The Otto of our honeymoon ceased to exist now that the brewery had stolen him from me.
I occurred to me: if I wanted a share of Otto’s attentions, I had to enter his world, for he had abandoned the one we’d started to create for ourselves.
As dawn shed its first light over the plaster cracks in our walls, I came up with a plan.
I began to prepare lunches for him and bring them to the office. I did not pinch pennies on this. I took in a bit of sewing, enough to pay for a better quality bread, tastier cheeses. I included an apple and, when I had enough jobs to do so, a piece of cake or chocolate.
I went in every day, including Sunday. Because I’d made it so convenient, I succeeded in talking Otto into sitting outside with me as we ate. In time, his color returned and he gained enough weight to remove the gaunt look that my phantom husband had sunken into.
Though I dotted our conversation with details of my walks around the city, I curated them to be items that he would find most interesting. And if there was some way to tie them into business and brewing, all the better. Soon, he began to dispatch me to restaurants that served rival beers, giving me a modest budget to do so. At least once a week, I ate at excellent establishments, always careful to ask waiters for their opinions on what to drink and reporting to Otto about my impressions of the taste and the enthusiasm of the one serving it. I even ate at alehouses, often the only female save for barmaids. My favorite among them was the White Elephant, situated on the same plaza as San Fernando Cathedral.
As I became a regular at the alehouses, I was often invited to join card games and light up cigars.
I declined both—a worrisome penchant for gambling had claimed the fortunes of several branches of my family—but I did sit and watch. It is amazing how alcohol and tobacco combine to loosen lips and it was here that I often got the most honest take on anything I wanted to know.
It was at the White Elephant in which a conversation with the barkeep led to my first discernable impact on Otto’s work.
“Mrs. K, back again,” said the man. He had a patch over one eye and a graying beard that hung two inches below his chin. “Here to peddle that sewer juice your husband makes?”
It was a well-worn jest. Jeb Booker liked the brew almost as much as I knew he liked me and he took every opportunity to have a laugh at Otto’s expense. I never responded in kind, loyal to my husband and to our fledgling brand.
“Not today. I’m sampling the competition. What do you have for me to try?”
He set a cold glass on the counter, the froth spilling out over the rim. “Lone Star has been working on a mighty fine new ale. I think it will be up to your exacting standards.”
I took a sip, enjoying the taste of the Anheuser Busch offering, reminiscing about friendships that had become strained after Otto’s defection.
Jeb set his elbows on the bar and leaned in. His cigar-saturated breath crinkled my nose. “The problem is not the taste of Mr. Koehler’s beer. It’s the name. Lone Star says Texas. We feel like it’s ours. Likewise, City Brewery had a long history here. If you ask me, throwing out the name was a mistake.”
I spent the next week asking around at the other saloons and was met with unanimous agreement: in trying to create his own new empire, Otto had eliminated the familiarity of the company that had been a homegrown favorite of San Antonio.
And to my surprise, Otto acted on my findings.
First, changing name of the brew back to its original title. Then, I made suggestions on the taste. On the packaging. All gleaned from conversations as I continued to tour the city.
Sales increased as San Antonio embraced our beer.
Initially, Otto attributed it to luck. Far be it for a woman to actually have a talent for business. But my predictions and commentaries were too correct too frequently to be chalked up to anything but acumen.
An opportunity came our way and I could see Otto’s eyes glean at the possibilities. The recipe for Kaiser-Beck’s Perle beer was up for sale, and I convinced Otto that the growing German population in San Antonio would enthusiastically receive its light flavor. The owner of Kaiser-Beck had named it such because he likened the bubbles that formed when poured to little pearls, and it was an image I was convinced we could sell here.
The other investors agreed with our belief that not only would the brew become a popular one, but the name—Pearl in English—would be well received.
Though I couldn’t say so at the time, I had ambitions to bring Pearl to women. Why was our advertising focused on only half of the population?
Women, as always, were forgotten. But not by me.
And thankfully, not by my brother, John. Concerned that Otto and his investors might not be able to pull enough money together for a bid, I wrote in secret to John in St. Louis and asked him for a loan of five thousand dollars.
Otto would have been mortified to reach out to my family, but he’d been denied a loan by Trader’s National Bank. The idea that such a sum could be needed for something as seemingly minor as a recipe nearly got us laughed out of their offices. Little did they know that the actual sum needed was far more, but it was as much as we dared to try for from any one entity.
So I asked for John’s assistance, risking Otto’s shame and anger. But when my brother came through with not only the five thousand dollars but twice the amount, my husband could not help but be elated.
I was in his good graces. For the time being.
To my delight, Otto asked me to accompany him to Germany, where he intended to bid for the recipe in person at the Kaiser-Beck brewery. The competition for it was considerable and he believed that our presence together would be persuasive.
I reveled in what I might be able to contribute.
We traveled by train from San Antonio to New York and at every stop, Otto checked in with the stationmaster to see if any messages had come from the office. When they had, he sent telegraphs in response. I rued the day when communications like that became possible. Had I ever had the occasion to meet Mr. Alexander Graham Bell, I would have told him that his invention was a bane to the institution of marriage.
We sailed on a brand new German liner called the Kaiser Wilhelm del Grosse, hailed as the most luxurious ocean liner of its kind. Even as second-class ticketholders, we were treated to tapestries so intricate that they looked like paintings until one came up close to marvel at their tiny detailing. Gilded scrolls at every turn. Portraits of the Imperial family. The entirety of the ship, over fifteen hundred passengers, could be seated at once in an upper level dining room topped with a vast domed ceiling.
But my enjoyment of it was short-lived. As the first morning dawned, I fell ill with a nausea and fatigue so powerful that I could not lift my head from the pillow. Otto was unusually attentive, bringing me peppermint tea and ginger biscuits.
Though the words did not pass our lips, I believe he hoped what I did: that I was at last with child.
On the third day, however, the monthly scourge of women came about and I was cast yet again into the despair unique to those who desire a child so ardently and are disappointed time after time. Left to wonder at the cause of their brokenness or their failure in God’s eyes.
Our arrival in Germany came at last, and I was relieved to have several days on solid ground before subjecting myself again to the rough North Atlantic. If only one could have attached wings and flown far above its turbulent waves!
But welcome news took away any preoccupation I had with the return. We successfully won the bid to purchase Pearl beer as well as the mother yeast from Kaiser-Beck. Otto explained that the recipe was only half of the equation. The ingredients all added their own flavors to the final product, but the main component—the most essential one—was the original yeast that gave each beer its distinct flavor. Using a different one, even one of close composition, could be the death knell of a brewery. The many German immigrants who had relied on the consistent flavor of the Perle they’d always enjoyed would surely detect the difference if
the mother yeast were not used. And though the waters of the San Antonio River would be different from the waters of the Weser River, the minerals could be adjusted to match it as closely as possible.
“You are my yeast,” Otto whispered as we left the negotiation table. Which, from the mouth of anyone but a brewer would sound distinctly unromantic. But I understood it exactly as he meant it.
It meant that I was essential. That I was the most important thing.
It was a morsel to someone ravenous for her husband’s affection and I was happy to have it.
Otto took me to the most glamorous restaurant we’d ever been to and even ordered champagne.
“You are my lucky charm,” he said over dinner, a variation on the earlier praise that actually made me nostalgic for the more original one that was so perfectly descriptive of what we meant to each other. “I was certain that the group from Philadelphia would win.”
I cut into my sauerbraten, the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. Though I suspect now that my senses were greatly influenced by my happiness, a more powerful flavor than any combination of spices.
“Yes, they made quite a case,” I answered. “They seemed confident because they had offered the most money.”
“Did you see the face of the man from Philadelphia when Heinrich Beck announced that we’d won?”
I giggled, intoxicated with joy. “His eyes! They were so red! Fiery red, like his hair.”
Otto took my hand and held it across the table, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. His eyes never left mine. “Herr Beck knows that it’s not about how many Deutchmarks he has in the bank. It was your testimony that secured our place. The way you told him about how Pearl would become a part of the very culture of San Antonio. About our German population that aches for a touch of the motherland. You told him a story, and that is a far more effective approach than mere numbers.”
My cheeks tingled at these words. It was unlike Otto to be so complimentary of my talents. He never degraded them; they simply weren’t noticed or mentioned. I felt warm from my toes to my ears at this onslaught of rare praise.
“It is all the walking I have done and the people I’ve gotten to know. I dearly wish, Otto, that you would get out of the office and join me some time.”
He pulled his hand away. “I don’t see how that will be possible. Now more than ever, I’ll be spending a great deal of time at the office. I will rely on my darling wife to be our voice and face in the community. No one wants to see me, anyway. Not when they have you to look at.”
This cocoon of bliss continued for the weeks it took to journey home. I basked in the confidence Otto had in me and felt—almost—like an equal. And I was so very excited at filling the role of community liaison when we returned. For once, I understood Otto’s preoccupation with nearly living in the office. Suddenly, my thoughts were filled with plans for the future and ideas for introducing Pearl to America.
Every night, we relived our honeymoon and I could imagine that this, at last, was what the rest of our lives would look like.
It was a nice dream.
If only life hadn’t woken me.
.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MRS. KOEHLER ENDED the session on that ominous note, and Mabel knew that her life and Otto’s had been anything but idyllic. She’d heard enough snippets from Frieda and Erik and Helga to piece together a picture of great heartbreak and tragedy.
But also with a dose of heroics. Mrs. Koehler had yet to relay the part in the story that most fascinated Mabel: her ability to lead Pearl Brewery after Otto’s murder and to carry it through Prohibition.
Helga knocked and peeked in through the arched doorway.
“It’s time for your medicine and nap, Emma.”
Mrs. Koehler waved her arm. “Sleep is the best medicine. I don’t need pills. I don’t want to spend my last days feeling ill from the way they turn my stomach.”
“But Dr. Weaver said—”
“If President Roosevelt himself appears at my front door and implores me to take them, I will tell him the same thing.”
Helga looked over Mrs. Koehler’s head toward Mabel, but Mabel shrugged. She certainly didn’t have any sway with their mutual employer, and even if she did, she couldn’t imagine forcing an old woman near the end of her life to do something she didn’t want to do. It just didn’t seem right.
Helga stepped forward and wrapped her hands around the wheelchair’s handles. “Whatever you say. But I’m not going to be the one to tell Dr. Weaver.”
“He’ll figure it out at my funeral.”
Their bickering faded as they walked down the hall toward Mrs. Koehler’s room. When Mabel had first arrived in San Antonio and heard her speaking in such ways, she recoiled. Talking about death so casually was initially appalling. But once she’d had a chance to think about it, she realized the opposite was true. After all, Mrs. Koehler had led a life that was quite full, very influential, and had helped untold numbers of people. She was old by anyone’s measure, and would likely perish from natural causes. If one could design the end to their days, these were certainly hallmarks of a well-spent life. What, then, was there to hold on to when the end would bring a cessation of pain—the physical and the emotional kind—and a possible reuniting with loved ones who’d gone before? If one believed in that.
Mabel had known early losses, lives taken too soon.
She glanced at her wristwatch, eager for distraction. Erik was due in half an hour to pick up his car. And to take her somewhere, according to the last thing he’d said.
The doorbell rang, and Helga walked in from Mrs. Koehler’s bedroom to open up. If it was him, he was early. She rushed upstairs and put thicker stockings on to stave against the cold, careful to not rip them. They were akin to gold amid the rations.
The beautiful weather of yesterday now seemed like a distant mirage.
Grabbing her coat, she walked downstairs in slow steps that belied the anticipation that threatened to make them unsteady.
Erik looked up and she felt her pulse quicken.
“Hi, there,” he said, smiling. “It’s a cold one today. Do you have a warmer jacket?”
“Yes—it’s on the coatrack behind you.”
He turned around. “The dark blue one?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He lifted it off its hooked and held it out so that she could slip her arms through its sleeves.
“That’s a different one than what you had at Pearl.”
She was surprised he’d noticed. As close as she’d been to her brothers, neither of them had made a mention of the time she chopped her long hair into a bob, let alone the color of something she was wearing.
“Back home, you have to have several, depending on the severity of the weather.”
“Matches your eyes,” he murmured. She pressed her lips together to keep from grinning.
“I’ll have her back by suppertime,” Erik promised Helga as she held the door open for them.
“It’s none of my business,” she answered. “You know your aunt doesn’t stand on ceremony.”
“I told Miss Hartley that I am a gentleman and I plan to live up to that.”
“I’ve known you for many years, Bernard,” she smiled. “I could tell her a thing or two.”
Helga’s smile was all the giveaway Mabel needed to know that she was teasing him. Usually, her mouth was set in such a way that would have made the Mona Lisa seem positively exuberant.
Erik had that effect on people.
As they walked toward the immense driveway, Mabel took the keys from her pocket and handed them to Erik.
“How did you like driving it?” he asked.
“I loved it,” she grinned. The car itself was a beauty, and she could imagine the exhilaration of driving it faster down a deserted road. Wind in her hair on a warm day. What she did not tell him is that she almost pulled over blocks away from Mrs. Koehler’s house because of the tears that welled up in her eyes when she imagined ho
w much her older brother would have enjoyed taking it for a spin.
“It’s my one extravagance. I live in a small apartment nearby. One room for living and sleeping. And I have enough clothes to get me through the week before laundering them again. But my little Ford—I couldn’t resist.”
“Why don’t you live with your aunt? It seems that so many others do at different times.”
They’d arrived at the car, but he put the keys into his coat pocket and gently pulled her by the elbow toward the gate. “We’re walking to where we’re going.”
The crunch of the gravel underneath Mabel’s boots sounded like popcorn cooking in a kettle, reminding her that she’d not had lunch.
“I used to live with Auntie Emma,” he continued. “When I first moved here. But, ” he looked away, toward a grove of trees, “that had its difficulties.”
Erik didn’t elaborate and Mabel wondered if it had anything to do with Ernestina. Had she lived in the mansion at one time, too? But she couldn’t bring it up. It might still be the kind of memory that stung. And he would know that she and Emma had been talking about him.
“Anyway, I’m still close. I walk to the brewery, as long as the weather is not scorching.”
He turned back to look at Mabel and opened the wide iron gate to let her through.
“If I owned your beautiful Ford,” she answered, “I would drive it everywhere. Even the few blocks to work.”
“As soon as the war is over, I will. But gas rationing makes short drives an impossible luxury. Unless there’s a pretty girl to take with you.”
Had she looked into his eyes, she would have been lost. No one had ever said that kind of thing to her; at least not with such sincerity.
They passed the gate, and walked the route past the synagogue that had taken her to San Pedro Park last week.
“I hope this isn’t an inconsiderate question, but why were you not drafted like other men your age?”
As happy as she was to be here in this moment with him, it hardly seemed fair when so many young men in their generation were oceans away. And he didn’t seem like the type to have run away from an obligation.
The First Emma Page 13