“It says so online.”
“Where exactly?”
“In your catalog.”
“Are you sure it isn’t Eleanor Kolman’s correspondence you’re looking for? We have that here, of course. Everything that relates to the collection.”
“No, these were the letters of her mother, Alice.”
She picked up the phone and dialed the archive.
I explained my request again to a young woman who introduced herself as Julie.
“We have some of it here,” she admitted. “What do you need it for, though?”
“I’m a historian from Prague and I came here on a research scholarship. I’m doing a study of American women at the turn of the twentieth century. Did you know the wife of the first president of Czechoslovakia was American? Have you ever heard the name Masaryk?”
She handed me a form to fill out: name, address, telephone number. Plus a statement saying I wouldn’t quote from any material without the express consent of the Kolman Reference Library.
“Which period are you interested in, exactly?” asked Julie.
“I’m interested in all of it.”
She appeared with a box a few moments later. She asked me to place the letters back in their envelopes when I was through with them, and said with a smile as she walked away, “Alice had terrible handwriting. Totally illegible, you’ll see.”
The box contained a series of folders labeled by year, beginning in 1882, the year of Alice’s wedding. The last letters had been painstakingly transcribed by someone on a typewriter; the others, as Julie had warned me, were nearly impossible to decipher. From John C. there were only a few decorative courtship cards: “My dear Miss Alice, it would be an honor if you would accompany me to the horse races tomorrow afternoon. . . .” Then just some telegrams sent from a steamer crossing the ocean from the New World to the Old. A few postcards from Europe.
There was almost nothing from the period around 1890, except a clipping from the Chicago Herald about the Johnstown flood.
I love the feel of old letters, and when the librarian wasn’t looking, I quickly stole a sniff.
Eagle Rock, Massachusetts, 6/4/31
Dear Ellie,
Since you want me to write you regularly but complain that you cannot read my handwriting, I have decided to dictate my letters.
I am dictating this to Miss Bodley, who was kind enough to bring her typewriter into my bedroom so I can lie down while I “write.” The one disadvantage of this arrangement is that I won’t be able to complain about Miss Bodley. Not that I have reason to.
There is not much news. As soon as I arrived, I asked to be shown around all the rooms (or at least I think all of them; I am not even certain how many there are). I found everything entirely in order, apart from a wet spot on the ballroom ceiling, and the railing on the grand terrace will need to be repaired and a few cracked tiles will need to be replaced.
If you could see the wisteria! It is splendid this year. It hangs like a canopy over the entrance, climbing up to the windows on the second floor.
The peonies and irises are also in bloom. The roses haven’t frozen.
The rabbits had babies. Just these silky little balls. I held them in my hands awhile. Maybe we could sell them—twelve dollars a pair? Think about it.
That’s all for now. Soon Simon will be calling me down for lunch.
Write soon, and above all, do come.
Your loving Alice
Eagle Rock, Massachusetts, 6/10/31
Dear Ellie,
The weather has been steady, sunny but not too hot, practically made for going on walks and horseback riding. Your room is ready; you can come anytime.
The wisteria is slowly losing its blossoms, as are the peonies, but the jasmine and some of the roses are starting to bloom. This morning in the garden, Simon cut me the most beautiful bouquet you can imagine, but I had to have it taken away, as the smell gave me a headache.
If you can imagine, Mr. and Mrs. Smith are on their honeymoon. They are constantly all over each other, Mr. Smith ruffling Mrs. Smith’s feathers. I had the cage moved closer to my bed so I could see them better.
Have you given any thought to those rabbits?
And are you coming soon? I didn’t understand what you said on the phone. What are you waiting for?
I send you kisses and look forward to seeing you.
Your mother
Eagle Rock, Massachusetts, 6/12/31
Dear Ellie,
Today I have great news. Imagine, if you will, Mrs. Smith has laid an egg. There’s only one and Mr. Smith is sitting on it. It seems the honeymoon is over. Mrs. Smith just sulks about and sharpens her claws in the corner. They don’t say a word to each other. I just hope the egg stays warm; it would be nice to see the little one peck its way out.
There’s nothing new otherwise, except perhaps that Miss Bodley and Miss Lindsay took the car into the city by themselves and landed in the ditch when they swerved to avoid a horse and buggy. Nothing happened to them, and they both laugh when they tell the story. Now Miss Bodley is frowning, saying that she doesn’t want to write about it, but what other news have I got? Miss Bodley is a darling, and for that matter so is Miss Lindsay, who is such great fun. She has begun to learn ancient Greek and is planning a big trip to Europe along with Miss Bodley.
Yesterday Simon brought me the first strawberries; they were delicious. Soon we will have cherries and apricots, too. I shall send you a basketful if you don’t come before then. But I would really much rather you came.
The peaches on the south side of the house should also ripen this year, provided there is enough sun. The weather is steady, warm but not hot, much more agreeable than in New York.
I send you kisses and remain ever yours,
Mother
Dear Ellie,
Only briefly today, the weather is muggy and I am not well; even dictation exhausts me. I had them carry me out to the terrace, but it wasn’t agreeable and I felt even more tired afterward. I’m better off inside, here in the bedroom.
There is no news. Perhaps only that Mr. Smith had a quarrel with Mrs. Smith and pushed the egg out of the cage.
Lately I have no appetite, which is making Simon sad. He spends all day preparing delicious food for me and I barely even touch it. Have you thought about when you will come? And for how long? Only because you asked about it on the telephone, I will say I still suffer from constipation constantly. The doctor says it’s due to my long-term use of laudanum.
Kisses, Alice
Eagle Rock, 7/15/31
My dear Ellie,
You needn’t worry about me. I am sure I will feel better once the hot spell has passed. This morning we had a great commotion. The caretaker’s dogs raided the henhouse and throttled several hens and a number of chickens. They didn’t even eat them, they just did it for sport. Naturally, they were punished for it.
The Mapplethornes are marrying off their second daughter; the ceremony will be next Sunday at their home on Long Island. Could you order a set of dishes and send them as a gift in my name? 145 or 150 dollars should be plenty, no more than that.
Also, I forgot to tell you on the telephone that I’ve ordered a new carriage. The contract says they have to deliver it by no later than the thirtieth; otherwise I won’t pay.
It should be here by the time you arrive.
Kisses, your mother, Alice
7/27/31
Dear Miss Kolman,
I tried to reach you by telephone, but I had no luck, and in any case the news I have to share with you is better written than said over the phone.
Your mother has, unfortunately, not been well these last days. It may be because of the heat wave we’ve been having. Madame Alice practically doesn’t go out, remaining indoors all day with the blinds pulled down. She refuses to eat. Occasionally, we manage to talk her into a bit of broth or a glass of milk, but she refuses solid food.
Dr. Hartley, who comes to the house every day, considers your
mother’s condition to be quite serious and advised me to tell you not to postpone your visit for too long.
Apart from that, however, your mother remains balanced and takes delight in the smallest details: a flower or a plate of fruit. Even if she does not eat the fruit, she likes the smell and enjoys touching it, especially the peaches. She says they remind her of her children’s faces. I have the impression Madame Alice no longer recalls some of the events of her life.
Dr. Hartley is of the opinion that unless Madame Alice’s condition improves significantly and she begins to eat again, the situation won’t last any longer than a week.
Your room is ready; we’ll be expecting you.
Respectfully,
Nancy Bodley
Julie was standing behind my back. “We’ll be closing soon. I can leave the box here for next time, if you want. Will you be ordering any photocopies?”
3
SATURDAY MORNING, MY PHONE RINGS. The display shows a local number, here in New York. Who could it be? Apart from a few administrators at the university and the head of my department, I don’t know anyone here yet. I haven’t gotten in touch yet with Professor Kurzweil, whose book-cluttered apartment made such an impression on me twenty years ago. I had come to New York for a week from Washington, D.C. It was late February. When I walked out of the station building onto the street, it was dark and snowing heavily. I can still see it as if it were yesterday: the wind driving the wet snow down a long corridor of buildings as escaping steam rises from the pipes underground.
My phone is still ringing.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Schwarzer?”
“Yes.”
“Jan?”
“That’s me. How can I help you?”
“This is the office of John C. Kolman the Third, I’m sorry to bother you. Were you at the reference library of the Kolman Museum yesterday? Did you give this number as your contact?”
“Yes.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Schwarzer, but I’m calling to tell you the library staff made a terrible mistake. They shouldn’t even have let you in.”
“Excuse me?”
“There is a regulation,” says the woman on the other end. “Please don’t take it personally, but there is a regulation prohibiting anyone German from entering the library. Originally, it also applied to the collection. That was changed. However, there’s nothing that can be done when it comes to the library. I’m afraid I must inform you that yesterday was your last visit.”
“But I’m not from Germany.”
“You have a German name.”
“Half the people in the Czech Republic have a German name.”
“Were your parents German?”
“No.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I have a passport. And a birth certificate.” I can’t help but laugh.
“You have a birth certificate?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I don’t think I understand. . . .”
“If you don’t mind,” the woman says slowly, sounding out her words, “could you bring your documents in to Mr. Kolman’s office? Eight one three Madison Avenue. It’s on the corner of Madison and Sixty-eighth.”
“When should I come?”
“Right now, if you want. We’re here. Be sure not to forget your birth certificate. Oh, and one more thing,” says the woman. “Our staff photocopied some letters for you yesterday. Could you bring those with you as well? In the event the matter fails to be resolved to your satisfaction, we’ll have to ask you to return them. Of course there’s no way for us to verify it, but I hope you will respect our rules and refrain from making another copy.”
“But I paid for them.”
“Naturally, we will reimburse you. It isn’t your fault. Thank you again for your cooperation, and see you soon.”
THE STUDIO APARTMENT I RENT from the university is on the West Side of Manhattan, near campus. I can catch a bus crosstown to the East Side and walk the rest of the way. I’m sure I’ll find a shop somewhere on Lexington to make a copy of Alice’s letters.
Along the way, I wonder how it is they maintain such distinct boundaries between neighborhoods. Even just a few blocks away, the sharp-dressed men of Madison Avenue are nowhere to be found. They cling to their territory like lizards.
A Korean manicurist sits inside a beauty salon, staring out the window into the street. Her face is white as wax, round and perfectly symmetrical, motionless as the bright yellow orchid blossoms keeping her company in the window.
On the corner of Madison and Sixty-eighth, I find the building the woman described to me over the phone. The lobby has thick carpeting, crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas, and a polished gold-plated table with a big bouquet of white irises on it. One of the men at the reception desk calls upstairs, then walks me to the elevator and rides with me up to the fourth floor, where he lets me out in the entryway of a residence.
Margaret is a young woman with very blond straight hair, dressed in a red suit and white silk blouse.
“Will you still be needing access to the library?”
“Yes, that’s why I came.”
I pull out my birth certificate. The court interpreter in Prague wrapped his English translation in a tricolor ribbon and affixed a stamp of the Bohemian lion. What more evidence could she want?
She reads it through carefully, then shakes her head, running a polished nail down the names of my parents and grandparents. “Schwarzer, Jäger, Goetz. These are all German names.”
“As I told you, half the people in my country have German names.”
“How is that?”
“Migration. Austria-Hungary . . .”
“I see.”
“So where did this strange rule come from?” I laugh. “Discrimination on the basis of names?”
“Discrimination, yes, quite right.” Margaret nods. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. Mrs. Eleanor C. Kolman was the one who introduced the rule, and made several other things conditional on it. Legally, our hands are tied. Mr. Kolman can explain it to you himself.”
“Mr. Kolman?”
“Yes, he’d like to meet you. He likes to meet everyone who’s interested in his family. I’m sure once you explain what it is you’re interested in, it will be fine.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’ll let you into the library, honey.” Margaret bares her teeth at me. Her lips are painted red and she has a thick layer of makeup, but no mascara or eye shadow. Maybe she’s allergic to them.
“Just a moment, I’ll announce you,” she says, picking up the phone. When she puts it back down, she says, “Mr. Kolman says to go ahead in.”
I need to use the bathroom, but Margaret has already opened the door.
GREEN CURTAINS. THE WINDOWS in the study of John C. Kolman III are covered in heavy green velvet curtains, just as in his great-grandfather’s house. A lamp shines on his desk. The walls are paneled floor to ceiling in dark wood and are hung with paintings: a view of the Hudson, a still life, and a portrait of a man wearing a black suit and sporting a neatly trimmed white beard.
Along with his great-grandfather’s name, the young Kolman inherited his wide, low brow, strong jaw, and bright blue eyes. He also has a smaller frame, with broad shoulders and a short neck. Apart from that, he looks the same as half the other men in the neighborhood. Bright dress shirt, open at the neck, with a light sport coat and close-cropped blond hair. He’s suntanned and bristling with energy, as if he just jumped off his yacht.
“What can I offer you? Water, coffee, whiskey?” He shakes my hand. Two white rows of teeth shine dazzlingly. “Have a seat.”
I plop down into a leather chair. Sure, I’ll have a whiskey, why not?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says.
“Likewise.”
“Ice?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I’m interested in anyone who’s interested in us.”
I smile, but lacking the training of my Americ
an counterparts, the muscles in my face cramp up.
“Naturally, I’m always eager to know what it is, exactly, they’re interested in. We’ve had bad experiences, too. With so-called historians. You understand. One can never be too careful.”
I gather up my nerve. “Why the regulation about the German names?”
Kolman sighs. “There’s really nothing we can do about it. I can’t tell you how much embarrassment it’s caused us. We’ve had to turn away some famous art historians, professors from German universities. Even though it’s been years since the war. But I’m afraid Aunt Ellie won’t budge, and she inserted the rule so cleverly into the foundation’s bylaws, it’s impossible to get rid of it. She just doesn’t like Germans, period.” He laughs. “Just like President Wilson.”
“So you mean she—Eleanor C. Kolman—is still alive?”
He nods his head. “Incredible, isn’t it? Of course the rule has its reasons,” he goes on. “Ellie was a brave woman. In 1918 she went to a field hospital on the western front. She saw the slaughterhouse in France, but mostly she saw bombed-out cities, churches in ruins. She never forgave the Germans for that. She has a photo album, you know. Filled with pictures of shattered cities next to postcards showing the way the cities looked before the war. Whenever someone in the family objected to the ban, she would show them the photos and say, ‘The monsters who did this don’t deserve to come anywhere near a work of art ever again. The rest of the world might not care, but I do. I will not let them see our paintings.’ Then came World War Two, and that only strengthened her in her conviction. The first thing she did was have a bunker built, where the entire collection could be moved. She was obsessed with the idea that the Germans would bomb New York. The Allied bombing, oddly enough, didn’t upset her. Medieval towns in Germany leveled to the ground, Tokyo firebombed . . . But that’s Aunt Ellie. She sees only what she wants to see. It wasn’t until ten years ago that the foundation’s board of trustees got her to rescind the rule, at least for the museum. It was pretty embarrassing having to throw tourists out. When it comes to the library, though, I’m afraid she has sole jurisdiction.”
The Attempt Page 2