by Michelle Cox
After that there seemed to be a mix of German and English entries. The bits in English were not that interesting really. Just notes about what he had done on a particular day. Had coffee in town. Weather sunny. Or Kinder worked hard today. Rolf learned to write name and can follow in class much better. One entry dated 3 Juli 1931 caught her eye. Fraulein Klinkhammer left very dear package with us, and we are in chaos. Mother is very upset. Anna cries night and day. It is impossible to work.
This was followed by lengthier accounts in German for many more days. Elsie made out a name, Anna, in some of them. Who is Anna? she wondered. He said he had no sisters . . . Maybe his wife? She looked over at Gunther’s hand but she saw no ring. A sweetheart? There was not another English entry until much later. It was longer, and Elsie guessed that he had learned more English at this point. It was dated 11 Juni 1933—about a year and a half ago. Fraulein Klinkhammer is nowhere to be found. I am determined to find her. I have only one letter. Mother wants me to the authorities go, but I cannot do that to her. She would never survive. This was followed by a quote: “When you love someone, you love the person as they are, and not as you’d like them to be.” Tolstoy
Elsie was not that familiar with Tolstoy’s work beyond knowing that he wrote War and Peace, but she liked this phrase very much. She was pretty sure Gunther had mentioned Tolstoy before as being one of his favorites. She read on, looking for more, though she was beginning to feel uneasy about reading what was obviously so private a journal.
The next entry in English was dated 8 April 1935. Forever, the passage stretches. Both Mother and Anna are sick. I try to tend them as best I can. The food is wretched, mostly rotten. Yesterday, for orange, I traded my pocket watch. It was worth it to see Anna’s face light up. She is so beautiful. Worse than pit in my stomach is one deep in my heart. I am grateful to have brought a few books. They are my only solace. I find comfort in writing bits of them in English here for practicing. Schiller comes to mind this day: “It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons.”
Next came a very short entry from a couple of days later. 10 April 1935. Mother is worse. I ask ship’s doctor to come and tend her. He is kind but there are many sick, and I have no money to pay for extra. I amüberwältigt with worry.
The entries that followed were dated intermittently with much space between and were long, long tracks in German. Elsie turned many pages until she finally came to an entry that was written in English again. It was dated 7 Mai 1935. I am grateful to find job, finally, in Chicago. I have neglect my writings, but now that we have warm place to stay and work, I will be finding time to scratch some things down. My heart is still heavy with grief, but Anna helps me. Sr. Bernard is kind, but she does not approve of Anna living with me. I must find another place for her, but it is difficult. She does not understand why we cannot live as we were before, but all of that is changed now. Again, this one was followed by a quote: “To love a person is to learn the song that is in their heart and to sing it to them when they have forgotten.”–Garborg
Elsie had not heard of Garborg either, but she was particularly struck by the beauty of these words, which caused a sort of an ache to well up in her heart. She looked over at Gunther, wondering desperately who Anna was and what other secrets he might be hiding. His eyes fluttered, as if he were aware of her scrutiny, but they did not open. She waited, watching him, until he settled and then let her eyes wander back to the notebook. 15 Mai 1935. I have found a place for Anna. Parting from her was very painful, but I tell her to try her best and work hard. Someday we will be together, I tell her. All this time I have not had chance to be looking for Fraulein Klinkhammer. She is not at the address on her last letter. Where to look now, I have no idea. America is much bigger than I imagine, and so is Chicago. It could be she is no longer even here. I despair that I might never see her again.
The next several months of entries consisted mostly of descriptions of his work at Mundelein. Elsie read them at first, noting that his English was slowly improving, but got quickly bored and could not help letting her eyes dart ahead to find any entries that had Anna or Fraulein Klinkhammer in them. Finally, she found one: 22 Juni 1935. The girls have left the school, and I am missing their schwätzerei. Chatter? I learn much from them. It is quiet and lonely and even sisters I do not see often; they stay in their tower. I spend most of nights reading. I have almost given up finding Fraulein Klinkhammer. She seems to have disappeared. Perhaps she is dead. Sometimes I sneak Anna here to be with me, but I do not wish to gefährden my place. She wants to be with me more, but when I ask her, she says she is content where she is. I pray this is true.
Elsie was quite shocked by this revelation, truth be told, but she was beyond being able to stop reading. Did he live in sin with this woman? Is that who the other sandwich had been for? She glanced up at him now, but he was still deeply asleep, so she went on. Disappointingly, however, the next several pages of entries that followed seemed to only consist of notes regarding various projects he worked on over the summer around the campus. There were a few translations that she enjoyed reading, but most of the summer months were uninteresting.
Not until fall was there another entry in which Anna was mentioned. 13 September 1935. Anna has been ill again. She has had another fit. Mr. Lasik has told me of his concern for her and that if it continues, she will have to leave their home. I understand this, but I do not know what to do. I have had to ask Sr. Bernard, and she has said she will help me. It is more important than ever to find Fraulein Klinkhammer. I must be trying harder. But the girls have returned now, and they have many small demands. Oh, Anna. How I do so love you, but you are a heavy care around mine heart.
Elsie bit her lip and kept reading. 29 Oktober 1935. This time of year is always melancholy for me. It is of course the time when Fraulein Klinkhammer—Liesel—first came to us. Still no word. “We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.” -Rilke
Elsie paused here. What did this quote mean? Was it Liesel he really loved? She didn’t understand.
“Anna,” Gunther moaned now, causing Elsie to jump. It was as if he knew she were reading about her! With her heart beating very fast in her chest, Elsie waited again to see if he would wake, but he did not. Elsie was feeling slightly sick to her stomach and ashamed that she had read his intimate jottings, but yet, like a mystery unfolding, she felt compelled to see how it ended. She was very near the end, she knew. Giving him one last glance, she opened the notebook again and saw that indeed, there was only one entry left and that it was very recent. 23, Dezember 1935. Something new in my heart is awakening, something which I did not expect ever to feel again. Having met her, I cannot cease to think of her, though my case, I know, is without hope. I have nothing to offer but my heart, which is little enough according to this world’s measure. If only that I could wrap my arms around her and say what is in my heart. I wish that I were better poet that I might do her justice. Only in Schiller, sweet Schiller, can I find something remotely close:
“Is it possible never to have known something, never to have missed it in its absence—and a few moments later to live in and for that single experience alone? Can a single moment make a man so different from himself? It would be just as impossible for me to return to the joys and wishes of yesterday morning as it would for me to return to the games of childhood, now that I have seen that object, now that her image dwells here—and I have this living, overpowering feeling within me: from now on you can love nothing other than her, and in this world nothing else will ever have any effect on you.
“Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.”
That was all. Elsie sighed, closing the book. Whoever this Anna is, he must love her very much, she mused. She had never read Rilke or Schiller or
Garborg before, but their words connected to something deep within her, and she found herself reading them all again, and still one more time. And at the very back of the journal, she discovered, were pages of what seemed to be Gunther’s own attempts at poetry, some in English and some in German. Of the ones she could read, she noted that they were all about love or loss in one capacity or other. Elsie thought them very beautiful in their own right. She was moved by their simple, honest, raw emotion and was taken off guard when they awoke in her a matching sort of longing, one that she recognized as having been with her for as far back as she could remember. It was a feeling that often frightened her, as it did now in the dark hospital room, and she struggled to repress it, as she always did. She fought the old familiar ache of wanting to be loved, truly loved, and instead tried to envision herself in the arms of Christ.
She looked over at Gunther again now, wondering what kind of man he really was. She saw him so differently now than she had before, the contents of his notebook revealing much. With his beard and tousled hair, which was even matted in some places, he could have been mistaken for a vagrant. His shoulders, peeking out from beneath the thin hospital blanket he lay under, were likewise very broad, with a deep scar running across his chest, visible despite the thick blond hair it hid within. His strong physical appearance contrasted so sharply with what his writings revealed to be inside—a deep kindness and compassion, a softness, even. He was obviously one who felt very deeply . . . felt the beauty of poetry and words as she did. She knew he loved to read, but his notebook had revealed something else again. It was practically a crime, Elsie thought forlornly, that he spent his day shoveling snow and fixing stairs and stoves, she thought, when he should be a . . . well, if not a writer then certainly a teacher, as he once had been.
And who was it that he had in mind, she wondered, as he had copied out Schiller’s words—Something new in my heart is awakening . . . I cannot cease to think of her . . . If only that I could wrap my arms around her . . . Who is she? she wondered. Did he mean Anna? Or Fraulein Klinkhammer, whom he had once let slip and called “Liesel?” Or someone else, perhaps? A stray thought came into her mind then, that perhaps he meant . . . No, it couldn’t be, she resolved and pushed it from her mind.
Oh, what did it matter? she told herself as she sighed again deeply, and quietly lay the book on top of his coat. She wished that she knew more about him, about the secrets of his past, but more than anything else she wished with all her heart that she could help him somehow. Help him to find this Fraulein Klinkhammer whom he so desperately sought. He seemed so ragged and forlorn, despite having a mother to care for him. But she had no idea how to even begin to help him, except to pray for him. She closed her eyes, then, determined to begin the rosary that she had promised she would say after she allowed herself to read his notebook. She did not get very far, however, before she, too, fell asleep, keeping a very different vigil than the one she had envisioned.
Chapter 17
Henrietta had nearly forgotten how much fun it was to go dancing as Clive neatly spun her around the room. As a little girl, when her father still worked at Schwinn, they would sometimes listen to WGN’s broadcasts from the Aragon on their old radio. Even Ma seemed to enjoy it. Henrietta had always dreamed of one day going to the Aragon to dance, but by the time she was old enough, Leslie Von Harmon had killed himself, and then she had been thrust into the working world and was always too busy. Even if she could have somehow found the time, she had never had anything nice enough to wear to meet the Aragon’s dress code. And when she had gotten the job as a taxi dancer at the Promenade, the Aragon’s dirty little cousin, dancing had soured then a little bit for her, as it had taken on the more distinct flavor of work.
But now inside the Aragon’s lush interior—built to look like the courtyard of a Spanish palace with crystal chandeliers, rounded arches and balconies and even a terra-cotta ceiling—in the arms of her dashing husband as they danced to “I’m in the Mood for Love,” it did not feel like work at all, but almost like heaven. Dressed in a silver silk satin Chanel gown with an intricately beaded bodice, she was now wealthy enough to gain entrance even to the likes of the Drake or the Palmer House or the Burgess Club, where Clive had asked her to marry him—or re-asked, she should say. Next to those exclusive, glittering giants, even the grand Aragon paled. But here she was, even still, and she loved Clive for indulging her. He had insisted on wearing white tie, as he would have at the Drake, and he chatted charmingly with Lucy and Gwen, her friends from her days at the Marlowe, throughout the evening as if he were entertaining the Earl and Countess of Ashforth, say, in the ballroom at Linley Castle.
When Henrietta had telephoned Lucy just before Christmas to suggest that they all spend New Year’s Eve together at the Aragon, Lucy had initially told her no, that the three of them had to work, she was almost certain. But after all of about ten minutes, Lucy had rang her back to say that, though she couldn’t speak for Rose, of course, she and Gwen would most certainly try to at least get out of part of their shifts and come, saying that, after all, they might never get a chance like this again. Henrietta was delighted with this—a wonderful birthday gift, she had exclaimed, and promised to buy them drinks for the evening.
The only blight on the evening was that Elsie wasn’t there. Henrietta had asked her half a dozen times, but each time, Elsie had declined and said she felt obliged to attend the Penningtons’ Ball with Uncle John and Aunt Agatha. Henrietta supposed Elsie was right in doing so, but she would have dearly liked to have spent time with her in this setting. It would have been good for her, Henrietta thought, particularly as it seemed like Elsie was becoming even more quiet and withdrawn. Henrietta sensed there was something Elsie wasn’t telling her. Perhaps she was still pining for Harrison? She had tried drawing Elsie into a conversation on Christmas Eve, but she had been reticent, and later, when Henrietta had mentioned coming out with her and Clive for New Year’s Eve, she had very quickly said no.
Unfortunately, however, Eugene had overheard her asking Elsie to the Aragon and had boldly expressed his desire to tag along with her and Clive in Elsie’s stead. Henrietta had internally balked at the idea, but she could think of no satisfactory excuse to dissuade him, especially as she had just invited Elsie. Clive had intervened, then, and politely said that by all means he should accompany them. She supposed she should be grateful for Clive’s gallantry, but she was not too happy to be spending an evening out with Eugene. He certainly seemed more mature, almost pleasant, even, but there was still an unpredictability to him that made Henrietta uncomfortable.
As it was, Eugene thankfully split off from them as soon as they reached the Aragon. He was standing now at the bar, talking with several men, Henrietta noticed with a wince and quickly looked away. She had hoped that military school might cure him of his sexual irregularity, but he had seemed as effeminate as ever when they had spent the evening with him on Christmas Eve. She tried hard to ignore it, but she noticed tonight, for example, he had yet to even dance one dance when all the other soldiers present seemed to be tripping over themselves to dance with any available woman.
“I’m in the Mood for Love” came to an end, and Clive accordingly attempted to lead her back to the table where Lucy and Gwen were sitting, unable to publicly dance with each other, of course, but allowing their hands to graze against each other every so often under the tablecloth. They still wore their “wedding” rings, Henrietta noticed. She supposed she was being hypocritical in not condemning Lucy and Gwen for their deviant relationship with each other, while doing so with Eugene, but somehow it just seemed different. The lesbians at the Marlowe had been her friends and protectors, having in truth saved her life. She had been shocked at first to discover what they got up to at their dressing room parties after the shows, but she had grown to rely on them, with Lucy, Gwen, and Rose becoming her particular friends. Well, Rose had been a friend before she had taken up with Stanley, anyway.
The crowd was very thick, and C
live was having a difficult time wending his way through, having to pause to wait for someone to move or to shift to the side and often narrowly avoiding a drink being sloshed over the side of a glass grasped loosely by the person in front of him. Henrietta stood, waiting, facing Clive’s broad, strong back, and she wished she could slip her hands around him from behind and hold him.
Instead she heard a voice very near her ear say, “Hello, Henrietta.”
She quickly turned to look and was surprised to see none other than Stanley Dubowski! And Rose, too, standing quietly at his side.
“Stan!” Henrietta said and embraced him. Stan did not fully return the embrace, but stood stiffly, looking uncomfortable, his face red.
At Henrietta’s exclamation, Clive turned around, too, and spotting Stan, broke into a wide grin as he held his hand out to him. “Well, hello, Stan!” Clive said in his deep, resonant voice. Henrietta was silently grateful that he had remembered not to call him “the pipsqueak.”
“How are you, old boy? Fancy meeting you here!”
“We had no idea you’d be here—did we, Rose?” Stan squeaked out, turning to Rose now. Rose shook her head and held Henrietta’s gaze for only a moment before looking away.
“Sorry about your dad, Clive,” Stan offered.
“Thank you,” Clive responded genuinely. “It was quite a shock.”
“I’ll say. Guess you didn’t get to go to all those great places on your honeymoon, huh?” he asked Henrietta.
“There’ll be another time,” Henrietta said with a small smile, as she put her hand in Clive’s, a gesture which, though inconspicuous, Stan’s eyes seemed to observe all the same.
“How’s Elsie?” he croaked out.
“Very well. It’s kind of you to ask.”
“When’s her wedding? Or was it already?”