The Prodigal Daughter

by Jeffrey Archer

  “She did know all about becoming pregnant and having babies,” Florentyna said to Susie the next day with great authority.

  “Does that mean you’re going to remain a virgin?” asked Susie.

  “Oh, yes,” said Florentyna. “Miss Tredgold is still one.”

  “But what about ‘precautions’?” demanded Susie.

  “You don’t need them if you remain a virgin,” Florentyna said, passing on her newfound knowledge.

  The only other event of importance that year for Florentyna was her confirmation. Although Father O’Reilly, a young priest from the Holy Name Cathedral, officially instructed her, Miss Tredgold, resolutely suppressing the Church of England tenets of her youth, studied the Roman Catholic “Orders in Confirmation” and took Florentyna painstakingly through her preparation, leaving her in no doubt of the obligations that her promises to our dear Lord brought upon her. The Roman Catholic Archbishop of Chicago, assisted by Father O’Reilly, administered the confirmation, and both Abel and Zaphia attended the service. Their divorce having been completed, they sat in separate pews.

  Florentyna wore a simple white dress with a high neck, the hem falling a few inches below the knee. She had made the dress herself, with—when she was asleep—a little help from Miss Tredgold. The original design had come from a photograph in Paris-Match of a dress worn by Princess Elizabeth. Miss Tredgold had brushed Florentyna’s long dark hair for over an hour until it shone. She even allowed it to fall to her shoulders. Although she was only thirteen, the young confirmand looked stunning.

  “My Kum is beautiful,” said George as he stood next to Abel in the front pew of the church.

  “I know,” said Abel.

  “No, I’m serious,” said George. “Very soon there is going to be a line of men banging on the Baron’s castle door demanding the hand of his only daughter.”

  “As long as she’s happy, I don’t mind who she marries.”

  After the service was over, the family had a celebration dinner in Abel’s private rooms at the Baron. Florentyna received gifts from her family and friends, including a beautiful leather-bound version of the King James Bible from Miss Tredgold, but the present she treasured most was the one her father had kept safely until he felt she was old enough to appreciate it, the antique ring that had been given to Florentyna on her christening by the man who had put his faith in Papa and backed the Baron Group.

  “I must write and thank him,” said Florentyna.

  “You can’t, my dear, as I am not certain who he is. I honored my part of the bargain long ago, so now I will probably never discover his true identity.”

  She slipped the antique ring onto the third finger of her right hand and throughout the rest of the day her eyes returned again and again to the sparkling little emeralds.

  Chapter

  Eight

  “How will you be voting in the Presidential election, madam?” asked the smartly dressed young man.

  “I shall not be voting,” said Miss Tredgold, continuing down the street.

  “Shall I put you down as ‘Don’t know’?” said the man, jogging to keep up with her.

  “Most certainly not,” said Miss Tredgold. “I made no such suggestion.”

  “Am I to understand you don’t wish to state your preference?”

  “I am quite happy to state my preference, young man, but as I come from Much Hadham in England, it is unlikely to influence either Mr. Truman or Mr. Dewey.”

  The man conducting the Gallup Poll retreated, but Florentyna watched him carefully because she had read somewhere that the results of such polls were now being taken seriously by all leading politicians.

  Nineteen forty-eight, and America was in the middle of another election campaign. Unlike the Olympics, the race for the White House was re-run every four years, war or peace. Florentyna remained loyal to the Democrats but did not see how President Truman could possibly hold on to the White House after three such unpopular years as President. The Republican candidate, Thomas E. Dewey, had a lead of over 8 percent in the latest Gallup Poll and looked certain of victory.

  Florentyna followed both campaigns closely and was delighted when Margaret Chase Smith beat three men to be chosen as the Republican senatorial candidate for Maine. For the first time, the American people were able to follow the election on television. Abel had installed an RCA at Rigg Street only months before he departed, but during term time Miss Tredgold would not allow Florentyna to watch “that newfangled machine” for more than one hour a day. “It can never be a substitute for the written word,” she declared. “I agree with Professor Chester L. Dawes of Harvard,” she added. “Too many instant decisions will be made in front of the cameras that will later be regretted.”

  Although she did not fully agree with Miss Tredgold’s sentiments at the time, Florentyna selected her hour carefully, particularly on Sundays, always choosing the CBS evening news, during which Douglas Edwards would give the campaign roundup, over Ed Sullivan’s more popular “Toast of the Town.” However, she still found time to listen to Ed Murrow on the radio. After all his broadcasts from London during the war, she, like so many other millions of Americans, remained loyal to his kind of newscasting. She felt it was the least she could do.

  During the summer vacation Florentyna parked herself in Congressman Osborne’s campaign headquarters and, along with scores of other volunteers of assorted ages and ability, filled envelopes with “A Message from Your Congressman” and a bumper sticker that said in bold print “Re-elect Osborne.” She and a pale, angular youth who never proffered any opinions would then lick the flap of each envelope and place it on a pile according to district, for hand delivery by another helper. By the end of each day her mouth and lips were covered in gum and she would return home feeling thirsty and sick.

  One Thursday the receptionist in charge of the telephone inquiries asked if Florentyna could take over her spot while she took a break for lunch.

  “Of course,” said Florentyna with tremendous excitement, and jumped into the vacated seat before the pale youth could volunteer.

  “There shouldn’t be any problems,” the receptionist said. “Just say ‘Congressman Osborne’s office,’ and if you’re not sure of anything, look it up in the campaign handbook. Everything you need to know is in there,” she added, pointing to the thick booklet by the side of the phone.

  “I’ll be just fine,” said Florentyna.

  She sat in the exalted chair, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. She didn’t have to wait long. The first caller was a man who wanted to know where he voted. That’s a strange question, thought Florentyna.

  “At the polls,” she said, a little pertly.

  “Sure, I know that, you stupid bitch,” came back the reply. “But where is my polling place?”

  Florentyna was speechless for a moment, and then asked, very politely, where he lived.

  “In the seventh precinct.”

  Florentyna flicked through her guide. “You should vote at Saint Chrysostom’s Church, on Dearborn Street.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Florentyna studied the map. “The church is located five blocks from the lake shore and fifteen blocks north of the Loop.” The phone clicked and immediately rang again.

  “Is that Osborne’s headquarters?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Florentyna.

  “Well, you can tell that lazy bastard I wouldn’t vote for him if he was the only candidate alive.” The phone clicked again and Florentyna felt queasier than she had been when she was licking envelopes. She let the bell ring three times before she could summon up the courage to lift the receiver to answer.

  “Hello,” she said nervously. “This is Congressman Osborne’s headquarters. Miss Rosnovski speaking.”

  “Hello, my dear, my name is Daisy Bishop, and I will need a car to take my husband to the polls on Election Day because he lost both of his legs in the war.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Florentyna.

  “Don’t
worry yourself, young lady. We wouldn’t let wonderful Mr. Roosevelt down.”

  “But Mr. Roosevelt is…Yes, of course you wouldn’t. Can I please take down your telephone number and address?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, KL5-4816” came the reply.

  “We will phone you on election morning to let you know what time the car will pick you up. Thank you for supporting the Democratic ticket, Mrs. Bishop,” said Florentyna.

  “We always do, my dear. Goodbye and good luck.”

  “Goodbye,” said Florentyna, who took a deep breath and felt a little better. She wrote a “2” in brackets after the Bishops’ name and placed the note in the file marked “Transportation for Election Day.” Then she waited for the next call.

  It was some minutes before the phone sounded again and by then Florentyna had fully regained her confidence.

  “Good morning, is this the Osborne office?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Florentyna.

  “My name is Melvin Crudick and I want to know Congressman Osborne’s views on the Marshall Plan.”

  “The what plan?” said Florentyna.

  The Marshall Plan,” the voice enunciated.

  Florentyna frantically flipped the pages of the campaign handbook that she had been promised would reveal everything.

  “Are you still there?” barked the voice.

  “Yes, sir,” said Florentyna. “I just wanted to be sure you were given a full and detailed answer on the congressman’s views. If you would be kind enough to wait one moment.”

  At last Florentyna found the Marshall Plan and read through Henry Osborne’s words on the subject.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Yes,” said the voice, and Florentyna started to read Henry’s views out loud.

  “‘Congressman Osborne approves of the Marshall Plan.’” There was a long silence.

  “Yes, I know he does,” said the voice from the other end.

  Florentyna felt weak. “Yes, he does support the plan,” she repeated.

  “Why does he?” said the voice.

  “Because it will benefit everyone in his district,” said Florentyna firmly, feeling rather pleased with herself.

  “Pray tell me, how can giving six billion American dollars to Europe help the Ninth District of Illinois?” Florentyna could feel the perspiration on her forehead. “Miss, you may inform your congressman that because of your personal incompetence I shall be voting Republican on this occasion.”

  Florentyna put the phone down and was considering running out of the door when the regular receptionist arrived back from her lunch. Florentyna did not know what to tell her.

  “Anything interesting?” the girl asked as she resumed her place. “Or was it the usual mixture of weirdos, perverts and cranks who have got nothing better to do with their lunch break?”

  “Nothing special,” said Florentyna nervously, “except I think I’ve lost the vote of a Mr. Crudick.”

  “Not Mad Mel again? What was it this time, the House Un-American Activities Committee, the Marshall Plan or the slums of Chicago?”

  Florentyna happily returned to licking envelopes.

  On Election Day, Florentyna arrived at campaign headquarters at eight o’clock in the morning and spent the day telephoning registered Democrats to be sure they had voted. “Never forget,” said Henry Osborne in his final pep talk to his voluntary helpers, “no man has ever lived in the White House who hasn’t carried Illinois.”

  Florentyna felt very proud to think she was helping to elect a President and didn’t take a break all day. At eight o’clock that evening, Miss Tredgold came to collect her. She had worked twelve hours without letting up, but never once did she stop talking all the way home.

  “Do you think Mr. Truman will win?” she asked finally.

  “Only if he gets more than fifty percent of the votes cast,” said Miss Tredgold.

  “Wrong,” said Florentyna. “It is possible to win a Presidential election in the United States by winning more Electoral College votes than your opponent while failing to secure a majority of the plebiscite.” She then proceeded to give Miss Tredgold a brief lesson on how the American political system worked.

  “Such a thing would never have happened if only dear George III had known where America was,” said Miss Tredgold. “And I become daily aware that it will not be long before you have no further need of me, child.”

  It was the first time Florentyna had ever considered that Miss Tredgold would not spend the rest of her life with her.

  When they reached home, Florentyna sat in her father’s old chair to watch the early returns, but she was so tired that she dozed off in front of the fire. She, like most of America, went to sleep believing that Thomas Dewey had won the election. When Florentyna woke the next morning, she dashed downstairs to fetch the Tribune. Her fears were confirmed: “Dewey Defeats Truman” ran the headline, and it took half an hour of radio bulletins and confirmation by her mother before Florentyna believed that Truman had been returned to the White House. An 11 P.M. decision had been made by the night editor of the Tribune to run a headline that he would not live down for the rest of his life. At least he had been right in stating that Henry Osborne was returned to Congress for a sixth term.

  When Florentyna went back to Girls Latin the next day, her homeroom teacher called for her and made it quite clear that the election was now over and that the time had come to settle down and do some serious studying. Miss Tredgold agreed, and Florentyna worked with the same enthusiasm for her school exams as she had for President Truman.

  During the year, she made the junior varsity hockey team, on which she played right wing without distinction, and even managed to squeeze onto the third-string tennis team on one occasion. When the summer term was drawing to a close, all the pupils received a note reminding them that if they wished to run for the Student Council their names must be sent to the headmaster of Boys Latin by the first Monday of the new school year. There were six representatives on the Council elected from both schools, and no one could remember a year when they had not all come from the twelfth grade. Nevertheless, many of Florentyna’s classmates suggested that she allow her name to be put forward. Edward Winchester, who had years before given up trying to beat Florentyna at anything except arm wrestling, volunteered to help her.

  “But anyone who helps me would have to be talented, good-looking, popular and charismatic,” she teased.

  “For once, I agree with you,” said Edward. “Any fool taking up such a cause will need every advantage possible to overcome the problems that come with a candidate who is stupid, ugly, unapproachable and dull.”

  “In which case it might be wise for me to wait another year.”

  “Never,” said Edward. “I can see no hope of improvement in such a short time. In any case, I want you on the Council this year.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you’re the only eleventh-grade student elected, you’ll be a near certain for president next year.”

  “Really thought the whole thing through, haven’t you, Edward?”

  “And I would be willing to bet everything in my piggy bank that you have, too.”

  “Perhaps,” said Florentyna.

  “Perhaps?”

  “Perhaps I’ll consider running for Student Council a year early.”

  During the summer vacation, which Florentyna spent with her father at the New York Baron, she noticed that many of the big department stores now had millinery departments and wondered why there were not more shops specializing only in clothes. She spent hours at Best’s, Saks and Bonwit Teller—at the last of which she bought herself a strapless evening dress—observing the different customers and comparing their individual preferences with those of shoppers who frequented Bloomingdale’s, Altman’s and Macy’s. In the evening over dinner she would regale her father with the knowledge she had acquired that day. Abel was so impressed by the speed with which Florentyna assimilated new facts that he began to explain to her in some detail
how the Baron Group worked. By the end of her vacation, he was delighted with how much she had picked up about stock control, cash flow, advance reservations, the Employment Act of 1940, and even the cost of eight thousand fresh rolls. He warned George that his job as managing director of the Group might be in jeopardy in the not-too-distant future.

  “I don’t think it’s my job she’s after, Abel.”

  “No?” said Abel.

  “No,” said George. “It’s yours.”

  Abel took Florentyna to the airport on the final day of her vacation and presented her with a black-and-white Polaroid camera.

  “Papa, what a fantastic present. Won’t I be the neatest thing at school?”

  “It’s a bribe,” said Abel.

  “A bribe?”

  “Yes. George tells me you want to be Chairman of the Baron Group.”

  “I think I’ll start with president of the Student Council,” said Florentyna.

  Abel laughed. “Make sure you win a place on the Council first,” he said, then kissed his daughter on the cheek and waved goodbye as she disappeared up the steps to the waiting plane. As Abel traveled back in the car, he thought of his own ambitions for Warsaw and then recalled the understanding he had had with his daughter.

  “I’ve decided to run.”

  “Good,” said Edward. “I’ve already compiled a list of every student in both schools. You must put a check mark by all those who you feel are certain to support you and a cross by those who won’t, so that I can work on the don’t-knows and reinforce the backing of your supporters.”

  “Very professional. How many people are running?”

  “So far fifteen candidates for six places. There are four candidates you can’t hope to beat, but it will be a close contest after that. I thought you’d be interested to know that Pete Welling is running.”

  “That creep,” said Florentyna.

  “Oh, I was led to believe that you were hopelessly in love with him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Edward, he’s a sap. Let’s go through the school lists.”