Homeland

by John Jakes

  The dining room was spacious; sunny and darkly paneled in the same walnut found throughout the house. The table was long, the furniture heavy and intricately carved. A large painting in a gold frame dominated the wall above the sideboard. It was a landscape, picturing a snowy mountain peak with a sunlit meadow below. Paul thought he’d seen it before.

  “Yosemite Valley, California,” Uncle Joe said in reply to his question. Paul then remembered a photo card of the same majestic peak. “I bought it because the artist, Bierstadt, is a German. I’m not sure he’s a first-class talent.”

  “Oh, I think so,” Aunt Ilsa said. “The man does exceptional work.” Uncle Joe didn’t seem annoyed about the disagreement, as many husbands in the old country would have been.

  The meal was enjoyable until the moment Uncle Joe folded his napkin and said, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something important, Paul. After New Year’s we’ll make some plans for you. How much schooling have you had?”

  Suddenly tense, Paul said, “I left school three years ago. I needed to work.”

  Uncle Joe’s brown eyes bored into him. “Did the authorities permit that?”

  “Sir, I did not ask. Aunt Lotte, she and I needed money. It was a very hard time just then.” He would never say anything about Aunt Lotte’s Herren. Never.

  “All right, fair enough,” Uncle Joe said after a moment. “We nevertheless must discuss the matter. We can’t leave anything to chance—certainly not your future.”

  That week also, Paul was formally presented to the servants.

  At the head of this small group was the dour steward Paul had mistaken for his uncle; the one Fritzi had mimicked, and Joe Junior called the Melancholy Dane. He said nothing after Aunt Ilsa’s introduction, merely shook Paul’s hand with a hand that was chilly and dry.

  Manfred moved about the house in perpetual silence; he didn’t so much inhabit the place as haunt it. When he did speak, it was usually to give an order. He was inclined to be bossy with the children. Paul soon observed that Fritzi was careful not to antagonize him, and that Carl was plainly scared of him.

  Although Aunt Ilsa supervised the kitchen and did a great deal of the cooking, as wives always did, the Crowns employed a regular cook, a mite-sized widow whose full name was Louise Volzenheim. She lived on the third floor, along with Herr and Frau Blenkers. The gardener, Pietro de Julio—Pete—was Swiss-Italian. He lived somewhere in the city. Nicky Speers, the stableman-driver, was English. He lived above the stable located on the Nineteenth Street side of the property, at the alley which ran parallel to Michigan.

  Paul felt swamped by all the new words, ideas, experiences pouring down on him. Sometimes, attempting to ask a question or make table conversation, he felt as though he was struggling with Chinese, not a language he’d studied. Carl made it worse by using slang that was incomprehensible. A baseball player was “swell.” If you were excited, you cried “Gee!” But if you were disappointed, you slumped your shoulders and also said “Gee.” This was the spicy language Aunt Lotte had referred to; Paul had to watch faces, and gestures, to catch on. He sometimes grew discouraged but he refused to give up. He would speak English as well as they did one day.

  With so much to see and learn, the first week passed quickly. Saturday brought a special and palpable excitement to the household. Uncle Joe came home early, at half past three. So did Joe Junior, who seemed almost jocular for a change.

  Around four o’clock, Carl begged Paul to come out and play. Paul bundled himself into a coat Aunt Ilsa had provided and followed his cousin to the side yard. Carl handed him the baseball.

  “Throw it,” he said, crouching and raising his fielder’s glove. Paul threw the ball underhand, as hard as he could. It smacked into Carl’s glove. He didn’t even blink.

  “Overhand,” Carl said. “Like this.” He demonstrated. Paul tried it and after a couple of pitches got the hang of it.

  “Now throw it hard as you can.”

  Paul windmilled his arm, as Carl had done, and threw the ball with great speed. It smacked the glove louder than before, but Carl merely rocked back on his heels.

  “Throw it harder.”

  Joe Junior strolled into sight on the path from the formal garden—an arrangement of shrubbery, gravel walks, stone benches, and a small reflecting pool, empty now that it was winter. Everything was laid out so as to direct the visitor’s eye to the end of the garden nearest Michigan. There, framed by shrubbery planted in a half circle behind it, stood a large statue of a praying angel, head bowed, wings outstretched. Into its pedestal was chiseled the word FRIEDE. Peace.

  Joe Junior’s magnificent beard blew in the cold wind. “There isn’t a ball my little brother can’t catch. Here, I’ll show you.” He held out his hand.

  Paul gave up the ball and stepped back. Joe Junior wound up with all of his strength and power. He hurled the ball with incredible force. This time Carl blinked but he didn’t step back. Joe Junior kept pitching and Carl caught them all.

  He ran up to his brother and hugged him around the waist. “All you’ve got to do is throw the ball and he loves you,” Joe Junior said over Carl’s head. He mussed Carl’s hair affectionately. Carl leaned back to look his brother in the face.

  “Joe, we’ll go see the White Stockings in the spring, all right?”

  Joe Junior’s smile disappeared. “No, I don’t think so, kid. It hasn’t been the same team since Billy Sunday gave up the outfield for preaching. Things change.”

  With a look at the looming house, he walked off. “So long, Paul,” he said over his shoulder.

  “So long,” Paul said, too eagerly.

  Joe stuck his hands in his pockets and didn’t deign to give him a second glance.

  At six o’clock a light snow began to fall. With great ceremony, family and servants gathered at the tree. Aunt Ilsa brought a single candle in a brass holder. Manfred set up a stepladder. Uncle Joe, fully dressed in coat and cravat, touched a taper to the candle, climbed the ladder, and lit a white candle. He lit others. Soon the whole tree was aglow; the candles were held in special spring clips that kept them away from the branches, and there were sand and water buckets nearby in case of an emergency.

  The candles, white for the purity of the Christ child, were never lit until this special and holy evening. It was a familiar ceremony, but Paul and Aunt Lotte had only been able to afford a small, scruffy tree, with a few candles; two years in a row they’d had no tree at all. Paul was filled with exaltation and joy; a sense of truly belonging here. The feeling was even stronger when Aunt Ilsa hugged him against her side.

  They trooped to the dining room for the special meal of carp and a dozen appetizers and side dishes. Joe Junior and Paul were served Crown lager in gorgeously enameled steins with silver lids and handles. Even Carl and Fritzi were allowed a small glass. Aunt Ilsa drank punch. Uncle Joe floated a double-size helping of Schlagsahne on top of his coffee. Twice Paul caught Fritzi staring at him with misty eyes. Everyone was talkative and jolly, save for Joe Junior, who said little.

  After supper they sang around the pump organ for half an hour. Then all the servants appeared again, and followed the family to the doors of the formal parlor. With great ceremony, Uncle Joe produced a brass key and unlocked the doors. He reached in and switched on the lights. Fritzi gasped and Carl jumped up and down at the sight of the presents heaped everywhere.

  The servants received small gifts and cash from the Crowns. Paul was surprised and touched when Aunt Ilsa handed him several packages—Fritzi and Carl were busy tearing the shiny wrapping off their own. Paul’s gifts consisted of three shirts, a school slate in a smooth wood frame, a straight razor with his name engraved on a small brass plate—“You’re old enough for it,” Uncle Joe said—and, finest of all, a gold pocket watch.

  “Joey, what did you get?” Fritzi exclaimed from behind a brightly painted marionette theater.

  “Clothes mostly. Do you s’pose I should give them to the poor people who are out there starvi
ng tonight?”

  Uncle Joe threw a sharp look at his son. Joe Junior stared back, his bright blue eyes calmly defiant. Paul wound the pocket watch nervously.

  The Saturday after Christmas brought the eve of Sylvestertag—the feast day of St. Sylvester, celebrating the new year of 1893. Like Christmas, Sylvestertag was partially a religious holiday and partially a secular one. The Crowns, Protestants, celebrated it enthusiastically. There was another huge evening meal, and special treats from the kitchen—marzipan in fanciful shapes, and good-luck pigs made of chocolate.

  Carl arrived late from playing ball with Nicky Speers. “Carl,” Uncle Joe said, “when you’ve been outside, I remind you to clean your shoes. Your mother doesn’t want dirt and mud all over her good carpets.”

  Carl mumbled something. Firmly but gently, Uncle Joe added, “Take care of it in the kitchen, please.” Carl left.

  A moment later, Uncle Joe said, “While I’m speaking of matters of deportment, I have something to say to you, Fritzi. And you, Paul.” Paul immediately lost his appetite.

  Aunt Ilsa frowned at her husband but didn’t interrupt. Uncle Joe continued, “Fritzi, I observed you doing one of your imitations for Cook last night. I was hunting something in the pantry. I don’t believe you knew I was there. You have a marvelous talent for mimicry, I recognized Mr. Carney the postman right away.”

  Fritzi giggled and blushed.

  “His shoulders were slumped, his eyes were crossed. You caught him exactly. However, I want to point out that he slumps because he walks five and one-half miles every day, and he’s no longer a young man. As to his eyes—it’s cruel to make fun of a person’s infirmity. He can’t help the condition, so please don’t call attention to it, it doesn’t become you.”

  Fritzi looked crestfallen. She obviously loved her father and hated to incur his disapproval. His sudden warm smile took some of the sting from his remarks.

  He turned in his chair. “Now, Paul—”

  “Sir,” he exclaimed, like a recruit fervently answering a sergeant.

  “Please tuck in your shirt and take a comb to your hair before you come to the table. Orderly habits promote an orderly mind.”

  “I will do it, Uncle Joseph,” Paul said, practically doing contortions to get the errant shirttail hidden. Uncle Joe smiled at him too. Then he said to his older son:

  “Joe, I compliment you on the neatness of your beard. You’re rather young to wear one—most of them that you see belong to Union veterans, it’s rather a badge of honor for old soldiers—”

  Paul couldn’t read Joe Junior’s expression, or what was going on behind his eyes.

  “You have kept your beard looking quite handsome, which I confess I didn’t expect when it first emerged as stubble.”

  “I’ve tried, Pop,” Joe Junior said. “I know what you like and don’t like.” Paul wondered why he didn’t thank his father for the compliment. Uncle Joe nodded and resumed eating. Aunt Ilsa seemed to be examining the gold rim on her plate. Soon, enjoying his food, Paul forgot all about it.

  At midnight everyone rushed down the tall stoop and out the gate to Michigan Avenue, bundled in coats and scarves and gloves, ringing bells brought from the house, shouting to neighbors, and—in Carl’s case—gleefully setting off strings of firecrackers on the curb.

  From all over the city came the sounds of revelry—church bells, firecrackers, gunshots. Carl gave Paul a lighted piece of punk which he applied to a fuse. He and Carl leaped back, fingers in their ears. The crackers went off like the rifles of an infantry regiment. Fritzi shrieked, ran to Paul, leaped up and kissed him on the cheek. She ran away just as fast. He saw Aunt Ilsa rubbing her sleeves and smiling. Everything was perfect.

  Until the next morning, when Joe Junior appeared at Frühstück, so changed that Paul didn’t recognize him for a second.

  Paul and Uncle Joe were already eating. Uncle Joe was in shirtsleeves, finishing a cup of hot tea. “Happy New Year, son, I—”

  He stopped. He stared.

  Joe Junior had shaved off his beard. And his mustache.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I woke up and decided I was tired of it.”

  “Is that the reason? Or is it because I complimented you? Get some food, sit down, we are going to have a talk about this.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Papa, I don’t have an appetite. I’ve got to go catch a car.”

  As he started out, Uncle Joe called, “Where are you going?”

  “To Pullman, to see Rosie.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He disappeared. A moment later Paul heard the front door slam.

  Uncle Joe looked at Paul suddenly. He was a different person. Livid. His hand was shaking noticeably. When he picked up his teacup he rattled it against the saucer, spilling a little.

  Paul cast his eyes down. A family fight, just as he’d feared. A crack appearing in the smooth shining surface of life in the Crown house. How quickly he’d discovered it.

  14

  Ilsa

  EARLY ON MONDAY, THE second day of the new year of 1893, Ilsa was seated at one end of the long dining table, her usual collection of Chicago newspapers, both English- and German-language, spread in a fan in front of her. She was startled to hear her husband’s tread in the hall. She had assumed he’d already left for the brewery. Joe Junior was gone, and so were the younger children; school had resumed after vacation.

  Joe Crown came in briskly, kissed his wife on the cheek, then took his place at the far end of the table. He was fully dressed. His dark brown eyes seemed fatigued, circled by shadows.

  He broke a roll and put marmalade on it with a small silver spoon. Ilsa said, “You’re a bit late this morning, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I wanted to have a little talk about our nephew. Where is he?”

  “Outside, with Pete. The sun yesterday dried the lawns nicely. Pete and Pauli are raking out dead grass. Last night I had Pauli fetch in firewood. He works willingly. He’s eager to please.”

  Joe Crown looked up from pouring tea. “I believe the boy wants to be called Paul.”

  With a smile, she said, “Well, I can’t seem to use that name, he’s been Pauli ever since he walked in covered with mud and fainted on my carpet. What did you want to discuss about him?”

  “First, the matter of a tutor.”

  “We already agreed it’s a good idea.”

  “All right, I’ll have Zwick place an advertisement. Now as to the boy’s general welfare—it seems to me that he has a rather low opinion of himself. I sense that, it isn’t something he speaks about. He needs a trade. Respectable work, at some establishment where he can see his accomplishments, and have them recognized.”

  Ilsa sighed. “Not the brewery, Joe. Not yet. He needs schooling. Formal schooling, not merely a tutor.”

  He said nothing.

  “Joe?”

  “All right. Schooling. I wanted your opinion.” He was looking at her, and not warmly. “You reject a job in the brewery very quickly, Ilsa.”

  “No, no, not at all. But first he needs—”

  “After all these years,” he interrupted, “my work is still an issue.”

  “You know the reason. Papa—”

  “Spare me,” he said, with an untypical curtness. It annoyed her.

  “There’s also the question of reputation, which we have discussed many times. You can’t avoid it, Joe. Many, many people think of a brewer only one way. As a man who makes money promoting drunkenness.”

  Joe Crown began to tap and rub a large polished boar’s tooth hanging from his watch chain.

  “I do not promote drunkenness, Ilsa. I make and sell a wholesome, nourishing drink. A traditional drink. As good for you in its way as cheese or meat or milk. I was given my first sip when I was six or seven, I take it in moderation, and I’ve always been in excellent health. I’m sick of the way the industry is constantly accused of promoting idleness, crime, sexual l
icense, the disintegration of families. We’re charged with adulterating our product. Contaminating it with ‘impurities and poisons’—never named, of course. We’re always lumped in with the whiskey distillers—a further insult. Furthermore, I run an honest brewery. I don’t allow my men the usual drinking privilege, and they accept that or they don’t come to work for me. If someone sneaks a few swallows on the job, I can’t help it.”

  “You employ three spending agents.”

  “Blast it, woman, Dolph Hix and his men are sales agents.”

  “Sales agent, it’s a fine title. But Dolph and the others still carry rolls of cash, which you provide, and they spend the money in saloons, buying sample steins of Crown’s for the house.”

  He pushed his teacup away. His face was red above his silver imperial. “This is a fruitless discussion. Each time we have it, we end up in the same deadlock.”

  “That’s true, but I can’t help my feelings about—”

  “Excuse me, Ilsa, I’m already behind schedule. I won’t be home for dinner today. Goodbye.”

  He didn’t stop at her end of the table to give her a second kiss, as he usually did on his way out. He left the room with an aggrieved air. Ilsa heard the back door of the house close loudly.

  She was both annoyed and sad. She really didn’t like to make Joe angry, or hurt his pride. But she had her own opinions and convictions. At age twenty, a proper German girl in Cincinnati, she would have kept them deeply hidden. No longer.

  Ilsa was almost sure that her husband was again descending into one of his dark phases. At least twice a year he went south by himself. He said it was to look over a particular town for a possible brewery agency, or to check on certain investments he had in the state of South Carolina. He usually took his trips after a period of mounting stress, or some setback in the business.