurs when he staggered in from the storm. By means of the visits, he began to form impressions of each of them.

  Uncle Joe’s first visit occurred at nine in the evening, after Abendessen, the evening meal, which was seldom eaten in German households before 8 P.M. Paul’s uncle appeared at the bedside in both coat and cravat. He smelled of talc and seemed to move in a very precise way. Paul noticed this when his uncle pulled a chair into the pool of light to the right of the bed. He considered the position of the chair for a few seconds, and adjusted it before he sat down.

  “How are you feeling, Paul?”

  “I am fine, Uncle,” he answered, still laboring over every word of the English. “How are you?”

  “Just splendid. Today we added up some figures, and we will have our best year yet. If nothing untoward occurs, by the thirty-first of this month Brauerei Crown will have manufactured and shipped the equivalent of six hundred thousand barrels of beer. That is a record for us. I am very proud.”

  “Yes, sir,” Paul said, not knowing how else to reply. Despite his slight stature, Paul’s uncle was a profoundly imposing man. Paul wanted his uncle to respect and like him.

  “Are you getting enough to eat?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “We want you to be happy here. We want you to be happy in Chicago. I haven’t much doubt on that score. You’ll find many countrymen in this city. At the last census, there were one hundred sixty thousand persons in Chicago who were born in Germany. That represents almost 15 percent of our total population of one million ninety-nine thousand and some.”

  Paul murmured and strove to look impressed.

  “Tell me something about my sister Lotte. How was she when you left her?”

  A warning signal rang in his head. He mustn’t say a word about the Herren, it would hurt his uncle. “She was hard-working—uh, working hard, but not feeling well.”

  “The tuberculosis,” Uncle Joe said, sad for a moment. “I must write her. You were very lucky to get out of Germany when you did. There was a huge outbreak of cholera in Hamburg soon after you left. Thousands died.”

  Paul shivered. “How awful. I didn’t know.”

  “Tell me a little about your journey, won’t you? What kind of troubles did you encounter? Surely there were some, it took you so long—”

  “There were.” Paul nodded. He began with a description of Die goldene Tür, but minimized his heroic performance in saving Magda. He described some of the other incidents: his incarceration for stealing an apple; the kindness of Llewellyn Rhodes; the blizzard that stopped the train.

  “And you walked all the way from there, as sick as you were?”

  “I did, sir. I was—uh—eifrig—” In frustration, he stopped.

  “Eager,” said his uncle gently, with not the slightest hint of superiority or impatience.

  “Yes. Eager. Thank you. I knew I had taken too long already.”

  His uncle stood up. “That is impressive, Paul. Very impressive. It testifies to your character.”

  Uncle Joe leaned over and patted his arm. “Rest now. I really hope you’ll be on your feet soon. I want you to get acquainted with your cousins. I know you’ll like them.”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “I want them to get to know and like you.”

  “I too,” Paul said, fervently hoping it would be so.

  Fritzi paid a visit and then came back at least twice each day thereafter. She was rather long-nosed and plain, and flat-chested, and less than a month away from her twelfth birthday. She had dark brown eyes, like her father, and a lot of disorderly blond hair.

  Fritzi was lively and friendly. As Aunt Ilsa had done, she sat on the edge of his bed, bouncing up and down while she shot questions at him. Questions about Germany, the ocean crossing, Chicago—which he hadn’t even seen, except through dual curtains of snow and delirium. They were questions he had trouble understanding and answering in English. He knew he sounded like a clod, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “I like to mimic people, I want to be an actress,” she said to him on her fourth visit. “Can you guess who this is?” She jumped off the bed, planted her fists on her hips and pulled a long face. Deepening her voice, she said, “See here, my boy, don’t you dare smile in this house.”

  Paul laughed. “It’s the man who answered the door when I came.”

  “Yes,” Fritzi cried, clapping her hands in delight. “It’s Manfred, Helga’s husband. How did you know? Have you seen him up here? Has he come to visit?”

  “No, I only saw his face that first evening. Once was enough.”

  “My, you have sharp eyes. A good memory, too. My brother Joe calls him the Melancholy Dane. I don’t know why Papa keeps him, he’s such a grouch. Strict, too. Better watch out for him; if you make him mad he’ll always get back at you somehow.”

  “I won’t make him mad.”

  “I’d better go now. Please get well soon, it’s almost Christmas, we want you to be downstairs with us for the holiday.” She stood up, twisting her apron. “We’re awfully glad you’re here, Cousin Paul.” She darted forward withou
t warning, planting a kiss on his cheek. Red in the face, she ran out.

  He fell back on the bolster with a frown. This was something unexpected. He wanted all the cousins to like him, but Fritzi was just a child, just a girl—and he’d developed no strong interest in any girl as yet. When had he had the chance?

  What he really cared about was getting close to his male cousins, particularly Joseph Junior, who was two years older—a huge, significant difference to young boys in adolescence. In Paul’s eyes Joe Junior was a grown-up, practically a man. He was old enough to let his beard grow out. He was abroad in the world; he worked six days a week at the brewery. He was the one whose friendship and respect Paul craved most.

  He thought about Cousin Fritzi again. He hoped that the adoring light he’d seen in her eyes didn’t represent a new problem.

  Carl came in too, with wishes for Paul’s good health, and a question.

  “Do you want to see my baseball?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Good,” Carl said, showing the ball, which had heavy red stitching along its seams. “It’s an official league ball, from Mr. Spalding’s store downtown. Mr. Spalding, they call him A.G., he was one of the greatest pitchers ever. The ball cost a whole dollar. This is my fielder’s glove, it’s buckskin.” Carl smacked the ball into the curious right-hand glove whose separate fingers were thick as sausages. He was a burly, dark-haired boy, with bright brown eyes like his sister’s. His features and build favored his mother. “Will you play baseball with me?”

  “You will have to teach me that game. I have heard of it, but I do not know the rules.”

  “I’ll teach you,” Carl said with an emphatic nod. “When spring comes, maybe Papa will take us to watch the Chicago White Stockings. We all love the White Stockings. Papa used to take Joe and me but Joe won’t go anymore.”

  “I’ll go.”

  “Good,” Carl cried, leaping up from the bed so forcefully that his shoulder banged the whatnot and sent it over with a crash. “Oh-oh.”

  Hastily he righted the whatnot and collected Paul’s scattered treasures. “I don’t think it’s hurt,” he said as he handed the globe and stand to Paul for inspection. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Paul realized that Carl was a little boy blessed with a strong body and an excess of energy. It might not be a happy combination.

  Finally, on his third day of confinement, Cousin Joe dropped in.

  Joseph Crown, Jr., resembled his father, except in the color of his eyes. They were a blazing blue, lighter and more vivid than Aunt Ilsa’s. He had slim hips, short legs, and a slender torso. He looked delicate, but not weak. His full beard and mustache made him appear older than seventeen.

  He had just arrived home from his job. He wore heavy-soled shoes, dark corduroy trousers, a faded work shirt damp at the collar, as if he’d just washed his neck.

  Joe Junior was cordial, yet reserved. When he asked about Paul’s health, he called him “old man”—which Paul felt meant just the opposite. His cousin didn’t sit on the bed, he sat in the chair, as Uncle Joe had.

  “You work at the brewery,” Paul began.

  “Yep. Right on the front line, I guess you could say.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The front line of the class war. The war between capital and labor. It’s just a war of words right now, but it’s been bloody before, and it’ll get bloody again. The exploiters never learn. They never reform.”

  How solemn and earnest he was. And Paul didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was talking about. Joe Junior saw this and said, “It isn’t so hard to understand, Cousin. My pop’s a capitalist. Or couldn’t you tell by looking around?” His wave embraced the furniture, the room, the house. “He isn’t as bad as some, but he’s still part of that class. He’s always wanted me to sign up too. Work in the front office someday. But I’ll be damned if I will.” He showed his palms. “I work with my hands, and my back. I sweat just like all the fellows at the brewery. Just like 99 percent of the human race. We sweat and die, so the other one percent can get rich.”

  Still baffled, uncertain about what response to make, Paul decided to say nothing. Joe Junior watched him with those blazing blue eyes. “Well, now that you’re here, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, I suppose your father will tell me.”

  “He’s good at that, ordering people around.” There was a pause. “Should I call you kid? That means somebody younger. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Just a baby.” Crimson flowed into Paul’s face. Joe Junior grinned. “Come on, I’m ragging you. Got a girl back in the old country?” Paul shook his head.

  Cousin Joe hitched his chair closer. “Well, I’ve got a girl. Prettiest thing you ever saw. You wouldn’t believe she’s a Bohunk.”

  Confounded yet again, Paul mumbled, “What?”

  “That’s what they call Bohemians over here, Bohunks.”

  “Oh, Bohemians, yes.” He was making a fool of himself. “What is her name?”

  “Roza Jablonec. Roza, spelled with a z. She hates it, she’s going to change it someday when she’s a famous singer. I call her Rosie, she doesn’t mind that too much. I met her at a Sunday labor picnic that Benno—well, skip that.” He looked over his shoulder at the closed door; lowered his voice. “Rosie is hot stuff. Titten out to here.” He cupped his hands six inches in front of his chest. Paul’s eyes bugged.

  “Is that so!”

  “Maybe we can find that kind of girl for you,” Cousin Joe said, getting up. “For your first time, know what I mean?”

  “Oh, yes.” Joe Junior gave him another of those long, appraising looks, then chuckled through his well-combed beard.

  “See you soon, Cousin. Get well.”

  He went out, leaving Paul disturbed by the hint of animosity between Joe Junior and his father. He desperately wanted his cousin to like him and accept him as a friend. He wanted Uncle Joe to like him too. He didn’t want to be caught in the middle of some family quarrel.

  Two days later, Dr. Plattweiler pronounced him well. “Just in time, eh? Christmas is next Sunday. Fröhliche Weihnachten!”

  Aunt Ilsa brought in clothes and underwear and a pair of shoes. The clothes still had creases from the store, the shoes were tight and stiff, but everything was clean and wonderfully new. After all of the sleep and gargantuan helpings of food, he felt strong again. He was eager to leave his room, join the others downstairs, begin to explore, to really live in the great house.

  That evening, he put his hand on the newel post on the second-floor landing and stood gazing down into the foyer for a long moment. His uncle was home; he could hear the clatter and talk of Abendessen from the dining room. Trepidation seized him.

  Go on, don’t be scared, this is what you wanted. This is home.

  But he wasn’t sure he believed it yet.

  Stepping very slowly from riser to riser, gripping the banister, he went down the great stair. He hesitated a second time near the enormous and fragrant tree, heavily decorated but still with its myriad of white candles unlit, as custom dictated. Ornamental sliding doors of a room on his left—the front of the house—were tightly closed. Locked too, he supposed; that was how Germans hid their family gifts until the important day.

  Conversation and delicious odors drifted from the slightly parted doors of the dining room. He took another half-dozen steps and stopped a third time. Then, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, he grasped both doors and pushed them back.

  Aunt Ilsa jumped up from the long table. “Why, here’s Pauli.”

  “Come in, we’re eating,” Carl cried, waving his fork. Fritzi fell back in her chair with a long sigh. He was put off by Cousin Joe’s folded arms and quizzical half smile, but Uncle Joe pulled a chair up, then hurried around the table and flung an arm around him.

  “Yes indeed, Paul, welcome. Sit. Have some food.”

  Paul’s tension snapped, and with a dizzy delight close t
o swooning, he grinned and walked to the empty chair, knowing it would be all right.

  In the week that followed he learned many things, including the reassuring fact that, although he was in America, Christmas in the house of his relatives still had strong German overtones.

  Traditional mistletoe was hung up, even though Germans no longer believed it had a mystic power to ward off evil spirits, bad luck, and poor health.

  Each night after dinner, the family gathered around the small pump organ in the music room. Aunt Ilsa played and Uncle Joe led the caroling. He had a truly fine voice and informed Paul that he would have joined one of the city’s German singing societies had it not been for the time involved. Everyone sang “O Tannenbaum” and “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht” and other favorites. Everyone except Joe Junior, that is, who absented himself, visibly annoying his father.

  Uncle Joe announced that the brewery would be closed on Monday, December 26. Aunt Ilsa was already doing some of the cooking for the huge Christmas Eve meal which traditionally featured fish as the main course. Joe Junior and Uncle Joe went off to work every day, and Carl and Fritzi would be in school until Friday, so Paul was left by himself. It gave him a chance to explore the house, meet the servants, familiarize himself with the daily routine.

  The routine was not so different from that of a typical household in the fatherland. Frühstück, breakfast, was a large and important meal of hard rolls and unsalted butter, jam and marmalade, plates of cold sliced meats and cheeses, a selection of wursts. Pots of hot coffee, tea, and cocoa waited on the sideboard. A pitcher of cold milk, too. All this was set out at daybreak by Louise, the cook.

  Family members came and went, ate quickly or slowly, as they pleased; there was no set time for Frühstück. What was customarily the largest meal of the day, Mittagessen, was not served unless Uncle Joe could arrange to get home from work. It happened only once during the first week Paul was up, and there were just three of them at the table, Paul and his aunt and uncle. Nevertheless, Louise served a complete meal—oxtail soup, followed by a bowl of dumplings as a filler before the main course, which this day featured roast pork, potatoes, and three kinds of vegetables, along with plenty of bread and butter. Uncle Joe also had his own special dish of herring rolled up around pickles. He was partial to herring, he told Paul, and also to mounds of whipped cream on his dessert Torte. He drank his coffee with a similar fluffy mound slowly dissolving on top.