by John Jakes
“I can’t decide what to do next, my dear Ilsa. I’m mad to study plein air painting in Provence. Or sail to the Hebrides. I’ve always wanted to visit Japan to see Kabuki theater—all those chesty men playing fragile geishas, it’s too much! Of course I could settle down at a spa and read Count Tolstoy’s War and Peace to the end. I’ve started it nine times. Right now I’m having hellish difficulty with a book called The Interpretation of Dreams. It’s very controversial. Written by some Viennese alienist no one has heard of …”
Aunt Ilsa was enraptured. Or, possibly, overwhelmed.
Paul next observed Miss Fishburne speaking to the formidable Mrs. Rooney, waving her champagne glass for emphasis.
“Take some unsolicited advice, Lucille. Be very nice to your husband or someone may snatch him away. I find him utterly charming. Rather like a leprechaun with brains.”
Shortly thereafter, Miss Fishburne joined Julie while the waiters brought in hot coffee and glasses of schnapps. Julie and her aunt discussed Nell. Julie’s aunt was twirling yet another full glass of champagne.
“Better you don’t have a mother any more, that’s my opinion. My dear sick sister was never remotely fitted for the role.” Julie barely had time to agree before Fritzi pulled her chair next to theirs. Fritzi had been trailing Julie’s aunt since they met, because Miss Fishburne had seen every noted actor and actress in America and Europe. Henry Irving, Salvini, Ada Rehan, Sarah Bernhardt. William Gillette, famous for his spellbinding personation of Sherlock Holmes. Tyrone Power and Beerbohm Tree and Joe Jefferson and Ellen Terry and Maude Adams and Richard Mansfield and Mrs. Fiske and Mrs. Leslie Carter and a young beauty named Ethel Barrymore, related to Mrs. John Drew. And Ethel’s brothers, Lionel and John.
Fritzi was agog. “Mrs. John Drew is the only famous one I’ve met.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll meet them all,” Miss Fishburne assured her.
Julie said, “You’ll be one of them, Fritzi. People will be wanting to meet you.”
“Fritzi,” Paul said from down the table. “I have a surprise. I saved it until tonight.”
“A surprise for me? What is it?”
“Day before yesterday, the post brought a letter from Michael. He mentions a friend named Stanislavski, who’s operating an extraordinary new art theater in Moscow with a partner, a well-regarded playwright and acting teacher. The two hope to start their own school; so Michael wrote to them, about you, some time ago. His letter yesterday says that when they’re ready to accept their first class of apprentices, they’d be pleased to give your application every consideration—assuming you’d have the wherewithal to travel to Moscow.”
“Oh—oh.” Scarlet with excitement, Fritzi pressed her palms to her face; Paul thought she might swoon. “That’s so exciting, Paul. What do they mean by wherewithal?”
“Money,” Uncle Joe said dryly. “Steamer and rail fare. Little incidentals like food and clothing and shelter.”
“I’ll get it, and I’ll go. It may surprise you, Papa, but I’ve heard of this new Moscow company. The most advanced in the world, everyone says.”
“Everyone you know,” Carl said loudly. “I never heard of it.”
“Well, I suppose we could help finance a trip at the appropriate time,” Uncle Joe mused, reaching for his schnapps. Fritzi ran over to kiss him, and then Paul.
Paul lit a third cigar. Uncle Joe hadn’t said much to Shadow so far, probably deeming him too raffish. Now Paul watched Shadow weave around the table with a tall glass of Crown’s. The colonel stopped to toast Uncle Joe.
“To you, sir. This is the best fu—uh, most delectable lager beer I’ve ever tasted. I’m converted. A Crown man forever.”
“Is that a fact? Excellent, Colonel. You must tell me about this picture business you’re in. Please, sit down.” Uncle Joe indicated a chair, which was all the invitation Shadow needed. Seated, he flung an arm over Uncle Joe’s back, startling him.
“Well, General, I’m in what you’d call a transitional phase. I want to shift out of exhibition into production. Widen my distribution of Luxograph pictures. Organize more camera teams. I’ll never find another operator as good as Dutch, but maybe I’ll turn up some close seconds.”
“Why this change, may I ask?”
“In production the numbers work out better.”
“Numbers. Ah. Can you give me an example?”
Shadow snatched a pencil from an inner pocket and scribbled on a menu at furious speed. Soon Uncle Joe was leaning down next to him. Their heads were practically touching. Paul laughed.
A few minutes later, Paul excused himself to visit the gentlemen’s. On his way back through the main dining room, he was startled to see Uncle Joe standing in an aisle, red-faced, in some kind of confrontation with Hexhammer, the newspaper editor.
117
The General
HEXHAMMER INTERCEPTED JOE WHEN he was on his way to the gentlemen’s. The younger man was neatly dressed, as always. This evening there was an addition: a wide red-and-black ribbon around his neck, with a bronze-finished medallion hanging from it. The medallion bore an embossed double eagle, the symbol of Prussia.
Hexhammer bowed. “Herr General Crown. I understand that honorific has been yours ever since the Spanish war.”
Ignoring the mild sarcasm, Joe said, “That is true.”
“Celebrating with your family, as I am with mine?”
“Yes. Is that a decoration, Oskar?”
“Indeed so. The Order of the Red Eagle, Fourth Class. Bestowed by the Kaiser himself, for special services to the Pan-German League. We are very active, here and in the fatherland. In Berlin, the league is undertaking an elaborate study to establish, scientifically and unequivocally, that the pure-blooded German male or female is distinct from all other racial types, mentally and physically.”
“Distinct, and superior?”
“I’m confident the evidence will show that, yes. These are exciting times. At the urging of Admiral von Tirpitz, and with the wholehearted endorsement of His Majesty, the Reichstag has authorized a twenty-year construction program to equip Germany with an additional—”
“Thirty-eight battleships. I do read the papers.” Though not yours.
“Loyal German-Americans in Chicago are drafting a letter of commendation, to carry as many signatures as we can secure. The letter will go to League headquarters in Berlin. In the letter we applaud the stronger navy, which in turn will guarantee stability of German colonial—”
“Oskar, excuse me, I am in need of the facilities.”
“Just a moment more. I assume you wouldn’t care to add your signature to such a letter?”
“You assume correctly.”
A little smile played on the editor’s mouth. “I wanted to be very sure, you see. Your positions will not be forgotten, Herr General. Nor your hostility. There will come a time when you’ll regret your stand.”
“Oskar—” Joe reined his anger with difficulty. “Meeting you is always unproductive. You strain my patience and upset my stomach. Stand out of my way, please, before I do what I threatened to do one time in my office. Knock you down.”
Before Hexhammer could react, Joe said, “Happy New Year to you and yours, Oskar. That’s American speech, in case you don’t recognize it.”
He marched away to the lavatory.
At a few minutes before midnight the accordionist began a familiar Neujahrslied in the main room. Almost at once, people were on their feet, swaying, bellowing the sentimental farewell to the old year.
“Das alte Jahr vergangen ist,
Das neue Jahr beginnt.
Wir danken Gott zu dieser Frist,
Wohl uns, dass wir noch sind!”
Thanking God for the year past, and for allowing them to celebrate the new …
Then Herr Gallauer and his waiters called for quiet. Herr Gallauer had obtained a ship’s bell, which he rang with a mallet while eyeing his large gold pocket watch. Stroke by stroke, the last seconds of the year were counted down.
On the twelfth stroke, people threw streamers, and pounded the tables, and shouted, “Glückliches neues Jahr! Happy New Year!” Everyone, including the Crowns and their guests, kissed and embraced and uttered sentimental good wishes.
Mary Beezer burst into tears. Willis hailed a waiter for another glass of champagne. Wex Rooney thought that a good idea and held up two fingers. His wife pulled his hand down.
Joe gave a strong hug to each of his children, then Paul, Paul’s wife, and finally Ilsa. Over her shoulder, he observed his nephew. Paul was standing with his head canted forward so that his forehead touched Julie’s. His hands rested on her shoulders. He was murmuring to her, and she responded with an adoring look. Joe had never seen his nephew so happy.
Outwardly, he too was happy; exuberantly so. He sang and cheered with the rest. But some of that was pretense. With his remark about a time of confrontation, Oskar Hexhammer had cast a shadow on the evening. Joe Crown really didn’t take the remark, the threat, personally, even though it was meant that way. He put it in a larger framework. A global framework. The fever of nationalism was high, and both his old homeland and his new one were traveling strange and unfamiliar courses. In the year of Joe’s birth, 1842, Germany had existed only as a clutch of quarreling city-states and districts, and America was a rural land with much of its wealth undiscovered, much of its industrial potential unrealized. Now both nations were mighty, and prideful, and eager to demonstrate their strength and importance to the world. Joe prayed their courses would never collide.
118
Ilsa
IT WAS HAPPENSTANCE, ILSA’S answering when the front bell rang on New Year’s morning.
Joe had left about seven, after a hasty Frühstück of coffee, salami, and a hard roll with unsalted butter. He complained of a headache from all the celebration last night, but he went to the brewery anyway, because it would be quiet and he could weed through the thickets of paper forever sprouting from his desk. He’d promised to be home by two for their annual dinner celebrating the feast of St. Sylvester.
Fritzi and Carl were still in their rooms. Ilsa hoped Carl was now too old to shoot off firecrackers in the garden. Any excessive noise in the house got on her nerves. Another sign of age.
Julie would come for the afternoon meal, but at this hour she would be at the depot, saying goodbye to Paul and his helper. Ilsa wished her nephew hadn’t left so soon. She loved having the whole family together at the table on holidays, but it was becoming impossible. That was the way of the world when children grew up.
Customarily, Manfred would have answered the ring at the front door but he was away for a week, visiting Helga’s family in St. Louis. They were Manfred’s family now; his only family. Helga Blenkers had passed away during the summer, after exposure to a chilly rain brought on pneumonia.
The house smelled of fish. Louise, who was really getting too old and feeble to prepare large meals, insisted on serving a traditional carp with the other dishes this afternoon. The young people probably wouldn’t eat it. They would already be stuffed with Louise’s Glücksschwein, the little good-luck pigs of marzipan, and the miniature chimney sweep figures baked from dough.
There was a second ring of the bell. “Wait, please, I’m coming,” Ilsa called.
She opened the door and saw a tramp standing there, supporting himself with a crutch under his right arm. She couldn’t see him clearly because of the dazzling winter sun. She wished for youthful eyesight again.
Even so, a few details registered. The man was slightly built, with the start of a small paunch, which struck her as wrong because he seemed young. Curly hair fell over his collar; a heavy beard concealed his chin and neck. He wore a patched mackinaw of red-and-black plaid, pin-striped pants that must have belonged to a discarded suit, and a cloth cap that cast a shadow slantwise below his nose. His right trouser leg was pinned or sewn up just above the ankle; his right foot was missing.
It flashed through Ilsa’s mind that Germans said the first person you encountered outside your house on New Year’s Day had special significance. Seeing an old woman meant bad luck for the coming year, a young man the opposite. What did a tramp signify? She had no idea.
She raised a hand in front of her forehead to shield the sun. “I’m very sorry,” she began; she’d recited the same litany often. “We don’t feed anyone at the front door.”
“Mama.”
“If you will go to the back—”
“Don’t you know me? Mama, it’s Joe.”
119
The General
ABOUT HALF PAST TEN, Brauerei Crown was quiet as a church.
Working in shirtsleeves, Joe was swiftly clearing his desk of some of the unwanted or unnecessary paper. Stefan Zwick had come in as well, on his own, and Joe could hear the satisfying sound of his clerk slowly and diligently typing in the outer office. Hard work was an excellent antidote for the gloom generated by Oskar Hexhammer’s predictions last night.
The telephone rang. Stefan answered, then put his head in.
“Mrs. Crown is calling.”
Annoyed by the interruption, Joe abandoned a column of cost figures and reached for the instrument. “Yes, Ilsa?”
“Joe, I have some news.”
Her low voice was a signal that something had happened. He forgot everything, rocked with fear of a tragedy.
“Tell me.”
For long seconds, there was silence on the faintly humming connection. The news was so terrible she was unable to repeat it. A dozen gory alternatives flashed in his head, but of course not the right one.
“Joe Junior. He is here.”
“Here?”
“Here, in the house, yes, I answered the door an hour ago, there he was.”
“I’ll drive home immediately. I must talk to him.”
“Joe, don’t come home. Not for a while. This time I will talk to him.”
Angered, vaguely hurt, he exclaimed, “It’s my duty, I’m his father.”
“I will talk to him this time. Remember what Carl Schurz said. There is such a thing as being too German. I will do it, then you can see him. I don’t know why our son came home but now that he has, I want him to stay if he will. I want to heal the old wounds, I don’t want them opened again.”
“But—”
“Joe.” She was so quiet. Yet there was a definite declaration; a warning. “I will do it.” He’d never heard such metal in her voice.
Now he was the one who was silent. She’d changed. The world had changed. His whole family had changed. But so had he, he realized with a mingling of amazement, bewilderment, and not a little sadness.
“All right, Ilsa. I’ll come home later.”
“Not too soon. A few hours. Thank you, my dear one.”
He put the earpiece on the hook, missing it once before he hung it properly.
“Stefan,” he called in a voice grown weak.
“Sir?”
“Close the door if you will, please.”
Not accustomed to requests so politely stated, Stefan Zwick poked his head in again. He was concerned about the look of strain on his employer’s face. He retreated at once. The door closed with the gentlest of clicks.
In Larrabee Street Joe could hear some boys whooping and playing in the cold morning air. He sat staring at the black upright telephone standing in a bar of slanted sunshine. It was a new century, in a world that was so changed he sometimes recognized nothing but a few outer trappings. Sometimes he was convinced he was a total stranger in this new world, as he was in America when he first stepped onto its soil, a young greenhorn, in the year 1857.
Well, never mind, never mind. Shattering changes had come, and gone, and the Crowns survived. He would survive. Absolutely he would. The strength of the family was his strength. And now he had a reason more compelling than any he had known for a long time. His boy was home. With the aid of lessons painfully learned, Joe would keep him home.
120
Dutch
ON THURSDAY MORNING, THE third
of January, Paul left Ollie at the hotel and walked down Sixth Avenue. There were seventy-six million people in the United States, and half of them seemed to reside in New York. Half of those seemed to be abroad this morning, despite the bitter weather. A new subway like the one he’d ridden in Paris was being dug underground, to siphon off some of the pedestrian traffic. Paul doubted it would help much.
Overhead, the Sixth Avenue Elevated rumbled and roared and blew cinders down on the unwary. In the street there was a gigantic crush of horsecars and private vehicles, a crush made all the worse by the alarming presence and honking bulb horn of a steam-driven horseless carriage. Common as they were becoming, steam- and gasoline-powered cars never failed to amaze Paul, and frighten anything with four legs.
He missed Julie terribly, as he always did when they were apart. But he didn’t miss the three-piece suit, celluloid collar and cuffs he’d worn to court, and to the party. He was at work again, able to dress in the comfortable outfit he liked because it set him apart. His shirt was khaki, matching his cavalry riding pants. For Christmas Julie had given him the newest fashion sensation, riding pants flared at the sides, a style said to originate in Jodhpur, India; he hadn’t had the nerve to put those on yet.
With the khaki he wore black boots and a long black leather coat with a heavy red flannel lining. An expensive black-and-brown-checked golf cap, a present from Aunt Ilsa, and the polka-dot bandanna of the Rough Riders around his neck completed the outfit of the chief operator.
At the corner of Sixth and Seventeenth, he turned into the large and handsome two-story mercantile emporium of the F. W. Woolworth Company. Somewhere in his rounds yesterday, arranging for filming at government sites on Friday and Saturday, he’d lost his winter gloves.
As he stepped into the store, he heard piano music. It came from a high circular platform near the front doors. The platform was completely surrounded by racks of sheet music. A red-haired song plugger finished a march, nodded to acknowledge polite applause from his audience of eight shoppers. The plugger laced his fingers together, cracked his knuckles, adjusted his stool, and played several arpeggios to introduce “The Blue and the Gray,” the most recent hit of the famous Paul Dresser. The plugger sang the ballad in a high, clear tenor.