by Cat Gardiner
Her eyes scanned the assembly. The Guggenheims were conspicuously absent and she had to wonder about that. Apparently, it was more acceptable to include members of the Armed Forces than it was to include a philanthropic Jewish family whose old-money wealth and prominence in the Social Register were greater than the Renners or many of these families in attendance tonight.
The whoosh of Ingrid’s lace and golden silk shantung gown rustled as she approached mother and sister standing in wait for her. She looked statuesque and regal, her piled hair was adorned by a diamond encrusted tiara nestled within.
Frances nearly squealed at the vision her eldest daughter presented. “Divine, simply divine. Your photograph will be splashed all over the Diary, my darling.”
“Yes, it will.” Ingrid smugly replied, smoothing gloved hands down the fitted lace bodice of the gown. “This Parisian Alençon is terribly coveted these days. I will be the envy, for sure.”
Lizzy smiled impertinently, maintaining her silence.
Ingrid held herself with an air of superiority, clearly feeling every bit the distinguished guest of honor, however, in Lizzy’s opinion, she looked like a garish, gilded holiday bauble. Her eyes met her elder sister’s and they bore into one another, no words were spoken. There was no need following their conversation two days ago. The line had been drawn in the sand and both women knew where the other stood. Their hatred of one another would have been palpable to their mother if she had been sharp enough (or less self-absorbed) at that moment. The self-important sneer upon Ingrid’s lips reviled Lizzy.
Her sister gazed down at the gay circle of attendees eagerly awaiting her arrival. Her eyes locked on George Gebhardt, standing in the center of the group, his hands in his pockets striking his trademark stance, and a roguish smirk upon his lips. John stood beside him, unknowingly the fool, having been played for years by Ingrid’s machinations.
Ingrid raised her chin and descended the staircase at a slow, imperial pace, allowing for the proper adulation she was sure to elicit. In all of Lizzy’s years with the woman, she had never fully recognized her sister for the monster that was; tonight she saw her clearly. Pure evil.
From the balcony, Lizzy’s eyes drew to Greta Robertsen in the crowd, looking gorgeous in sleek, emerald metallic lamé. Her nemesis held a flute of champagne in one gloved hand, the other hand tucked possessively inside Dickie Phipps’s arm as he talked with Junius Morgan. Greta looked annoyed and glanced upward, meeting her gaze. Their eyes locked, and the color she wore seemed too fitting as a pinched expression of jealousy passed over the Robertsen debutante even though she had successfully nabbed one of the most attractive, eligible bachelors of their circle. It was rumored that her dowry was close to two million dollars. Lizzy reflected upon how like many of the marriages assembled in the foyer, theirs was not a love match, but a match of finance and industry.
Once again, her novel thought served to recall Will and how much they loved one another. Her love was the dowry, his gift their baby.
From behind, she watched Ingrid’s descent, the rigid, proper posture and how her hand slid along the banister. Each graceful step downward encouraged whispers from the elite gathering below, and vastly differing smiles upon the faces of two particular tuxedoed men admiring her form. The arrogance dripping from her sister’s every pore, served to illuminate the further distinction between the young woman Lizzy had once been and the woman she had become with the introduction of her flyboy and the shocking revelation of pregnancy.
Those four little, yet powerful, words—“in a family way”—had changed her life and how she saw this world. Will had helped her to see beyond it, but their baby now caused her to take a hard look at it.
Frances preened the blonde curls at her nape. “Shall we go play hostess, now? You have one particular suitor awaiting you, and I have a dry martini awaiting me.”
Lizzy smiled as best she could, and placing one platform sole in front of the other, she descended with deliberate, tortuous, poised elegance.
Mother’s excessive jewels were competing with the imported Austrian crystal chandelier above. The woman’s gross affluence dripped with Germanic pride filled with bombastic haughtiness and drunken silliness. Her own normally youthful exuberance was tempered by the overt pompous vanity and the sobering realities of the society she was descending into. It was as though the blindfold of youth, society, and material comfort had been pulled from her eyes. Behind Lizzy’s skilled debutante smile, she felt sick and miserable, just wanting to get through the night unscathed by her sister, her father, and Mr. Gebhardt’s vulgar intentions.
She noticed Kitty sitting ignored, cast off, and overlooked in her wheelchair at the side of the entrance rotunda. Virtually hidden beside the glorious, towering Christmas tree, she still did not escape Lizzy’s watchful eye, and her heart clenched at how her dear sister was considered an outcast among this society who felt above everyone. Kitty looked so pretty, so festive in red velvet and holiday plaid, and Lizzy felt proud at what a lovely young woman she had become. They smiled at one another. No, you can never leave her here alone to languish, to be victimized.
She suddenly realized that Kitty was all the connection she had to this family and visa versa. Five sisters reduced to two, both needing the other.
Mrs. Davis, invisibly attired in black and demoted to the role of food server, expertly navigated the rotunda, offering canapés and pate. She, like Kitty, was ignored for her perceived inferiority, not just social class but also her color.
The hair at the back of Lizzy’s neck stood on end when her vision fell upon Gebhardt standing at the bottom of the long staircase, leaning against the finely carved newel post, posturing there as though he were the dashing Rhett Butler awaiting Scarlett. He gazed up at her with a hungry look in his eye and a wicked smirk taunting upon his lips. Although devastatingly handsome, he repulsed her in every way.
She noted how Ingrid, now center stage in the rotunda, surreptitiously watched Gebhardt, while her arm possessively draped through John’s. Poor Johnny. A chill traveled up Lizzy’s spine, and she felt slightly woozy, gripping the handrail tightly to steady herself. She was careful not to alert her mother whose arm was tucked around her other bent elbow.
Upon their arrival down to the foyer assemblage, Gebhardt greeted her with slick intonation, “Miss Elizabeth.” He took her hand, bent, and kissed the satin glove. “You are a dazzling vision. Your eyes sparkle like emeralds tonight.”
His obvious disregard of proper decorum accentuated his pompous air of superiority, ignorantly circumventing Best Society’s standards of proper etiquette. He was not so familiar with her to initially compliment a woman in such fashion.
“Thank you, Mr. Gebhardt.”
She promptly attempted to withdraw her hand, but he held fast a moment longer, leaning toward her. “I hope to have a word with you this evening. There is something special I would like to ask you.”
She cringed, nearly gagging from the scent of his cologne, an odd mixture of cigar and shaving lotion and its combined effect with her already unstable stomach.
The impudent debutante in her resisted the ingrained reaction to play coy when posed with such a statement. His advances were unwelcome, not worthy of her perfectly honed skills of flirtation through joie de vive and playful laughter.
While she hesitated for a moment to consider her most prudent response, Kitty’s wheelchair banged his calf muscle.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Mr. Gebhardt. This wacky chair has a mind of its own.”
He brushed his leg, scowled in a most menacing fashion, and abruptly left the women without a further word.
Lizzy bit her lip to keep from laughing raucously. She whispered, entirely too pleased with her sister’s actions, “You are so devilish! Thank you!”
“It was the least I could do. You looked ready to vomit on him Why didn’t you come to my room when you came home? I’ve been on pins and needles all day.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I was just exhaust
ed. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, after we get through this charade.”
“Charade? But you always loved this ball, Lizzy.”
“Yes, I used to, but tonight I feel like Lillian … disillusioned. I wish Will were here. I can’t imagine dancing with anyone other than him, particularly you know who.” She looked over her shoulder to see Gebhardt talking with Barbara Hutton and her dashing, Hollywood husband, Cary Grant.
“I’m sorry,” Kitty said.
“Don’t be. You didn’t send Ducky to war—Tojo did that when he bombed Pearl Harbor a year ago.”
Kitty frowned. “Father was looking for you this afternoon. I had to lie. I said you were shopping for an engagement gift for Ingrid.”
“Thank you. Have you seen him tonight? Do you know where he is?”
“Last I saw of him, he went with several gentlemen into his study and closed the door.”
“And where is Nurse Keller?”
“Father told her that she could attend the ball as a guest and not as my nurse. She went to her room to change into evening attire, and I’m on my own.” She rolled her eyes. “I thought she’d never get lost. Finally, I can have a good time without her looking over my shoulder and dogging me for everything I do.”
Lizzy forced an optimistic grin, determined not to succumb to the uncharacteristic melancholy she felt. Today was getting the best of her with every trip to the bathroom and the thought that Gebhardt and her father just may well force her hand with a marriage proposal tonight. If Kitty was happy, then so should she be. “Well, then let’s try to have a swell time, sissy. Mother has arranged for Guy Lombardo’s Orchestra, and I know how you enjoy “When You Wish Upon a Star.”
Leaning closer to her seated sister, she noticed a reddened shadow upon Kitty’s left cheek. Placing her gloved palm against the darkening skin tone, Lizzy inquired, “Kitty, what happened to your cheek? It seems a bit brighter than the other.”
Kitty turned away from Lizzy’s concerned expression. “Oh that. It’s nothing. I guess I was sitting too close to the fireplace waiting for everyone to arrive. It’ll fade in an hour. I’m sure.
“Say Lizzy, did you see Cary Grant over there?”
“I did … he’s very handsome. Some say he married her for her money.”
“I don’t believe it; they look so in love.”
“Yes, well, looks can be deceiving. After all, just look at Johnny and Ingrid.”
~~*~~
Thirty
All or Nothing at All
December 19, 1942, con’t
The sit down dinner for sixty had been its usual presentation of extravagance in Meercrest’s lavish three thousand square foot dining room. Seven courses ranging from Guinea hen, pheasant casserole and stuffed lobster tail to extravagant desserts made without regard to the sugar ration were all served with tantalizing elegance and fine wines. Excessive praise to the host and hostess was profuse. This holiday and most likely for the duration of the war, there would be no such thing as a meatless Christmas in this house, which was further proof to Lizzy that her place was beside Will and his humble life in Park Slope.
It was an evening of opulent Christmas indulgence at a time when the nation was turned upon its head. Women in the workforce, families separated, more and more goods showing up on the ration, nationwide restrictions, and the ever growing fearful threat that war could come to America’s shores after Pearl Harbor all contributed to the new norm of daily life, but not here—and certainly not tonight.
Lizzy felt strangely defiant sitting at the table beside some unknown middle-aged man. She thought she knew most of her family’s friends in the Social Register and wondered if perhaps he was visiting a relative for the holiday season. His perfected New York City English grated upon her withering nerves, particularly when he spoke pompously of his travels to Eastern Europe before the war and how “It was a jolly, swell time in Krakow.”
Petulantly, and not because he really deserved it but because she had enough of this evening and this exalted company in general, she asked, “Tell me, Mr. Dittmar, did you read last week in the New York Times—page eleven in fact—how the Polish government has begged for the Allies to put a stop to Hitler’s mass extermination of their Jewish population?” She bulldozed right past the stupefied shock upon his face with nary a heartbeat. “Already one-third of its three million citizens have been murdered by the Nazis and the Times buries it deep within the paper while we sit back on our laurels, having a jolly, swell time.”
“I … well …”
Her statement caused a few scowls and several forks to rest upon the fine china with audible landings. As she had deviously hoped for, conversation then ensued about the war with the introduction of political discourse inaugurated by a well-informed Roosevelt supporter. Lizzy couldn’t help feeling proud of her steering of the conversation so effectively until her father cleared his throat, smiled in that manner of his, and declared that the orchestra was getting restless for dancers, thereby putting an end to all conversation about the war.
Renner fumed inside at his daughter’s insolence. As it was, he was unsure of the political opinions of many in attendance on this festive night. Although his affiliation with the American First Committee was only meant as a cover to his true reasoning for America’s “isolationism,” conversation about the war could prove dangerous, thereby opening up scrutiny to his sympathies and those of his collaborating, industrialist allies seated at the table.
His facial demeanor, understood perfectly by his daughters and wife, caused Ingrid and Frances to rise, ushering in a night of dancing and gaiety.
The rustle of skirts, gossiping tittle tattle, and hiccups left the dining hall for the ballroom, but Lizzy was halted in her departure by her father’s hand upon her wrist. “Just a moment, Elizabeth. I’d like to have a word with you in my study.”
“But the first dance, Father …” she protested, expecting to be called on the carpet for her instigation or something other. It didn’t escape her observation that Gebhardt stood about ten feet away, by the nearest set of double doors, with his hands in his pockets. He looked dashing and disgusting all at once. She could feel his eyes undressing her and was reminded of his fingers brushing her bosom on Memorial Day.
“Your sister and John Robertsen will be opening the evening with the first dance.” Her father offered her the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did I mention earlier, how stunning you look this evening? You make me proud.”
“Thank you. It is a lovely gown. Mother tells me it was made in Paris especially for tonight.”
“Yes, I have friends.”
She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to; her mother’s comment earlier intimated as much. Half of France was now occupied by the German army, and Paris had fallen two years earlier. He had friends whom she didn’t want to learn about but of whom Will insisted she become informed.
Arm-in-arm they walked through the east wing with Gebhardt trailing behind them, still by a good ten-foot length. Occasionally, Lizzy glanced over her shoulder, noting the smug, expectant look upon his face. She wanted to cry out, “You can’t have me!”
They entered the massive study, a room entirely different from the one at Greystone. This one was welcoming and reminded her of sitting upon her grandfather’s knee as a little girl. It seemed sad that the memory would be supplanted by the events about to unfold. She sat on that same maroon settee Grandfather Heinrich always had, her gown blending into the color of the brocade. She folded her hands delicately upon her lap in wait. In her mind, she clearly heard Will’s words,
-I’ll mate for life, too, because I know I’ll never love another like I love you.
Lizzy noticed Ingrid’s gold cigarette case on the table beside her and wanted to light up a Chesterfield, but she thought better of it. In an attempt to tamp down and hide her anxiety, she clasped her hands together. Resolved, she lifted her chin, realizing that the worst moment in her life w
as telling Will about his aunt and grandfather. Facing her father and Mr. Gebhardt’s expected offer of marriage was nothing in comparison to the gut wrenching, pain-inflicting pronouncement that the DeVrieses had most likely been deported.
The Renner patriarch nodded to Gebhardt. He came forward with a smile like none she had seen before. A cross between smug confidence and an attempt at humility. Her father stood directly to her left with hands upon his hips, his eyes burning expectantly down into her. He was so sure he had convinced her of his wishes, nay demands.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Gebhardt began, fluidly dropping to one knee at her feet, taking her hands into his. Through her gloves, she imagined his palms and fingers to be cold, as numb as she felt, and she immediately broke out in a cold sweat in response. She could smell his breath from a foot away. The scent of tobacco caused her stomach to roll, her baby as repulsed as she, willfully protesting. Lizzy fought back her nausea.
“I am sure that your father has made my desires known to you. I am further assured that he has made his own wishes known to you as well. It would please me most to know that they are your desires, too. Will you marry me, Elizabeth? Together, we will be sustainers of the Germanic race. You will be the spiritual caregiver to our many children, a queen of our superior people. Will you be my bride?”