The First Emma

by Di Maio, Camille

  I’ve never been a skilled actress.

  I chose to keep silent, mumbling a brief thank you to the many well-wishers who stopped by the pew to shake my hand and offer their condolences. I let them cast me in the part as they saw fit and newspaper reports around the country described me in whichever way they imagined me to be. The Beethoven Maennerchor sang. The robust voices of the men reminded me of the concerts my father used to take me to. Melodies of the old country that were more nostalgic than funereal. I dabbed my eyes and probably mollified anyone who’d suspected my indifference. But my tears were not for Otto. I cried, instead for the memory of my father.

  I sat in my wheelchair as the pallbearers picked up his casket. All of them members of the San Antonio Brewing Association. All whom, at one time or another, had shared in the triumphs and tribulations of our industry. I let them think me to be a poor widow, weakened with grief.

  You always have more power over your adversaries when they underestimate you.

  .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MRS. KOEHLER’S VOICE began to give out.

  Mabel stood up. “May I arrange your pillows for you?”

  She shook her head. “Water. Just some water. We have to continue.”

  “Emma, you look exhausted. We can take a break.”

  She shook her head again and attempted to sit up. She groaned at the effort “No. There’s more to say. Fetch the water and let’s keep going.”

  “All right.”

  Mabel left the bedroom and entered the kitchen, where Frieda was kneading dough for tomorrow night’s family dinner.

  “How is she?” the cook asked.

  “Not good. But still determined.”

  “That could be the title of her biography.”

  Mabel leaned against the counter. “Is that what I’m doing? Writing her biography? She’s never really said, yet I’ve filled three notebooks and then three more as I translated the shorthand.” She hadn’t given up on the idea of turning it into something that would inspire young women in a world that was barely beginning to welcome them. She hoped she would have Emma’s blessing to do so.

  Frieda handed her the glass of water she hadn’t even asked for. “Whatever becomes of it, the story was only one part of her plan.”

  Mabel set the glass down. “What do you mean?”

  “She was looking for a wife for Erik.”

  Mabel’s throat tightened and she gripped the counter top to keep her hands from shaking. “She what?”

  Frieda pulled a chair from the table and sat down. She patted the one next to her and Mabel slid into it.

  “She never said that. Not specifically. But I’ve been here for many years and I listen to the comings and goings. She was delighted when Ernestina and Erik showed an interest in each other. Erik had come over from Germany devastated after things fell apart with his parents. He was only twelve years old and as her only relative on her mother’s side, she felt especially devoted to him. He became the son she never had.”

  “But what does that have to do with putting the advertisement in the paper?”

  “After Ernestina broke his heart, he threw himself into work both at the brewery and at the theater. But he was so unhappy. And she wanted to see him settled before she died.”

  “Such lengths, though. And how would she know it would work?” This conversation was so unusual. She felt like she was listening to a story, forgetting that she was an unwitting character in it.

  “I think she just wanted to try. Remember, her whole life has been about finding a way to do something when no other options seem possible. Mrs. Koehler didn’t get to be where she was by pursuing things through ordinary means. Or waiting for things to happen.”

  She had a point. It explained much: why she wanted a photograph included with the application.

  “Why such a scheme, though? Surely there are plenty of nice young women right here in San Antonio.”

  “When has Emma Koehler ever done things by conventional means?”

  “Not in the brief time I’ve known her.”

  “I suppose this way she could cast the net wide. And, test the mettle a bit.”

  “How would she do that?”

  “Well, someone who would answer would have to be adventurous enough to come out here, not otherwise attached, hungry to better her life.”

  Mabel opened her mouth to counter this, but realized how right it was. Then, the question that burned in her mind.

  “Does Erik know?”

  Frieda shook her head. “No. I don’t think he has any idea. He’s nothing like his aunt in that way. He’s as much a pawn in her well-meaning plan as you are.”

  It relieved her. Much could be forgiven of an elderly woman, desperate to put things in order with the remaining time she had. Less so a man who would have played a part in something that seemed at once conniving and brilliant.

  The cook continued. “I think she wanted something else that she couldn’t admit. Or at least, she found something in you that she hadn’t bargained for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen how she interacts with you. Our Emma has grown quite fond of your time together. I think she even sees you as the daughter she never had.”

  Mabel’s throat tightened. One of Mama’s gifts: sending a motherless girl to a childless woman. Neither could fully fill the voids that had been left, but there was an undeniable affection between them that had made the void somewhat less painful.

  Could Mrs. Koehler have foreseen that? Or was it a happy coincidence that the old woman picked the girl who needed her most?

  Either way, Frieda’s observation was eye-opening.

  “So is all this dictation for naught? Have I really only been here as some kind of audition for her nephew?”

  Frieda shook her head. “No. Mrs. Koehler doesn’t do anything without purpose. She always liked the phrase kill two birds with one stone. No doubt she wanted these memories recorded. She hates how the story of Pearl has always been shaped by reporters, by the men on the board, by her husband. Regardless of what you choose to do with this work—and she has entrusted that decision to you—she’ll go out knowing that she did everything she could do.”

  She stood up and poured a second glass of water. She handed it to Mabel. “There’s not much time left. I’d say that forgiveness is in order, and remember that neither of us know what it’s like to be an old woman at the end of her life. And things seemed to have turned out pretty well, haven’t they? Am I wrong or are you and Mr. Garrels as taken with each other as she might have hoped?”

  Mabel’s cheeked warmed with embarrassment. “Yes. It looks that way.”

  “Then is any harm done? It worked, then, even if it was contrived.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Mabel took the glass from her. “She’ll be ready for this.”

  “Mabel? There is one more thing to consider.”

  “Yes?” She stopped and looked at Frieda’s saddened face.

  “You’ve seen that she’s losing her mind. Slowly. The senility. My mother went the same way. But it wasn’t only the forgetfulness. It was the paranoia. The compulsion of rash decisions. Mrs. Koehler’s sharp and has only experienced these mildly, but I’ve seen how they ravish a mind. She may not be entirely to blame for her actions.”

  Mabel shrugged her shoulders. “I know. Don’t worry. I forgive her. It’s just a lot to think about.”

  She left the kitchen, feeling heavier. She was rather proud of her work for Mrs. Koehler, aimless as it had started out. It had such potential and when Mrs. Koehler passed, Mabel would get to work organizing it into something that could really make a difference to women. She’d not forgotten her epiphany in the Walgreen’s cosmetics aisle.

  But Frieda was right. No matter how she’d gotten here, the feelings between Erik and her were genuine. They’d even met on their own, at the empty San Pedro pool, hours before Mrs. Koehler’s Sunday dinner.

  As if it was meant to be, rega
rdless.

  She wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t met Erik that afternoon at the park. If she’d taken a right instead of a left on her walk. Met him at dinner and been introduced to him as Bernard. Would their story have played out in the same way? Would they have felt the confines of something set in motion by design? Or would the natural attraction they felt have been evident and put them in this exact place: on the edge of being in love.

  It shouldn’t matter. They were together. Happy. That’s what mattered.

  She knocked and reentered Mrs. Koehler’s bedroom. Her breathing was light and rhythmic, but she awoke as Mabel set the water on the nightstand.

  “Ah, thank you,” she said with a feeble voice. “I’m parched.”

  Mabel took a new look at her employer. Mrs. Koehler was so thin, so old. Her white skin and white nightgown against the white sheets contributed to the anemic look. It was impossible to feel anything but compassion as she lay there. Was there really anything so wrong in trying to secure the happiness of someone she loved as much as she loved her nephew? And wasn’t Erik deserving of finding love after so much tragedy in his life?

  Wasn’t Mabel?

  She took her seat again. She placed her hand on Mrs. Koehler’s. “Tell me about what happened next,” she said. “Tell me about Pearl.”

  I might have known that my position at Pearl would be challenged upon Otto’s death. I’d been tolerated by the other board members as long as he was alive. My pact with my husband had allowed us to hold many cards. I kept silent about his romantic affairs. He voted my way on the board. But without his vote, my position was tenuous.

  It meant I had to work harder. Twice as hard as any of the men. I came to work before they arrived. I stayed after they left. I made rounds at the brewery, even from my wheelchair on days when my legs betrayed me. I asked questions about the latest shipment of hops, challenging my managers to always be looking for better, less expensive sources without compromising the quality.

  On every floor, I tasked them with two charges: tell me one way we could improve in their area, and tell me one way they could diversify their equipment should the worse happen.

  And the worse did happen. Two years after Otto died, enough dry men had been elected to the United States Congress to give real teeth to the eighteenth amendment. The men in the boardroom would argue about what to do. Envoys were sent to Austin and Washington to plead our cases. But where they believed this would be won politically, I believed we would survive on ingenuity.

  Adolphus Busch II agreed with me. After his father’s death, he’d taken over the brewery headquartered in St. Louis. We encouraged each other to look for alternate means of keeping our industry afloat.

  So while the men were occupied with their high-stakes lunches and conversations over golf games, I set out to create a malt extract syrup that would be the beginning of our salvation. It provided a condensed taste of Pearl beer. The plan was to market it as an ingredient in bread. It could be sold legally on the shelves of grocers and bought by any housewife. They could substitute one half tablespoon of our product for the sugar in the recipe.

  Now, this sounds like so little a quantity. And it was. One bottle could last a household an entire year. But we made it known that the extract had another use. A recipe for converting a whole bottle into several gallons of beer was made widely known. It went like this:

  Heat two gallons of water.

  Add a bottle of malt extract.

  Add four to six cups of sugar.

  Slow boil for fifteen minutes.

  Transfer it to a six-gallon container in a bath of ice water.

  Fill to the top with water.

  Add activated yeast

  Put on a lid and keep it in a warm room for two weeks.

  Pour into smaller containers with half a teaspoon of corn sugar in each.

  Place caps on bottles and store in a cool room for two weeks.

  If that sounds laborious, it was. But the scheme proved brilliant. With the stroke of the pen ratifying Prohibition on January 16, 1920, our malt extracts were already on trucks waiting to be shipped out. The board had finally agreed with this move. Later than I would have liked, but with hard work and long hours, we were able to make the switch in time for a strong introduction into the market.

  It was challenged in court, of course. Housewives could now make their own brew at home with what was being sold as a baking product. But since the extract itself contained no alcohol—it was the fermenting process with the yeast that did this—it was ruled that it could be distributed legally.

  The taste depended on so many things. Though the extract was consistent in every bottle, much depended on what the wives did at home. The kind of yeast they used. The source of their water. The brand of their sugar. I was invited into many homes in Texas and had the opportunity to taste it. I wanted to wretch in more cases than not. These were not seasoned brewers who had developed an acute taste for its nuances as I had. But it pleased the people. They had their beer, I had my business.

  Pearl was not the only brewer to evaporate their wort and sell it as a syrup. But we had it on shelves the day Prohibition was signed into law, establishing ourselves as the premier, trusted brand.

  This was not enough to get us through such tumultuous years, however. Not every housewife wanted to go through that effort. Not every husband wanted to risk having even that made illegal. Many became dry by law and by fear, if not by taste.

  So we had to do more. We turned our coldest rooms into icehouses and ice cream kitchens. I used my own funds to purchase laundering equipment and we set up shop to clean clothes. I directed my brewery mechanics to learn the anatomy of an automobile so that they could work on cars on our grounds. We even had a small division that made advertising signs, making use of the employees who had artistic gifts.

  We also used our bottling facilities to manufacture root beer and other soft drinks.

  On this point, I was insistent: we removed the xXx label from our bottles. It was not there to be an advertising ploy. To me, and I know Otto would have agreed, it was the designation of the finest of beers, the finest of brewers. And although it had become a recognizable symbol of our products, I felt like it would cheapen its meaning to slap it on root beer or near beer labels. Other brewers chose the opposite route. And though I disagreed, I understood that in these difficult times, we all had to survive however we could.

  The difference is that they saw survival as the goal. I saw it in another way. If this was merely about scavenging our factories to convert them into something else, was that to be our new existence? Was that to be our new occupation? I’d become a brewer at heart. This malarkey about changing everything was temporary. I had great hopes that the stupidity of Prohibition and the misguidance of teetotalers would wane. I wanted to think ahead to what would happen after, after, after. I was convinced it would be repealed and this was merely about biding time. Not about survival.

  Mercifully, the board members began to see things my way. I’d like to say that I stood my ground for all of womankind, but all that came later. My only hope was to see my Pearl get through this dark time and emerge on the other side stronger. I advocated for more equipment even as other companies were pulling back.

  The men on the board thought I was crazy! Buying more equipment to make beer when it was illegal to make beer. But I argued that the price would never be better. Those who made the machines were hit as well. If we kept ordering, but demanded lower prices, we could increase our capacity at minimal cost.

  They went along with it. We bought enough to double our production from what we’d output at the time of Otto’s presidency. In exchange, I acquiesced on one point: we changed the name legally from San Antonio Brewing Association to Alamo Industries. I have to admit that it was in better alignment with our current mission, but I received verbal assurances that the name would revert to the original as soon as Prohibition ended.

  A name change came about sooner than I expect
ed and not as I would have liked. When one tries to be many things, they are good at nothing. And Pearl suffered from my enthusiasm. Within a year, the non-consumable divisions were failing. The dry cleaning, the auto repair, the advertising signs. Instead of closing them down, I sold them off to companies already in those lines of work. We made a small profit and I held my place on the board by a thread.

  If I hadn’t been the voice of diversification, we would have lost Pearl altogether. So there were some failures. But there were more successes.

  Leaving the non-consumable ventures behind, the board voted to call our enterprise Alamo Food Industries.

  Ghastly, if you ask me. Unimaginative at best. But necessary.

  In the end, though, it wasn’t the name or the product that mattered. What mattered is that we were the only brewery in Texas to keep every single person employed. And that was the victory I cared about most.

  “Any questions?” Mrs. Koehler’s words were followed by a steady cough that could not be subdued easily with a glass of water.

  Mabel waited until it had stopped before answering her.

  “So what happened? At the end of Prohibition? Did it all happen as you expected it to?””

  Mrs. Koehler smiled, perhaps the widest Mabel had ever seen on her.

  “Oh, yes. At midnight on the morning that the Blaine Act ended that wretched amendment, we were ready. It was September 15, 1933. And in those dark, early hours, we rolled out one hundred trucks and twenty-five box cars, full to the brim of delicious xXx Pearl Beer.”

  .

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MABEL KNOCKED ON Buck’s door minutes before Erik was due to pick them up for the theater. They all wanted to see the play again. In her eagerness to hear about how his time with Erik had gone, she’d all but forgotten about Mrs. Koehler’s plan to play matchmaker for her favorite relative. As Frieda had suggested, what did it matter anyway?