LoveMakers

by Gould, Judith

  I'm writing from Texas, but I have not returned here as a free man. I am writing from my prison cell. The past has finally caught up with me, and I'm through running at long last. Please understand when I say I'm relieved, almost grateful that the running is over. It gave me nothing, because it kept me from you.

  I have been sentenced to death. I know those words will be so hard to read, but please understand how grateful I am. I'll be free of the past at long, long last. The warden is a good man and he promised to keep this letter and not mail it until the sentence is carried out. I asked him to hold onto it because I'm afraid that otherwise you would come here, and if there is one last request I have, it is to shelter you from that painful goodbye. That is my last wish, and probably one of the only things I can do anything about anymore. Please forgive me for my long silence. This letter is not intended to distress you. Please, receive it in the spirit in which it is written. I love you, my dear wife. All these years of hiding and running - I've loved you throughout them. That love was what kept me going, and. that love is what makes this ignoble end for me somehow noble. You and our children, that is all that matters. That is all that has ever mattered.

  Darling, you are young and beautiful, and the young, they say, are resilient. Be so, for my sake. Don't let it all have been in vain. Now that you know my fate - look at it through my eyes if you can. At least now we'll both be free. The past is behind us. I can stop running and hiding, and you can build a new life for yourself A new and better life. Don't shut yourself away. You have so much love and happiness and laughter to give, and my one hope is that you can rebuild your life with a man more deserving of your love than me. Whatever you do, don't mourn for me. Don't shed tears. I know you've done all that these past few years. If my conscience would permit it, I would not write this letter at all to save you from more grief, but you must know what is happening so that you can at last be free. Free to choose your life and loves. Free to start over. Do that, darling, for me. Otherwise, my death will have been for nothing, and I can't bear to think of it that way.

  Remember one thing, and one thing alone. I am not sad. How could a man be sad when he leaves the one thing behind which matters most - a wonderful family? That is my legacy, and that is what gives me peace and the courage to face these last hours.

  What more could a man ask for?

  My love always,

  your husband and father.

  Z.

  Elizabeth-Anne's face was like ash. Her life, everything she had ever lived for and loved, seemed to melt to ruins before her eyes.

  Zaccheus - her husband. Her falsely accused husband, the father of her children. Zaccheus - dead.

  Could it be possible? Could a man be executed for a crime he hadn't committed? Was his life really over? The last time she had seen him he had been so alive, so full of vibrant warmth. Was this cold paper really the last she would ever have of him?

  The room seemed to reel around her, the children's tear-streaked faces revolving faster and faster, until everything was a featureless blur, until everything was black. Blessedly, she passed out.

  It was past midnight, the morning of Friday, October 29, 1929. In just a few hours the stock market would crash and the Great Depression would begin.

  All America would grieve, but it was a reality Elizabeth-Anne would be unaware of for a very long time. Because her own grief was too all consuming. Losing money was one thing. Losing a loved one in the flash of a sudden bolt of lightning was another thing entirely.

  10

  The world had turned mad. Her life had exploded, and everything was suddenly crazily off kilter.

  Like a mortally wounded animal, Elizabeth-Anne crawled into her nest and ceased to function. She lay dazed on her chaise lounge, half-dressed, and covered with the cashmere blanket, refusing to get up except to drag herself to the bathroom. It was as though she were sick. And she was. She was sicker than she had ever been in her life, only it was not a malady for which a doctor could prescribe medication. It was an illness of the spirit. Zaccheus had died, and something within her had died along with him. From the moment she had read the letter, the world stopped spinning and ground to a halt. Seconds, minutes, even hours and days were no more.

  She withdrew completely, not even able to communicate with the children. They locked themselves in their room, as miserable and mournful as she. But they at least could still shed tears. In her, the pain festered and rankled her soul. The pain manifested itself physically, and was so all- pervasive, that even little Zaccheus, who was too young to comprehend what had happened, realized instinctively that something was terribly wrong, and that Mamma wasn't herself at all. He became just as quiet and withdrawn as Elizabeth-Anne, but with a pitiable difference. He was frightened.

  Two days and a night passed. The pain which consumed the girls had not decreased, but at least they managed to function in a zombie-like state which could pass as the first step, however trifling, of the many which they would have to go through in order to fully cope with, and accept, the tragedy that had engulfed them.

  Elizabeth-Anne, however, was catatonic, not in the true medical sense of the word, but she was in so deep a state of shock that she no longer cared about anything. She could come to no decisions, nor feel any lessening of the brutal pain which stabbed her so deeply. She was aware of what was going on around her but it was all unfolding as if in a dream. She knew that the children needed her now more than ever in their lives, for the first time she was incapable of coping. Her own pain was too unbearable. All she had been able to do was erect an invisible wall between herself and the world that no one seemed able to penetrate. The past days had eaten up her entire resources of strength. There were simply no more reserves she could fall back upon.

  When another three days had passed, the resilience of the young began to manifest itself more visibly. The girls were still broken hearted and given to periodic outbursts of tears, but at least they had begun to function a little less by rote. Regina cooked for them, and all the girls took turns attempting to force food upon their mother. But Elizabeth-Ann would only stare at it blankly. She didn't touch a bite.

  The sisters gazed at one another in worry.

  Five days, and their mother was wasting away.

  Ludmila was alarmed.

  She couldn't recall a day going by without her and Elizabeth-Anne paying each other a visit, and now she hadn't seen hide nor hair of the Hales. She knew that they were at home because she had heard them moving about in their apartment. She had been tempted to go upstairs on countless occasions, but something had held her back. Intuitively, she sensed that Elizabeth-Anne and the children wanted to be left alone. Whatever the reason for their sudden need to shut themselves away, she was certain that it was a private matter, but it hurt her feelings that they did not share their heartaches with her. Still, she respected their need for privacy.

  But when day after day passed and she still did not hear from Elizabeth-Anne, and the stairs did not tremble with the sound of the girls traipsing out to school in the mornings, her soft, old face went tight with worry. Anxiously she began pacing her cluttered apartment.

  This was totally unlike the Hales, she told herself. So out of character. Whatever could have happened?

  Then a terrible thought flashed through her mind. Today was Saturday, the second of the month, and Elizabeth-Anne's rent was due. Elizabeth-Anne had never been late in paying it. What if. . . what if she had lost all her money in that horrible stock market crash? Slowly Ludmila sank down onto the siege, lost deep in thought. Hadn't she, Ludmila Romaschkova, been instrumental in suggesting to Elizabeth-Anne that money could be invested? Hadn't she paved the way for her to seek out an investment counselor in the first place? And what if her well-intentioned but ill-timed advice had caused her friend's entire nest egg to be wiped out?

  Ludmila's head spun dizzily and she shut her eyes. Who could have foreseen the future? Who could have guessed that such a disaster might descend upon the country and wipe
out so many fortunes in one fell swoop? If her worst fears were confirmed and Elizabeth-Anne now found herself penniless, then Ludmila felt she was at least partially to blame. She would have to make it up to her friend somehow.

  She nodded to herself. Elizabeth-Anne was proud. Perhaps the reason why she was holed up was because she could not pay the rent on time.

  She might even have lost every penny she had.

  Or perhaps she was so shattered by the loss that she could not bear to face it - or the woman who had suggested she invest her money.

  Or worse, she could be contemplating suicide.

  Every day, the papers were full of reports that dozens of people who had lost their fortunes or life savings had leapt to their deaths, had shot themselves, gassed themselves, slit their wrists.

  The thought of it filled Ludmila with icy terror. She sprang to her feet, no longer able to just sit and wait. She knew something was terribly wrong upstairs. Elizabeth- Anne, the girls, and little Zaccheus were more to her than mere tenants; they had all become fast friends. They were family.

  She was going to go upstairs at once to find out what had happened.

  At first she had rapped softly on the door. She heard movement inside the apartment, and one of the girls' muffled voice. Rebecca, she guessed, though it was harder to tell. When no one came to the door, she had knocked harder. And then harder. Finally she pounded on the door with her shoe.

  Pausing to take a deep breath, she heard a creaking of the floorboards. She could see a shadow darkening the crack of dim light under the door and sensed rather than saw someone peering out at her through the tiny peephole.

  'It's me, Ludmila,' she called in what she hoped sounded like a cheerful voice.

  The floorboards creaked some more, and she heard muffled whispers. Finally the door opened as far as the safety chain allowed. Rebecca's huge eyes peered out at her.

  'Rebecca, thank God you are all right . . . ' Ludmila's voice trailed off and her face creased with a frown. Rebecca usually projected a lively, radiant quality. Now her eyes were dull and lifeless.

  ' 'Lo, Auntie Luddie,' she murmured quietly.

  'Hello, Rebecca,' Ludmila said, cocking a curious eyebrow. 'How nice to see you. May I come in? I want to talk with your mother.'

  'She doesn't want to see anyone.' Rebecca started to shut the door.

  'Wait.' Swiftly Ludmila wedged her foot between the door and the doorframe. Drawing herself up as imperiously as her four feet, three inches would allow, she used her most commanding tone of voice. 'I demand you open door, immediately.'

  Rebecca hesitated. Her sisters might not have listened, but she was just young enough to obey an adult's command. She nodded morosely, waited for Ludmila to remove her foot, and closed the door. Then she unhooked the chain and let Ludmila in. The tiny Russian dashed over the threshold calling, 'Elizabeth-Anne! Elizabeth-Anne!'

  As she hurried into the dim gloom of the living room Ludmila felt something give under her feet. There was a splintering crack and she looked down at the floor, then wrinkled her nose in disgust. She had stepped on a dinner plate crusty with leftovers. She frowned to herself and gazed around the usually perfect room in disbelief. The curtains were drawn and the air was stale. Clothes were strewn all over the floor. Dirty dishes and smudged glasses were piled up on the tables. This was very unlike Elizabeth- Anne, to whom cleanliness was next to godliness.

  Then she spied her friend lying in death-like silence on the chaise. She drew in her breath sharply. Elizabeth-Anne was staring right at her, but Ludmila realized that the aquamarine eyes were unfocused. They seemed to gaze right through her. With a shock she noticed how haggard Elizabeth-Anne looked.

  She approached the chaise and took a seat on its edge. 'Are you sick?' she asked softly. When Elizabeth-Anne did not reply she placed a hand on her forehead. 'No, there is no fever.' Slowly she withdrew her hand and stared down at her friend.

  Elizabeth-Anne let her head loll sideways, staring vacantly away from her.

  Ludmila leaned closer to her. 'I be right back,' she said softly, patting Elizabeth-Anne's shoulder. 'Do not worry. I call doctor.'

  For the first time Elizabeth-Anne seemed to show signs of life. 'No,' she whispered hoarsely. 'Don't call a doctor.'

  Ludmila glanced up as Rebecca scuffed slowly toward her. The sight of the child tugged at her heart; she was walking like a defeated old woman. Then she shook Elizabeth-Anne gently. 'Then what is it?' she cried urgently. 'Is it because of money? Did you lose money?'

  Elizabeth-Anne's eyes drooped shut. 'Please,' she begged in a whisper. 'Leave me alone. That's all I ask.'

  'No. We are friends. Or do you forget?' Ludmila reminded her. 'If something is wrong, then I have right to help.'

  'No one can help,' Elizabeth-Anne sighed. 'Not even God. Not anymore.'

  Ludmila glanced sharply at Rebecca. The girl nodded her head solemnly.

  'In God's name,' she demanded, 'what has happened here?'

  Rebecca shrugged wordlessly and drifted away, joining Regina and Charlotte-Anne, who were standing in the bedroom doorway. They all gazed at Ludmila with much the same empty expression that was still on Elizabeth- Anne's face. What on earth and in heaven could have happened to bring on such moroseness, Ludmila wondered.

  Suddenly little Zaccheus pushed his sisters aside and came running out of the bedroom. He threw himself at Ludmila and buried his face in her lap. He began sobbing noisily.

  Ludmila stroked his head with one hand, and with the other she sought Elizabeth-Anne's hands. Touching them, she sucked in her breath. They were cold as ice, lifeless. She realized she might never discover why Elizabeth-Anne and the children were all so miserably dejected. Well, in the end, it was none of her business. If Elizabeth-Anne ever decided to tell her, then fine. If not, then that was fine, too. Meanwhile, there were more important matters at hand. Somehow she had to pull Elizabeth-Anne and the children out of their despondency. She had to get their minds off what was bothering them so deeply.

  Ludmila was no stranger to crises. She had gone through enough of them herself to know just how to deal with them. In this case, action was called for.

  She rose abruptly to her feet, marched over to the window, and yanked aside the curtains. Glorious sunlight came streaming in. She pushed the window as far open as it would go. The sudden gust of air felt deliciously refreshing.

  Ludmila turned to the girls and clapped her hands. 'Now,' she proclaimed in a voice which discouraged any talking back, 'we will all clean house. It is disgusting mess. You, Regina, get broom. Charlotte-Anne, you get mop. Rebecca, help me tidy.'

  The girls stared at one another, and a signal seemed to pass between them. Slowly, albeit reluctantly, they obeyed.

  Ludmila hurried downstairs, dug through her dresser for her oldest, most worn Hermes scarf, and tied it around her head. For several hours, she worked alongside the girls, scrubbing, polishing and dusting. It was good therapy; the girls even began talking to each other in low voices. Their conversation was far from cheerful, but it was a beginning.

  'I'm hungry,' Zaccheus finally complained.

  Ludmila stopped washing a window and frowned. She had been too preoccupied to realize that she was hungry, too. Now that she thought about it, her stomach began rumbling.

  'I go cook,' she declared. She put down her rag, went downstairs, and came back with an alarmingly small amount of groceries. While the girls continued to clean, she set to work in the kitchen. Just before she was ready to serve the food, there were a series of urgent knocks on the door.

  'Answer it, somebody,' she called over her shoulder. 'I'm in kitchen, cooking.' She dipped a spoon into the hot oatmeal, lifted it to her nose, and sniffed it critically. To her, it smelted wonderful. It wasn't simply run of the mill oatmeal; it was an expensive Irish oatmeal, much coarser than the regular kind, and she considered it a rare treat. She neither noticed the girls' faces nor heard their groans when they had come in to see what she was preparing.

&nb
sp; There were more knocks on the door, this time louder, more insistent.

  With a dark face, Ludmila marched out into the hall and flung open the door. 'Oh, is you,' she growled.

  Larry Hochstetter looked down at her in surprise. He couldn't contain his laughter. Ludmila looked thoroughly ridiculous in her ancient brocade dress, the fringed shawl draped around her shoulders, the malachite Faberge egg hanging around her neck, and the old scarf knotted around her head. She looked for all the world like a cross between a miniature empress and the most lowly scullery maid.

  'Well?' she hissed. 'You think something is funny?'

  He tried to wipe the smile off his face. 'No, not at all.' He swallowed with difficulty.

  'And don't just stand there like an idiot. Come in.'

  'Greetings and salutations, Madame,' he said with a flourish of his hat and a wink. 'There's nothing like a warm welcome, especially from a beautiful woman.'

  She waved the spoon threateningly. 'You better watch your tongue, young man.' She squinted dangerously up at him. 'It took you long enough to come and visit.'

  'I called a hundred times, but no one would answer the telephone. I took it to mean no one was at home.' He frowned, sniffed the air, and wrinkled his nose. 'What on earth is that ghastly smell?'

  Ludmila indignantly drew herself up to her full height. 'That smell, monsieur,' she said acidly, 'is my cooking. You don't like it, you don't eat it.'

  'I stand corrected. It is my mistake. In fact, it must be that smell emanating from downstairs that I thought I smelled here. But this smell.' He made a production of sniffing. 'This smell is delicious. Truly.' He grinned at her.

  Her face softened. 'What took you so long?' she whispered conspiratorially. 'It has been five hours since I called you.'