Adelsverein

by Celia Hayes

  “He was timid as a child.” Magda was thinking out loud, as she so often did in front of Lottie or Mouse. Peter was as thoughtful as either of them, a careful and courteous listener. “Hansi dressed as Father Christmas—that frightened him dreadfully. He hid himself under the chaise, behind our skirts, rather than take his Christmas present from Father Christmas!”

  “So we all assumed that because he was such a shy and polite little creature, that he would not fare well in such cruel captivity!” Peter shook his head as his eyes went towards his own young sons. “Oh, Ma’am, I do not think this will turn out well! Talk about a cuckoo in the nest! Ma’am Richter will be distraught and Papa Richter will tear himself to pieces, thinking over all he ought to do for this last and least of his sons. They did not deserve this,” Peter added.

  Magda couldn’t help but think it might have been easier for her sister and Hansi if their son had really died in that first winter of captivity, as they had all come to accept, or never caught the attention of the soldiers at the Comanche Agency in Kansas. Peter obviously thought so. But for poor Willi, she thought, looking at his rigid and desperately expressionless countenance; he did not deserve this, either, cruelly wrenched from the bosom of one loving family and then capriciously returned. What must he think of all this, of the barouche and his fussy and fluttering mother, of the gaily painted mansion and the park around it, the garden and the trees, the wooden-lace and ornate shingles and porches of the All-The-Rest-of-The-Week-House just barely visible at the other end of the garden. No, Cousin Peter was right—this would not turn out well.

  She took refuge in pouring out her thoughts and fears in a letter to Irina. How she missed Irina, her acerbic intelligence and her experience of the larger world. She recollected those mornings in Irina’s parlor suite or in the villa on the enchanted island. It seemed another world now. But Irina was a safe refuge, a sensible voice removed from the immediate crisis, yet knowledgeable and sympathetic about the people involved. Now Magda comprehended Vati’s attachment to his correspondence with Onkel Simon.

  * * *

  Letter to Irina Cherkevsky, from San Antonio, 27 January 1876:

  My dear Irina,

  We are safely arrived without any untoward or unexpected incident. My sister’s son is recovered from captivity, returned to his parents with much joy on their part. He is alive and whole, unscarred so we assume from the experience, although he is quite lame and very spare of flesh, almost malnourished. Brother Hansi has consulted with Doctor Herff and his expert associates, sparing no expense. There is nothing to be done about the lameness, having been incurred early in his captivity. Surgical remedy would be painful in the extreme. My sister refuses consideration of that option, most stridently. It is almost the least of our concerns at this point.

  My nephew is completely illiterate and rejects with considerable determination any attempts to remedy that lack. He can barely bring himself to converse with us! We would hire a private teacher, but to no avail! Brother Hansi would eagerly purchase for his son any enterprise at which he would work and be happy. He has done the same for all of his sons by birth and marriage according to their inclination, each of them being trained up to enterprise and industry—but this youngest of them stubbornly resists!

  His habits are most peculiar. On the first night that he spent with us, Brother Hansi saw him to the bedroom allotted for him. But shortly thereafter, he climbed out the window and, taking a single blanket, preferred to curl up in a corner of the garden! He speaks little, in monosyllables; he seems to comprehend what we say to him, as long as we speak in simple words. Although he tried speaking the Indian tongue to Grete upon his return with us, she did not understand, and the attempt appeared to distress them both. I would not say so to any but you, but Grete seems to fear her brother. He took no other notice of her or Anna, seeming to be indifferent to his female relations—and dare I say, quietly contemptuous of his mother. He brought with him some few things from the Agency which he was allowed to keep: a knife in a beaded leather sheath, a bow and quiver of arrows, and a painted shield of buffalo bull-hide which he seems to treasure most particularly.

  Irina, my dear friend, Hansi and my sister hardly know what to do with him. He is sullen and disobliging, has no interest or inclination towards any of the family’s business affairs. He has some small interest in the stable of horses and an affinity to the hunt, but my sister’s cook almost gave notice yesterday—he will not eat pork and flung yesterday’s dinner roast to the floor! This after dropping whatever he has hunted and slain on the kitchen floor, expecting someone else to skin and clean it! And our nearest neighbors have given complaint, for he has been shooting at their ducks and chickens in their own yard. Hansi is distraught, fearing that he will take the usual Indian disdain for private property as regards horses and help himself to whichever he fancies. This is no small crime, in this part of the country; the theft of a horse may mean life or death. The penalty for horse thievery is severe; all of Hansi’s riches may not defer a capital penalty, should it be demanded, as it no doubt would. In this country, the perception of one rule for rich and another for poor is publicly disputed, although honored in actuality as much as in every other place. My brother-in-law worries that Willi may have some dreadful misadventure through his disinclination to pay attention to proprieties or law! But the boy is so clearly unhappy, it quite breaks my heart.

  They were so joyful about his return—and, also I believe, quite joyful at their return to their home, to their known comforts after an excursion that was in some instances, rather more awkward that expected. My sister put on a grand party, welcoming all their friends to their house; all of his brothers attended, all of his father’s associates, the ton of San Antonio! Oh, Irina, it was painful in the extreme! Willi submitted to being taken around, being introduced to all their friends, appearing more haggard and desperate with every encounter. Shortly after I bade my farewells and withdrew to my own little cottage, we heard a small noise on the verandah. My little Mauschen gave voice of course, most bravely! It was my nephew, with his blanket. I gestured him inside, where he slept on the parlor floor for the rest of the evening.

  I do not know what will come of this, Irina—truly I do not.

  Ever thy dear friend,

  Margaretha Becker

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Prodigal

  “No one would tell us at first, what happened then,” Lottie mused. “Grete and I arrived home from school one day to find Doctor Herff’s carriage in front of the house and Auntie Liesel in a fit of the vapors upstairs in her room, while Cousin Peter was giving Harry and Christian a talking-to in the hallway. I had never seen Cousin Peter so angry. Was that when they decided that they could not cope with Willi any longer?”

  “It was not something that your Onkel Hansi wished to do,” Magda answered, carefully. “He loved his children. He loved Willi even after everything. But Lise and Anna, and Cousin Peter, all insisted. He had to agree, especially with Anna and Peter. What he did imperiled the boys—and after that incident, his presence was no longer something Anna could endure. She was near to time with her daughter, your cousin Rose. If she had not been in the family way when Willi first came home, Hansi might have been able to reason with her. But as it was,” Magda sighed. “Anna was adamant. Hansi could not stand against all three.”

  On a mild spring morning three months after their return, Hansi had convened a family meeting in his study. The French doors which led to a small porch overlooking the lawns and garden, stood open to admit the fresh spring breeze and the distant voices of Harry and Christian as they played on the lawn. It was time to plan for the yearly drives north, and to put final touches on stocking the Friedrichsburg store for the summer trail season. The painted mansion was full to bursting, for all Hansi’s sons were there. Jacob had come from Friedrichsburg, Elias from Neu Braunfels, and George had returned from Indianola, having gone there to report on the rebuilding and whether anything of the goods and property had been or could
be recovered. Peter and Anna had stayed since their return, awaiting the birth of their third child, mostly because Liesel would not hear of them going anywhere else. Fredi came with great reluctance from Live Oak, making an elaborate show of his disinterest in city business while he had another herd to assemble for the trail to Kansas. Sam was present, cheerful and full of questions about when Dolph was to return. He also was gathering a herd for the trail north.

  “Not for too many seasons longer,” Hansi had pointed out over dinner the night before. “In another few years, when the railroad reaches San Antonio, we’ll be able to ship beef cattle straight to the east from here.”

  “What about trailing north to the Montana territories?” Peter ventured. “Not for beef, but for blood-stock. Lots of Eastern investors are looking to start ranches in the north. They have to stock it with western cattle, and they have to get stock from someplace.”

  This morning, though—they were attending to what George told them of Indianola. “There’s not a whole building left between Powder Horn and the railroad tracks, but for Mitchell’s Hardware. Most everyone who plans to rebuild is going to do so on higher ground—or even farther up the bayou. I think if we do choose to rebuild there,” he suggested, “we should look at purchasing a tract in the old town or inland where the new site is. Not anywhere near the present town. Or better yet, relocate entirely to Port Lavaca.” George looked around them with serious eyes, the same dark coffee-color as Anna, as his father. “Or even Galveston. It seems that Morgan is not going to rebuild the piers, or dredge a new channel into a new site farther inland. It is rumored that his steamship and rail interests are going to bypass the city entirely.”

  “Had you read anything of this, Annchen?” Hansi asked his daughter, who frowned thoughtfully. She reclined on the study chaise with a shawl over her lap. The baby was due any day. If this were not a family meeting, she would have been upstairs, resting and awaiting its arrival.

  “Many newspaper editors are most unhappy with Morgan and his company of late,” she answered, “for it seems that he is attempting a monopoly. Having once had the advantage of a railway, most are unwilling to return to transport long distance by wagon . . . indeed are willing to pay almost any price—oh, my God!” Suddenly her face went ashen; she sprang up from where she sat and shrieked, “Harry!”

  All within Hansi’s study were paralyzed for at least an instant as she ran towards the tall windows. She was clumsy with pregnancy and tangled in her shawl. She fell to her knees on the very threshold. As Magda and Peter followed after, they in turn were struck to immobility by the shocking sight revealed to them.

  Harry stood in the middle of the lawn, tremulously holding Willi’s round bull-hide shield before him. Christian stood a little apart, watching with intent interest. Willi stood about fifty feet distant, with his bow in his hand and quiver of arrows on his back. There were three or four arrows stuck in the shield already. Even as they watched in horror, Willi swiftly drew out another. With a sound like a single harp note from his bowstring, he sent the wickedly barbed arrow towards the child.

  “Thunder and lightning!” Hansi shouted. “What game is this!”

  Anna cried out, an anguished cry cut short as Peter, cursing like a madman, shot out of the French door. He leaped the balustrade in one swift rush and fell on the younger man. He wrenched the bow out of Willi’s hands, casting it one-handed with all his strength, far across the lawn and away from his sons.

  “Not my boys, you filthy savage!” he shouted. Before Magda could even help Anna rise to her feet, before Hansi and the other men could even pull them apart, Peter bunched his good hand into a fist and drove it into Willi’s face. The force of the blow landing like a thunderbolt knocked the younger man to his knees, sending blood gushing from his nose. He went down with Peter’s knees on his chest, Peter’s hand at his throat squeezing without pity or mercy. Willi fought, tearing at Peter’s face and arms with his fingernails, kicking spasmodically. If Peter had two good hands, Willi would have died within seconds; Magda knew this without a doubt. Although wiry and fit, Willi was still a boy in comparison with Peter, older, heavier and stronger.

  “What is he doing! Peter! Peter! You’re killing him!” Anna wept hysterically, one arm around her aunt, the other clutching her belly.

  “Stop them!” Magda shouted, while she tried to set Anna on her feet. “For the love of God, stop them!”

  Mercifully it was over hardly before it was begun, although it didn’t seem that way. Hansi and George dragged Peter off, breaking his one-armed hold on Willi’s throat by brute force. But the minute Peter was pulled away, releasing the boy from the ground, Willi sprang up as swiftly as a rattlesnake striking, a knife appearing in his fist like a conjuring trick. Anna shrieked again, but Sam and Fredi had deftly captured his arms before he could launch himself at Peter. Fredi twisted the knife away, turning the hand which held it behind his back and near to hoisting him from his feet with the force of that grip.

  “Stop that!” Fredi snarled between his teeth, “or I swear to God, I’ll let him kill you. What kind of game were you playing at?!”

  “No game,” Willi gasped. He spat blood from his mouth. “No game. They wished to know, to use a shield against an enemy. I showed them. No harm.”

  Peter’s face was ashen. “No harm?” He breathed in deep gasps, as if his chest were a blacksmith’s bellows. “I’ll be the judge of that kind of game and what sort of harm might come to them. You will stay away from my sons.” His eyes bored deep into Willi’s. “You will not speak to them. You will not come near them and most of all—you will not endanger their lives teaching them your filthy savage ways. Not now, not ever. Or I swear I will finish the job I started.” He shook off Hansi’s and George’s grip and looked towards his sons, standing white-faced and with mouths agape with shock. “Harry—put down that . . . that thing. Go up to your room.”

  “But Papa,” Harry began to plead, but Peter snapped, “Now, Harry!” His expression brooked no argument.

  Hansi’s shoulders slumped as he looked between his son and his son in-law. “Take him up to his room, also,” he commanded Fredi and Sam wearily. “Lock him in until I have a chance to talk to him.” Peter had already turned his back on Willi, hanging in Fredi and Sam’s grip like a puppet, like a rag in the mouth of one of the dogs, and went straight to Anna. Magda relinquished her niece into her husband’s arms. “Anna-love. I am sorry—I couldn’t think straight, when I saw him shooting at Harry.”

  “I know.” Anna scrubbed at her cheeks with one hand, and hiccupped slightly. “I know. Harry and Christian . . . .” She began to weep again, silently.

  “They are unharmed, Anna-love.” Peter answered. He lifted her tenderly, and turned to face Hansi, who had followed him back into the study. “Papa Richter—if it weren’t for the baby, we would leave at once. He’s a danger to the boys and I will not permit that. Anna-love, do not cry!”

  Liesel’s footsteps pattered in the corridor. She looked into the study and cried incoherently, “Hansi—what has happened? Willi is hurt and his face is bleeding! Should I send for Doctor Herff?”

  “A slight disagreement,” Hansi answered.

  Magda sighed; no, this was not turning out well. All of hers and Peter’s fears about Willi’s prodigal return were being realized. She explained, very calmly amid the clamor in the study from the other boys, “Lise, Willi was shooting arrows at his shield, and Harry was holding it. I do not think he meant harm—”

  “I don’t care if he meant it or not, we will not stay under the same roof,” Peter interjected, white-lipped. “He is a bad influence on the boys, Ma’am Becker, and I will not have it.”

  “It gave Anna a terrible fright,” Magda added. “I think you should send for Doctor Herff, Lise.”

  “The baby!” Liesel went nearly as pale as Anna. “Oh, my God, the baby! Carry her upstairs to her room, Peter . . . oh, I knew she should have stayed upstairs!”

  “Mama, you were always out and a
bout your business,” Anna gulped, “why should not I?”

  “Because we are respectable folk now!”

  Liesel fluttered away and Peter added, tenderly, “And also because I put down my foot, this time, Anna-love.” He turned in the doorway, Anna still gathered up in his arms, and added, “I meant it about the boy, Papa Richter. Either he goes, or we do.”

  The family meeting reconvened some little time later; with Liesel instead of Anna and without George, who was sitting on guard outside Willi’s bedroom door. Anna was resting in her room, attended by Liesel’s maids. White-faced and already struggling with birth pangs, she had been just as adamant. “He is my brother, but I am in agreement with my husband—we will not permit him to be anywhere around Harry and Christian. Tell Papa, I am sorry—but I do not want him anywhere near us.”

  Doctor Herff had promised to call in the afternoon, as neither of them looked to be in imminent distress, although Willi’s eyes were both blackened and his nose still leaked blood.

  “Obviously,” Hansi concluded heavily, “Peter and Anna cannot leave at this moment. So where does that leave our son, Lise-my-heart? What is to be done with him?”

  Liesel huddled wretchedly on the chaise where Anna had lain that morning, weeping into an already-sodden handkerchief. “He is our son,” she quavered indecisively. “So everyone insisted, so I believed at first. The agency, the Army, everyone says that this boy is ours. I have come to think that he isn’t really—they returned to us someone who has his coloring, his likeness, even to the scar on his back. He is not anything like our little Willi—such a sweet and good-tempered child, so kind and loving! He was stolen by the goblins and they have sent one of their changelings in his stead. He is sullen and disobliging and when he looks at us—he hates us! He hates us! This is not Willi, this is not our son!” she dissolved into incoherent sobs, out of which Magda could discern the only the words, “. . .he is dead, those savages killed him! They sent back his likeness only to torment us!”