Her Mother's Hope

  “He’s so beautiful.” Solange gazed raptly into her son’s face. She looked pale and drained, damp tendrils of dark hair framing her face. “Where is Herve?”

  “Downstairs, I think, waiting to find out if you and the baby are well.”

  She laughed. “Tell him he can come back now. I won’t bite him.”

  The door opened and a heavyset, gray-haired woman came hurrying in. Her face looked weary with exhaustion.

  “Madame DuBois!” Solange smiled. “He’s already come.”

  “So I see.” The midwife removed her shawl and tossed it aside as she approached the bed. “Two babies in one night.” She drew down the blanket to look at the baby. “Herve is bringing warm water and salt. We must wash you both to prevent infection.” She drew blankets aside and encouraged Solange to nurse the baby. “It will bring the afterbirth.” She straightened and turned to Marta. “We must strip the soiled sheets and replace them.” Marta followed the woman’s quick instructions.

  Herve came in with another pot of hot water and a bag of salt. “You have a son, Herve.” Tears of joy ran down Solange’s cheeks. The midwife told him to wash his hands before he touched either babe or mother. Herve sloshed water into a basin and scrubbed past his wrists, grabbing one of the towels. When he sat on the edge of the bed, Solange gasped. Herve dropped to his knees beside the bed, murmuring endearments as he kissed Solange and beheld his son.

  Feeling useless, Marta gathered up the soiled sheets. “I should soak these right away.” No one noticed when she left. When she came downstairs, she found several men dressed for work sitting in the empty dining room. She had had no time to set out the usual breakfast buffet. “Müsli this morning, gentlemen. And no lunch today. You’ll need to find a nice restaurant. We’ve had a busy night. The Fourniers have a healthy son. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow morning.”

  The midwife came down to the kitchen. “Solange and the baby are sleeping. Herve fell asleep on the settee. You did well, mademoiselle. Solange speaks very highly of you.”

  “Solange did all the work, Madame DuBois. All I did was dab her forehead, hold her hand . . . and pray.” Madame DuBois laughed with her. “You’ll need something to eat before you leave.” Marta prepared an omelette, fried bread, and hot chocolate. Madame DuBois left as soon as she finished breakfast, and Marta went upstairs to her attic room to rest for a few hours before starting preparations for dinner.

  Unexpected emotion welled up inside Marta. She had never seen anything more beautiful than the way Solange and Herve looked at one another and at the perfect infant they had made together. Would a man ever look at her with such love? Would she ever have a child of her own? Perhaps her father was right: she had no beauty to offer and she lacked Mama’s gentle spirit. How many times had Papa said no man would look at her, and in truth, not one of the bachelors in the house had given her a second look, other than to ask for some needed service. “Mademoiselle, would you mind ironing my suit?” “How much to do my laundry, mademoiselle?” “More sausages, mademoiselle.”

  Marta put her arm over her eyes and fought tears of longing and disappointment. She must concentrate on what she could have with hard work and perseverance, and she must not long for things beyond reach. Solange had her Herve. Rosie would have her Arik. Marta would have her freedom.

  She could thank God she would never again live under her father’s roof. She would never again bear the bruises of a beating. She would never again sit in silence as a man told her she was ugly, ill-tempered, and selfish.

  “Fly,” Mama said. “Be like an eagle.” In those words, Mama had acknowledged that Marta would not have the comfort of a loving husband or children of her own. “An eagle flies alone.”

  As she fell asleep, Marta thought she heard a voice. “Mama?” She dreamed Mama flew above her, face radiant, arms spread like angel’s wings. Elise stood below, hands raised, snow swirling around her until she disappeared.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks, Marta worked such long, hard hours she had no time to think about anything but what needed to be done. Herve hired another servant, Edmee, who took over the household chores. Marta prepared all the meals for the Fourniers and twelve boarders and looked after Solange during her first weeks of recuperation. Baby Jean proved demanding of his mother’s time. After the first few days, Herve slept in the parlor.

  Herve came into the kitchen one afternoon. “Two letters, Marta!” He tossed them onto the worktable. “Ah, ragoût de bœuf.” He lifted the lid from the bubbling beef stew and inhaled while Marta slid the bread from the oven and set it on the counter to cool. She picked up the two letters, one from Elise, another from Felda Braun.

  Heart thumping with dread, Marta took a paring knife and sliced both open. She felt something inside Elise’s envelope and carefully opened the note. Folded inside were Mama’s gold earbobs.

  Mama gave these to me before she died. I love you, Marta. I have asked God to forgive me. I hope you will, too.

  Elise

  Marta sat down heavily on the stool.

  “Est-ce qu’il y a quelque chose de mal?” Herve stood looking at her.

  What was wrong? Marta remembered the dream and felt her throat close tight with pain. Hands shaking, she put the earbobs onto the note and folded it back into the envelope. Slipping it into her apron pocket, she opened Felda Braun’s letter.

  Dear Marta,

  It is with greatest sorrow that I write this letter. . . .

  “Mademoiselle?”

  Marta couldn’t see through her tears. While she was here helping Solange bring a baby into the world, her mother was dying. She dropped Felda’s letter and covered her face. “Ma mère est morte.”

  Herve spoke quietly. She didn’t understand anything he said. He came around the worktable and put his hand on her shoulder. “I should’ve gone home.” Marta rocked back and forth, muffling her sobs with her apron. Herve squeezed gently and left the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Mama. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” Trembling violently, she picked up Felda Braun’s letter, expecting further details of her mother’s passing and Elise’s move to Grindelwald.

  Your mother wrote to me some months ago about her illness and asked if I might consider taking Elise to live with me when her time came. I went to Steffisburg immediately to speak with her in person. I hardly recognized Anna. The doctor confirmed her own belief that she had consumption. She did not want you to know she was dying because she knew you would come home. She said if you did, your father would never let you go again. She said the minister would write to me when it was time to come for Elise.

  When I went home, I began to prepare her way. I told my friends about your mother’s illness and how your sister had lost her husband in a tragic accident. In this way, I could assure Elise that she could raise her baby without fear of scandal.

  Marta went cold. Her baby? She read more quickly.

  When I heard from the minister, I went immediately to Steffisburg, but Elise had already disappeared. Your father thought he would find her in Thun. Everyone was looking for her, but I grieve to tell you that we did not find her in time. Your friend Rosie found her body by a stream not far from the house.

  Marta cried until she felt sick. She pulled herself together enough to set the table and serve dinner. Clearly, Herve had told the men about her mother, for they offered condolences and spoke in subdued voices. Marta did not mention Elise. Edmee stayed to help wash dishes and clean the kitchen, insisting Marta go upstairs to her attic bedroom and try to rest. Curling on her side, Marta cried as she remembered dreaming of Elise standing in the snow with her hands raised to heaven.

  A few days later, Marta received a wire from her father.

  Return immediately. Needed in shop.

  Tears of fury filled Marta’s eyes. She shook with the power of her rage. Not one word about Mama or Elise. Crumpling the message, she threw it in the stove and watched it burn.

  * * *

  Solange sat in the kitchen with Mart
a, baby Jean sleeping contentedly in a basket on the worktable. “Je comprends.” She took Marta’s hand. “God brought you to us when we needed you most, and now you must go. C’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?”

  Marta felt little guilt about leaving. Solange had healed quickly and was eager to resume her duties. Edmee had agreed to stay on full-time. She was a hard worker like Marta and would help with the baby while Solange resumed the cooking.

  Solange lifted the baby from his warm nest. “Would you like to hold Jean one more time before you leave?”

  “Yes. Please.” Marta held him close, pretending just for a moment he belonged to her. She sang a lullaby in German as she walked around the kitchen. Then she placed Jean in his mother’s arms. “Danke.”

  Tears slipped down Solange’s cheeks. “Write to us, Marta. Herve and I want to know what becomes of you.”

  Marta nodded, unable to speak. As she came out of the kitchen into the hallway, Herve and the bachelors stood waiting. Each wished her well as she passed by. When she reached the door, Herve gave her a brotherly kiss on each cheek and handed her an envelope. “A gift from all of us.”

  She looked from him to the other men. Pressing her lips together so she wouldn’t cry, she gave a deep, respectful curtsy and left the house. Despair filled her as she walked to the train station. She looked up at the departure times. A dutiful daughter would return to Steffisburg, work in the shop without complaining, and take care of her father in his old age. Honor your father and mother, God commanded, that your days may be long in the land the Lord your God will give you.

  Marta took a coach to Lausanne, where she boarded a train to Paris.

  8

  1906

  Bern had invigorated Marta, but Paris overwhelmed her. She found her way to the Swiss Consulate. “I’m afraid no positions are open this week, Fräulein.” The clerk gave her directions to an inexpensive boardinghouse in the crowded streets of the Rive Droite. She paid for a week’s lodgings.

  Early each morning, Marta went back to the consulate and then out to spend the day exploring the city and practicing her French. She asked directions and visited palaces and museums. She walked into evening along the Seine, lost among the crowds out enjoying the city of lights. She went to the Musée du Louvre and wandered through the Jardin des Tuileries. She sat in Notre Dame cathedral and prayed for her sister’s soul.

  Prayers did not ease the grief consuming her.

  Mama whispered in her dreams. “Fly, Marta. Don’t be afraid, mein kleiner Adler. . . .” And Marta would awaken, weeping. She dreamed of Elise, too, disturbing dreams of her sister lost and trying to find her way home. Marta could hear the echo of her voice. “Marta, where are you? Marta, help me!” she cried out, as the swirling snow enfolded her.

  After seven days, Marta gave up on finding a position in Paris and bought a coach ticket to Calais. She boarded a boat across the English Channel and spent most of the trip leaning over the side.

  * * *

  Rain came down in sheets over Dover. Weary, Marta continued by coach to Canterbury, part of her wishing she had traveled southeast to the warmth of Italy rather than come to England. She consoled herself that learning English would bring her closer to her goal. After one night in cheap lodgings, Marta took another coach to London.

  By the time she arrived, her wool coat smelled like a wet sheep, her boots and the hem of her serviceable skirt felt like they were caked with ten pounds of mud, and she had a head cold. Stomping her feet, she tried to loosen the mud from her boots before going inside the Swiss Consulate to look for lodgings and work.

  “Add your name to the list and fill out this form.” The harried clerk slid a paper across his desk and went back to another pile of papers.

  Ten girls had already written their names on the list. Marta added hers to the bottom and filled out the form carefully. The clerk looked it over. “You have a good hand, Fräulein. Do you speak English?”

  “I’ve come to learn.”

  “Do you plan to return to Switzerland?”

  She didn’t know. “Eventually.”

  “Too many of our young people are going to America. The land of opportunity, they call it.”

  “I miss the snow. I miss the mountains.”

  “Ja. The air is not so clean here.” He continued reading her form. “Ah! You worked with Warner Brennholtz at the Hotel Germania!” He smiled and nodded as he pulled his wire-rimmed glasses down. “I spent a week in Interlaken three years ago. Best food I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Chef Brennholtz trained me.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “To learn French. I’m here to learn English. There are more opportunities for employment for those who can speak multiple languages.”

  “Very true. Do you speak French?”

  She gave a prim nod. “Assez de servir.” Enough to serve, but little more.

  “You’ve accomplished much for one so young, Fräulein Schneider.” He glanced over her form again. “Dressmaking, graduate of Haushaltungsschule Bern, trained by Frau Fischer and Warner Brennholtz, delivered a baby, and managed a boardinghouse in Montreux . . .”

  “I am a long way from accomplishing what I want, Herr Reinhard.”

  Herr Reinhard put her form on the top of the pile. “I will see what I can do.”

  Marta moved into the Swiss Home for Girls and waited. She had spent more than she intended seeing Paris. While other girls came and went, Marta kept to the house, trying to shake the head cold she had contracted on the journey to London and helping the housemother, Frau Alger, keep the common rooms clean and neat. She wondered if she had made a mistake in coming to England. The drizzling rain and heavy, soot-scented mists of London depressed her, and Frau Alger said good jobs were scarce.

  A message came from the consulate, signed by Kurt Reinhard. The wife of the Swiss consul needed an assistant cook for a dinner party that evening. Marta washed and put on her uniform, packed quickly, and headed to the consul’s mansion by taxi.

  She went to the servants’ entrance and found herself greeted by a harried maid. “Thank goodness!” She waved Marta inside. “Frau Schmitz is frantic. She has twenty guests arriving for dinner in less than two hours, and Chef Adalrik’s wife became ill this afternoon and had to be taken to the hospital. Another maid quit this morning. We have only one upstairs maid and me.”

  After the cold, damp air outside, the heat of the kitchen felt momentarily wonderful. The familiar smell of good Germanic cooking reminded her of the Germania Hotel and Warner Brennholtz. Other things struck her as well, but she decided it was better to be in a smoky, windowless kitchen than out in the damp looking for work. She set her suitcase aside and removed her coat as the maid introduced her to the grim-faced, gray-haired chef. Adalrik Kohler barely glanced at her. “Go with Wilda. Help her set the table for twenty.”

  “How many courses?”

  “Four. Frau Schmitz wanted six, but I can’t manage more without my wife. When you finish, come back to the kitchen. Oh, and, Fräulein, this is not a permanent position. As soon as Nadine recovers, you will go.”

  “I came to learn English. It is more likely I can accomplish that in an English household.”

  “Good. Then you will not be disappointed.”

  With Wilda’s help, Marta covered the table with white damask and set out the Royal Albert Regency Blue dishes with crystal stemware and silverware. Two silver candelabras and an arrangement of purple and white lilacs adorned the center of the table. Marta folded the white napkins into peacock tails and set them in the middle of each plate. Frau Schmitz, a dazzling blonde woman in her forties, came in dressed in a blue satin gown. Diamonds sparkled at her throat as she walked around the table, inspecting each setting. “It will do.” Marta gave a quick curtsy and headed for the kitchen.

  By the end of the evening, Marta’s legs ached from going up and down the stairs from the basement to the second-floor dining room. When the guests left and the kitchen had been cleaned from top to bottom
, Wilda took her upstairs to the fourth-floor maids’ quarters.

  Over the next week, Marta worked in the smoky, airless kitchen and carried breakfast trays to Frau Schmitz in her third-floor bedroom. She carried trays to the day nursery and served the nanny and the three polite, but rambunctious, Schmitz children. She carried trays laden with crumpets, cucumber sandwiches, and tea cakes to the second-floor parlor, where the lady of the house liked to have high tea using her Royal Albert Regency Blue dishes and silver tea service. She carried more trays into the dining room each evening when Herr Schmitz came home for dinner with his wife, and more trays up to the children’s dining room on the third floor, where the nanny presided.

  Nadine returned, and despite Frau Schmitz’s complaints about money, Adalrik insisted Marta remain in her employ or he would leave. “Nadine is not fully recovered. She hasn’t the stamina to go up and down the stairs twenty times a day. Marta is younger and stronger. She can manage.”

  After a month, Marta caught another cold, which sank into her chest. By the end of each day, her legs ached so much she could barely drag herself up the four flights to the cold room she shared with Wilda. Collapsing into bed, she dreamed of stairs winding up like Jacob’s ladder to heaven. Flights of stairs angled to the right and left, until they disappeared in the clouds. Even after a night of sleep, Marta awakened feeling drained.

  “Your cough is getting worse.” Nadine poured hot water and brewed tea with lemon. “This will make you feel better.”

  Adalrik looked grim. “See a doctor before you get any worse. You don’t want to end up in the hospital the way Nadine did.”

  Marta had no illusions. Adalrik wasn’t concerned about her health, but about whether Nadine would have to return to upstairs duties. “A doctor will only tell me to rest and drink plenty of fluids.”

  Nadine made certain she had plenty of broth and tea with milk, but rest proved elusive and the chest cold grew worse.