Stomach queasy, Marta closed her eyes so she wouldn’t see the rise and fall of the horizon. She didn’t want to go back inside to her bunk. The accommodations had turned out to be far worse than she had expected. The cacophony of voices speaking German, Hungarian, Greek, and Italian made her head ache. People fresh off farms and from small villages submitted with docile ignorance to being treated like cattle, but Marta minded greatly. If two hundred people had paid passage in steerage, then two hundred people should have a place to sit and eat and not have to find space on the floor or the windblown deck. Rather than be served, a “captain” was chosen to fetch the food for eight to ten others. And then, each passenger was required to wash his own “gear”—the tin saucepan, dipper, fork, and spoon she had found on her bunk the day she boarded the ship.
She breathed in the salt air. Despite her attempts to keep clean, her shirtwaist smelled faintly of vomit. If it rained, she might just take out a bar of soap and wash right here on the deck, clothes on!
The ship surged up and dipped down, making her stomach roll. She clenched her teeth, refusing to be sick again. Her clothes hung on her. She couldn’t go forever on so little food and still have her health when she arrived in Montreal. After spending an hour waiting to use one of the washbasins so she could clean her gear and then finding it in such fetid condition, she had almost lost the cold porridge she had managed to get down that morning. She lost her temper instead. Shoving her way through a group of Croatians and Dalmatians, she marched to the gangway, intending to take her complaints to the captain himself. A master-at-arms blocked her way. She shouted at him to move aside. He shoved her back. Sneering, he told her she could write a letter to management and mail it when she arrived in Canada.
At least the boiling anger helped her forget the misery of mal de mer.
Now, clutching the rail, Marta prayed God would keep her on her feet and keep what little food she’d eaten in her stomach. Please, Lord Jesus, bring us safely across the Atlantic.
She cast any thought of ever getting on another ship into the undulating sea. She would never see Switzerland again. Tears streaked her cheeks at the realization.
By the time the ship entered the Saint Lawrence Seaway, Marta felt rested and eager to find her way around Montreal. Handing over her papers, she spoke French to the officer. He gave her directions to the International Quarter. Shouldering her pack, she took a trolley and walked to the Swiss Consulate. The clerk added her name to the employment register and gave her directions to an immigration home for girls. Marta purchased a newspaper the next morning and began looking for employment opportunities on her own. She bought a map of Montreal and began a systematic exploration of the city. She spoke to proprietors and left applications, and she found a part-time position in a garment shop in downtown Montreal a few blocks from the Orpheum Theatre.
Expanding her exploration, she came across a large house for sale on Union Street near the railroad. When she knocked, no one answered. She peered in the dirty windows and saw an empty parlor. She wrote down the property agent’s information and then walked up and down the street, knocking on doors and asking neighbors about the house. It had been a boardinghouse for women, and not the sort of women who would be welcome in any decent home. Railroad men came and went. The roof had been replaced four years ago, and the house had solid foundations as far as anyone knew. A woman had been murdered in one of the bedrooms. The house shut down shortly afterward and had stood vacant for eighteen months.
Marta went to the Records Office and learned the name of the property owner, who now lived in Tadoussac. She spent Saturday walking and thinking. Excitement welled up inside her at the thought of her goal being within reach. On Sunday, she went to church and prayed God would open the way for her to buy the house on Union Street. The next morning, she went to the property agent’s office just down the street from the garment shop and made an appointment with Monsieur Sherbrooke to see the inside of the house later that afternoon. He seemed dubious of her intent and said he had little time to satisfy someone’s idle curiosity. Marta assured him she had the resources to make an offer, if the house turned out to be what she wanted.
She hired a ride to Union Street and found Monsieur Sherbrooke waiting at the front door. As soon as he ushered her in, Marta thought of Mama. She had been the first one to believe in her. “You have set your heart on a mountaintop, Marta, but I have seen you climb. You will use everything you are learning to good purpose. I know this. I have faith in you, and I have faith in God to take you wherever He wills.” She had laughed and cupped Marta’s face. “Maybe you will run a shop or manage a hotel in Interlaken.”
Monsieur Sherbrooke began talking. Marta ignored him as she walked through the large parlor, dining room, and kitchen with a sizable pantry with empty shelves. She pointed out the rat droppings to Monsieur Sherbrooke.
“Shall we go upstairs?” He walked back toward the entry hall and stairs.
Marta ignored his lead and headed down the hallway behind the stairs. “There should be a room back here.”
He came quickly down the stairs. “Just a storage room, mademoiselle.”
Marta opened the door to the room that would share a common wall with the parlor. She gasped at the red, green, and yellow chinoiserie wallpaper covering all four walls. Monsieur Sherbrooke stepped quickly around her. “The servant’s quarters.”
With private bath? She looked in at the pink, green, and black tiled walls and floor, claw-foot tub, and water closet. “Whoever owned this house must have treated his servants very well.”
He stood in the middle of the room, pointing out the brass wall sconces and elegant gaslight hanging above.
Marta looked at the floor. “What is that stain you’re standing on?”
“Water.” He stepped aside. “But as you can see, there’s no serious damage.”
Marta shuddered inwardly.
Monsieur Sherbrooke headed for the door. “There are four bedrooms on the second floor and two more on the third.”
Marta followed him, walking around inside each room, opening and closing windows. The two bedrooms on the third floor were very small, with slanted ceilings and dormer windows, and in winter they would be very cold.
Monsieur Sherbrooke ushered her downstairs. “It’s a wonderful house, with a good location near the railroad and well worth the price.”
Marta gave Monsieur Sherbrooke a dubious look. “It needs considerable work.” She enumerated the costs she would have to bear in making repairs and getting the house ready for habitation before making her offer, considerably lower than the asking price.
“Mademoiselle!” He sighed in exasperation. “You cannot expect me to take such an offer seriously!”
“Indeed, I do, monsieur. Furthermore, you have a moral obligation to inform Monsieur Charpentier of my offer.”
His eyes flickered and then narrowed as he looked her over from head to foot, reconsidering her. “Do I understand you correctly, mademoiselle, that you know the owner, Monsieur Charpentier?”
“No, monsieur, but I do know what went on inside this house and why it has stood vacant for eighteen months. The stain you were standing on in that back bedroom is not water, but blood, as you well know. Tell Monsieur Charpentier I can pay the full amount I’ve offered. I doubt he will receive a better bid.” She handed him a slip of paper with the garment shop’s address. “This is where I can be reached.” She decided to press for whatever advantage she could. “If I don’t hear from you by the end of the week, I have another property in mind. Unfortunately, it is not one of your listings. Good day, monsieur.” She left him standing in the entry hall.
A messenger arrived at the shop on Wednesday. “Monsieur Charpentier accepts your offer.”
As soon as the papers were signed and title received, Marta quit her job in the garment shop and moved into the house on Union Street. She bought pots, pans, dishes, and flatware and left everything in boxes until she finished scouring the stove, counters, and work
table and scrubbing out cabinets and pantry. She set to work scrubbing the floors, sills, and windows. She found a wholesaler and bought material for curtains. She watched personal ads and furnished the rooms with bargain-priced beds, dressers, and armoires and the parlor with two sofas, two pairs of wing chairs, and side tables. She bought a long dining table and twelve chairs at an auction, adding lamps and a few rugs.
It took six weeks and everything she had to get the house ready. She paid for a small ad in the newspaper:
Room for rent. Spacious. Quiet neighborhood close to the locomotive works.
She posted a notice on the church bulletin board and hung a Vacancy sign in the front window. She framed and hung the house rules on the foyer wall:
Rent due the first of the month
Linens changed weekly
Breakfast served at 6 a.m.
Dinner served at 6 p.m.
No meals on Sunday
With the last of her money, she invited her neighbors to a Saturday afternoon high tea. As she served Ceylon tea, apple Streusel cake, chocolate éclairs, and spicy chicken sandwiches, she announced that her boardinghouse was open to renters.
The evening after the newspaper came out, Howard Basler, a railroad man, showed up at the front door. “I don’t need much space.” He rented an attic bedroom. A railroader’s wife, Carleen Kildare, came with her two small boys to ask if Marta could accommodate a family. She showed Carleen two adjoining bedrooms on the second floor with a bathroom between. Carleen brought her husband, Nally, back that evening, and they said they would move in at the end of the month. Four bachelors, all railroad men, doubled up in the last two available rooms on the second floor. Once Marta covered the bloodstain with a rug, she slept quite comfortably in the downstairs bedroom.
Only one small third-floor bedroom remained vacant.
One of the neighbors mentioned Marta’s high tea to Carleen, and the boarders teased her about when they might be served like English lords and ladies. Marta told them she’d serve them all high tea on Saturday and they could talk then about whether it would become a regular event. As she served egg and cucumber sandwiches, Welsh rabbit fingers, honey spice cake, and strawberry tarts, she told them how much she would have to raise their rent to give them this added service. After a few bites, everyone agreed.
The income exceeded Marta’s expectations.
So did the work.
Dear Rosie,
Warner told me the truth when he said I would work harder than I ever have in my life running my own boardinghouse. I am up before dawn and fall into bed long after everyone has retired.
Carleen Kildare offered to do the laundry if I could give her and her husband, Nally, a discount on their rent. I agreed. She works when Gilley and Ryan are napping. She also helps me prepare high tea on Saturdays. Enid’s Dundee cake is always a great success, as is Herr Becker’s Schokoladenkuchen. I have to hide the second cake or I would have nothing to offer at the fellowship hour after Sunday services.
I received my second marriage proposal from Mr. Michaelson this morning. He is one of the five bachelors living in my house. He is forty-two and a pleasant enough gentleman, but I am content as I am. If he persists, I shall have to raise his rent.
Marta took off one day a week and spent half of it at the German Lutheran Church. She liked to sit near the back, observing people as they entered. A tall, well-dressed man came every Sunday and sat two aisles in front of her. He had broad shoulders and blond hair. He never came to the fellowship hour after services. Once, when she came outside after services, she saw him shaking hands with Howard Basler. She saw the gentleman again a few days later walking along Union Street.
Lady Daisy wrote to her.
I am delighted to hear you have attained your goal of owning a boardinghouse. I told Millicent you received a proposal already, but she refuses to be persuaded.
One morning after a winter storm had dumped three feet of snow on Montreal and the autumn mud had frozen, someone knocked on Marta’s front door. Since boarders had their own keys, she ignored the interruption and went on adding up expenses. When the knock came again, louder this time, she left her books, expecting to find some poor, half-frozen door-to-door salesman outside her front door. A flurry of snowflakes drifted in when Marta opened the door.
A tall man stood on the porch, swathed in a heavy overcoat, scarf pulled up over the lower part of his face and his hat pulled down. He didn’t have a sample case. “Ich heiße Niclas Waltert.” As he touched the brim of his hat, snow slipped off the rim. “Mir würde gesagt, Sie haben ein Zimmer zu vermieten.” He spoke High German with a northern accent and had the manner of an educated gentleman.
“Yes. I have a room for rent. I’m Marta Schneider. Please.” She stepped back. “Come in.” She motioned when he hesitated. “Schnell!” Wood and coal cost far too much, and she didn’t want all the warmth going out the front door.
Removing his hat and coat, he shook them both free of snow and stomped his feet before stepping inside. She wished her boarders showed such courtesy.
Marta’s heart leaped when she looked up into eyes as clear and blue as the Thunersee in spring. “I see you at church every Sunday.” She felt her face heat up as soon as the words escaped.
He apologized in German and said he didn’t speak much English.
Embarrassed, she told him she had one small attic room available and asked if he would like to see it.
He said yes, please.
Heart thumping, she thought if he saw the parlor and dining room first, and knew about the high tea served each Saturday, he might be more tempted. He didn’t say anything. She took him upstairs and opened the door to the empty bedroom. The room had a narrow bed, dresser, and kerosene lamp. There wasn’t room for a chair, but there was a bench under the dormer window that overlooked Union Street. When Niclas Waltert stepped in, he bumped his head on the slanted ceiling. He gave a soft laugh and drew the curtains aside to look out.
“Where do you work, Herr Waltert?” When he looked back at her, she felt a fluttering in her stomach.
“I’m an engineer at the Baldwin Locomotive Works. How much for the room?”
She told him. “I’m sorry I don’t have better accommodations to offer you. I think the room is too small for you.”
He looked around again and came back to the door. He took his passport from his pocket, removed several bills he had hidden there, and held them out. He had long, tapering fingers like an artist. “I will be back early this evening, if that will be convenient.”
Her fingers trembled as she folded the bills into her apron pocket. “Dinner is at six, Herr Waltert.” She led the way downstairs and stood in the front hallway while he took his woolen scarf from the hook and wrapped it around his neck. He shrugged into his coat and buttoned it. Everything he did seemed methodical and full of masculine grace. When he took his hat from the hook, she opened the door. He stepped over the threshold and then turned back, tapping his hat lightly against his side. “Will I meet your husband this evening?”
An odd, quivery sensation spread through her limbs. “It’s Fräulein, Herr Waltert. I have no husband.”
He gave her a polite bow. “Fräulein.” Putting on his hat, he went down the front steps. As she closed the door, Marta realized she was trembling.
Niclas arrived in time for dinner and sat at the far end of the table. He listened, but he didn’t join in the dinner table conversation. Nally and Carleen Kildare had their hands full that night with Gilley and Ryan, and Marta worried Herr Waltert would find them annoying. But he called them by name and performed a trick with two spoons that had both children awed. “Do it again!” they yelled. When his gaze met hers, her heart flipped over.
After dinner, the men moved into the parlor to play cards. The Kildares went upstairs to get their boys ready for bed. Marta picked up the empty meat platter, all too aware of Niclas Waltert lingering in his seat. “Don’t you have a servant to help you, Fräulein?”
She ga
ve a short laugh. “I’m the only servant in this house, Herr Waltert.” She set an empty vegetable dish on the platter and reached for another. “Carleen helps with the washing. Other than that, I manage to get things done.”
“You’re a fine cook.”
“Danke.” When she came back from the kitchen, she found Niclas stacking the other dishes at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. “You don’t have to do that!”
He stepped back. “I thought I should do something of use before asking a favor, Fräulein Schneider.”
“What favor?” She picked up the dishes.
“I must learn English. I understand enough to do my job, but not enough to carry on a conversation with the other boarders. Would you be willing to teach me? I would pay you for your time, of course.”
The thought of spending time with him pleased her greatly, though she hoped it didn’t show too much. “Of course, and you needn’t pay me. People helped me learn and asked nothing for it. When would you like to start?”
“This evening?”
“I’ll come to the parlor when I’ve finished the dishes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Marta stood in the kitchen doorway and watched him leave the room.
It took an hour to wash the pots, pans, and dishes and put everything away. She wondered if Niclas Waltert had given up and gone upstairs. She heard the men talking over cards as she came down the hall. When she entered the parlor, Niclas stood and set his book aside. When she came closer, she saw it was a Bible, with Niclas Bernhard Waltert engraved in gold on the black leather cover. “You are a religious man, Herr Waltert?”
He smiled slightly. “My father intended me for the church, but I learned early I was not suited to the life of a minister. Please.” He stretched out his hand, inviting her to sit. Marta realized he would not take his seat until she was comfortably settled in hers. No man had ever treated her so respectfully.
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