by Hazel Gaynor
I glanced at the door. Clara had cleverly avoided my question about her being at the art gallery with Edward yesterday morning, but I wasn’t ready to let the issue drop. Working quickly, I riffled through the things he’d given her: a set of watercolor paints, brushes, and a small sketchbook. Nice of him, really. He clearly knew what she liked.
I pushed aside the gift and reached for my stack of newspapers. As I lifted them up, a pale blue envelope fell out from between their pages. It was addressed simply: Clara. I turned it over. The seal was already broken, the letter having been read and stuffed back inside.
I looked over my shoulder at the door again. I’d dug through Clara’s things more than a few times as a child. An older sister’s belongings were always fascinating to the younger, and apparently that hadn’t changed. She would accuse me of being a snoop if she ever found out, but didn’t that come with the territory of having a journalist for a sister?
It took only a moment to decide to read the letter.
As I skimmed over it, my eyes widened, but as I reached the end, I heard the turn of a key in the door. I quickly shoved the letter into the pocket of my slacks and rushed into the bathroom.
“They’re serving lunch, Madeleine.” Clara had returned. “We’d better hurry or we’ll miss it.”
“Coming,” I replied. “I was just powdering my nose.”
It was a ridiculous thing to say. I never powdered my nose, and Clara knew it. Luckily, she seemed too preoccupied to notice.
I pulled the letter from my pocket, folded it neatly, and returned it to the envelope. I would slip it back into the stack of papers as soon as I had the chance. Clara would never know I’d read it. Until, that was, I decided to confront her about it.
* * *
AFTER LUNCH, DURING which we disagreed about the wine, how best to cook steak, and which cheeses to request for the cheeseboard, I told Clara I wanted to spend some time in the library.
“What will you do for the afternoon?” I asked as I stuffed a few after-dinner mints in my handbag, earning a disapproving scowl from Clara in the process.
“I’ll come with you. I spotted a few art books earlier I’d like to read.”
I’d really hoped she would make herself scarce, but I shrugged and told her to hurry up with her coffee.
The library was empty except for one man who sat on a long couch beneath the large picture windows that offered impressive views out over the ocean. On the opposite wall, bookcases ran the length of the room. Clara set out to find her precious art books while I made my way to the newspaper rack in the corner. I sorted through them and carried several to a table, where I spread them out in front of me.
After reading the Washington Post and the New York Times, I flicked through those I’d found from other countries, in particular Germany’s Berliner Tageblatt and France’s Le Figaro. The French I’d learned in school held up surprisingly well, and though I didn’t speak German, I studied the headlines and photographs, piecing together the information with the help of a German dictionary I’d cleverly brought with me.
There was nothing particularly concerning happening in France of late, though Hitler’s name appeared in several headlines, including one about the Maginot Line, the wall of concrete and steel that had been extended in February, and which the French believed would stop the Germans attempting an invasion. I wondered if it could really prevent tanks from smashing through the border and found myself hoping, for France’s sake, it would work. I found several mentions of Italy’s involvement with the Spanish Civil War as well, and Mussolini’s admiration of Hitler’s military might. It was clear that Italy would join forces with Germany if things did escalate as far as another war. Dictatorships seemed to be on the rise, a frightening development for Europe.
I made lots of notes, completely losing track of time until Clara touched me on the shoulder. Engrossed in my reading, I jumped, and then laughed at my edginess.
“It’s the Jewish man I met earlier,” she said, tone hushed. “The one I mentioned to you over lunch. Do you mind if I invite him to sit with us?”
I perked up. “Actually, I’d like to talk to him.”
Clara walked over to him and showed him to our table. I felt myself thaw a little toward my sister. She was capable of being kind when it mattered.
The older gentleman was hunched slightly, wore a dark blue suit and tie with a gleaming gold tie pin, and his hair was snow white and bushy around his ears. As he sat across from Clara and me, he smiled.
“I believe you are Miss Sommers’s sister,” he said, as he extended a hand in greeting. “I’m Jacob Klein.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand. As was true to my nature, I dove right in, not holding back from the question on my mind. “I hear you’re traveling to Austria. I’ve been following the events there, and in Germany, the last few years. Things look potentially unstable.”
He nodded solemnly. “We are in trouble, I fear. Hitler is a powerful man, and he’s gaining momentum in Europe.”
“Yes, it seems so,” I said gravely. “Backing Franco in Spain with aid for his civil war and palling around with Mussolini in Italy.”
“My, you are following the news.”
“I’m a journalist,” I said, feeling a rush of pleasure at claiming the title though I didn’t yet have an official position with a newspaper, not even as a paper runner. Still, I’d written enough articles to earn the right to call myself one, and Clara didn’t refute me. I felt an ounce of gratitude for her quiet acceptance.
“Very good,” he replied. “We need more female journalists.”
I took his encouragement as an invitation to talk about it more. “Mr. Klein, have you heard anything about the Nazi concentration camps?” My tone turned somber. “I know about Dachau near Munich, but there are rumors more are being built.”
“Hitler sends whomever he likes there,” the old man said, nodding soberly. “Political prisoners who are beaten to death. People who oppose his ideas, even if indirectly. And you are correct about the rumors. My family in Vienna have already warned me about the German soldiers harassing Austrian Jews. For one reason or another, the man despises us.”
“Please be careful, Mr. Klein,” Clara said, her brown eyes wide with concern.
“I am an old man,” he said. “They won’t want anything from me. It is the younger generation I am worried about. Our women and children.”
As the conversation continued, I found myself captivated by this gentle man who seemed to carry such worry on his stooped shoulders. After a while, we switched to less serious topics, including our plans for delivering Violet’s mysterious letters.
“I’d like to know if you manage to locate everyone. I feel quite invested in the outcome!” He smiled. “If you’d like any assistance when you are in Austria, please do look me up. I’d be delighted to help, or just to meet you both for coffee.” He gave us his card. “This is my office address, near the Stephansplatz. There are many wonderful Kaffeehäuser nearby.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, accepting his card. “We’d be delighted. I’ll send a telegram when we arrive.”
“Very good.” He wished us luck, and bid us farewell, for now.
“What a lovely man,” Clara remarked.
“Yes, he is, but did you hear what he said? Things are worse than I feared. There are German soldiers in Austria!”
I hoped, for his sake, Mr. Klein was right, and that the Germans would leave him and his family be. Yet my instincts warned me that danger lay ahead, and an unsettling feeling lingered.
“Can’t we just forget about it?” Clara said, hugging her art books to her chest. “It’s not as if two American women will be of any interest to these so-called regimes. I’d like to take your advice and enjoy the trip now that I’m here, not be looking over my shoulder everywhere we go.”
I arched an eyebrow at her and folded the newspapers in exasperation. Even if the danger wasn’t immediate, I couldn’t understand Clara’
s insistence on sticking her head in the sand and detaching from the reality around us. But she’d always been that way, and while we probably didn’t have any real reason to worry, the world wasn’t a carefree place anymore. Like Clara, I wanted to enjoy our trip, too, but I also hoped we might find a little danger along the way. Fun and enjoyment were all well and good, but danger was far better inspiration for a journalist’s pen.
“I’m going to lie down,” Clara added suddenly. “I think I might be a little seasick.”
“Already? We’re hardly off the Hudson.” I had an iron stomach apparently, just one more difference between us. “Who sent the roses by the way? Chuck, or Edward?” I asked, unable to resist needling her about the extravagant display that had arrived in our room.
Clara glared at me. “They’re from Charles, of course.”
“I thought you didn’t like roses.”
“I don’t.” She looked, for a moment, as if she might say something else but changed her mind. “What are you planning to do for the rest of the day, apart from convincing yourself we’re heading for war?”
I tossed my handbag over my shoulder. “I’m going to gamble away my fortune with some unseemly men. Get a little drunk, perhaps.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Really, Madeleine. Must you?”
“Yes, Clara. I must. You should try it sometime.”
“What? Gambling and drinking!”
“Living a little.”
We parted ways, each with a frosty look.
I stalked off in search of the games room. I could hear it before I found it, the sound of laughter and good-natured shouting drifting down the corridor.
I paused in the doorway and took in the scene. The room was hazy with cigar smoke and though tables filled the space, there were only three players, all of them men. I smiled. This was the kind of adventure I was looking for, not gilded wall sconces and polite conversation over expensive white wine.
I strode nonchalantly to the table. All eyes turned to me, surprised to see a woman from the upper crust who dressed more like a man. I’m certain they didn’t know what to make of me.
“Hello, gentlemen. Mind if I join you?” I didn’t wait for an invitation and sat in the empty chair.
One of the men stared at me, openmouthed. “You know how to play?”
“Do I ever! Deal, mister.”
Ten minutes later, I’d already earned their respect and found myself with a whiskey in hand and a pile of winning chips in front of me. Clara would have been absolutely scandalized by my behavior, which only made it all the more fun.
After my third round of blackjack with an Irishman and a jovial fellow from Ohio, an impressive gentleman named Daniel Miller joined the table, and the game changed to poker. He was from Boston, he informed us, but lived in New York City, and was headed to Paris to visit a cousin. He shared a lot of personal information too easily, and I resisted the invitation to share anything in return. All I offered was that I was traveling to Paris with my sister.
“Will you remain in Paris?” Mr. Miller inquired. “Or do you and your sister have extensive travel plans?”
I regarded his dark eyes and thick frame. He was handsome, though a bit stiff around the collar.
“That’s none of your business, sir,” I replied, laying down a flush. Everyone around the table goaded each other for losing to a woman. Again. I flashed a devilish smile. “Really, gentlemen, can’t you do any better?”
The Irishman stubbed out his cigar. “You’re impossible to read, Miss Sommers.”
“And your mustache twitches when you lie, sir.”
The Irishman guffawed and Mr. Miller laughed, pulling a cigar from his pocket. He lit it with a match and puffed on the end until a tiny flame caught on the dried tobacco. I smoked a cigarette from time to time when the situation warranted it: when I was frustrated with my writing, after a particularly nice meal, or, especially, when I wanted to irritate Clara. Now, I wondered what a cigar tasted like and decided I’d try one before the trip was over.
“They say Paris is the city of romance,” Mr. Miller said, propping his cigar in an ashtray.
“Is that so.” I accepted a new hand of cards, freshly shuffled. I kept my expression blank—I had another excellent hand.
“Maybe you’ll fall in love in Paris, Miss Sommers,” the Irishman said, a grin on his face.
I snorted. “Perhaps you’ll fall into the Seine. Women do think about things other than romance.”
The Irishman laughed.
“Not much for men, are you?” Mr. Miller added.
“They’re all the same, so, no, I’m not interested, thank you very much.”
Amusement stamped his features, though I couldn’t be sure if it was because of my reply or the jovial ambiance in the room.
“What’ll you wager, Miss Sommers?” he asked, straightening his stack of poker chips.
Grateful for the change of subject, I glanced at my pile of winnings. I was up considerably. “I’ll double whatever you add to the pot.”
He tossed two poker chips in the middle of the table.
I added four.
“The gauntlet has been thrown!”
The game lasted longer than the others before it, and with each turn around the table, the tension grew until no one spoke. Mr. Miller scrutinized my face, my hands, my every movement. He was watching me for signs—my tells—but I had none, just as I’d been taught. I hardly breathed. At last, when his turn came again, he played a winning hand.
I frowned, wondering how I’d slipped.
“You don’t like to lose, do you Miss Sommers?” Mr. Miller said, his tone teasing.
I smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t know. I rarely do.”
He grinned, pulling the spoils toward him. “Where did you learn to play poker?” he asked as he reached for his nearly empty glass.
“My grandmother.”
He nearly spit out his scotch. “Your grandmother taught you to play poker?”
“Does that surprise you?” I laughed at Mr. Miller’s bemused expression and thought how Violet would have been amused to see me put her well-taught skills to good use.
“Everything about you surprises me,” he replied as he finished the last of his drink.
Standing, I reached for my handbag. “It was fun, gentlemen, but if you will excuse me, I should check on my sister.”
“I’ve never been bested by a lass, but the pleasure was all ours,” the Irishman said, winking.
“It’s getting late, isn’t it.” Mr. Miller glanced at his wristwatch. “Nearly time for dinner.” He stood as well, reached for his hat, and tipped it toward me. “You make fine company, Miss Sommers—”
“Maddie,” I said. “And thank you, Daniel. You aren’t a bad player yourself, though your bluff could use a little work.”
The trio of gentlemen chortled and exchanged a few choice words as I closed the door behind me.
I smiled to myself as I walked back to the cabin. I must have seemed like a curious creature to them—playing poker, drinking whiskey with men I’d just met, my hair wild after fighting with the sea breeze. No lady to be sure. But who cared what they thought of me? I would most likely never see them again, and that was fine by me.
And yet, Daniel Miller’s expression of amusement lingered in my mind.
Clara
Unsettled by the motion of the ship and irritated by my sister’s insistence at trying to shock me with her unladylike behavior, I was glad to return to the cabin. Our stewardess was changing the bedsheets from silk to cotton as Madeleine had requested, but thankfully she was just finishing.
“Back already, miss?”
“Yes. I feel a little unwell. I’ll take a rest when you’re done.”
Realizing I’d left Edward’s gift lying around earlier, I went straight to the desk, but it was nowhere to be seen.
“Did you see some paints here?” I asked.
“I tidied a few things away, miss. I put them in the drawer.”
&n
bsp; They were, indeed, neatly placed inside the desk drawer beside the pocket watch and my handkerchiefs, but Edward’s letter wasn’t with them. The stack of newspapers was gone.
I turned to the stewardess. “You haven’t seen an envelope anywhere, have you? It was right here. On the desk. With some newspapers.”
I had left it on the desk, hadn’t I? I couldn’t quite remember.
The stewardess looked confused. “An envelope? No, miss. I took out the old newspapers earlier with the garbage.” She reddened. “Perhaps I’ve thrown it away by mistake. I didn’t see it, but . . . I’m terribly sorry, miss. Is it something important?”
I told her it wasn’t and dismissed her.
When she’d gone, I let out a sigh of enormous disappointment. The letter was important, though I hadn’t realized quite how much until now.
I took Edward’s gifts from the drawer, and pushed my hands to the back, feeling around with my fingertips in the hope of finding the letter there. But I found nothing. It was gone, and now Edward’s words, and the address of the hotel he would be staying at in Venice, were lost. How could I contact him when I arrived? Perhaps I was never meant to.
I sank onto my bed, utterly deflated. I only hoped the stewardess had thrown the letter out because the alternative was far worse. If Madeleine had found it and read it, how could I deny anything if she started asking awkward questions? Worse still, who might she tell? She wasn’t known for her discretion and it would please her greatly to cause trouble between me and Charles.
My stomach lurched and my head thumped. I was relieved to slip into bed, pull on my eye mask, and hope I would feel better the next day.
* * *
I FELT WORSE.
Even the luxury and comfort of the Queen Mary couldn’t prevent a dreadful bout of seasickness. The world tilted and swayed as wave after wave of nausea washed over me, and I dashed to the bathroom, before staggering back to my bed.
“It’s a pity you’re marrying a man who loves to sail,” Madeleine teased. She didn’t feel the least bit seasick and was enjoying making new acquaintances and eating like a horse, while I stayed in bed, feeling like death and willing the relentless seesawing motion to stop. “And to think you brought all those fine dresses for the captain’s dinner. Such a shame to leave them hanging in the closet.”