Lilli de Jong

by Janet Benton

  He gave a bark-like laugh and moved closer. “You’re jesting! Give that knife over to me!” A line of sweat appeared above his upper lip. “You can’t go. How else will you survive with your baby? It’s true you’re not much of a lover, but I’ll train you!” His tone was a sort of greedy pleading. His eyes focused on my breasts, and he reached a hand as if to pull one from my corset. “Gorgeous! And your tasty milk!”

  In seconds my clothes were gathered. Into the kitchen I ran, gesturing behind me with my pointy knife. Dropping my clothes, I tried to pull on my skirt with one hand. My corset had vomit at its edge.

  “Lilli! Come, Lilli.” He couldn’t see how serious were my fear and fury. He followed me.

  My sleeping baby gave forth a snort and began to wriggle her limbs. In a glimmer of nightmarish hilarity, I perceived that Charlotte contains the word harlot. She opened her eyes slightly, then fully. She stared at me and Albert.

  “Don’t come closer,” I warned, waving the penknife.

  But Albert continued to approach. “Stop, stop!” he said. “This is all unnecessary.”

  He reached an arm to halt my waving one, and that was his mistake. For as I pulled my arm away, the knife’s blade crossed his palm. A smear of blood appeared, ran down his raised forearm, and dripped from his elbow to the floor.

  “My God! What have you done?”

  He stood naked, a rubber dangling from him. I stammered a moment as he grabbed a dishtowel from a hook and swabbed his palm. His face looked baffled, as if all had been good fun till this.

  In those precious seconds, I got my skirt hooked and my bodice partly fastened. Then I scooped up my squalling baby and our valise and ran to the door, where I grabbed my boots from the rug and stepped into them. The door was easy to unlock. I thumped down flight after flight of stairs, clutching everything to me and praying not to trip on untied laces. Behind me he called, “But Miss de Jong! You can’t leave!”

  I did.

  * * *

  When my staccato steps finally reached the cobblestone street, Charlotte began to scream. She batted at her face, smearing it with tears and mucus. I straightened up our belongings, then walked from crowded streets to smaller and smaller ones, winding farther and farther north, leaving behind the main thoroughfares until I faced a narrow alley leading between two squat row-houses. By this time, Charlotte had fallen asleep in my shawl from the strain of crying.

  I followed the alley to an abandoned lot. It was bordered by the windowless, stuccoed walls of houses and overfilled by two enormous pear trees, long neglected, nearly as tall as the buildings. No doubt these were the remnants of an orchard. The trees were leafy and gnarled, their branches carrying hundreds of nascent fruits. I spread a cloth in their ample shade, noting with relief the maiden-hair ferns, periwinkle, and wild geranium that grew there—old acquaintances that had occupied swaths of Germantown in summer.

  Charlotte remained sleeping when I placed her on a cloth. I sat blankly, unable to stay with any one thought. I reached to pick an unripe pear from the dirt and held it upright before me.

  I wanted to see the star inside. My knife was in my pocket. After wiping its slight smear of blood onto a cloth, I cut the pear through its middle to make two pieces, top and bottom.

  “What is an apple?” Johan had asked me in the kitchen as he’d cut open an apple in this way.

  I’d shrugged. “A tasty fruit.”

  He shook his head. “A red house with no door and a star inside.”

  I pulled the top and bottom of my pear apart. In each portion spread a star of seeds. The wonder of that moment with Johan pierced me.

  Love had seemed my birthright then. I had believed he loved me. With the slender knife in my hand, I thought of terrible things—of bringing Charlotte to the street, where someone would find her, then cutting myself—of how, under those pear trees, without impedance, I could bleed and die.

  I stared at my small darling, considering.

  But if I let us both live, I thought, then one day I could share with Charlotte this vision of a simple pear.

  The notion had a startling relevance as I held my blade aloft, examining its sharpened edge, considering what force it had in my despairing hand.

  I turned the knife back to the pear. With only my attachments to Charlotte and to this world’s beauty as my reasons, I wrenched myself from thoughts of death and the relief it promised. I decided to slice the pear into bites and nourish myself with it, so that I would continue to produce milk for the bundled person asleep at my side.

  I crunched. The unripe fruit offered a hint of its future sweetness. My chewing slowed until I lacked the strength for one more chew; I sank into a state of unawareness and then into a dreamless sleep.

  Eventually, my eyes opened to the chattering of a pair of squirrels. The larger one was clutching the remains of my pear in its bony paws, gnawing at it with quick ferocity. A smaller squirrel lunged, intent on stealing the morsel, but the larger one leaped over the attacker’s back and raced up a tree. It stopped at a nest where the trunks of the two trees met and intertwined, then disappeared inside.

  I raised my eyes higher, seeing how the trunks and branches were so intermingled that the two trees lived as one. Having begun their lives so very close, their only way to continue upward had been to join. There was no dividing them.

  A nerve twinged in my chest. I pictured Father, solemn Father, sitting half the night before the embers of a fading fire as Mother’s condition worsened. By the time she’d died, his every movement pulled from a dwindling store of strength.

  I’d blamed him for falling into his cousin’s arms. Yet in a blink, I understood his reason—not that he hadn’t truly loved Mother, but that they had loved each other so entirely that their trunks and branches had grown together. With her gone, he couldn’t stand alone.

  And I can’t, either. I’ve clung to Charlotte.

  We spent the hot afternoon hours in the shade, resting and recovering. I took that opportunity to change my clothing, since only blank walls overlooked us. But I had not one clean item for Charlotte, who was sweating in her blanket wrap. Then small red ants reached Charlotte’s face and bit her, which made her scream; they climbed to attack the delicate flesh of my neck. This was no lasting refuge.

  On our way back to the station, we passed a house on a quiet alley with its back shutters closed; on its clothesline hung three white baby gowns, embroidered by some mother’s careful hand. A craving overtook me. While praying for forgiveness—though knowing this to be a specious and a cowardly prayer—I ran up and took the simplest gown, along with a pail that had clean water in it. Behind the woodpile I crouched to wash off Charlotte’s squirming body. Then I covered my child with the raiment another woman had made for hers, as if that raiment could bring us the security we lacked. I nearly sobbed with relief when Charlotte patted my chest and grinned, more clean and comfortable in her purloined garment.

  When I returned the pail, a woman coming out the back door saw me and hollered. I ran off, ashamed.

  I’d stolen more than a gown. I’d made her clothesline into a place where she’d fear to hang good clothes for years to come.

  This was two days ago, perhaps the day before that. Daily I grind away more dignity on the millstone I’m circling.

  Against a station wall, I write a page, then bat away the flies. Their winged black bodies swarm Charlotte and me, feasting on our sweat and grime.

  Leaning to kiss her scalp, I inhale the subtle fragrance of her being.

  NOTEBOOK NINE

  Sixth Month 18

  It’s late evening. I have a safe place to sleep and a thrilling plan!

  Just hours ago I was seated on the Belgian block on Chestnut Street, alongside others without homes, chewing on a discarded sausage from a paper packet. I got out Albert’s handkerchief and wiped my oily mouth. A large theater sat across the street, and on its marquis were the words SARAH BERNHARDT, LA LIBERTÉ. I was wondering who this free woman was when a police
wagon pulled up!

  Two policemen were instantly upon the crowd of vagrants, grabbing and shoving, pushing at us with sticks. I dropped my food and tucked the handkerchief into my pocket. Caught in a throng that moved toward the police wagon, I hung on with difficulty to Charlotte and the valise.

  The big, blue-coated men pushed several children and an inebriated man into their covered wagon. These unfortunate ones took spaces on the plank benches, skirting a woman’s body that appeared unconscious. Others cried and pleaded, tried to run, or fought to free themselves from the policemen’s grip. Then the hairy, sweating arm of a policeman yoked my neck. He pulled me toward the wagon’s yawning entrance.

  “What is thee doing?” I tried to pull away.

  “Takin’ ya to de station house,” he growled. “A magistrate’ll find work for ya.”

  “I have work!” I said. “I only stopped here for a rest!”

  The man rolled his eyes. “Dat’s what dey all say. If we took ’em at dere word, we’d have nuttin’ but scum on de streets.” He shoved me toward the wagon, then released me to slap his stick on the arms of children seeking to climb out. I tried to move away, but he grabbed me again. Charlotte squawked from within her shawl sling.

  “Watch out for my baby!”

  “Oh, ya got a bastard, heh?” He snickered.

  I pulled against his force; he bent and put his arms behind my thighs, then lifted me. I struggled to keep hold of my valise. At that moment, an imperious voice rang across the street—and toward us came striding none other than Clementina, her shoulders thrust back, her head erect in a high-crowned hat. She must have come to see la Liberté.

  “I asked you, sir, what are you doing to this woman?” she said.

  “She’ll be goin’ to de almshouse or de workhouse, ma’am. Why, d’ya know ’er?”

  “Certainly I know her.” Clementina scowled. “She was in my employ. A good woman she is, with no business in your wagon.”

  Astounded, I gave her the nearest that a terrified person could to a grateful smile.

  Another policeman replied, his spectacles halfway down his nose from his exertions. “If she’s no longer in your employ,” he observed, “then she’s most likely a vagrant. We’re bound by law to take her.”

  The burly man added, tightening his hold on me, “Fined if we don’t, an’ paid by de head if we do.”

  Clementina saw immediately what was necessary to free me. She reached into her purse, then held out two dollar bills. The big man released me to grab them. As I regained my footing, he pushed me toward Clementina, who raised her arms as shields.

  Then piteous cries came from the wagon. Two boys called out to me: “Mama! Mama! Don’t leave us!”

  What was I to do? I nodded sympathetically toward the waifs. Amid their ongoing pleas, a policeman herded them out. The boys threw their thin, muscled limbs about me in a parody of affection. With my free hand I patted a tousled head.

  A policeman stepped close to Clementina. “Ye gotta pay for dem.”

  She wore a look of deepest scorn as she addressed me. “These are your children, too?”

  “No!” I flushed. “We’ve never met.”

  The boys disentangled themselves and ran rapidly away on bare, dirt-blackened feet.

  “We’ll catch more soon enough,” said the other policeman. He climbed into the wagon to guard their remaining treasure. His compatriot climbed to the driver’s seat, behind two powerful horses. At the whip’s snap, the wagon lurched forward, leaving Clementina and me standing together.

  “Thee saved us!” I reached to embrace her, but she stepped away and shook her coiled locks.

  “Are you a vagrant?” Her clear green eyes took in my condition. “You look like one. And your breath is atrocious.”

  “No,” I said hastily. “I’m just on my way to—to—”

  “I suppose I ought to have given a thought to what might happen to you.” Confusion crossed her face. “Ah, there is something—” She turned her attention to her shoes, to coax a memory free. She raised her head. “I stopped in at Pine Street this morning. Our caretaker said a letter came for you.”

  I couldn’t help but yell. “A letter? From whom?” Could it be from Johan or Peter? My veins streamed with optimism.

  “I didn’t see,” she said, wincing. “But you can knock at the kitchen door. Mr. Mundy will fetch it.”

  “That’s the best news thee could offer!” I said. “And how is Henry? I’m so terribly sorry for—”

  “He’s well,” she snapped. “We’ve replaced you with a woman whose baby was stillborn. It’s far simpler.”

  As I pondered how to answer this, Clementina stared strangely at my skirt pocket. She reached an arm and withdrew her husband’s handkerchief.

  It hung at arm’s length in front of her, crinkled by dried splotches of milk and smeared with mouth wipings. I felt as if the handkerchief alone could reveal what had transpired between her husband and me. My face burned. Her expression was quiet and subtle, with much taking place beneath its surface; I understood from it that she’d seen evidence before of Albert’s intimacies with other women.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered, watching as red spots grew on her cheeks.

  Clementina dropped the handkerchief and ground it with the toe of her shoe into the grimy cobblestones. “Vermin!” she hissed at me. I began to step away. Another voice shot across the street.

  “Clementina!” Her friend Letitia—her dress a tall column of white, festooned with ribbons—dodged traffic to cross. She pulled at Clementina’s arm. “Come! We have to claim our tickets!”

  The lady whose son I’d nursed looked up at me then, and I perceived in her downward-curving mouth and eyes that I had wounded her. Shame made me shrink into myself as she allowed her baffled friend to take her arm and lead her toward the brightly painted theater.

  Only a few seconds passed before a rustling arose at my side, and a sharp pain crossed my hand. Someone was yanking at my valise—the very boys who’d pretended to be my own!

  The case fell to the sidewalk, and their fast hands undid its buckle. I yelled as they fell upon my goods, gathering clothing in their thieving arms, but no one heeded me. Heads down, the boys ran into the crowd, concealed in seconds.

  I closed the valise to secure what little remained of our possessions. At least my notebooks were unharmed. For the sake of the baby at my chest, I avoided sobbing, but strong feelings pushed against my temples and made them throb. On the sidewalk around me, people with destinations pushed past and banged against my crouching body. Charlotte began to make her hungry noises and batted my neck with her hands, making milk rush to my breasts. And all at once I wanted to scream and throw off every encumbrance—Charlotte, the valise, my wrinkled clothing and filthy boots, the pins and combs in my hair, the purse at my throat—to fling them from my body and race away from all that chained me. My heart fluttered as I tried to draw air. Sweat trickled down my back. My brief pleasure with Johan had opened the door to a living hell! I stared into its blaze.

  Horses stampeded by, raising dirt into our faces. Charlotte coughed as grit descended on us. My eyes filled with stinging bits.

  I am nothing, I thought. I remembered Nancy, who’d said she wasn’t worth saving.

  I decided in that instant to get my letter immediately, before Clementina might take the chance to deprive me of it.

  * * *

  The fetching of the letter from the Burnhams’ caretaker occurred without incident. But reading the contents of that single sheet, forwarded from the Haven, was an incident indeed. The letter was from the Haven’s Pittsburgh solicitor, who reported locating a red-haired man named Johannes Ernst. This man has lived in Pittsburgh many years, is married to an Olivia Stone, and denies knowing me.

  There was apparently nothing true about our contact, and Charlotte and I are the castaway consequences of his lies.

  But why should I be surprised at his trickery? Think of all the ways the others hiding at the Haven were
betrayed.

  I walked and walked. Charlotte was restive at my chest; she must have sensed my distress through my nervous pulse, the dampness of my skin, my sour odor. Then hunger drew me toward the wafting scents of a market building.

  Putting aside caution, I entered and stopped before the stall of a fishmonger. I observed an oblong of smoked trout, imagining how the flavors of fat, salt, fish, and smoke would suffuse my tongue. The woman’s melodious voice startled me.

  “What can I get you, miss?”

  “What’s the cost of two ounces of smoked trout?” My voice came out with a quaver.

  “The least I sell is a half-pound.” She watched me pleasantly.

  I apologized and bade her good day.

  She pressed her plump lips together as I left, then called me back. “I’d be glad to offer you a taste.”

  I nodded dumbly. With a long, slender knife, she cut a sliver of the fish and placed it on a paper, then reached it to me.

  “You can sit there,” she said, pointing her chin to a barrel beside her stall.

  I sat and ate the gleaming morsel, trying to be slow.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  I told her.

  “Have you got a baby?” She gestured to my shawl.

  I nodded again, not wanting to stop chewing.

  “Have you anywhere to live?”

  Wondering at her directness, I swallowed and replied that I’m a widow looking for work, with many hopeful prospects but nowhere to live at present. Her cheeks grew rosy with what appeared to be sympathy.

  “You look awfully tired. I have an idea.” She turned to the bloody-aproned butcher at the next stall and asked him to tell potential customers that she’d return shortly. At her beckoning, I rose and followed her down a crowded row of stalls to the back doors of the market shed. She opened a door and directed me to follow further.

  “What does thee want with me?” I asked. My chest constricted. Could she be aiming to trick me as Nancy was tricked?

  “Oh, goodness.” She allowed the door to close, straining to be audible amid the shouts of buyers and sellers that echoed off the metal roof. “Of course you’re afraid.” She reached and shook my hand; her shake was sturdy. “I’m Mrs. Bernstein. I’m a widow, too.”