Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Of Jaynes Jaynes Fleming and Gries,” Saint-Germain finished for him. “Yes. A man of some repute in Boston, I gather.” Saint-Germain smiled. “He’s expensive enough.”

  “Isn’t that the way of it?” said the policeman. “Lawyers! Shakespeare was right—we should kill them all. They’re nothing but trouble.”

  “A necessary evil,” Saint-Germain said, matching his tone to the policeman’s. “I don’t know about you, Officer, but I wouldn’t want to have to find my way through the law without one.”

  The policeman nodded. “There’s much in what you say. Turn left at the next corner.”

  Saint-Germain was aware of the shift in attitude on the part of the policeman. He thanked the man, then said, “It’s been a hard time in this country, from all I have learned; I can see that many of your people are enduring real hardship.”

  “Bad, yes, it’s very bad,” said the officer. “I don’t know that I didn’t prefer Prohibition to this dreadful Depression. At least during Prohibition we didn’t have businesses closing and able-bodied men out of work. They might be drunk on bathtub gin but they had jobs to go to.” He watched Saint-Germain carefully. “We don’t want what work we have taken over by foreigners running away from the mess in Europe.”

  “I doubt you have to be too worried about that,” said Saint-Germain. “Most of the people in Europe can’t afford to come here, not with work so scarce.” He went on a few strides in silence, then said, “I gather your parents or grandparents came from Ireland—during the Potato Famine, perhaps?”

  Lightning zigzagged overhead, followed by a drub of thunder.

  “Grandparents it was; came over in ’87 from Cork,” said the policeman proudly. “Settled in Boston and been here ever since. We’ve done well. My father was a builder and my uncle was a customs officer. They worked hard for us. My brother Gabriel’s an important man in the ward.”

  Although Saint-Germain was unsure what that meant, he gave a sign of approval. “So America has been good for you, though your family came from Cork fifty years ago.”

  “Yes, it has. That’s why we don’t want to see it overrun with foreigners,” the policeman said, unaware of Saint-Germain’s ironic smile; he indicated the trees of the Commons not far ahead, waving shadows against the few streetlights. “There, you see? About half-a-mile to go. We’ll be at the King Charles in ten minutes or so.”

  “Very good. Thank you for your help. I should have been wandering until dawn if you hadn’t come along,” said Saint-Germain.

  “No reason to thank me, sir. I’m only doing my duty.” The policeman showed no inclination to leave, keeping pace with the stranger beside him. “There’ve been a spate of break-ins of late, all through the city. We’re on the lookout for the perpetrators: most are men out of work looking for anything they can take to wear or sell or eat. We’ve got to be careful.”

  “Your diligence is admirable,” said Saint-Germain, “but in my case, misplaced. I am not out of work, and I have no need to steal from anyone. Believe this: I have money enough in my pocket, and I have … dined this evening. Still, if it will put your mind at ease, continue along with me. I am relieved to have your protection as well as your directions.”

  “Very understanding of you, I’m sure,” said the policeman. “And I’ll put myself to the trouble of escorting you to the hotel. If they know you there, all’s well and good. If they don’t, you’ll want Hiram Jaynes first thing in the morning.”

  “As you wish, Officer,” said Saint-Germain, and turned as he heard the sound of an auto horn.

  “Damn foolish kids,” the policeman muttered as a Cord went by, six young men crammed into it. The vehicle skidded as lightning ripped the clouds, then vanished with a crescendo of thunder.

  “They will learn, in time,” said Saint-Germain, and looked up in surprise as large, wet drops fell on him. In the next instant the downpour was upon them, as noisy as gunfire. He looked for an overhang to provide shelter, and heard the policeman swear comprehensively. “If we wait ten minutes, the worst should have passed.”

  The officer joined him under the eaves of a narrow shopfront. “The rain’s welcome, but damned inconvenient.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Saint-Germain, and peered out at the sheeting water; he was glad that he had taken nourishment so recently, and that his soles were newly lined with his native earth or he might have felt queasy with so much rain in the streets.

  “A pity neither of us has an umbrella,” said the officer, and cleared his throat “When it lets up, we’ll go along to the King Charles.”

  Saint-Germain listened to the tempest and told himself it would end shortly. “Yes. We’ll do that,” he said, wondering if the policeman spoke for all Americans in his distrust of foreigners; he raised the collar of his jacket to keep any stray drops from sliding down his neck as the thunder beat a tattoo over Boston.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM DOÑA ISABEL INEZ VEDANCHO Y NUÑEZ AT COPSEHOWE IN HAMPSHIRE, ENGLAND, TO FERENC RAGOCZY, LE COMTE DE SAINT-GERMAIN, SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA; WRITTEN IN ENGLISH.

  Copsehowe

  nr Briarcopse,

  Hampshire

  England

  11 August, 1936

  Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain

  c/o Miles Sunbury

  Sunbury Draughton Hollis & Carnford

  New Court

  City of London, England

  My dear Comte,

  I trust Miles Sunbury will know where to send this letter, for I do not imagine addressing it to Le Comte de Saint-Germain, America, would allow the postal services to find you. I apologize for not writing to you directly; I trust you will understand, and make allowances for our current situations.

  How glad I am that my mother made me learn English as well as French and Italian. All my friends at school studied German, but I learned English instead, and now I am relieved that I did. The library here at Copsehowe is quite wonderful; I am making my way through it by fits and starts, and slowly the tongue becomes less strange to me.

  You were quite right to recommend this house to me. And Hampshire is a very lovely region, quite unlike Spain; I am determined to explore it thoroughly. I could not ask for a pleasanter place to live, nor a more well-situated one. It is quite charming, pleasantly laid out, and with gardens that, even neglected as they are now, are delightful; with a bit of effort, they could be truly splendid. Yet, now that I am settled in, I find the manor so large that I fear I will have to take in lodgers if only to make the rooms less empty. Twenty-six rooms! I have closed off the south wing, leaving myself seventeen rooms, but that is still a bit overwhelming. I have, in fact, considered extending my hospitality to two or three expatriate Spaniards who are presently living in London, but I am not yet satisfied that they are persons I want to have under my roof. I realize I may have to amend the terms of our lease if I bring others into the house, but that is the least of my concerns at present.

  The people of Briarcopse are hospitable in their way. They think me exotic, but that makes them proud of me in some way I cannot entirely grasp. They treat me with profound respect, but with a kind of caution as if they suspected I might go up in flames at any moment I have made it a point to take my tea in the local tea-shop twice a week, and that seems to be a prudent decision, for the ladies now nod to me, and the hostess asks me about the weather when I arrive, which, I am told, is an indication of acceptance.

  Last week I drove up to London and visited some of my countrymen as well as the shops—my clothing does not suit this climate and I realize that I must stay warm when winter comes. No doubt Ponce will be annoyed at the expense of my wardrobe, but that is the price he must pay for remaining where he is. While I was in London I used part of the afternoon to visit the British Museum, and had a glass of sherry at the Museum Pub, which was very good, but made me homesick. That same afternoon, I was able to claim some of my belongings that have been shipped from Cádiz, and to make arrangements for them to be sent on to Copsehowe. I kn
ow it will be good to have my own things with me once more, and they will give the villagers something more to talk about: I doubt they have seen much of the Egyptian fashion in furniture outside of the cinema.

  Speaking of my husband, I have had a letter from Ponce, who is both satisfied and irked that I am living here now. He is satisfied because three of his friends in Spain who own important businesses have been imprisoned, along with their families, so that the generals may take over their companies, much as has happened to your Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias. I have heard of more than a dozen such men. So Ponce knows his companies remain (albeit precariously) his, since I cannot be held as a virtual hostage in a prison cell. But he is irked because I am in England and he has no say in my being here. He tells me if I had waited two months, he would have been able to move me to whatever city in South or Central America I wished—so long as it is not where he is. To make it worse, you were the one who took the trouble to get me out of Spain, which must reflect poorly upon him. I have told him that if I had waited so long as Ponce liked, I would not have got out at all. If he has an answer to that, I have not received it yet.

  My staff here—two groundsmen, a gardener, a cook, a housekeeper, a butler, a chauffeur, and three maids—are all paid by the family; Charles tells me that they would be here if I were here or not, and so the expense should not fall upon me. I have made a counter-offer: that I should pay half their wages, since I am reaping the immediate benefit of their presence. I do hope the family will agree, for I cannot be comfortable with the present arrangement; I can certainly afford to do this, but so far, Charles will not consider it. It is most perplexing, to have a landlord who is so generous. I feel crushed with kindness, and I know that in time I must strike a more equitable arrangement with them, for all our sakes.

  A reporter from the local paper is coming to speak with me tomorrow, to get my opinion on the European situation. I almost declined his request but then I thought that since I am living in self-imposed exile, it is incumbent upon me to express my reasons for doing so. I am trying to decide what to tell him, for I know that the English are hopeful that war can be avoided no matter what Germany does, and it is Germany that worries them, what with all the rumors of their military buildup and their forced-labor camps. But the Great War took a heavy toll on England, and no one here wants to consider another war, except perhaps that man Churchill, but no one listens to him. There are a few others in the government who, along with Mr. Churchill, share my concerns; they, too, are becoming unpopular because of their doom-saying. I am more troubled about Spain than England or Germany, but I know there is danger of war breaking out, no matter how much they may wish to avoid it: that may be out of their hands. It is surprising to me that these English will listen to the opinions of a woman on such matters, but I will do my best to explain my worries and I will trust I will not be too egregiously misquoted.

  Let me thank you again for all you have done for me. My correspondence with my friends tells me that the situation in Spain is grave and growing more so by the day. I can only pray that when the war is over the country will not be so devastated that it will not recover, for no matter who is head of the government, it is the people who must make the country, or it is nothing. I occasionally feel guilty, to be living here in safety and comfort while my country is ravaged. But my presence in Spain would change nothing, so I must believe that I have not failed my homeland by leaving it in such a time of trial.

  I would be happy to receive you here for any occasion, or none. Perhaps when you return from America you may take the time to call upon me so that I may more fully demonstrate my gratitude to you. I send you my best wishes until then, and my hopes for your safe travel and early return.

  Your most affectionate

  Isis

  part two

  ROWENA SAXON

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM SARAH SCHNAUBEL TO FERENC RAGOCZY AT THE HOTEL MONTGOMERY IN CHICAGO.

  8581 Barrington Avenue

  Chicago, Illinois

  August 17, ’36

  Ferenc Ragoczy, Count Saint-Germain

  c/o Hotel Montgomery

  774 Lakefront Blvd.

  Chicago, Illinois

  Dear Count Ragoczy,

  Thank you so much for your kind letter of the 14th which arrived yesterday. I must tell you it was something of a shock to read Simeon’s name on the envelope, for, you see, he died last January, on the 2nd. He had been unwell for the last year-and-a-half with a complaint that the doctors were never able to diagnose, but which they reckoned had something to do with his heart, and when he contracted pneumonia in December, there was nothing left in him to fight it, and he failed rapidly. His final days were spent at home with a nurse to care for him and all but one of the children home again to see him before the end. He slipped away quite easily just after sunset, his hands in the hands of those who loved him. Although his health had not been robust, at least he wasn’t condemned to months and months of agony, or to the isolation ward in the hospital, both of which he dreaded.

  As I am sure you are aware, he suffered greatly after his first wife was killed, and his baby. At the time it was more shocking than now, given how the Jews are being treated in Germany. I know you were of true help to him then, but nothing you, in your kindness, nor anyone could do was enough to relieve him of the anguish which consumed him, I also know you provided him with funds to travel, for the bank would not release his money because he was Jewish, and even then, the NSDAP had a long arm. I believe it may well have been your support that made it possible for my husband to begin his business here, for it was not easy for him to solicit funds from strangers for such an enterprise as he wanted to undertake. If I am mistaken, then I apologize, but someone was kind enough to advance him the money, and of all his clients, you were the most loyal to him after his family was so ruthlessly damaged.

  When he left Germany, he did it with a heavy burden on his soul, condemning himself for being gone when it happened, and convinced that he could have prevented the killing, had he been there. Since that tragic day, the NSDAP has been ever more aggressive against Jews, as I am sure you know, and Simeon had come to see that he saved his older children and himself. Of late, the few letters he had from Germany made him certain that the dreadful whispers one hears from Jews leaving Germany are all true, and Jews are being put into labor camps and their property seized by the government It seems impossible as I write it here, but I have relatives whom I can no longer reach by letter, and that concerns me deeply. What occasionally is shown in the newsreels brought Simeon nothing but distress, as it must to all of us.

  For all his pessimism, I was happy to be his wife and to raise his surviving children as best I could, but I had no illusions of the place I held in his life; ours was an arranged marriage, and neither of us expected grand passion from it which suited us both. He was many ways caught in the past, and the past never completely released him. I hope that his death has finally ended his anguish. I have to say that he was always good to me, and our life together had genuine contentment, and I cannot fault Simeon for his loyalty to Amalie and Dietbold—had I been his first wife and his murdered child, I would want him to remember, too.

  You inquire after the family, so I will do my best to fill you in on what has happened in the last dozen years. I am enclosing Bruno’s business card: as you can see, he is practicing psychology here in Chicago. He graduated summa cum laude from Northwestern and has his Master’s and Doctorate from there; he is on the staff at the H.T. Smith Institute, as well as having his own practice and offices, all of which pleased Simeon immensely. He is engaged to a wonderful girl—Rachel Fishman—and they plan to marry next spring. I know he would be glad to hear from you, if you have the time to call upon him.

  Olympie married in ’34, and she and her husband now make their home in New York. Eli Rosenblatt is a junior executive for Intercontinental Insurance, specializing in insuring commercial property and large construction projects. So far they are doing fairly well, w
hich, given the nature of the times, is most encouraging. She and I maintain a regular correspondence, and from time to time, she telephones me. Olympie expects a baby in October, which would have delighted Simeon; he wanted—no, longed for—grandchildren so much, but he didn’t live to see one; Olympie plans to name the child for him if they have a boy, and for her mother if she has a girl, and Eli is in complete agreement with her. I think this is a lovely tribute.

  Emmerich is a lawyer now, and has a practice in Detroit, and for a young man only a short time out of law school, he is doing very well for himself. He already has a house of his own, and a Buick. Some of his clients are shady, and Simeon worried for his boy, doing business with such men. The firm he joined has made a reputation defending all manner of men associated with organized crime, and, as is often the case, the reputation of the clients has rubbed off on the attorneys defending them. Emmerich is young, and he may still realize that the excitement of taking on the cases of crime lords is not compensation enough for the damage to his integrity, no matter how much they pay.

  You know that Hedda saw the men kill her mother and brother and was never quite the same afterward. Her affliction has only gotten worse over the years. She has spent a considerable amount of time in the care of an excellent psychiatrist and has received the best therapy available, but nothing seemed to help. She even spent some months in a hospital, but with little improvement in her condition. Then, five years ago, she converted to Catholicism, which grieved Simeon greatly, and three years ago, she became a novice at the Poor Clares’ convent, Holy Redeemer, in Menomonee Falls, just outside of Milwaukee. She is Sister Eustochium now, named for an obscure saint who lived in the Holy Land in the early days of the Christian religion, or so she told us when she entered the convent Simeon was heartbroken over her joining the Order, and for almost a year wouldn’t even mention her name, or accept anything she had done; toward the end he became resigned to her decision, saying that if it gave her peace, then he would have to consider it a blessing for her. She isn’t allowed to write to any of us except at Christmas, and so I don’t know very much about her that I can tell you, but that she says she is happy for the first time in her life. I was never able to get close to Hedda while she lived with us, and I sometimes feel I failed her when she had the greatest need of me. Of course, Simeon never made such a suggestion, but I can’t help but think it must have crossed his mind now and then.