The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  “What?” Edie and Mitch said at once.

  “I have been granted a one-year fellowship to study art and design at the Sorbonne in Paris.”

  Mitch and Edie were clearly taken aback and just stared at her.

  Blushing furiously, Celeste rushed on. “It is renewable for a second year if I do well. If so, I would finish with a master of fine arts degree. It’s considered a terminal degree in the arts, like a doctorate.”

  “Oh my word,” Edie breathed, recovering somewhat. “That’s wonderful, Celeste.”

  “The Sorbonne is kind of like the Harvard of France,” Frank said. “Very prestigious. There were over two thousand applicants,” Frank said, smiling at his wife, “and only three fellowships were granted. And my Celeste got one of them. I am so proud of her.”

  “I was very fortunate,” she said demurely, but she was obviously deeply pleased.

  “But. . . .” Mitch was looking back and forth between the two of them but finally just said, “Congratulations.”

  Smiling, Frank turned to his father. “Yes, that means I’ll be in Berlin and Celeste will be in Paris for the next two years. That’s the downside to the whole thing.”

  “You’ll be apart for two years?” Edie cried.

  “Not completely,” Celeste said. “There’s an overnight train between Paris and Berlin. It takes about twelve hours. Or another option we’ve talked about is getting a small apartment somewhere in between—like in Cologne—so we could see each other on weekends. Daddy has offered to pay for it if we choose that option.”

  Mitch started to say something but thought better of it and looked away.

  But Edie felt compelled to ask. “And what about Reginald? If you’re both gone all day long, then. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Frank and Celeste exchanged quick glances. “Ask them, Frank,” she said.

  But he shook his head. “You tell them what we’re proposing, hon.”

  Celeste exhaled slowly and looked up. When she spoke, it was to Edie. “We were wondering if you would be willing to take Reginald for that time.”

  Edie had not seen that one coming. “For two years?” she gasped.

  “I know, I know,” Celeste wailed. “It’s breaking my heart just to think about it. My parents want to take him. In fact, my father is delighted with the idea. But. . . .” There was a deep, pain-filled sigh, and then it all came out in a rush. “But Frank and I know what that would be like. For all of their promises to the contrary, it would be two years of a nanny, with Reginald seeing Grandfather and Grandmother only at night. And often not even then.”

  “We’d come home during the summer,” Frank jumped in. “We’d come out to Utah and spend a month or two with you so we can be with Reginald.”

  Edie sat back slowly, her emotions awhirl. Finally, she managed a wan smile. “Well, that was not what we expected, I’ll say that.”

  Mitch’s gaze moved slowly back and forth between Frank and Celeste, probing their faces to the point that they had to look away. “I know what you’re thinking,” Frank said. “Two years is a long time. But this is such an incredible opportunity. For both of us. But if you feel that you can’t do it, then we’ll fully understand. And we’ll leave him with Celeste’s parents.”

  Celeste moved forward until she was on the edge of her chair. Her hands were clasped together and moving nervously again. When she spoke, it was directly to Edie. “Frank and I have talked about this a lot, and here is what we’ve decided. If Reginald is with you, we know that he will be loved and cared for in a way that won’t happen in Boston. And that is critical to us. And it’s not just the two of you. It’s the extended family, too—the aunts, the uncles, the cousins. They will all love and care for him. We wouldn’t worry about him for one minute.”

  After a moment, Mitch nodded slowly. He looked at Edie and then reached out and took her hand. “Well, you’ve certainly taken us by surprise. Can we think about it tonight and talk it over, then give you our answer tomorrow?”

  “Of course. I know this comes as a bit of a shock to you both,” Frank replied.

  “When will you be leaving?” Edie asked.

  “Frank has to be in Berlin by the first of July.” Celeste’s eyes were fixed on the floor, her voice strained with emotion. “I can wait until August, but. . . .”

  “We were thinking that maybe we’d send Reginald back with you on Sunday,” Frank broke in. “If you decide you can do it.”

  Mitch reached up and rubbed his eyes. “All right. We’ll talk about it and give you our answer tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Frank exclaimed. “Thank you so much for even—”

  “We’ll do it,” Edie said, her voice soft.

  The three others whipped around to look at her. Her eyes were fixed on Mitch’s. “We will. And we’ll take him back with us on Sunday.”

  “Really?” Celeste cried.

  “Wonderful!” Frank burst out.

  “But there are some things you need to understand.”

  “Anything, Mom,” Frank said. “What?”

  Edie was looking at Celeste when she answered. “We’ll always honor his grandfather’s name, but you need to know, we’ll all end up calling him Reggie. We’re not trying to go counter to your wishes, but it will just happen that way. In our home. With the community.” Edie smiled quickly as she added, “Monticello is just not a Reginald kind of place.”

  “I . . . I understand,” Celeste said. “And I’m all right with that.”

  “You’re sure?” Mitch asked.

  There was no hesitation now. “I’m sure.”

  “And he’ll just be one of the family,” Edie went on. “He’ll probably share a bedroom with Benji. He’ll be expected to do chores as he gets older.”

  “He’ll be riding a horse by the time you’re back,” Mitch added. “Maybe I’ll even have him help with the branding. We start our kids early on pulling their own weight.”

  Edie was smiling. “Is it going to bother you to have a cowboy for a son when you return?” She was looking directly at Celeste.

  Tears welled up in Celeste’s eyes. “Believe it or not, that’s one of the reasons we decided to ask you.” She laughed briefly. “Not the cowboy thing, but being part of a family, being loved and cared for and happy.” She wiped at her eyes and sniffed back the tears. “I would ask one thing of you, though. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it.”

  “What?” Edie asked.

  “I would ask that you not actively teach him German. I know you speak it a lot around the house, and I’m not asking you to stop that, but would you not deliberately teach it to him?”

  Mitch considered that and looked at Edie, who nodded. He turned back to Celeste. “We understand, but just so you know, Benji and Abby and Tina speak a lot of German together. And Edie and I do too. But we’ll try to be careful.”

  “For a kid, Benji’s German is amazing,” Frank said, half musing.

  “Like I said,” Celeste said ruefully, “I don’t expect you to ask them to stop. But. . . .” She had to look away. “I know it’s silly of me, but I just can’t bear to think of him actually being tutored in German.”

  “We understand,” Mitch said again. “And we will honor your wishes.”

  Edie murmured her assent but seemed a bit hesitant. Frank immediately picked up on it. “What, Mom?”

  “We’ll also be taking him to church with us.” She looked at Celeste. “We read the scriptures together as a family. He’ll be part of that. We have family night each week, where we talk about Heavenly Father and Jesus. We’ll never say anything negative about the Catholic Church, or”—she glanced at Frank—“or your own personal beliefs, but. . . .” She shrugged. “It’s who we are, Celeste. Your son will definitely be immersed in Mormonism for the next two years.”

  Frank was looking at Celeste. “I told her tha
t already,” he said. “Tell them what you said.”

  Mitch and Edie turned to Celeste, who smiled through tears. “I said, ‘Maybe it’s a good thing that someone in our family will teach him about God. We’re certainly not doing it.’”

  “Then we will be absolutely delighted to have him,” Mitch said. “Thank you for even considering us for this unique trust.”

  Edie was crying now too. “When we tell the kids, you’re going to hear them hollering clear out there in Cambridge. And I’d like to call the rest of the family and tell them.” She reached out and took Frank’s hand. “They’re going to be ecstatic. The whole family.”

  Frank was struggling with his own emotions now. “I know, Mom. That’s why we did it.”

  “Have you told your folks yet?” Mitch asked Celeste.

  “I told them we were going to ask you.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “Daddy is very angry about it. He forbids it.” She had to look away as the tears spilled. She reached up and quickly wiped them away. “Mama protested too, but underneath it all, I think she’s quite relieved. So Daddy will go along with her.”

  Edie stood, and the others quickly did the same. Edie went to Celeste and took her in her arms. “We love you, Celeste,” she began, but then her voice caught and she had to stop and sniff back her own tears. “As if you were our own daughter,” she finally managed. “And we will take care of Reginald.”

  Celeste threw her arms around her mother-in-law, crying openly now and causing the others in the room to turn and stare at them. “His name is Reggie, Edie,” she whispered. “His name is Reggie now.”

  February 23, 1925, 5:35 p.m.—Eckhardt Residence, Munich

  When Emilee heard the front door open, she quickly wiped her hands on her apron and rushed into the living room. “Hans?”

  But it wasn’t Hans. It was Ernst. Her brother shut the door behind him and turned to face her.

  Emilee’s shoulders slumped. “Where is he this time?”

  “Uh . . . he said he had to run an errand. But he’ll be home by six for sure. . . .” Ernst’s voice trailed off as he saw his sister’s expression.

  “Ernst, I’m going to say something, and I want you to listen to me very carefully.”

  “Umm . . . okay.” He shucked off his coat and tossed it on a chair, but he didn’t come any farther into the room. And Emilee could see that he had tensed up.

  “I don’t expect you to run home and tell me everything that’s gone on at work with you and Hans. But I won’t have him asking you to lie for him. Understood?”

  He nodded glumly.

  “And when he comes home, I’m going to tell him that. Is he at the beer hall?”

  Ernst nodded again.

  “What time did he leave work?”

  He sighed and looked away.

  “Never mind. Can you tell me which one?”

  “He doesn’t tell me, but even if he had, Emilee, it’s snowing out there. You’re not going looking for him.”

  “I didn’t plan to. I was just wondering.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled as he started to push past her. When he reached the stairs that went up to the bedroom that he and Heinz-Albert shared, he stopped. Without turning, he said, “It’s not a good time for him, Emilee.”

  “I know that,” she said softly. “I know.” Then as he started up the stairs, she said, “Dinner is in fifteen minutes. Tell Heinz-Albert.”

  Ernst looked down at her. “You’re not going to wait for him?”

  “No. And tell Alisa and Jolanda to come down and help me set the table.”

  He nodded and went up the stairs.

  8:45 p.m.

  “Are they asleep?” Emilee asked as Hans came into the living room and sat down in the overstuffed chair across from her.

  “Yes, finally.” Hans reached up and briefly touched the scruffy beard that covered most of the lower part of his face. “Lisa says I’m the Papa Bear.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Emilee replied. Hans hadn’t shaved in a month, and Emilee didn’t like it, but she decided not to make it an issue right now. “Was that what all the screaming was about?”

  “Ja, ja!” Hans chuckled. “I kept telling Lisa that she had to be quiet or the Mama Bear would come upstairs and make us stop.”

  Emilee said nothing and went on with her needlepoint. Hans watched her and stretched lazily. “Where’s today’s paper?”

  Emilee inclined her head toward the magazine rack by the sofa.

  Hans rummaged through the loose papers and took out the front section. He scanned the first page quickly and then opened it up. “Anything on Adolf?” he asked.

  “Not that I saw.”

  He grunted and kept on looking.

  She watched him, debating about her next comment, and then decided to say it. “It’s been almost two months since he was released from jail. I’m surprised we haven’t read more about him. But then, why would we? The Nazi Party is dissolved. The party newspaper is shut down. It’s been over a year since the putsch. He’s old news now.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that,” Hans muttered, a little irked at her tone.

  “Have you even seen him since his release from prison?”

  He shook his head, clearly not liking the question.

  “Or had a phone call from him?”

  “Why does it matter?” Hans snapped.

  Emilee didn’t answer. Hans went back to his chair with the paper, sat down again with a grunt, and lifted it high enough that she couldn’t see his face.

  9:05 p.m.

  As Emilee folded the cloth and put it in the basket on top of the needles and thread, Hans lowered the paper. “Are you tired?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Emilee replied.

  “Going to bed then?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Uh . . . if you’re tired, sure,” Hans said. “Go ahead. I’ll be along in a while. I need to do a few of the books before I come in.”

  Emilee put the basket aside and sat back, watching him steadily. “And you think that will make this go away?”

  “What?”

  “Me going to bed and you staying up until I’m asleep so you don’t have to talk with me.”

  Instantly Hans’s face darkened. “Not tonight, Emilee. I don’t need you hounding me about my drinking again. What? Did Ernst run right home and tell you where I went?”

  Emilee’s look was withering. “Your brother-in-law is carrying you on his back right now, Hans. He’s running the garage. He covers for you when you sneak out hoping I won’t know about it. He and I are doing the books now, so don’t bother with them. They’re all caught up.”

  Hans was staring at his hands, not meeting her gaze. “All right,” he said bitterly, “what do you want to know? How many beers I had? Five. Who was I with? No one. I drink alone. How much did I spend? About twelve marks. I can’t remember exactly.”

  Emilee’s gaze never left him as it all came tumbling out. When he was through and looked away again, she spoke quietly, without emotion. “And did it help?”

  “Help? Help what?”

  “The pain in your leg.”

  Hans snorted in disgust. “Is that what you think?”

  “Isn’t that what you want me to think?” Before he could answer, she rushed on. “I don’t want to talk about your drinking, Hans. I want to talk about why you’re drinking like you’ve never drunk ­before. Why you feel like you have to sneak around behind my back. And why you haven’t shaved in over a month.”

  “Oh, please!” he snapped. “You’re not Sigmund Freud, Emilee. Stop trying to psychoanalyze me. I drink because I love a good beer. I go to the Biergarten because we don’t have enough business to keep both me and Ernst busy. And I’m tired of shaving every day. Why turn all that into something si
nister?”

  She looked at him for several long seconds and then nodded and got to her feet. “Good night.”

  “Emilee, I. . . .” But then Hans’s jaw set. “Good night.”

  She left the room without looking back.

  10:22 p.m.

  Hans turned off the bathroom light and moved out into the hallway. He held his shoes in his hand and tiptoed carefully toward their bedroom door, avoiding the spot where the floorboards inevitably squeaked. But as he reached their door, he saw something on the floor in front of it. He moved closer to try to see in the faint light from the street lamp outside and then groaned. A blanket was folded neatly on the floor. On top of it, carefully arranged, were his shaving mug, his straight razor, and a hand towel. He swore softly and reached for the doorknob. It turned, but the door was locked. He swore again, this time more loudly, and banged noisily on the door with his fist. “Emilee! Open this door!”

  He heard the soft sound of her bare feet on the floor and then the lock sliding back. The door opened. “Not tonight, woman!” he barked, glaring at her, daring her to contradict him.

  Emilee stepped back, motioning for him to come in. Her eyes didn’t meet his. As he moved past her, his voice softened a little. “Maybe tomorrow. But I don’t have it in me tonight.”

  Another nod, but not a word. Hans moved across the room, his back to her, starting to unbutton his shirt. He heard the door shut and felt himself relax a little. He tossed his shirt on a chair and began to remove his trousers.

  But when he turned to face the bed a few moments later, he stopped dead. Emilee was not there. Not in the bed. Not in the room. Really angry now, Hans strode over to the door and yanked it open. The blanket was gone, but his shaving things were in that same neat pattern on the floor.

  11:18 p.m.

  Hans stopped at the entryway to the living room, his eyes searching for Emilee. There was some light here from outside, but not much. At first he thought she wasn’t there, but then he saw the dark mass in the overstuffed chair he had sat in earlier that night. It was motionless, and Hans hesitated, wondering if she had fallen asleep while she waited for him.