Her Mother's Hope

by Francine Rivers

  Tears slipped down Mama’s cheeks. “You cried for hours. I tried to explain he’d been drinking and didn’t know what he was saying.”

  “He knew, Mama. That’s what hurt so much.”

  Mama sighed. She took Marta’s hand firmly. “You have my mother’s eyes. She didn’t like your father. She didn’t want me to marry him.”

  “Maybe you should have listened.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have had Hermann or you or Elise. The three of you are my greatest blessings in life. I’ve never been sorry.”

  “Never?”

  “God permits suffering. He permits injustice. I know your father can be cruel and selfish at times. But there were tender moments in the beginning. He lives with bitter disappointment. He’s never learned to count his blessings. If you are to rise above your circumstances, you must learn that, Liebling.” She took Marta’s hand again. “Don’t worry so much about me. I learned a long time ago to take my pain to Christ, who understands suffering so much more than I.” She closed her eyes. “I imagine Jesus gathering me in His arms and lifting me onto His lap and holding me there like a child cradled against a mother’s heart. His words are full of comfort. He strengthens me in my weakness.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at Marta. “You won’t welcome this, Marta. But you are more like your father than you are like me. You have his passion and ambition. You want more than life has given you.” She sighed deeply. “And I love him. I have always loved him and always will, despite his faults and frailties.”

  “I know, Mama. I just wish your life could be easier.”

  “And if it were easier, would I have given my heart so fully to God? Wherever you go, let Christ be your refuge. Put your hope in Him, and you won’t be disappointed by what life offers.”

  Mama lifted her head again. “Look at the birds, Liebling.” Shivering despite the warm day, Mama drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Most species fly in a flock.” A tear ran down her white cheek. “An eagle flies alone.”

  Marta felt her throat tighten. Pressing her lips together, she closed her eyes.

  Mama put both hands around Marta’s. “You have my blessing, Marta. I give it to you wholeheartedly and without reservation. You have my love. And I will pray for you every day of my life. Don’t be afraid to leave.”

  “What about Elise, Mama?”

  Mama smiled. “Elise is our lovely little barn swallow. She’ll never fly far from home.”

  They walked down the hill together, Mama leaning into Marta for support. “Don’t come home too often. There may come a time when your father won’t let you go.”

  5

  1904

  Marta slipped into the small room off the kitchen, momentarily escaping the infernal heat of the stoves. She wilted onto her cot and dabbed the sweat from her face with the towel she kept over her shoulder. Leaning back against the stone wall, she sighed in relief. On the other side flowed the River Aare that ran between the Thunersee and Brienzersee. Constant moisture seeped through the mortar, making icicles in winter and sprouting with mushrooms through summer.

  “Marta!” the chef, Warner Brennholtz, shouted from the kitchen. “Marta!”

  “Give me a minute or I’ll melt faster than your chocolate!” She hadn’t had a break all evening, and Herr Weib had brought her a letter from Mama. She took it from her apron pocket, tore it open, and began to read.

  My dearest Marta,

  I hope you are well and happy. I hold you close to my heart and pray for you unceasingly. I have sad news. Papa had to go to Bern and fetch Elise home from the housekeeping school. Countess Saintonge said she is unfit for service.

  Papa didn’t go the first time they wrote. He thought Elise would adjust. But he had to go when the count wired him to come for Elise or pay the expenses of having her escorted home.

  The count refused to return a single franc. He said she had taken space that should have been given to another girl, and he would not accept the loss. That was bad enough, but he made it worse by telling Papa a father should know whether his own child could bear separation from her family. I know God has a lesson for all of us in this.

  “Oh, Mama.” Her mother had unwittingly encouraged Elise’s dependence, but the full responsibility couldn’t be laid at her feet. Marta blamed herself for giving Papa the money to send Elise to Bern. He had made her feel so guilty when she had said no the first time.

  “If you loved your sister . . . if you weren’t so grasping and selfish . . . You think nothing of your family. . . . You hoard your francs when they could help. . . .”

  She should have told Papa how he’d been duped by those two counterfeits in Bern. Instead, she’d convinced herself Elise might benefit by getting away. Perhaps she would blossom among the other girls her age and enjoy Bern as much as Marta had. Marta had sent extra francs to Elise and told her to walk the Marktgasse and buy some chocolate and pastries at the Café Français.

  Now, all she could do was pray Papa wouldn’t take out his anger on Elise.

  Marta lifted the letter and continued reading.

  Please don’t be angry with her. I know it was your money wasted, but Elise did try. She managed to stay three weeks before she wrote the first time. And she suffers now. Papa hasn’t spoken a word to her since he brought her home.

  Elise helps me as much as she can. Her stitches are as fine as mine now. She will learn to work faster with more experience. She also helps Frau Zimmer with little Evrard. He is so dear, but he’s at that age when he’s into everything. He got away from her for a few minutes the other day. She is keeping closer watch now.

  Write soon, Liebling. Your letters are a great comfort to us all. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May His face shine upon you. I love you.

  Mama

  Marta folded the letter and tucked it back into her apron pocket. She would write and tell Mama to make Elise go to the market. She needed to learn to talk with people. She could buy the bread from the Beckers and talk with Frau Fuchs about more honey. Elise needed to learn to stand on her own. She wouldn’t always have Mama.

  The clatter of china went on in the other room. Warner Brennholtz shouted an impatient order to someone. Her door banged open and the chef stepped into her room. She had long since learned not to be surprised or offended when someone barged in. The heat of the kitchen made escape necessary, and her small bedroom was convenient. All day from breakfast through dinner, workers danced around one another, and someone would regularly slide in for a few minutes of cool respite before facing the stoves and ovens again. Only after the last customers had gone and the last dishes had been washed and put away did Marta have any privacy.

  Brennholtz stood taller than Papa and several stones heavier. He liked his beer, too, but became jolly when he overimbibed, rather than moody or violent like her father. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you ate bad Sauerkraut.” The chef wiped perspiration from his red face and neck.

  “My sister wasn’t able to finish housekeeping school.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “She’s fine, now that she’s home with our mother.”

  “Ah. Is she a good worker? She could come here and live in this room with you. We could use another dishwasher.”

  “You’d frighten her to death.” Brennholtz could shout louder than Papa. Even his laughter boomed enough to rattle crockery. Elise would probably break half the dishes before the end of her first week.

  “A pity Derry doesn’t need another maid.”

  “He would if he rented rooms to the English.”

  Warner wiped the towel over his thinning blond hair. “He did a few years ago, but the English and Germans are like oil and water, and Derry doesn’t speak enough English to sort things out. When he couldn’t bring peace, customers didn’t want to pay. So now he caters to Swiss and Germans.”

  “And makes less money.”

  “And has fewer headaches.” Warner slapped the towel over his shoulder. “Money isn’t ever
ything.”

  “People who have it always say that.”

  He laughed. “You’d know how to stop a ruckus, ja? Bang two heads together. Derry should train you to manage and take a long vacation.”

  She knew he meant it as a joke, but she pushed herself up and faced him. “If I could speak French and English, I’d figure out a way to fill every room in this hotel.”

  He laughed. “Then learn, Fräulein.”

  “In a basement kitchen?” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you speak French?”

  “Nein.”

  “English?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Then I should quit and go to Geneva or London.” She brushed past him.

  “I don’t like your joke!” He followed her.

  “Do you think I plan to remain an assistant cook for the rest of my life?”

  Warner snatched a pot off a hook and slammed it on the worktable. Everyone jumped except Marta. “This is the thanks I get for training you!”

  How many times did she have to say it? Marta bared her teeth in a smile and dipped in an exaggerated curtsy. “Vielen Dank, Herr Brennholtz.” She spoke with cloying sweetness. “Danke. Danke. Danke.”

  He laughed. “That’s better.”

  Her anger evaporated. Why take out her frustrations on Warner when he had been nothing but kind? “I told you I wouldn’t stay here forever.”

  “Ja. I know. You have big dreams! Too big, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  His hands worked quickly, coating pieces of meat in flour and seasonings. “It takes years to become a chef.”

  She tossed flour on her work area and grabbed a hunk of dough from a bowl. “I don’t have to become a chef, Herr Brennholtz, just a good cook.”

  “Ha! Then you’re not as ambitious as I thought!”

  She felt a fierce rush inside her. “I’m more ambitious than you’ll ever know.”

  * * *

  Mama wrote again. Papa had found a position for Elise in Thun.

  The family is wealthy. They come from Zurich and spend the summer. Elise has room and board, and she can come home on her day off.

  When will we see you? You haven’t been home since Elise returned from Bern. Papa told her you’re probably upset over the wasted money.

  Marta wrote back right away.

  Mama, please tell Elise not to be distressed. I work fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and spend Sunday mornings in church. When summer ends, the Germania will have fewer patrons. I’ll come home then. In the meantime, give our little barn swallow my love.

  Mama’s next letter gave Marta some hope that Elise would do better.

  Elise seems well settled. She hasn’t been home for two weeks. Herr Meyer told a friend what a lovely child she is. Their son Derrick changed his plans to return to Zurich. . . .

  Marta wondered if Derrick might be the reason Elise didn’t feel the need to come home.

  Rosie wrote, too, filling two pages about Arik Brechtwald dancing with her at a summer festival, and wouldn’t her father lock her up if he knew she’d received her first kiss! She filled another page with news of her sisters and brothers and mother and father, and town gossip.

  Marta wrote back and asked Rosie if her father knew any hotel managers in Geneva.

  Warner speaks High German, but not a word of French. . . .

  Rosie responded quickly.

  Father has only acquaintances in Geneva; unfortunately, no one upon whom he could prevail for a favor. Mama has an older second cousin in Montreux. Luisa von Olman is a widow with six children, only two left at home. Her eldest son is the commander of a fortress, but I’ve forgotten where. Mama says he married a lovely little Swiss-Italian girl and they have ten children, but since it was too far for the children to go to a valley school, the government built one right there on the mountain where they live. Mama will write Cousin Luisa. . . .

  Marta wrote to Frau Gilgan to thank her, and then to Rosie.

  I plan to come home for a week the middle of September, then go to Montreux. If Cousin Luisa cannot help, I will haunt the hotels along the lakeshore. I’ll find something. I would like to speak some French before my eighteenth birthday! Something more than bonjour and merci beaucoup!

  Toward the end of summer, Marta received a letter from Elise. Surprised and pleased, Marta tore it open immediately rather than wait for a quiet moment alone.

  Dearest Marta,

  Please help me. I’m afraid of Herr Meyer. He won’t leave me alone. Papa will be angry if I come home without any money, but I haven’t been paid anything at all and I’m terrified of Frau Meyer. She hates me because of her horrible son. I thanked God when he left for Zurich. I would ask Mama to come, but she is not well enough. Please. I’m begging you. Come and help me get away from here.

  Your loving little sister,

  Elise

  “What’s wrong?” Warner was slicing veal. “You look ill.”

  “My sister needs me.” She shoved the letter into her skirt pocket. “I have to go.”

  “Now?”

  She raced into her small bedroom and threw a few things into her shoulder bag. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Go tomorrow.” Warner blocked her way. “I need you here.”

  “Elise needs me more, and you have Della and Arlene.”

  “I could dismiss you!”

  “Go ahead! That would give me the excuse I need to go to Montreux! Now, get out of my way!”

  He caught her by the shoulders when she tried to push past him. “It won’t be the last time your sister needs you. When your mother is gone, you’ll be the one she leans on. . . .”

  “I have to go.”

  With a sigh, Warner released her.

  Marta raced up the stairs and out of the hotel, boarding a hired coach to Thun.

  After asking directions, she found her way to the huge chalet at the end of a street on the edge of town. A man trimming roses in the front garden straightened as she approached. “Can I help you, Fräulein?”

  “I’ve come to see my sister, Elise Schneider.”

  “Go around back to the kitchen. Frau Hoffman will help you.”

  An old woman with a crown of white braids answered the door. Marta quickly introduced herself and stated her business. The woman looked relieved. “Come in, Fräulein. I’ll fetch Elise for you.”

  The kitchen smelled of baking bread. Apples, nuts, raisins, and oats had been set out on the worktable. The floors looked freshly washed, the copper pots polished, the counter surfaces clean. Marta paced, agitated.

  Elisa flew through the kitchen door. “Marta!” She threw herself into Marta’s startled embrace and burst into tears. “You came. I was so afraid you wouldn’t. . . .”

  Marta could feel how thin she was. “Don’t they feed you?”

  “She’s been too upset to eat.” The cook closed the door behind her and went to the worktable.

  Marta saw a purple bruise on her sister’s cheek. Heat surged through her body. “Who struck you?”

  Elise gulped sobs, leaving Frau Hoffman to answer grimly. “Frau Meyer.” The cook picked up another apple and sliced through it cleanly. “And she’s not the only one in this family who’s done harm to your poor sister.”

  Marta’s body went cold. She pressed Elise away, holding her by the arms. “Tell me what’s been going on, Elise.” She spoke gently, but her sister cried harder, her mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. She seemed incapable of uttering even a single distinguishable word.

  Frau Hoffman cut an apple into four pieces and began removing the core from each section with quick gouges. “A father has no business putting a pretty young girl like Elise in this house. Not with the young man and his father. I could’ve told him!”

  Marta stared at her, stomach turning over.

  Frau Hoffman sliced apple into the bowl. “I risk losing my job if I say more.” She gave Elise a pitying glance before returning to her work. “But you should get her o
ut of this house now if you don’t want more harm to come to her.”

  Marta tipped Elise’s chin. “We’ll go as soon as we collect your things and what salary is owed you.”

  “Well, good luck trying, Fräulein.” Frau Hoffman snorted. “The mistress hasn’t paid anyone since the beginning of summer. She never does until the last day, and seldom the full amount.”

  Tears streamed down Elise’s white cheeks, making the purple bruise stand out even more. “Can’t we go now, Marta?” Her body trembled violently. “Please.”

  Frau Hoffman tossed the paring knife into the bowl and grabbed a towel. “I’ll get your sister’s things. You two wait here.”

  Marta tried to calm Elise. “Tell me what happened, Liebling.”

  “I want to die.” Elise covered her face, shoulders shaking. When she swayed, Marta made her sit. Sobbing, Elise pulled her apron up over her head and rocked back and forth. Marta held her tightly, her cheek against the top of her sister’s head. Anger grew inside her until she didn’t know who shook more. “We’ll leave soon, Elise. Here’s Frau Hoffman now.”

  “I got everything.”

  Everything but Elise’s wages. “Where’s Frau Meyer?”

  “In the parlor, but she won’t speak to you.”

  “You sit right here.” She stood.

  “Where are you going?” Elise grabbed Marta’s skirt. “Don’t leave me!”

  She cupped Elise’s face. “Stay here in the kitchen with Frau Hoffman. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll go home. Now, let go so I can get your wages.”

  “I wouldn’t go, Fräulein.”

  “They’re not getting away with it!” Marta banged the kitchen door open, strode through the dining room and across the hall. As she entered the parlor, she saw a heavyset woman in a green day dress half-reclined on a settee near the windows overlooking the garden. Startled, the woman dropped her delicate china cup, shattering it on the saucer. Tea splashed down the front of her. Gasping, she rose and brushed frantically at the stain. “I don’t know you! What are you doing in my house?”