She saw Bernard coming down the wide, curving staircase at an undignified two steps at a time and walking rapidly up to her. She got to her feet. He reached out and drew her to him, kissing her gently on each cheek.
“I was asleep,” he said, tucking her arm under his and guiding her towards one of the private rooms off the lobby. It was quieter inside, and held six or more circles of easy chairs and tables. Only two were occupied. His hair had been hastily combed, and his tie was slightly askew, but his face seemed less weary.
“You look better,” she remarked. “But are you not in the midst of opening your center?”
He gave a small smile. “I am. But the others can handle it. That’s what associates are for.”
“I was pleased, and quite proud, of your decision.”
“You were the catalyst. Live, female catalysts are difficult to find on the north shore of the Bodensee in August. Especially, beautiful ones.”
She smiled, her heart lifted by his words and the tender look in his eyes.
He had trimmed his bushy mustache closely, as if the new center was signaling a change in character. She liked the undisciplined one better, though. It belonged to the wind and the slap of the sails, and the beat of her heart as his arm went around her waist.
He signaled for a waiter. “Do you want a drink, my dear?”
“A Likör, please.”
He ordered two, and then eyed her appreciatively. “You don’t know how good you look to me. For months, I have been seeing in you all shapes and colors. Yet, I know exactly what your eyes look like, and you hair, and your mouth, and that determined chin. I must have a picture. Not one of those tiny locket types, but one as large as life.”
His happy attitude was contagious, and soon Hanna was smiling. The drinks came, enormous ones, and Hanna shook her head. “You must take some of mine,” she said in a low voice to Bernard.
“All right. I do not want to be accused of seducing an intoxicated woman.”
She eyed him levelly. “No, Bernard. Please do not miscalculate.”
His face grew suddenly serious. “I want to fall in love with you, Hanna. I feel that I know you better than my right hand. Then I realize how very little you know of me. I also know that I don’t have the right to speak to you in such fashion, but someday you may learn that you will not be reunited with your husband. If that should ever occur, I want you to remember how I feel.”
“I do not think I could face tomorrow if I thought that,” she said sadly.
“I know that, Hanna. I wish I could bring him back to you. I mean that. But I cannot. So, I am not asking for a judgment. I just want you to know that I care.” He studied her closely. “You seem reluctant to tell me how you truly feel about me.”
“I am not reluctant, Bernard. I want you to be my friend–my special friend. One I do not have to explain things to. One who will allow me to live the kind of life that I must.” She sighed and looked away. “It is not far from sadness to insanity. Only hope keeps me sane.”
It took him so long to answer that Hanna looked back. “I think you are underestimating yourself,” he finally said.
“No. I did not just give my vow to Stephen. I gave everything I was brought up to believe in.”
“I can accept that,” said Bernard gently, a trace of disappointment on his face at the direction the talk was taking.
“It is good to accept, Bernard, but do you agree?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to. I see too much of waste to allow it to dominate my life, and those I care for.” He held out his hand. “Let us eat now.”
The dining room and service and food was as distinguished as the lobby.
They ate slowly, savoring the small conversation, Hanna listening with great interest about his new enterprise, then bringing him up on the families, especially Paul.
Over dessert and tea, Bernard sat quietly for a long moment. “Tell me about yourself, Hanna.”
“I could use another tea first.” He waved for the waiter, who brought it over at once. Then she began telling him of Gremai, her family, the way of life before Israel’s accident, and the hard times afterwards. She spoke of the dirt streets, the meatless meals, the cutting down of a coat from adult size to that of a child for warmth. She spoke of the pain of giving up schooling, and the joy of learning to sew well. She mentioned Stephen and Hershel and Jakob, and how they all worked to save the calf, and the incidents which led up to the flight to Germany. She spoke slowly, with enough details to make the story complete. There were tears that she wiped away, and fright that made her stop for control.
When she finished, Bernard, who had listened almost without moving, let out a deep sigh. He took a long swallow of his cold coffee and set down his cup. “That’s quite a story, Hanna.”
“It has made me what I am, and what I will always be.”
“Yes, you cannot escape your roots.” He reached out and took her hand, holding it with great gentleness. “I want you to know, Hanna,” he said softly, “that I will always be your special friend.”
As he later watched her leave, after refusing to be driven home, he sighed deeply again. What a waste, went pounding through his mind. What a terrible, terrible waste!
CHAPTER 35
The 15th of December, 1912
Amsterdam
My Dearest Hanna:
I apologize for not answering your letter as quickly as I should. I can only say, ‘mea culpa’. How very expressive Latin is. If I wasn’t so dedicated a Zionist, I might become a priest–just to learn the language. It was wonderful seeing you last month on my way to the convention, but, like always, there is never enough time. It is difficult to believe that we have been together only four days of our lives. Come to think of it, it isn’t even four days, for eating and sleeping shouldn’t count.
At the convention, I never saw so many Russians! They have taken over the movement, which is just dandy so far as I am concerned. At least large numbers of them have immigrated to Palestine to found agricultural settlements, but others talked, talked, talked so much that my ears rang. Some of your countrymen are pounding the table demanding that Eratz Israel be a religious state rather than a secular one. That would be a grave error. It would transfer national shtetls to an international location. The only way Torah can stop a bullet is by a shield of armed men. Ever since Herzl died, the idea of a cooperative existence between Jews and Palestinians has hardened into a quilt work of positions. Should we seek nationalism, mutualism, secularism, etc, etc. The ancient Talmudists argued for fifty years as to exactly who is a Jew, without success, so this could go on forever. But even with all the chatter, we see some action. Assimilation is a disaster, and events throughout every country in Europe bear out the truth. Jews everywhere should put a pack on their backs and begin marching to Palestine. Like the Crusaders. I would leave in an instant, but there is much work to do first, and as Zionist Director of Information in the Netherlands, my place is here.
So you now have over eighty workers! Good for you! I could sense your excitement when we met that a new contract was pending. You will be a tycoon before you know it. Medically, I would say that expanding your shop to those rooms downstairs would be better than knocking out that wall at the rear. More exercise. However, whenever I steal looks at you, I find your figure exactly, precisely, absolutely perfect. From a medical viewpoint, of course.
Tell those big step-brothers of yours that I will be delighted to meet them at the Bodensee in August. However, you must visit me on my side of the lake. Jules is too big and Friedrich too tough.
I hope you can read through the lines. They all say how much I care for you.
Fondly, ever,
Bernard
Spring came with its usual suddenness. Hanna was delighted that the winter was over, for it affected her production. There were slippery streets to delay deliveries, and additional costs to heat the building, and colds which kept some of her employees home.
She shut her books and placed them ne
atly on one corner of the desk. All the workers had gone home an hour ago. Now she could look forward to supper with the Weiners and hear the latest news from Paul. Jules had started him on violin lessons, and he had fallen in love with music. Now they had another subject to explore.
The four block walk from the streetcar stop was just what she needed. Being cooped up in the building was fatiguing.
As she lifted the knocker, the door was suddenly pulled open. Rueben stood there, his face tight with apprehension.
“Frau Charnoff,” he burst out. “We have been trying to reach you. Frau Weiner has become ill again. The ambulance took her to the hospital just fifteen minutes ago.”
Hanna felt her blood grow cold. “Where is Herr Weiner and Paul?”
“Herr Weiner went with the ambulance. Paul is in his room.”
“Does he know what happened?”
Rueben shook his head; his hands trembling with worry.
Hanna stepped inside and walked quickly to the phone in the vestibule.
When the taxi company answered, she explained it was an emergency, and then she flew out of the door and started running towards the main street. The taxi came along, just as she arrived at the streetcar stop, and she leaped inside.
“Das Marienspital!” she said breathlessly. “Hurry, please.”
Once there, she hurried up to the desk. “Frau Weiner,” she said to the admissions nurse.
“Room fourteen,” said the woman from memory. “But–“. She did not complete her statement, for Hanna was already on her way.
She pushed open the door. A figure was on the bed, covered by a sheet.
Jules was seated on a chair beside it, his head in his hands. He was rocking back and forth in grief.
Her hand went to her breast. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, stepping back in shock. It could not be Natalie, a voice sounded in her ears. Then she realized she was whispering the words.
She walked unsteadily over to Jules and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Jules,” she said softly.
He raised his head. She had never seen such despair on the face of a human before. “Hanna,” he burst out, grasping her hand. “She’s dead. Natalie is dead.”
“Why! How!” she asked, tears coming to her eyes.
“Her heart. It gave out.” He shook his head dumbly, the tears pouring down his cheeks. She brushed away her own tears. It was not the time to give way. She took out a handkerchief from her purse and wiped his running nose.
Fergl and Martha walked in. They know, thought Hanna, for their faces were tight with sorrow. Martha put her arm around Jules and let him weep against her.
“We will have to phone Rabbi Gluck,” said Hanna. “Jules, did you contact him?”
He had calmed down a little. “No, not yet.”
“I will call him,” said Fergl.
Hanna shook her head in disbelief. Natalie, almost a sister, lying under that sheet, never to be part of this life again. “We must get Jules home,” she said softly to Fergl.
He nodded. “I have a car outside.”
She tugged gently at Jules’ arm, and he got up. He was not steady on his feet, so she held him close as she led him out. He started to look back at the form on the bed, but Hanna kept pulling. Once in the corridor, he took a deep breath of air and straightened his shoulders.
They placed him on the rear seat with Hanna. “I will have to call Rabbi Gluck,” he said, barely able to speak.
“Friedrich will take care of that,” said Hanna.
“We must also call Breen’s Funeral Home.”
“Breens are good,” said Fergl. “I will call them, too.” He cleared his throat. “When do you want the funeral?”
Jules wiped his face. “It’s Tuesday now. There’s nobody who has to come from any great distance. Thursday morning is all right.”
“I’ll tell Breen.”
“For the food- “ started Jules.
Martha interrupted. “Hanna and I will handle it.”
Jules was gripping her hand tightly. “We’ll have to tell Paul.” Tears began to well from his eyes again.
“Hanna will tell him,” said Fergl. He turned to her. “Will you do it, Hanna?”
She nodded her head, her throat as dry as dust.
“Better get in some extra help, Tante Martha,” said Jules. “For after the funeral.”
“We will manage by ourselves,” she replied. “There will be plenty of women to help.”
“Use Blaustein, the caterer. He has his own people.”
“All right,” said Martha.
“Leave us off at the corner,” said Hanna. She wanted Jules to walk a few steps.
Fergl understood and let them off. At the gate, Jules stopped for a few seconds and looked at the house with the wide lawn, and the shrubs and flower beds located so perfectly. On the right hand side, he had widened a gravel driveway to the former carriage shed at the rear, which was now a two car garage. It was for the roadster he had bought for Natalie before she became ill. Either Reuben or he had to drive it inside, for she was always afraid she would hit something. They had sold it after the illness.
Jules also remembered that he had been born in this very house, as had been his sister, Henrietta. His mother, father, and sister had died in ‘98 when the horrendous typhoid epidemic struck much of Württenberg. He had survived only by God’s grace, for he had gotten it too. He had been twenty years old then. His aunt, Ida, had moved in with him, but five years later, when he had proposed to Natalie, she had gone back to her own house over both their protestations. “You two young people don’t need a crotchety old battle-axe like me about,” she had said, stamping her cane. “Especially if you suddenly get in the mood and begin chasing each other through the rooms.”
It had bred a lot of joy and a lot of sorrow. He took a deep breath and pushed open the gate. It was now Paul’s turn. The future belongs to the young, for as we grow older, we become only the caretakers, preparing the next generation to become caretakers in turn.
Jules led the way into the house. Paul was speaking to Reuben in the kitchen. He was telling about a frog that he had chased around the yard. They walked in. The houseman was rubbing Paul’s hair with a towel. The boy was in his underwear; his shoes, knickers, and shirt were hanging on a line over the stove.
“Did you catch the frog?” asked Jules.
Paul turned. “Hello, Papi. Tante Hanna. No, I didn’t…” There was something about the way they looked. Paul suddenly stopped speaking.
Jules sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. “I don’t like dropping it on you, Hanna,” he said.
“Then perhaps you should tell him,” she said, her arms aching to enfold the boy.
Jules looked at his son. He took a hard, quick breath, and then let part of it out. As if he was pulling the trigger of a gun. “Your mother died this evening, Paul,” he said softly. “We’ve just come from the hospital.”
The boy stared at his father, and then he turned frightened eyes towards Hanna. Reuben swayed back as if struck, then steadied himself, the towel dangling from his hand.
“I’m sorry, my little angel,” said Hanna. “But what your father said is true. Your Mami left us very quickly. Nobody expected it.”
Paul let out a cry of horror and ran up the stairs. His sorrowful sobs could be heard even through the slammed door.
Jules’s face went white with anguish. “I’m afraid I didn’t do that very well,” he said tightly.
“You did the best you could, and it was fine,” said Hanna, tears welling in her eyes.
Jules rose with effort. “I’d better go to him.” He took a few steps, and then turned to Hanna. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course.”
She followed him up to Paul’s room. But he was not there. “He will be in your room,” she said.
Paul lay piteously on their bed, curled up on Natalie’s side; his face buried in her pillow. Hanna sat down beside him. Gently she touched his small shoulders. Instantly, he shot u
p and thrust his arms around her, tears streaming down his face.
“Tante Hanna, Tante Hanna! Won’t I ever see Mami again?” he sobbed.
She clasped him tightly to her, rocking him as she had when he was an infant. Her tears mingled with his. She could not answer.
He pulled his head away and looked up at her. “Tell me, Tante Hanna,” he pleaded.
She soothed away his tears. “Sometimes we will make believe she is here.”
“But she won’t be!” he cried.
Slowly she shook her head.
“Why did she die?” His face was contorted with bewilderment.
“We just don’t know, Paul. God sometimes wants us to do something for Him, so He takes us away.”
“I hate God!” he shouted. “I hate Him. I hate Him.”
She held him close and began to rock him, hoping to settle his tortured heart enough for sleep to take over. Jules sat on a chair in the corner, the one that he had often occupied when he waited for Natalie at her vanity to put on her make-up. It was where he had sat during the years that she was an invalid, telling her each day what had happened.
Hanna held Paul patiently, stroking his back, and little by little the tension did leave his body, and he lay limp in her arms.
“I’ll take him to his room,” Jules whispered.
“I’ll do it,” Hanna answered. “You stay and relax.” She carried the boy to his bed and laid him down gently, then started out. Jules was waiting at the door. He drew it shut.
“Leave it open a little,” said Hanna. Jules set it ajar.
Going down the steps, Jules said, “It’s Frau Weiss’ day off, but there is food in the icebox.”
“What do you feel like having?”
He shrugged. “Anything.”
In the kitchen, they found plates of food waiting. “Frau Fergl brought it,” said Reuben.
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