Homeland

by John Jakes

  Josef moved in with a family from their church, and so did his brother and his sister. They lived that way for several years, passed from family to long-suffering family like parcels no one claimed. In 1855, embittered about Germany, the cruelty of its rulers, the hopelessness of life there, Josef began to listen to stories about America, and to save his money. In 1857, at fifteen, he left Aalen forever. His sister Charlotte was only ten when he said goodbye. Gerhard was barely nine and already a disagreeable boy, perhaps because he’d never known a proper father. Later, a series of vituperative letters to Josef from Gerhard alleged that their sister had become someone’s mistress in Berlin, if not an outright whore.

  Josef, who by then called himself Joseph Crown, preferred not to believe that. He never made inquiries. He did, however, stop writing to Gerhard. He didn’t even send Christmas greetings, which Ilsa said was un-Christian.

  Fourteen inches of snow fell on Chicago at the end of the first week in January 1893. On Sunday, with the temperature low and the drifts still piled high, Joe organized everyone to go outside. Everyone except Joe Junior, who had already left for Lincoln Park, to ice-skate with friends. His girl was indisposed, he’d announced at Frühstück.

  Ilsa and the children bundled up in their heaviest coats, with mufflers and mittens and boots. Joe settled for a long red woolen scarf wrapped round and round his throat over his coat and vest. He stuffed his leather gloves in a pocket because they made his hands too clumsy. He took his Kodak camera.

  “Everyone stand in a line, please. I want to take your picture against the drifts.”

  “Joe, the sun is so bright,” Ilsa said. “I can scarcely see. Will a picture be anything but a white blur?”

  “I don’t know, this is new to me, we’ll find out.”

  Joe’s fingers were numb on the pebbled black box. As he squinted, lining up his picture, he noticed Paul’s face. The boy’s eyes were fixed on the camera. The only word for his expression was enthralled.

  Fritzi stuck her tongue out at Carl, then giggled and pulled Paul’s sleeve to say something. He paid no attention.

  After they went inside for hot cocoa in the kitchen, Joe said, “Paul, please come along to the study. I’ve been meaning to speak to you all week. This is a good time.”

  Joe Crown’s study was a small room on the first floor of the mansion. Here he often sequestered himself in the evening or on Sunday after church and dinner, dealing with brewery work he’d brought home or with family matters—discipline, advice, whatever was called for.

  “Close the door, please, Paul. Sit down.” Paul drew a chair close to the desk. Joe laid the boxy black Kodak on some papers. Winter sunshine flooded the room. It seemed to cause Paul to blink nervously. Before Joe was quite ready to begin, Paul spoke.

  “Uncle Joe, how much did that cost?” He pointed to the camera.

  Surprised, Joe said, “Do you want one?”

  “Very much, someday, yes.” Paul’s English was still awkward, heavily accented, broken by frequent pauses and hesitations.

  Joe picked up the camera. “Eastman’s company offers several models now. This one cost exactly eight dollars and twenty cents. Save your pennies. Now—”

  “I have another question, Uncle. Does anyone earn money from photographs?”

  Joe thought about that. “Perhaps the printers who produce postal cards, or pictures for parlor stereoscopes.”

  “I mean—does anyone make money—pushing the button?”

  “Ah. Taking pictures. No, I think not. Not a decent living, anyway. I’ve seen a few portrait galleries around town. Pretty shabby places.” Paul frowned. “Shabby. Poor.” Paul smiled, nodded. “This is a remarkable invention, but I can’t see that it will ever be much more than a novelty. After all, how many family portraits or views of the Great Wall in China does one person want?”

  He laid the camera aside, noting his nephew’s look of disappointment.

  “Paul, I must speak to you about two things, both related to your education. I have interviewed one man who can tutor you in English, and I will be interviewing another on Tuesday. I will then make a choice. Lessons here at home will be helpful, I think.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  “Your aunt and I have discussed the subject of your welfare at great length. We feel”—she feels—“that you should enroll in public school. While your English is far from perfect—please don’t misunderstand me, you’ve learned marvelously in a short time—I believe you’re well enough prepared to understand classroom teaching, though at a lower level than your age would otherwise dictate. The tutor will help, too. Accordingly, we will start you in school as soon as possible.”

  “The same school as Fritzi and Carl’s?”

  “No, a different one, across town. I consulted with a friend of mine, George Hesselmeyer, who is on the Chicago Board of Education. There are several Germans on the Board. Hesselmeyer recommended this school because of its superior faculty.”

  “What kind of school is it?”

  “Volksschule. Elementary school. But you will be in the highest grade. There you will find other boys and girls who—what’s wrong?”

  Paul’s palms were pressed down tightly on the knees of his knickerbockers. Pressed down so hard his knuckles were white. “Sir, I am not good with studies. I don’t know why, but it’s true.”

  “You dislike schoolwork?”

  “Truly, sir—yes. The books—they are so dull. The schoolmasters also. I like to learn things about America. But freely, in the city. Walking, looking—”

  “As your whim dictates, is that it?” Sunlight was falling on the right side of Joe Crown’s face, paling it till it resembled white marble. He was no longer smiling.

  He strengthened his voice, asserting his control. “I’m afraid you’ll get nowhere in this world living by whim and caprice, Paul. You must be educated.”

  “I will teach myself, sir. Study hard alone—”

  Sharply, Joe said, “You’ve never heard the old proverb?” He spoke it in German first. “He that teaches himself has a fool for a master.” He waited. “You have something more to say?”

  “Yes, sir. My cousin, Joe, he works in your brewery. Couldn’t I?” There was a clear desperation in Paul’s voice now.

  “In a year or two, when we see how you’ve gotten along, that may be possible. I don’t want to seem harsh, Paul, but you are living in my house, you are my responsibility, therefore I will decide. You will be enrolled.”

  Softly, Paul said, “Yes, sir.” He was clearly defeated. The look on his face was one of utter dread.

  Joe Crown started to churn inside. Ilsa was wrong, he’s not suited for it. But he couldn’t undercut his own authority by reversing himself, or seeming to vacillate. Husband and wife had to present a united front.

  “It will be all right,” Joe said, more gently. “You’ll soon feel at home in school.” Paul nodded bleakly.

  “Thank you, Paul, that will be all.”

  Paul rose, replaced the chair and went out without a sound. Joe Crown laid a hand on the Kodak and sat there, frowning.

  The boy is smart. Hundreds of men educate themselves. I did it successfully. I should have resisted Ilsa. I have a definite feeling, no good will come of this.

  16

  Paul

  HE HATED THE VERY thought of school. But he felt warmly toward his aunt and uncle for all the care and consideration they’d shown him, and he didn’t want to appear an ingrate. So he had surrendered to Uncle Joe. He’d do his best but he had little hope of success. For example, unlike his uncle, who thought the study of mathematics noble and important, Paul was poor at numbers; they didn’t interest him, never would. Yes, the prospect of school was terrible indeed.

  Every day Paul learned more about his cousins.

  Carl’s favorite sports were baseball, wrestling, and another unfamiliar game called football. They were sports in which Carl could pit his strength against other boys. He loved that. He was always wanting Paul to enga
ge in a wrestling match in some forbidden place like the formal parlor. Occasionally Paul obliged. He was bigger than Carl, and stronger, but it was never a one-sided contest. Carl had amazing power in his chunky body.

  Joe Junior was less competitive, more solitary. He liked things you could do alone. He made reference to swimming in Lake Michigan in the summer. Swimming far out, against towering waves, dangerous tides. He liked ice-skating, and went often to Lincoln Park any winter Sunday when he couldn’t see his girl in the town of Pullman south of the city. Skating was hugely popular in Germany, but Paul had never learned; Aunt Lotte said they couldn’t afford to squander money on skates.

  Paul wished Joe Junior would invite him along some Sunday afternoon but he didn’t. Probably his older cousin regarded him as some stupid little boy.

  Fritzi was more openly emotional, about everything, than either male cousin. She sighed constantly. Often fell onto the furniture in a mock swoon, her wrist against her brow, which amused Aunt Ilsa. Paul thought it was silly.

  Fritzi devoured novels, and books on the meaning of dreams, but her great passion was the stage. Actors, actresses, their world of canvas and powder and illusion. Fritzi said she attended the theater with her mother and, sometimes, with her father. She said her father didn’t care for the theater much.

  Fritzi pursued Paul relentlessly. Did he want to see her collection of theater programs? Her latest imitation? Did he want a description of the divine Edwin Booth? The maddeningly handsome James O’Neill, star of The Count of Monte Cristo? What about the fiery Polish actress, Helena Modjeska, or the great Eleonora Duse? Paul had never heard of any of the actors; he said so, but it didn’t deter Fritzi.

  And she had a way of embarrassing him at the dinner table. If he chanced to make some quite ordinary remark, and accompany it with a smile, Fritzi would fling herself back and laugh as if he were the cleverest person alive. No, it was more than a laugh. It was a shriek; a bray. It caused Aunt Ilsa to sigh and Uncle Joe to raise his silver brows and Joe Junior to growl, “Oh, grow up.”

  While Paul was awaiting news of his tutor, Carl revealed another side of himself. He came up to Paul on an unseasonably warm afternoon, as Paul was washing and polishing windows on the lower floor of the stable.

  “Hello, Paul.”

  “Hello.” That English word now came to his lips with relative ease.

  “How is your watch?”

  “My watch? Fine. It keeps excellent time.”

  “Do you want to see my watch?”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “Papa and Mama gave it to me for Christmas, a year ago.” Carl pulled it from his pants pocket. The gold-plated case gleamed in the sunshine.

  “I dropped it in Lake Michigan last summer. Papa doesn’t know. It stopped running so I fixed it. I like to take things apart and fix them. Want to see?” Paul nodded.

  Carl took out a small clasp knife. He inserted the tip under the tight-fitting back of the watchcase. He pried but the watch wouldn’t open. Biting his lips, he kept prying. The cover flew back. A spring flew out.

  Without a thought, Paul lunged for it. He caught the spring but nearly stepped in his bucket of wash water. When he handed Carl the spring, Carl said, “You’re quick, you ought to play baseball.”

  Carl poked the watch innards with his knife. A tiny brass-colored gear fell onto the sere grass. Both boys got down on their knees to search. After several minutes Carl found the gear. He forced it into the case and snapped the back shut with a sheepish look. “Guess it needs more fixing.”

  Paul said nothing. Carl put the watch and the knife in his pocket. From the rear porch, Aunt Ilsa called him to come in and do his studies. Carl started away, then broke stride and glanced back.

  “I like you, Paul.”

  He ran to the house. There, Paul thought, overjoyed. That’s two. One to go.

  One afternoon at the end of January, Paul sat in the kitchen with a cup of hot cocoa Louise had fixed for him. Aunt Ilsa was busily mixing rye flour, a little water, and some old hard pieces of pumpernickel to make her starter dough for a new batch. She paused in her work to ask Paul whether he had any hobbies. He didn’t understand the word.

  “Anything you especially like to do for enjoyment.”

  He said he liked to collect cards with photos of distant places on them.

  “Ah, picture postcards. You’ll find plenty of those in America. I expect you need a way to display them in your room.”

  She assigned Carl to help him find a smooth board in the cellar. Nicky Speers located a can of paint, a neutral gray, and a brush. Helga Blenkers helped Paul hang the freshly painted board in his room with hooks and wire. It was crude, but Aunt Ilsa said it looked nice.

  With some pins she supplied, he carefully mounted the stereopticon card on the board. From her apron Aunt Ilsa produced a mint-new picture card showing mighty waves breaking on the shore of Lake Michigan. Paul pinned that up too.

  Aunt Ilsa examined the wood globe and stand. She turned the stand over and discovered the inscription of its German maker. “Pauli, I have another suggestion. You realize you are a traveled young person now. Perhaps you should keep a sort of record here. A small mark for every important place you’ve seen.”

  He was enthusiastic, so out of the cellar came a second paint can, smaller, and a delicate brush. With his aunt watching, he put a tiny dot of dark red enamel on Berlin, then a dot on Hamburg, a third on New York, a fourth on Chicago.

  “Ah, it looks fine,” she said. “It doesn’t detract at all from the beauty of the globe. There will be many more places marked as you go through life, fascinating places. I am sure of it.” She hugged him.

  He was melted by this latest outpouring of caring. For Aunt Ilsa—Uncle Joe, too—he would endure the sentence of school, even though it was sure to be hellish.

  There came trudging through five inches of snow, wearing a long threadbare coat with a fur collar and a soft brown hat with a drooping brim, Mr. W. E. Mars. Winston Elphinstone Mars, native of Genesee Depot, Wisconsin, the tutor.

  Mr. Mars was in his thirties, and pale as a new snowdrift. He parted his inky black hair in the center, and spruced up his shabby clothes with odd bits of ornamentation. A flowing pocket kerchief of flame-red silk; a large sunflower made of several colors of felt. In his pocket he carried a slim book by a Mr. Wilde, whom he apparently idolized. Paul had never heard of Mr. Wilde.

  Mr. Mars had been engaged to work with Paul in his room every afternoon from three until six. The tutor was a gentle and patient man; Paul liked him. He taught reading by putting into Paul’s hand a book called McGuffey’s Fifth Eclectic Reader, and he taught the devilish intricacies of English grammar with a slate and chalk.

  The reader contained selections from the speeches and writings of noted orators, politicians, philosophers, and poets. Mr. Mars’s instruction consisted of hours of patiently listening to Paul read aloud, slowly and laboriously, and gently correcting each mispronunciation. The tutor explained complicated words, but he didn’t insist that Paul memorize anything.

  “When you start school—probably in the second term, February—you will read aloud this way—drill this way. But you will also be forced to commit long word lists to memory. I try to be more progressive.”

  On Wednesday in the last week of January, Paul felt comfortable enough to engage Mr. Mars in a personal conversation, to find out whether teaching was all that he did.

  “Oh, no, I have had many positions, though I think I am best at pedagogy. Some time ago I decided that my purpose on this earth is to experience the beautiful in life. Employment, food, the necessity to wash and dress each morning—all else is but the means to a sublime end.”

  Baffled, Paul said, “I’ll read some more.”

  That evening, as Mr. Mars was putting on his overcoat and hat in the lower hall, Paul listened from the upper landing while the tutor spoke with Joe Junior. He referred to a “new age of truth and beauty.”

  “Hell,” Joe Junior sai
d, daringly, “the only new age we’ll see is a new age of revolution in the streets.”

  “That is an ugly thought, young man. Only beautiful thoughts make life itself beautiful.”

  Joe Junior contradicted him by uttering another word, even more daring. Mr. Mars left in a huff, slamming the door. Joe Junior slapped his knee and laughed. How worldly his cousin was, Paul thought, leaning his cheek against the hard polished banister.

  That same night, Uncle Joe called Paul to the study again. He stood in front of his uncle’s chair, nervous, as he always was in this room.

  “I have made a further decision about your schooling, Paul. Let me explain. Long before your aunt and I came to Chicago, Germans were building excellent private schools to educate their children. Those schools are still thriving. They are unquestionably better than the public schools in most respects. Still, I consider them elitist—elite, it’s the same word in either language.”

  Paul nodded.

  “A public school is more democratic. This family is American by choice, therefore Fritzi attends public school. Carl also. Joseph Junior attended one until we were forced to put him into private schools. With equal lack of success.”

  He was quiet a moment, his lips pursed. His hand fell away from the boar’s tooth, which he’d been rubbing.

  “Public schools in Chicago—I might say the whole country—badly need an overhaul. They teach almost no science, which is criminal in this age of industry and invention. They don’t have physical training or sports programs. Nevertheless—your aunt agrees with me—it will be a public school for you.”

  Paul waited.

  “Today I spoke by telephone with the principal of the school you will attend. He understands your situation, that you are a newcomer. He will see to it that you receive special attention, and are placed in the right class. Next Monday morning I will accompany you to school in our carriage—don’t worry, I’ll go no further than the office, to sign any necessary papers. After that, you will ride the streetcar to and from school.” Uncle Joe paused. “Do you have anything to say?”