The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  “It’s not my money, though Celeste feels strongly that it belongs to both of us now.”

  “That’s good that she does,” Mitch commented.

  “I know.” Frank was tempted to tell his father that Celeste and her mother had invested virtually all of their trust funds in the new company Reginald had formed and were now worth nearly twice what they had been six months ago. And, if Reginald was right, that would double again before the year was out. But in light of what Aaron Brockhurst had just told them, Frank felt a little funny about telling him the kind of money his wife and her parents were making without lifting a finger.

  As the question-and-answer session had continued, Frank had also toyed with the idea of telling Reginald about this experience. But after a moment’s consideration, he had almost laughed aloud. It wasn’t hard to picture how his father-in-law would react to some “hick banker from Utah” giving him financial counsel. And with that, Frank made up his mind that he wasn’t going to say anything about today’s meeting to anyone he knew back in Boston. And that included his wife, his mother-in-law, and, most assuredly, his father-in-law.

  Chapter Notes

  Sources for the economic trends and statistics laid out in this chapter include http://www.slideshare.net/multimedialearningllc/causes-of-great-depression; http://www.slideshare.net/jjarvis106/the-great-depression-causes-and-effects; https://quizlet.com/39893874/11-recognized-causes-of-the-great-depression-flash-cards/.

  August 2, 1929, 5:45 p.m.—

  Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physics, Berlin, Germany

  Frank Westland was surprised to find that it was raining lightly when he came out from the lecture hall. Earlier it had been a perfectly clear day with a hazy blue sky and a few scattered clouds. The sun was not down yet, but it was hidden behind a light overcast and the light was muted. He hesitated but then decided that the rain wasn’t heavy enough to bother with an umbrella and strode off across the quad toward the trolley stop.

  As he came around the corner of one of the buildings, he nearly collided with a woman coming swiftly toward him. Her head was down and half hidden beneath an umbrella. Frank gave a low cry and leaped to one side. “Excuse me,” he exclaimed as she swept past him, the umbrella hooking onto his shoulder.

  “Oh!” The woman gave a little cry as she pulled up short and lowered the umbrella to look up at him.

  “It’s okay,” Frank said with a smile. “No harm done.” Then, realizing he had spoken in English, he added, “Kein Schaden.”

  “No, excuse me! I am so sorry,” she said in heavily accented English. “Are you all right?” Then, even as she spoke, her head snapped up and her eyes perceptibly widened. “Herr Doktor Westland? Franz?”

  Frank had started to move past her, but that stopped him. He peered more closely at her and then gave another low cry. “Margitte?”

  “Ja, ja! It is I.”

  “Oh my word,” Frank cried. “What are you doing here?”

  She smiled brightly as she folded up the umbrella. “I am on the faculty here now. What are you doing here? You graduated last year.”

  “I did. I am here for a few weeks doing some research.” Then he lapsed into German. “You are on the faculty here at the Institute? Really?”

  “Ja, ja. I am an assistant professor of theoretical mathematics.” Margitte gave a little toss of her head and her long dark hair, now glistening with a few raindrops, swished softly. “Or I will be in a few weeks when classes start. This is my first year.” She cocked her head to one side, her grey-blue eyes teasing him now. “It is not polite to look so surprised, Franz.”

  “I . . . Nein. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Margitte laughed merrily. “Yes you did. But it is all right. I am still pinching myself to think that I was accepted.”

  Frank was still staring at her, quite taken aback at the sight of her as he remembered their first meeting. Margitte Schnable had been a first-year graduate student in a class he had been asked to teach as part of his fellowship. It was theoretical physics, which was not his strong suit. Theoretical physics employed complex mathematical models and abstractions of physical objects to try to explain and predict natural phenomena. Frank was an experimental physicist. His branch used mathematics to explain the real world and how it worked, not theoretical abstracts. But his chairman had not been sympathetic to his claim that he wasn’t qualified to teach the class and had held him to it.

  Frank had noticed the young woman the first time she came into class and took a seat near the back. She was tall and willowy, probably five foot seven or eight. She wasn’t what people would consider a classic beauty, but somewhere in her ancestry there had been some Mediterranean blood—Italian perhaps, or maybe Greek. Her skin was a light olive color and her hair was jet black and long enough to nearly reach her waist. But what had struck Frank the most were her eyes. Instead of being dark brown, as one would expect, they were a startling light grey-blue that was really quite striking. But there were over thirty students in the class, and Frank hadn’t given her much thought after that day.

  Two weeks later, Frank had been working through a complex mathematical problem on the board. It was a classic example of the difference between theoretical and experimental physics, and he sensed that it wasn’t getting through to the students. Suddenly, Margitte raised her hand. When he called on her, she stood up. “Herr Doktor Westland,” she said, “I don’t mean to seem impertinent, but I believe there are two or three errors in your mathematical calculations.”

  The class had instantly gone silent, almost gasping in shock. To challenge one’s professor? Unthinkable. Frank had felt his face go warm as he turned to her. “And what is your name, Fraulein?” he asked coolly.

  Her face flamed a deep red. “Fraulein Margitte Schnable, Herr Doktor.”

  “And how long have you been here at the Institute?”

  Her color deepened. “About two weeks.”

  There was a titter of laughter from the class. Frank looked around at the class with a puzzled expression, as if to say, “Can you believe this?” Then he said, “Well, Fraulein, when I first arrived here, a wise counselor suggested that for the first year, the better course for a new student would be to sit back and listen and learn and not be too eager to display his or her ignorance.”

  The class sniggered even more loudly as Margitte sat down again and didn’t raise her head for the rest of the class. But when class was over and the last of the students had come up to ask their questions, Frank was surprised to see her still sitting in the back, watching him steadily. “Fraulein?” he said in surprise. “Did you have a question?”

  Without a word Margitte came to the front of the room. Ignoring him completely, she went to the blackboard, picked up the chalk, and set to work. She worked for ten minutes as Frank watched in growing amazement. When she finished, she set the chalk back in its tray and turned to him. “You had three major errors in your calculations, Herr Doktor. If they are not corrected, it will prove to be an embarrassment to you. I felt you should know that.” And with a toss of her head and lips pressed tightly together, she spun around and left.

  By the next class, a humbled Frank Westland had learned that Margitte Schnable was from Dresden, Germany. She was the youngest daughter of a secondary school headmaster. She, like him, had received a Rockefeller Fellowship, supplemented by a full scholarship from the Institute. Her major was theoretical mathematics, a field even more esoteric and abstract than theoretical physics. At the beginning of class, Frank asked her to come to the front. He then publicly apologized for his reaction during the previous class and invited her to show the class the errors in his calculations. After class, he apologized again and asked her if she would consider being his graduate assistant.

  Over the next two years, their association had turned into a deeply valued friendship. And by the second year, rumors of some romantic attachment began to surface. Bot
h of them tried to make it clear to everyone that there was no truth to those rumors, and Frank went out of his way to be circumspect in every way. The problem was that Frank did find himself feeling more and more attracted to her, though he was careful never to express that.

  It didn’t help that things between him and Celeste had grown more complicated during that same time. When the two of them had decided to pursue their graduate studies in Europe—Frank in Berlin, Celeste in Paris—they had agreed that they would take weekends off and be together from time to time. They even looked into renting a flat in Cologne, which was about halfway between them. But Berlin was six hundred miles from Paris, and even the train ride to Cologne was about five hours each way. Frank went all the way to Paris one weekend—a ten-hour journey—and they spent less than a full day together before he had to turn around and go back. Celeste had come to meet him in Cologne once to spend a few days together. This was over the Christmas holidays. What neither of them had foreseen was that Celeste’s deep aversion to all things German was much more deep-seated than even she had realized. Cologne was not far from the French border, and there was a strong French presence there. Even the name was French. But it wasn’t enough. They had finally taken a train back to Liège, in French-speaking Belgium, and spent their holiday time together there. After that, they agreed that they would get together only during summer vacations and otherwise would just communicate by phone.

  Frank had been open with Margitte about all of this, and though it was sometimes awkward, they had been careful never to cross the line of impropriety. In her second year, Margitte got a graduate assistant of her own, and that ended their professional association. But they would still get together from time to time for dinner or to attend a concert or the cinema together, and then Frank had gone back to the U.S., and that had ended it.

  He felt a little twinge of guilt at how good it felt to see her again. Suddenly Frank realized that she was watching him quizzically, and he laughed. “Sorry, I was just remembering that day in class when you put me in my place.”

  Margitte smiled too, her eyes softening as she remembered. “You were pretty arrogant that day.”

  “I was a stuck-up, self-righteous, self-absorbed jerk,” Frank said, “and you were right to correct me.”

  She reached out and touched his hand. “But, Franz, what you did in the next class was remarkable. I’ll never forget how you made it right again.”

  And I’ll never forget our good-bye that last summer, Frank thought. She had come to the train station to say good-bye. With tears streaking her cheeks, at the last moment she had rushed up and kissed him on the lips. It was a kiss of such exquisite sweetness that Frank still thought of it often. And now here she was again.

  Margitte broke into his thoughts. “How long are you here for, Franz?” She always used the German pronunciation of his name, even though most of his German colleagues called him Frank.

  “About another week. I just got here yesterday.”

  “And is your wife with you?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes and no. She’s teaching a summer class at the Sorbonne in Paris. She finishes on the twelfth and then we’re going back home together.”

  “The Sorbonne? Wasn’t that where she attended school?”

  “Yes, it was.” Frank was suddenly uncomfortable talking about Celeste. “And what about you? Are you married?” He had already noted that her fingers were bare.

  “Only to my work,” Margitte said, tossing her head in that way that she did. “And you are a professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology now, no?”

  “That’s right. Just an associate professor, actually. But I’m working on a project with three of my colleagues, so I came over to do some research here before I go to Paris to get Celeste.”

  “Ah,” Margitte said. “And your little boy?”

  “Reginald is doing well. He’s almost six now.”

  “And does he look like you?”

  “No. Gratefully, he looks more like his mother.” Frank was studying her as he spoke. She was even lovelier than he remembered. “And so, here you are, an assistant professor at one of the premier scientific institutes in Europe. Your parents must be very proud.”

  Margitte blushed a little. “Yes. Papa had my graduation certificate framed and now it hangs over our fireplace.”

  “Good for him.”

  They both fell silent. Again Frank was thinking of Celeste. They had agreed that he would call her two or three times a week at seven in the evening. She hadn’t been there when he’d called last night, nor had she answered tonight—which was becoming more the rule than the exception. Frank had left a message with her roommate to call him, but still he had heard nothing. And it chafed him a little. He was busy too, but he was making time to call her.

  Margitte was watching him closely. “Do you remember Der Bär Keller?”

  “Ja,” Frank exclaimed. “But of course. The Bear Cellar was my favorite Biergarten. Is it still there? And does it still have that awful stuffed bear just inside the door?”

  Margitte laughed. “Yes, only he is even scruffier than before.” A touch of pink colored her cheeks. “I was just on my way home, and I was thinking that I do not feel like cooking on my little hotplate tonight. Would you let me buy you dinner?”

  “Of course not,” Frank said. “But I would like to buy you dinner. I skipped lunch today and was just wondering where I might get a bite to eat.”

  “Sehr gut. Then it’s settled.” Margitte’s eyes were dancing with delight. She folded her umbrella and put it in the pocket of her raincoat and then slipped her arm through his. “Lead on, Herr Doktor.”

  August 9, 6:37 p.m.—Der Bär Keller,

  Zehlendorf Borough, Berlin

  They had started regularly meeting for lunch the day after they had dinner at the Bear Cellar. At that first dinner, Margitte had quizzed Frank about his research project. As he described it to her, he “happened” to mention that it had some highly complex mathematical calculations. She took the bait like a trout striking the lure. “Would you like some help from a mathematical theorist?” she had asked playfully. He had assured her that a theorist might bring something to the table that he didn’t have.

  And so the lunch hour was set aside to study together. Some­times it went to an hour and a half or even two hours. On the third night he was in town she “happened” to be passing the building where he worked as he came out. They both knew it wasn’t accidental but pretended that it was. They went to a little French bistro for coffee and a light dinner before going off to their separate apartments. Frank was still experiencing considerable guilt over all of this, even though there were no overt romantic tones from either of them. On the other hand, his frustration with Celeste was growing too. Yesterday he had finally caught her just as she was running off to the library to get materials for her class. “Sorry, darling,” she cried. “My schedule is insane. I’ll try to call you when I can. Love you.” And she hung up without him even saying a word.

  To Frank’s surprise, he found that irritation served as a potent antidote for guilt.

  Two nights ago, he had walked Margitte home after their stop at the bistro. They had talked for a long time outside her apartment. As they had finally parted, Margitte, on impulse, had reached out and taken Frank’s hand. He started to pull it away, but then he stopped. They looked into each other’s eyes for what seemed like a long time, and then she had closed her eyes and leaned in closer. It was too much for him. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her up against him. Then the image of Celeste’s face flashed into his mind. Face flaming red, Frank gave Margitte a quick hug, mumbled something about having to go, and turned and fled.

  He had thought of little else all day, getting more and more angry with himself for being so stupid as not to have kissed her. Then the next moment, he was angry with himself for having let it go so far. Today was Fri
day, and tomorrow morning Margitte was taking a train to Dresden to spend one last weekend with her family before starting into her pre-term faculty meetings. Tonight would be their last night together, for Frank was scheduled to leave Sunday night for Paris.

  Around two that afternoon, he had finally given up on doing any further research. He went for a long run in the Tiergarten. After that he took all of his research notes to the institute library and found a back corner, vowing to stay there until the library closed. He berated himself ceaselessly and thought of Margitte constantly. He had stopped calling Celeste by this point. She still had not called him, and he was openly angry with her. Not just because she was too busy to call him but because she was making the situation with Margitte more and more complicated.

  Finally, cursing himself for his weakness of will, he filled his briefcase with his research materials and set off for his apartment. He and Margitte had agreed to have supper together at the Bear Cellar one last time and say their good-byes there. No walking her home, he vowed.

  They didn’t say much over dinner. Both tried to keep the conversation light or focused on mathematics. Neither attempt really worked. Finally, when the waitress finished clearing their table, Frank reached out and touched Margitte’s hand. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, not meeting his gaze.

  As they came out of the beer hall, they moved off a ways, to avoid the people going in and out, and stopped. Margitte looked up the street in the direction of her apartment. Frank looked in the opposite direction. When they turned back to face each other, her eyes were shining, but she managed a smile as she stuck out her hand. “Auf Wiedersehen, Franz. It has been so wonderful to see you again.”

  He said nothing, just watched her for a long time. Then he swore softly. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “We’re acting like a couple of twelve-year-olds. Come, I will walk you home.”

  She nodded and without a word put her arm through his and leaned her head against his shoulder as they started off. Both were silent for the entire quarter of an hour it took them to reach the sidewalk outside her building. By that time, the sky was a dark velvet overhead and the street lamps were coming on. Frank stopped under a lamp a short distance down from her apartment. He turned to face her. “Margitte, I. . . .”