by Belva Plain
“Soft was her voice and low, an excellent thing in woman.” Forgive the Shakespeare, please, I couldn’t help it because it just fits.
Dearest Mimi, I’ll write again very soon.
PAUL
July 18th, 1912
Dearest Mimi,
This has been a long day. I had to wind up all my business, since we leave for Germany next week. But we did conclude the tiring day with festivity, dinner at Maxim’s. It really was magnificent. We were guests of one of my father’s clients, who brought his wife and three daughters. This is very unusual for the French, who keep their private family life really private; they almost never invite you to their homes, so this was the next best thing.
Freddy said one of the daughters looked like you. Actually, you look much more like an English girl, with your dark blond hair and your freckles—which you hate and I like—so what Freddy saw, I think, was your taste in dress, which is rather French. The girl he meant wore that green-blue shade that you often wear.
I think he liked the girl and was sorry that she didn’t pay any attention to his rather timid efforts. Good-looking as he is, girls don’t seem to care much about him; his shyness makes him awkward and seem younger.
Incidentally, he keeps asking questions about you; he talks a great deal about love and wants to know how you know when you really are in love. I told him he’ll know when it happens and meanwhile not to worry about it.
At this moment he is writing in his diary. The pen goes like mad, spattering ink, as if he can’t get things down fast enough. Every now and then he stops and gazes at the sky.
I’ve just thought of what his parents will think about his aristocratic English sentiments. Far from being unlike his parents, Freddy is their mirror image! He romanticizes a past that never was, while they romanticize the future, a kind of socialist utopia, that will also never be.
I’m glad you’re practical, Mimi. It’s sane, and simplifies living. After these weeks with Freddy, I really need your wholesome common sense. Freddy’s nerves are pretty weak. I always have the feeling that at any moment, on impulse, he may do something absolutely drastic. Still, the trip has been a great experience for him and I’m glad I did it.
I’ve managed to do a little shopping in spare minutes here and there, and I really feel quite proud that I’ve gotten something to please everyone. I hope so, anyway.
I bought an antique porcelain bowl, Chinese, in that wonderful green-blue that always makes me think of you. I bought it for our house and then I thought, as they wrapped it up, maybe I’m overstepping myself. We aren’t officially engaged. What if you change your mind or find someone else? But I don’t really believe you will. I trust you absolutely and I know you trust me.
I feel content, glad to be almost on the last leg of the journey, and pleased to have done as well with the business as I have. I think I’ve dealt successfully with father’s clients, and I think I’ve gotten two or three new ones for us. Father ought to be more than satisfied.
So I feel good tonight. I can’t wait to see you again. The thought fills me with a deep, calm joy.
Dearest Mimi, I’ll write soon.
PAUL
July 11th, 1912
What words are there for Paris? It, or at least what Paul has shown me so far, seems to be all fountains, flowers, marble and white stone avenues. Splendor.
Still, a part of me remains in England. Foolish, perhaps, after spending so few weeks in a place, to feel so attached to it, but I can’t help it. I can still see Gerald waving to me when the little train pulled out of the station on the way to London. My last view, as we rounded a curve, was of lavender thistle in a field, and Gerald in the distance, still waving. It wasn’t a real farewell; we are certain that we shall meet again, many times.
Paul is very busy. He took me to a gallery near the hotel, pictures being his first love, and gave me the names of some others I might want to look at, since I shall have to entertain myself here. There were such marvelous things to see, I wish I knew more about art and architecture. I merely admire, whereas Paul knows what he’s looking at.
Last night we went to the ballet to see Nijinsky dance in L’Après-Midi d’un Faune. It was spectacular. Diaghilev is all the rage here. I wished Leah could have seen it, she’s so crazy about the dance. Little Leah! It’s astonishing how much she’s learned in these few years! I remember—and am ashamed—that I wasn’t pleased at all when she was brought into the house, although I pretended I didn’t mind, because my mother was set on having her.
Six years ago! It’s hard now to remember what it was like before Leah came. She has a way of making you love her, something like the way Paul does, when you think about it, though that seems ridiculous, Paul being so polished while Leah—Leah bounces. That’s the best way I can describe her. I guess what they have in common, what I feel, is their enthusiasm. And energy. And curiosity. Paul wants to know about everything. He notices everything. He’s interested in what horsepower a new Renault engine has. He stopped a gardener, working on a flower bed in one of the parks, to ask, in his perfect French, about a rose he’d never seen before. Paul gets something out of life every minute.
July 19th, 1912
We had dinner out with a French family. The man is a client of Paul’s. We went to Maxim’s, but it wasn’t a good evening, maybe because I don’t speak French and the only one of the three daughters—all of them quite pretty and very fashionable—who spoke some English didn’t pay any attention to me. I should have listened to my New Orleans grandmother and learned French. Maybe that would have helped, I don’t know.
I wish I had Paul’s special skills. I never know what to say. Paul’s so sure of himself. He has authority in a very quiet way. Ease. And humor. His eyes—my mother says his eyes are a tropical blue—can twinkle with humor. I wish—
What’s wrong with me? The only girl I can really talk to is Leah, and that’s because she loves me. I know she really does. Anyway, the dinner was delicious, so it wasn’t a total loss.
Paul must be doing a lot of business with these people, because tomorrow we’re going on a picnic with them. I’m not looking forward to it.
July 20th, 1912
The countryside around Paris is called the Ile de France, an island. And the place where we picnicked did seem like an island, very peaceful and remote. French picnics aren’t like ours, when we spread a blanket on the grass and sit; these people brought a table, chairs, linens, and a real lunch. I must say the French know how to eat! We had chicken and salads and those long loaves of bread, still warm and crisp. Also the best peaches I’ve ever eaten, big as a baseball and sweet as sugar.
Otherwise, it was the same as last night. One of the girls brought a guitar and played, and then they all talked in French. Paul did try to bring me into the conversation by speaking English to me and the one girl who knew it, but it still didn’t work very well, except for a few polite remarks. I’m sure I overheard her whisper to Paul something about “Your cousin’s very shy, isn’t he?” And I know I am, oh, I’m not always, but I can be.
The best time I had was with the dog. They’d brought their dachshund, called tekel in French. He was a young dog, almost a puppy still, and very affectionate. He took my loneliness away. You wouldn’t think a dog could do that. I don’t know why we never had one. I told Paul when we got back to the hotel that I’d like to buy a tekel and bring it home as a surprise for Leah. Paul says wait until we’re in Germany and get one there.
I really want to do that. Leah will love it.
München, August 5th, 1912
Dear Parents,
I’ll begin with love to you both and ask mother to forgive all the business news that’s been in my letters. After all, that’s what I’m here for!
So far, I have seen everyone on schedule, have mailed various documents and contracts to the office in a separate packet and will continue to do so.
Freddy and I have been racing around Germany these last two weeks, as you can tell from t
he postmarks. This is really the first evening on which I’ve had time to sit down and write at any length. Father, you really gave me an enormous list of people to see! Not that I’m complaining.
Now we’re settled for the next couple of days in München and living well, seeing the gardens and museums and drinking good wine. I realize you may have felt a little uncomfortable with my decision to take Freddy abroad, but I know, too, that you realize he has nothing to do with the family feud.
We are not missing a thing here. Yesterday we went to Schwabing, the artists’ section, where I bought two “expressionist” pictures that you will probably not like. They may appreciate in value, in which case I will have bought wisely; if not, I shan’t mind, since they are to my taste and will give me a lifetime of pleasure. I also bought a few pieces of Nymphenburg porcelain, much cheaper than at home, naturally. We’ve seen a good deal in these few days. The Residenz, the Hofgarten, the Frauenkirche, everything you told me not to miss.
Also, we have been invited to dinner by both the Stein brothers at their respective homes. I remembered your instructions about sending flowers the day after, following European etiquette.
Everyone has been most cordial, except for one rather nasty business this afternoon. At the conclusion of my meeting with Herr von Mädler, the conversation, led by him—certainly not by me—got around to the ugly subject of war. It has happened more than once, incidentally, though never as vehemently as this time.
“Surely we Germans don’t want war,” he told me, “but England is bent upon encircling us. They want to stifle us and keep us from our role as a great world power.”
I didn’t answer. I could feel only distaste for him, with his monocle and big belly.
“But if it comes to that,” he went on, “we shall meet it. Our youth is strong, and war will make it stronger.”
There must have been a school near the office where we were, because, looking out of the window, we both saw a column of boys walking. They were about twelve years old, in school uniform, walking in precise formation, and as they passed he said, “War, I say again, if it comes to that, will ennoble those boys.”
He was busy biting off the end of a fresh cigar at that moment, so fortunately he was not looking at me. You always tell me that my face is too expressive and betrays whatever I am thinking, and that for business reasons I must try to cultivate an impassive expression.
And then he said, “You Americans will, of course, keep out,” and this time gave me a look one could only call sly.
I don’t know what sort of answer he expected. I am not in charge of our foreign policy, after all. I said only that one could hope it wouldn’t come to that, that the peace movement was strong everywhere.
“Ach,” he said, “the peace movement! Radicals, sentimental women, troublemakers, Jews—”
I will give him credit. He blushed, actually blushed, as he remembered.
“Not your kind, of course, Herr Werner, you understand. Of course not. You know the type I mean. The lower classes, Russians, that sort.”
I certainly wasn’t going to argue with him. I couldn’t change his thinking in a hundred hours of argument. I only wanted to get out on the street and breathe some fresh air.
There’s a feeling of power in this country that’s frightening. It’s all mines and steel and energy such as one is never aware of in France, where the emphasis is on pleasure and good living. I saw the Krupp works when we were in Essen, acres and acres of black, threatening industry, storage tanks, railroads, busy as an ant heap or a beehive. I may be wrong, but somehow it made places like Pittsburgh seem small and benign.
At the Belgian frontier, I saw new railroad tracks crossing and recrossing, coming from the heart of Germany and converging there. The Belgians want to be neutral, but it will not work. I know you think I am a pessimist. I don’t think I am, only skeptical and cautious. Forgive me, I’m in a bleak mood. After a good dinner, I shall be in a better one. People always are. So good-bye for the present.
Loving regards from
PAUL
P.S. Send my love also to Uncle Alfie and Aunt Emily and little Meg. I have bought her the world’s most magnificent doll.
August 8th, 1912
Dear Parents,
You will be happy to know that your son is in fine spirits. I saw the last client an hour ago and am now looking forward to a week of pure vacation before we start for home.
After a lot of research, which made me feel like a detective, I traced the whereabouts of our cousins and reached Joachim Nathansohn on the telephone last night. It was an odd feeling, a thrill. We had a long talk, partly in German and partly in English.
I don’t know why we never thought of finding these relatives before, but actually I suppose it’s because we’ve always been in Germany with the Werner grandparents, who wouldn’t have been interested in Mother’s ancestors.
Anyway, he sounds very nice, this Joachim. He’s twenty-two, a graduate of Nürnberg, and a journalist. He works for a large daily and does some independent writing on political subjects. He lives in Stuttgart with his mother. His father died last year. I gather they are well off, since he has traveled all over Europe and speaks of his wanting to see America, especially the West.
How far we’ve traveled, he and I, from the peddler ancestor in that village that old Uncle David used to tell about!
We figured out that Freddy and Joachim and I share the same great-great-great-grandparents, which makes us fourth cousins. It’s strange to think we might have sat next to each other here in a railway car or someplace, without knowing we were related, if Uncle David hadn’t kept up some sort of loose correspondence with one generation after the other, all these years.
Joachim suggested that we meet in Bayreuth for some opera, and after that spend a couple of days in the Black Forest at an inn where he always stays. It will be a strange meeting for us both.
Bayreuth, August 11th, 1912
Dear Parents,
What a day! Freddy and I met Joachim in the lobby of our hotel. We had left our names at the desk, so he was directed to us. I don’t know what he had been expecting, we didn’t ask each other that, although I must remember to ask him; nor am I sure what I was expecting, but he did surprise me. So German! Blond hair, cut hairbrush fashion, bright blue eyes (like my own), but otherwise a thorough Nordic out of the Nibelungen Ring, except that those heroes are always very tall, and Joachim is only average. He kissed us on both cheeks, shook hands, and actually had tears in his eyes. I had a few myself.
We sat across a table and stared at each other, and talked of the family tragedy that all three of us inherited. So long ago! Ancient history. And yet it’s not ancient to Great Uncle David, is it? I guess if you lived to be five hundred years old you wouldn’t forget those jolly anti-Semitic student riots, or how your mother died. I should have talked more often to Uncle David while there was time. It just struck me that he left that village in a wagon and came to America in a sailing vessel. We got where I am sitting now by train, after crossing the Atlantic in a steamship, a floating palace.
We had a wonderful time, telling what we knew of our families as far back as any of us could remember. Joachim was especially fascinated by what we had to tell about Uncle David, who is the living link. He knew only vaguely about the Civil War and we told about our people’s part in it, what they’re doing now and so on and so on. He told about his grandfather who had been killed in the Franco-Prussian War, and about a mutual ancestor who had been active in the revolution of 1848. It occurs to me as I write that most of what we had to tell dealt with wars.
Joachim has European cultivation. There is no denying that the education here is more complete than ours, especially in the field of languages. He knows Italian and Spanish, along with French and English. His English improved as the evening wore on, and I think my German did too. We had to speak in English chiefly for Freddy’s benefit. The New York public schools certainly do not give training in languages.
&nbs
p; Joachim belongs to one of those wandering groups that you see along the roads here, young people who are interested in open-air exercise and exploration. He went with them a few summers ago to Greece.
Interestingly enough, he is a religious Jew, not Orthodox but certainly not as free as our family, either. I don’t know how the subject veered onto that, but he did say he had little sympathy with Zionist youth organizations that are also springing up all over Germany. He sees no reason not to be thoroughly German, while at the same time thoroughly Jewish in religious faith. I must say I do agree with him and have no interest in a so-called homeland for the Jews.
We talked almost all night and I’m almost asleep. I’ll write probably once more before we leave.
PAUL
August 16th, 1912
Dear Parents,
The Black Forest must be one of the most beautiful places on earth. It’s like the pictures in my book of Grimm’s Fairy Tales that Fräulein used to read to me when I was six years old.
My room at the inn faces the mountain, which plunges right down to the rear wall of the house, so that when the window is open, I can feel the wind moving in the dark leaves. One can imagine forest voices straight out of Wagner. The myths of gnomes, elves, buried swords, and knight-heroes, all come to life. Yes, it is enchanting and I can see why Grandfather and Grandmother Werner want to keep returning.
We went down to the village to buy Freddy’s dachshund. He is determined to bring one home. The village, too, came out of a picture book: the houses have steep roofs and carved balconies like wooden gingerbread. They’re cuckoo-clock houses with red geraniums in the window boxes. Cowbells jingled across the fields in back of the main street. Freddy got the puppy and named it Strudel, so now three of us will be traveling home on the ship.
Freddy is delighted. Transportation will certainly be no problem; Strudel fits into my hand and can be carried in a basket on the train in our compartment. Later, on the ship, he will have to live in a kennel on the top deck, though. Freddy was distressed when I told him dogs are not permitted in the staterooms.