Homeland

by John Jakes

  He rolled on his back and groggily opened his eyes. The snow was falling through a gap in the ceiling of the car. He was covered with snow. He heard men outside.

  “Mikey, the lock’s gone on this here one.”

  “Better have a look.”

  The door rolled back. Bitter wind streamed in. Shafts of lantern light cut back and forth above him like swords.

  “All clear, Mikey.”

  “Okay, let’s—no, hold it, there’s somebody over there. You. Stand and come out, right now.” The second man was gruffer than the first.

  Shaking, Pauli lurched to the door. The two railroad policemen were standing on the ground outside. He could see little else because the day was so dark. The men had lanterns that illuminated the snow blowing around them, making it sparkle.

  “Just a youngster, Mikey,” the first man said.

  “A little bit more than that. What’s your name?”

  “Kroner. Pauli Kroner.”

  “Listen to him,” Mikey, the gruff one, said. “Greenhorn. Just off the boat, are you, boy?”

  “Yes, the boat,” Pauli nodded. “Please, can you tell me—this place is where?”

  “This here’s the south switchyard of the Pittsburgh & Fort Wayne.”

  “Chicago?”

  “I’m the one to ask the questions,” Mikey said. “Don’t you know you ain’t permitted to sleep in these cars? You can be arrested.”

  “The snow—” Pauli began.

  “Don’t matter, you’re still not allowed.”

  “I don’t expect he understands, Mikey.”

  “Trying to find my uncle,” Pauli said, laboring every word. “In Chicago he waits for me—” If I don’t die first. His teeth chattered furiously.

  “That a fact?” The gruff one was unimpressed.

  “Y-yes.” Pauli grabbed the edge of the door to keep from pitching into the snow.

  “Mikey, he’s sick, look at the sweat on his brow.”

  “Who’s your uncle?” the other demanded.

  “Josef—uh, Joseph Crown.”

  “Not the brewer?” said the first, the more kindly one.

  “Yes, sir, do you know him?”

  “Sure, what beer drinker don’t? Can you prove he’s your uncle?”

  “Ah, the hell with this,” Mikey said. “Let the coppers sort it out while he’s in the Bridewell.”

  “What is that, please?” Pauli had a premonition that it was a prison.

  “You’ll know soon enough.”

  Pauli swayed, dizzy again. But he couldn’t quit, not this close to the home he’d dreamed of for so long. If necessary he’d try to fight these men. Anything but give up—

  “Mikey, don’t rag him so,” the first one was saying. “He musta got caught in this storm. Let’s leave him go. It’s Christmas. Well, nearly. That counts for something, don’t it?”

  Christmas? Weihnachten? Was it that season already?

  Mikey scratched his chin while he thought about his partner’s remark. “Got any idea where your uncle lives?”

  Pauli’s lips felt numb as he said, “Michigan Avenue.”

  “That’s right, I know the house, everybody knows it,” the first man said. “Michigan Avenue, east side, corner of Twentieth Street. Big place. Takes up half the property. You’d recognize it right off, there’s crowns all over the outside.”

  The gruff one made a small pleased sound. “Your uncle brews a fine lager, I’ll say that.”

  “It’s reason enough to let him go, Mikey.”

  “Can you—” Pauli coughed, long and painful. “The way tell me? I mean—tell me the—”

  “I understand,” the gruff one said. “I s’pose we could.” He set his lantern in the car and laid his long polished stick beside it. He lifted a mittened hand. “Climb down. The trains aren’t runnin’ yet. You’ll have to walk; it’s a pretty good hike.”

  “I can walk,” Pauli said, against all reason, only his determination whipping him on. He grasped the hand and jumped, but his weak leg buckled and he fell, crying out. They helped him up.

  It was noon when Pauli left the Pittsburgh & Fort Wayne boxcar. All of Chicago was still paralyzed by the storm. By early evening the streets were still deserted save for an occasional police wagon or horsecar laboring through the drifts. It was snowing lightly again. Pauli followed the directions given him by the railroad men, putting one filthy aching foot ahead of the other, as he’d done for weeks.

  They had spelled the name of the street for him, M-i-c-h-i-g-a-n, until he felt he’d be able to identify it on a sign. He had, and now he staggered along the boulevard flanked with rows of looming houses.

  He peered at street signs in the gray dusk, working steadily northward on Michigan Avenue, reading the numbers of the cross streets until he found Twentieth. There was the house, a veritable castle on the corner. Electric light streamed from almost every window.

  It was three stories, built of blocks of gray limestone. It had a mansard roof, a covered carriage entrance on the side, and an iron fence surrounding the whole. It occupied one half of the block on which it was situated. With his bare head white as a snowman’s, Pauli stood gazing at it with amazement.

  He knew it was the right house. On the wrought-iron gate on the Michigan Avenue side, forming part of the decorative pattern of the arch above, there was a crown. A crown exactly like the one embossed on his uncle’s letter. Pauli noticed other crowns worked into the fence design. In several places on the house itself, crowns had been carved so as to stand out from the stonework.

  The huge residence intimidated him. Should he look in back for the servants’ entrance?

  No, this was America. This house belonged to his own family.

  He pushed the gate inward. Saw a spot of color on his fingers. The skin had cracked open. He was bleeding.

  He dragged his grip up a flight of stone steps to the relative protection of the covered front porch. He took hold of a filigreed metal tab projecting from the carved door and twisted it.

  Deep in the house, a bell rang.

  Pauli’s heart fell when he saw the severe expression of the man who answered. His uncle had a pale sickly horse face, suspicious eyes.

  “If you will go to the rear door, Cook will find you some food.”

  “I am not ein Bettler—uh, beggar, I am your nephew from Germany.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The pale man scowled. Pauli realized his mistake. The man wore a pin-striped shirt with suspenders and a starched white apron with a high bib tied around his neck. On the bib was an embroidered crown.

  “Wait just a moment.” The door slammed, but not before Pauli was enfolded in a cloud of warmth, a sweet odor of pine, a sparkle of ornaments on a tall Christmas tree, a spectacular radiance from somewhere above.

  The wind keened. Pauli’s legs felt like broken twigs, too weak to support him. The door opened again. There stood a man even more severe than the servant Pauli had mistaken for his uncle.

  This gentleman was rather short and wiry, with sleek silver hair, mustache and beard. His posture was correct, his brown eyes large and alert behind wire spectacles. He wore patent leather slippers, gray trousers, a dark blue smoking coat of some shiny material with a secondary brocade pattern discreetly visible in the fabric. He smelled pleasantly of shaving talc. He instantly inspired respect and a touch of fear in Pauli.

  But the man’s welcome was hearty. “Come in, come in, won’t you? Close the door, it’s bitter out there.”

  Pauli obeyed. “Uncle Josef? Here is your nephew Pauli,” he exclaimed, instinctively thrust back into German by the excitement.

  In diesem Haus, sprechen wir gewöhnlich Englisch. I am saying we usually speak—”

  “Yes, English. I understand. I understand a little.”

  From another room a young girl called out. “Who’s there, Papa?”

  Then a male voice; older. “Is it someone for us? Is it Julie with her skates?”

  “Kindly be patient, I’ll be there in a m
oment.” The man spoke excellent English, though strongly accented. He leaned forward, his eyeglasses flashing back reflections of twinkling glass balls and tinfoil strips on the great Christmas tree. Dozens of white candles, unlit, decorated the limbs. The tree stood at the back of a vast foyer, by a broad staircase.

  The man laid his right hand on Pauli’s shoulder. A plain gold ring gleamed. The right hand was the traditional hand for wedding rings in Germany. Pauli was reassured.

  “So. You are my nephew—at long last.”

  “Yes, sir. Your nephew. All the way from Berlin. I am calling myself—” He didn’t know where it came from, but it was suddenly there, in his head, perfect; the name he needed and wanted.

  “Paul Crown.” He gulped. “Is it all right?”

  Joseph Crown stared at the sick bedraggled boy. A smile crept out between his sleek mustache and his shining silver imperial. “Paul Crown. Yes, all right, why not? You’ve mixed some of the old with some of the new. That’s what we do at the brewery, blend ingredients to make something fine and new.” His eyeglasses glinted as he cocked his head. “I am your Uncle Joe. Come in, get warm, you don’t look good.”

  “My letter. Did it here come?”

  “Letter? No. This way, the family’s gathered—”

  Pauli put down his grip and moved toward an open double door flooded with light. Joe Crown stood aside to let him pass. He coughed and briefly covered his mouth when he caught a whiff of Pauli.

  Pauli didn’t notice. His head tilted back in awe. The foyer he was crossing rose up in marble splendor, two stories, like a cathedral. From the center of the ceiling hung a huge chandelier, hundreds of strands of cut glass beads or prisms shaped into a huge glittering bowl. In two concentric rings above the prisms, a dozen electric lamps made the chandelier wink and flash in a dazzling way.

  Uncle Joseph prodded him forward with a touch. “Come, let’s go in. Don’t be shy. The family is eager to meet you. We’ve been quite worried about you.”

  Ears ringing, heart pounding, Pauli shuffled toward the tall doors from which the light streamed and the warmth rolled in waves. Doors to a new life …

  Filled with sudden terror, he halted just inside the room. The blaze of electric fixtures beat against his eyes. From the ceiling hung a smaller twin of the foyer chandelier. People were gathered, blurry figures. It took him a moment to begin to sort them out.

  He saw a woman. Little registered about her except her stoutness, and a great mass of dark reddish-brown hair piled up on her head, and a golden gleam on her right hand. A wedding ring that matched his uncle’s.

  He saw three young people. The smallest, a boy, was burly. The older boy was slightly built, with a russet beard and mustache, quite luxuriant. All that registered about the girl was a flat chest and frizzy hair. The three were staring at Pauli. So was the servant in the apron.

  Logs blazed in the hearth of the Wohnzimmer; not the formal parlor, but the room in which the family gathered privately for talk and relaxation. Behind his aunt, Pauli saw the traditional large table decorated with red candles and green boughs and piled with packages of all sizes, in gold and silver and bright scarlet paper. On a smaller taboret there was a plate of Pfefferkuchen, traditional gingerbread Christmas cookies in the shape of stars and crescent moons, hearts and rings. Across the room he saw the Adventshaus, made of wood, brightly painted and lacquered; three of its four small stained glass windows were open. In each opening a candle shone to celebrate the passage of a week. Things were familiar. He wanted to weep for joy.

  “Look here, everyone,” his uncle said. “It’s Pauli from Germany, at last. He has a new name, he will tell you about that. You know, Pauli, your Aunt Ilsa and I were expecting you long ago. We were concerned. Was the trip especially difficult?”

  “Oh no,” he said, perhaps foolishly, but he didn’t want to spoil the moment. He stiffened his legs. Dizziness was assaulting him again.

  “I am pleased to hear that. When did your ship dock in New York?”

  “Juni. Ah—June. The first day.”

  “And you’ve been traveling ever since?” Pauli nodded. “How did you make the journey?”

  Struggling again: “Some—uh—mit dem Zug—train—but more with walking.”

  “Amazing,” his uncle said. “What a valiant effort. No wonder we didn’t hear from you. We thought that something dire had happened, a terrible accident perhaps. You’ve certainly struggled, my boy. My journey from Castle Garden to Cincinnati in 1857 was easy by comparison. I remember—”

  “Joseph,” the stout woman interrupted, “can’t we go into this later? The boy looks famished.” She stepped forward, taking control gently, skillfully, without seeming to assert herself. Pauli took to her instantly.

  Ilsa Crown slipped her arm in his. “We have Christmas Stollen, fresh and hot. You’d like a bath and a rest, I’m sure.” She touched his brow. “Joseph, he has a fever!” With another gesture she turned Pauli’s attention to a huge sofa with heavy dark claw feet and upholstery of some pale ivory stuff, delicate as a new snowfall. “Please, sit down, rest yourself.”

  Pauli couldn’t believe this. The sofa. The family place of honor. No guest ever sat on a German sofa except by special invitation. He shuffled forward.

  From a sideboard his aunt brought the delicious-looking Stollen, large and plump as a loaf of bread, with raisins peeping from the dough, and powdered sugar covering the top.

  He started to say that he’d like nothing better than a piece of the Christmas cake; started to thank them all in a burst of gratitude. Words stuck in his throat. The ringing in his ears grew to a din. Everything tilted. The candles went out, and the fire in the hearth, and all the electric bulbs, at the same time.

  12

  Joe Crown

  PAULI FAINTED ONTO THE pale sofa. He slid off, leaving dirty streaks, and bloodstains where his hand touched the fabric. There were shrieks from Fritzi, exclamations from Joe Junior and Carl. Joe’s wife covered her mouth.

  Joe Crown stared at the filthy heap on the carpet. What appeared to be bread crumbs or bird seed leaked from the boy’s coat pocket in a slow stream. Melted snow dripped from his heels, soiling Ilsa’s fine carpet with gray spots. Through a hole in the sole of one shoe, the boy’s naked foot was visible. The skin had a brown cast, as of dried blood. Fritzi said, “Papa, I’ve never seen anyone so dirty.”

  “Is he really going to live here?” Carl asked.

  “If he is, we’d better dunk him in a wash tub,” Joe Junior said, laughing.

  “We could bathe him in some of Mama’s toilet water,” Fritzi said.

  “Children,” Ilsa Crown said, shaking a finger.

  “Your mother is quite right, we need no unkind remarks,” Joe Crown said. “The boy is exhausted and sick. A bath, a bed and plenty of rest will improve him. Also a doctor’s care, if needed.” The expressions of the children suggested those remedies wouldn’t make the newcomer any more welcome. It seemed to Joe that his fears were realized.

  From the fallen boy there came a strange sound, partially a whistle, partially a long unconscious sigh of contentment. The servant could hardly contain his ire. “Frau Crown, the sofa is badly damaged. I must say at once that I don’t know whether we can clean it.”

  “Furniture is furniture, Manfred,” Ilsa said.

  “That’s right, and the boy is family,” said her husband. But even he was profoundly dismayed by the state of the newest member, the circumstances of his arrival, and the general reaction to it. As Joe Crown gazed at his nephew, he quite forgot his own admonition about language. “Grosser Gott, was für ein Anfang!”

  Great God, what a start.

  Part Three

  Chicago

  1892-1893

  I WILL WRITE YOU about Chicago next time. This young city is one of the most marvelous phenomena of America, or indeed of the world.

  1854

  CARL SCHURZ, a recent immigrant, to his wife

  13

  Paul

&
nbsp; SPACE AND LIGHT. LIGHT and space. He’d never known so much of either.

  His room was beyond believing. It was fit for a palace. It was five times larger than the cellar in Berlin. Ten! Aunt Ilsa said it had been the Kinderstube; the nursery in which Carl, the last of the children, had been raised until he was old enough to move to a regular bedroom. It was located on the second of the three stories of the enormous house. It overlooked the yard and gardens which ran north all the way to Nineteenth Street.

  Aunt Ilsa informed him of all this while seated on the edge of his large—immense!—four-poster bed. Aunt Ilsa’s English was even more strongly accented than his uncle’s. She was a stout, round-faced woman with blue eyes. She moved so purposefully, with such quiet authority, that he quickly decided she was not nearly as soft and meek as she pretended.

  She made it clear by a word, a pat, a glance, that she liked him. He felt an immediate outpouring of love for her. He felt he’d known her forever.

  Space and light symbolized the miracle that had taken place in his life. Space, light, and a real family.

  When he awoke the first time in the four-poster bed, he was covered by a duvet of incredible softness. The clean starched sheet under him smelled strongly of laundry soap.

  While he was still gazing at the room’s profusion of furniture, the patterned wallpaper, the green plants, the two tall windows with expensive lace curtains, Uncle Joe brought in a rotund man with a goatee and a black satchel. Uncle Joe introduced him as the family’s physician, Dr. Plattweiler.

  “How do you feel, my boy? Your name is Paul, nicht wahr?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Paul. It sounded so odd. But it wasn’t, it belonged to him completely now. He would be called Paul by everyone. From this moment, he would think of himself as Paul, never again Pauli.

  Dr. Plattweiler asked Paul to remove the knee-length flannel nightshirt in which someone had dressed him after he collapsed. (“We burned all your clothes, it was the only thing to do,” Aunt Ilsa said later.) Dr. Plattweiler poked and squeezed and peered into Paul’s orifices for five minutes, then turned to Uncle Joe and Aunt Ilsa.