Emmi had begun to suspect this very shortly after their arrival in America, which she had eloquently called “the new world where all justice and liberty and beauty are capable of fulfilment.” But she would not allow herself to suspect it openly. Therefore, she became more rigid and uncompromising in her hatred, and more voluble. Nevertheless, she turned her hopes from Egon to Franz, and in that lay her final disillusionment and despair. She had loved her native land with all the passion of the Teuton, but she had willingly sacrificed all this to come to an alien land and live among an alien people, whom she was never able to understand or truly love. To find that this sacrifice had been in vain, and had been made a mockery, was an agony too great to be borne. At least, she had her cold but fiery rage to sustain her in her homesickness and misery. Egon had not even this. He was too gentle and kind ever to speak of his aching nostalgia, and his bewilderment, and Emmi often spoke scornfully of his “placidity” and lack of aggressiveness and conviction, and remarked acidly that he would be at home anywhere, provided he had his books. Once she had told herself that her husband was made of the stuff of serfs, but she quelled this thought loyally. It was just that he was so meek and so sweet-tempered, she had said to herself, sternly. He could not really hate anyone. She did not know that his inner torments were greater than her own, and his inner longings for his native land much more poignant and terrible. Had she known, she would have been incredulous, and more than a little aghast. She felt that in herself, and only in herself, the icy flame burned high and indomitably, and only she suffered the constant gnawing anguish of nostalgia.
When Egon sat down at the breakfast table, she gave him her usual sharp probing look. She loved him with all her heart and soul, and this morning’s inspection was to reassure herself that he did not seem more fragile than usual, and that his color had not changed a little for the worse. But the soot, the dampness, the cold and the drabness of this now hated city, had indeed lessened his vitality. He suffered much from respiratory illnesses, and always had a stifled morning cough. Moreover, he was always cold. Emmi kept the kitchen steaming for his benefit, and saw that he wore the thickest underwear, while she, herself, knitted him heavy woolen socks. Looking at him this morning she thought with despair: There is no hope no matter where I turn. Everything that we have endured has come to nothing.
But her despair, this morning, was a little lighter than usual. She waited on her husband, insisting that he drink his hot milk and eat another of her fresh hot rolls. She forced him to eat his eggs, and he did so, though choking, for he knew that if he did not his wife would worry about him the rest of the day. Her gestures, her manners, her words, as she waited on him, were peremptory and disciplinary but a vague softness lightened her face and made her hands almost gentle.
He held the thick white mug of milk to his lips in his blueveined hands, and smiled at her fondly. He spoke to her in their native language:
“And did you sleep well last night, my love?”
“Yes, yes!” she replied impatiently, scrutinizing him again. Was it only her imagination, or was he even thinner than he had been a month ago? “I always sleep well. And you, Egon?”
He nodded, and sipped his milk. He never told his wife that he often wept at night, and that he slept very little. He would cover his pillow near his eyes with his handkerchief, in order that she might see no stain in the morning where his tears had dropped. Such tears, without bitterness, tears from his heart when he thought of Germany. He would sometimes awaken from his light sleep to find that he was weeping.
He put down the mug and fought his nausea meekly. He smiled brightly at Emmi, and the sudden radiance of that sweet smile unnerved her, as it always did. “But Franz—he was a little late this morning, was he not?”
“Yes. He was helping me to prepare the spare bedroom for Irmgard.” She turned away abruptly, and stared through the rain-lashed window.
“She will arrive at ten, Emmi?” He sighed. “I hope she will like America.”
Emmi did not turn from the window. “At least, America is not Prussia!” she exclaimed in a loud harsh voice.
“No,” he agreed, almost inaudibly, “it is not Prussia.”
Emmi brought him his worn heavy greatcoat and an umbrella. She helped him into his outer garment, and the outline of his thin bent shoulder-blades gave her a pang, as always. He was so meek, so sweet, so good, so gentle; she thought fiercely. “Irmgard is a sensible girl,” she said, roughly. “She will not inconvenience us.”
“I am not afraid of that,” he said, quickly, pulling his woolen gloves over his hands. He smiled again at his wife. “It will be good to see another young face in the house.” He had such a tenderness for the young that his eyes moistened. And then, knowing the secret places in his wife’s heart, he added: “I hope very much that Franz will like her.”
The coming of Irmgard Hoeller was the last assault of Emmi upon Franz, and was so desperately close to her desires that she could not bear to speak of it. She said, as she fastened the buttons on the greatcoat: “I remember her only as a baby. A very pretty child, as you remember. But my brotherin-law wrote me, before he died, that Irmgard was a splendid girl. Of course, that might be because he wished me to give her a home, and wanted to prejudice me in her favor. However, we shall see. She is not afraid of work, he said. I am afraid we shall have to prove that,” she added grimly. She straightened up, a little flushed. “My sister was a weakling,” she remarked.
Egon said nothing. He had loved Hertha, the sister of Emmi. But Hertha had not loved him, and had married Emil Hoeller instead. So, he had turned to Emmi, who at least reminded him of Hertha. He had a deep affection for Emmi now, though he had been more afraid of her in the beginning. Literally, she had married him rather than the other way about. When Hertha had died, at the time when Emil had been imprisoned for his revolutionary activities, Egon had suffered torments of silent grief and desolation. But this was something else that Emmi had never known. Thinking of Irmgard now, he wondered eagerly if she had become like her mother, the gentle, sweet-mouthed Hertha.
“We must make her happy,” he said, as he went towards the door, already shivering in anticipation of the storm outside.
“Happy!” cried Emmi, loudly. “Who has the right to be happy in such a world!”
She followed him to the door, and waited until his bent form was out of sight before she closed it. She closed that door with tenderness, as one might close the bedroom door of a beloved but ailing child.
She allowed herself no time for thought and conjecture. She busied herself swiftly and in an orderly fashion in the kitchen, her grenadier’s body moving in disciplined motions, without waste. She turned off the gas, leaving the kitchen in semidarkness, rippling with rain-shadows, for she was very economical.
The kitchen restored to order, she opened the door upon a long dark hall, chill and gloomy. This hall led to the “parlor” of the flat. Emmi had furnished it with second-hand walnut and horsehair furniture, hideous bulking articles without beauty or comfort. The room was dark, like every other room in the miserable tenement, and coffin-shaped, with two long thin windows looking out upon the desolate court. Here, too, the air was that of some underground arctic tomb. A large square of turkey-red thin carpet lay upon the floor, and the boards bordering it had been polished to a deep blackish lustre by Emmi’s stern hands. Upon this carpet lurked the monstrous horsehair furniture, like squat and sullen animals, a sofa and two chairs, and in the center of the room, a heavy round black walnut table with brass feet which Emmi had brought from Germany. She had hung stiff coarse lace curtains at the windows, rigid with starch and white as snow. The austerity of her nature was evident in the absence of all ornaments and knick-knacks and cushions. Everything was stiff and dead and bitterly cold. There was a black wood fireplace in the room, near a corner, but no fire burned there. Instead, black and icy, stood a tall circular coal stove with a fretted nickel top. A fire was always laid there, but rarely lit, the Stoessels preferring t
he more cheerful atmosphere of the kitchen. Over the fireplace hung a single picture, Emmi’s treasure, a remarkably fine engraving of Goethe. Emmi knew everything about her beloved hero, including his scorn of the common people. As she had never considered herself as belonging to that class, she, in spite of her passionately democratic theories, felt no offense. Heaped on the table were piles of finely bound books, in German. These, however, did nothing to dispel the funereal darkness and chill and bleakness of the room.
Emmi moved rapidly about the room, wiping off the daily film of coal dust which gathered there despite the closed windows. This done, she went into the “front” parlor, a room which her economy had heretofore left unfurnished and closed off. But now this room, with the bay window fronting the bedraggled street and facing the blackened cottages on the other side, had been quickly converted into a bedroom for Irmgard Hoeller. A small rag rug lay on the thin long expanse of the polished floor. Emmi had bought a secondhand white iron bed, and it stood in the center of the room, narrow and white, hard and chaste, with pillow-shams and a thick cotton spread. There was a blackwood wardrobe there, also, a table, a rocking-chair, and a commode. Emmi surveyed it with satisfaction. It was a nun’s room, without warmth or comfort, but achingly clean. She dusted the room, walked about it, restlessly, peered through the curtains without knowing what she did. But again, her look lightened.
In the rear, off the kitchen, was Franz’s bedroom. A feature of these tenements was that there was a sort of garret room leading up from the kitchen, also in the rear. This was the room where Emmi and her husband slept. Only the firstfloor flats had this room. Emmi could never have accustomed herself to sleep on the same floor with her kitchen and her son.
It was now eight o’clock, and the tenement was in order. The rain had increased, splashing desolately against the windows. Emmi mounted to her tiny bare room, removed her apron, patted her hair. Then she put on her tight broadcloth jacket and tied on her bonnet. She put on black cotton gloves, and then went downstairs briskly, her heavy broadcloth skirts trailing behind. She picked up her umbrella and marched to the door.
The rain and wind assaulted her. But she did not mind this. She walked rapidly and firmly down the mournful street to another flat in the building. There she briskly pulled the bell and waited. She was on her way to do her usual morning duties.
CHAPTER 7
The horse-car went no farther than the gates of the mills. Emmi descended, holding her skirts high in her lean, blackgloved hand. A high, barbed-wire fence guarded the grounds of the mill, and there were iron gates at intervals, and watchmen in little wooden shacks. Emmi looked at the mill with gloomy distaste. The rain was heavier than ever, and the wind violent. Against a boiling gaseous sky of gray clouds the towering chimneys of the mills shot forth scarlet and fitful lightning, and masses of black smoke starred with red sparks. From the mills themselves came a prolonged confused roar. The blasted grounds surrounding the mills were heaped with slag and cinders, and busy with workmen wheeling barrows or driving cars with straining horses.
Before one of the gates there was quite a small crowd of workmen, their shabby clothing sodden from the rain, their caps pulled down over pale and anxious faces. They were engaged in arguing with the watchmen, who held clubs ready and talked bullyingly through the iron gates. Emmi approached the outskirts of the crowd and listened to the pleading of a leader.
“But, there weren’t no call to shut us out, without notice. Here we come this mornin’, and you won’t let us in—”
A watchman shouted brutally: “Ain’t I been tellin’ you you was laid off? What more do you want?”
“But Saturday—”
“Today’s Monday. Lots of things happened over Sunday.” Another watchman added: “Want me to call the company police?”
Emmi touched a young workman on his arm. He turned a dazed discouraged face upon her, then tugged at his cap. “What is the matter?” she asked.
“Well, ma’am, seems like there’s a lay-off, unexpected.” He had an English voice and a deprecating English manner.
Emmi became alarmed. Franz had said nothing of a contemplated lay-off.
“But why is there a lay-off, young man?”
“Oh, some feller said there was some trouble in the mill. Some orders cancelled. I don’t know, ma’am.”
“I got six kids. They’ll starve!” cried a workman to the watchman, in a frantic voice. The watchman shrugged, surlily.
“Is that my fault? What do you fellers have all those kids for, anyway? It ain’t none of my trouble.”
The men broke into a confused babble of voices, despairing, pleading, puzzled and bewildered. Here and there there was an angry voice, raised in furious protest. The watchmen glanced uneasily towards an approaching guard with a shotgun.
Emmi’s dry cheek flushed. She bit her lip and turned away. Her heart beat heavily, with a deep, inward pain. The dark wet morning was all the darker and more desolate for her. Her face took on an expression of baffled anger and passionate indignation. Moreover, she felt twinges of anxiety for Franz. Of course, he was a foreman now, after three years in the mills, and he might not be laid off. Then this selfish thought disappeared and the pain returned.
The station was three streets away, and by the time Emmi arrived at the miserable wooden building her skirts were wet and dabbled with mud. The station was situated in the midst of a laborer’s slum, and was as ramshackle and soot-stained and broken as any other building in the vicinity. The long lines of rails leading up to it gleamed wetly in the gray light. A few engines puffed on sidings and the streams of freightcars on other sidings dripped with water. The air was full of grit and smoke, and clangorous with bells. Emmi entered the station, which was heated by a black, pot-bellied stove, and littered with broken benches, upon which sat ragged women and children with bundles. A large oil-lantern swung from the ceiling. It was five minutes to ten, and the train from New York was on time, the ticket-seller informed Emmi.
She walked restlessly up and down on the filthy floor, which was stained with tobacco juice. She lifted her skirts, and kept her head bent as though she could not bear to look at the wretched humanity in the station. Her face became more gloomy with every moment. Then she looked about her, as though she were a newcomer, full of new and sickened impressions. What would Irmgard think of all this, Irmgard who no doubt had young dreams of America? Never had she seen such poverty and dirt, Emmi was sure of that, remembering the clean bare stations of Germany. It was a sad day to arrive, and a sad day for Irmgard.
The train from New York approached up the rails, its wheels screaming and its bell thundering. It was a long train, the first few coaches black with soot, the coaches of the wellto-do large and much cleaner. Emmi went out upon the unsheltered platform and lifted her umbrella. Crowds descended the high steps clumsily. She watched every woman with great intensity. Which was Irmgard? Emmi was jostled by the crowds, but she held her place firmly, watching every face.
Then she started. It might have been her own sister, Hertha, who was descending the steps, clutching a raffia suitcase and a large bundle wrapped in black cloth. Hertha in her youth, vital, quiet, calm, in her old-fashioned cloth bonnet and bulky woolen skirt and jacket. But this was a taller Hertha, Emmi saw, and a much more beautiful one, and surer, and not so sweet of face or gentle of manner. Emmi could not move for some moments. Emotion held her rigid and immovable. Her vision clouded, and she blinked fiercely.
The girl, once on the platform, looked about her without bewilderment. She set down her suitcase, and put her bundle upon it, oblivious of the rain. She straightened her bonnet, and patted her jacket, shaking off some of the soot on her shoulders. There was no expression of confusion, disillusionment or fear on her face, only a great calmness and composure. Emmi, recovering herself, moved forward, and began to speak in German:
“Irmgard? I am your aunt Emmi.”
The girl smiled, and the smile was like a flash of light. Emmi was tall, but the girl was ta
ller. She bent her head and touched Emmi’s cheek with cool fresh lips. Her ungloved hand, in Emmi’s, was firm and young and very strong. Emmi’s depression lifted. “Let us go in, out of the rain,” she said, almost gayly. She took the black bundle, though the girl murmured in protest, and marched away into the station. Then Irmgard followed, carrying her weighted suitcase.
“I have no carriage,” said Emmi with a wry twisted smile. “We must walk to the horse-car.”
The girl smiled again. Emmi saw that one of her characteristics was her. silence, illuminated by that gleaming smile. In the swaying light of the lantern, the girl’s beauty seemed to increase, until it filled all the noisy gritty room. Her hair, under the bonnet, was as smooth as golden satin, and as heavy, twisted in a knot on the nape of an incredibly white neck. Her face was large and oval, and without color except that in her big exquisitely shaped mouth. Under bronze lashes were a pair of strange eyes, brilliantly green. She had the profile of a classic Grecian statue, and indeed, in her beautiful Junoesque figure, there was the quality of sculpture, which not even the homemade and bulky clothing could hide. Emmi had hoped that the girl would be comely. Her most optimistic hopes, however, had not prepared her for this. Her heart lightened still more, and she was filled with affection.