by Michelle Cox
The little girl looked to be asleep now, as evidenced by not only her closed eyes, but also by her slack body, her arms drooped loosely around Gunther’s shoulders instead of tightly gripping his neck as they had just a few minutes before. Gunther shifted the weight of her and went on in a quieter voice.
“No one knew the fraulein was with child—even my mother, which is impressive. You would know this if you have met her, my mother. It was my mother that delivered the baby—right there in our house. She hears fraulein screaming and runs upstairs to find a big Unordnun . . .” Gunther shrugged, searching for the right word. “Mess.” He looked at Elsie again as if to gauge her understanding. “Lucky my mother was there,” he went on. “Poor Fraulein Klinkhammer was keeping pregnancy a secret, not eating much food, and baby came out little, only four pounds. My mother predicts she will not live, but, yes, she did live.” He kissed the side of the sleeping Anna’s head, bringing a smile to Elsie’s face. “Fraulein Klinkhammer told my mother that she believes baby will bring father around, this Heinrich, but, no, it did not. She discovered that he ran off. To America.”
Balancing Anna carefully, Gunther slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite Elsie, shifting carefully to find a comfortable position. Elsie couldn’t help but stare at him as he sat across from her. He was not wearing his spectacles, and she could see his fine blond eyelashes. Her eyes observed the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, then travelled lower to his blond mustache and his full lips beneath.
A warmth began to radiate through her as she watched him, and she knew then what she had long suspected; she was indeed falling in love with him despite everything. She couldn’t help it. It was inconsequential what else he might say; it simply didn’t matter. Anyone this good and this compassionate, this intelligent and caring, who could hold a child as tenderly as he held a poem was to be desired beyond any, no matter what other horrors he had yet to tell. She could probably guess the rest of the story, anyway. Obviously, the young woman fled to America after her lover, and Gunther had then set off on a quest to find her, towing the little girl along. It was admirable to be sure—but as Elsie considered it more closely, did not make a lot of sense. There were several better alternatives that came to her mind in just a few short moments; surely, he must have thought of these, too . . .
“Fraulein Klinkhammer became very mutlos,” Gunther went on, oblivious to the delicate strands weaving at that moment into a cord of love within Elsie’s heart. “Sometimes this happens, my mother says. The woman does not want to know the baby . . . becomes depressed. My mother is thinking that the fraulein should be with her family, but we do not know how to find them, who they are. And Fraulein Klinkhammer will not say. My mother, she tries to help her, but we have other cares to be thinking of. And now baby, too. Many, many nights, baby cries, but Fraulein Klinkhammer does not rise. My mother cannot endure this, and also lodgers complain, so she picks up baby and feeds her each night. Many times in night. Then one day, Fraulein Klinkhammer disappears. She leaves baby and note to say she is going to find this Heinrich. She says she is going to America and that she will be coming back for baby someday when she can.”
Gunther stopped to softly rub the sleeping Anna’s back again. “That was four years ago. She did not even give her a name,” he said sadly, and for the first time he broke his gaze with Elsie and looked down.
“Who named her?” Elsie asked quietly.
“I did,” he said, looking up at her again. “My mother insisted I name her, so I gave her the name of Anna. It was my mother’s name, too.” He gave Elsie a sad smile.
“I’m sorry she died, Gunther.”
“Yes, it is very terrible.” His voice was soft, his heavy grief still apparent in his eyes. “She should not have come. It was too much for her.”
Elsie longed to reach out to him, to touch his arm—something—but she did not. “Why did she come?” she instead asked. “Why did all of you come? Why not just you?”
Gunther let out a deep breath. “Ach. I am getting ahead of the story.” He paused as if to recount the tale in his mind and then continued. “After the fraulein left, we begin always to argue, me and my mother. We could not agree what to do with Anna.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “My mother wanted to put her in a . . . what do you call it? Kinderheim? Orphanage? She is much attached to Anna, it is true, but she predicts it will only get worse as time passes. We cannot care for her forever, she says. I argue that is only for little while, but she does not believe this. She is sure that Fraulein Klinkhammer will never return. But I insist she will. I try very much to help my mother to care for Anna, but I admit I find it hard. I am not so good at this. I am not woman, and I have much demands on my time at school. Also I am making small fixes on house each day; always there is problem.
“Finally, after about six months, we receive much welcome letter from Fraulein Klinkhammer. It says that she is in Chicago, that she has found job in a school, near place called Mundelein. She has been ill, the letter says, and that she cannot return for now. She is trying to save money, but she finds it hard. It was very short letter, written by friend, she says. She does not say whether or no she found Heinrich, and she does not ask about baby. That was all. After I read this letter many times, I understand that she is not going to come back. That my mother is right. But still we wait, hope.
“My mother becomes, then, very ill. Many weeks pass, and much of Anna’s care falls to me. Some lodgers, too, help me, take pity on the girl, but I now see how much work it is for my mother to run house and care for baby. My mother was not young when I was born. And I see that she will be weak from her illness for maybe long time. So, I finally agree that we must take Anna to orphanage. My heart nearly was breaking for this, for I have grown to love her, even then. She is already turning one year of age. We were very sad, but we tell ourselves small lie, that it is only for short time.” Gunther gave another shrug. “But we do not believe. My mother packed a bag for her, and I was preparing things to leave with her when terrible thing happened . . .”
Gunther trailed off and looked away for a moment, and Elsie was surprised to see his look of anguish.
“She had a fit,” he said quietly, smoothing Anna’s hair. “Shaking on the ground, her eyes going back. It was terrible. We did not know what to do. We . . . we were very much frightened. One of our old neighbors was there, too, and she says that Anna is possessed by devil. Schwachsinn!” Gunther said fiercely. He rubbed his brow as if to calm himself and then went on, steadying his voice.
“We knew we cannot take her to orphanage like that. So we again keep her until we can understand what is happening. I take her to a doctor friend of mine from university. He examined her and tells me that she is probably having something called Epilepsie . . . epilepsy? I tell him the whole story and our plan to take her to orphanage. He agrees this would be for the best, but he warned me about the new Nazi laws under Herr Hitler calling for the Sterilisation . . . sterilization of the feebleminded. He tells me that in any type of institution, even in orphanage, Anna would probably be early victim. Not only that, he says, but many people have fear that this awfulness might go beyond sterilizing into something of more seriousness . . . maybe killing . . . murdering. I . . . I cannot believe this. It was ridiculous. Wahnsinn! How can this be? So I do more asking about this law, and I very soon come to same understanding as my friend. That our country is headed to very dark place.”
With his free hand, he reached for his mug and took a drink of his coffee, now cool. “I went to university library and find books about epilepsy,” he went on. “I learn more of what it is and how there is no cure. A few scientists predict salts of bromide and say that quiet life, good diet, some little exercise is only known treatment. Either way, me and my mother know then that we can never take Anna to orphanage, even for a short time. The authorities would know of her condition and maybe track her down later? We tried to follow what the books said—to give her a quiet, calm life. We t
ried these salts of bromide, but they only make her more ill. She fought taking them so much that sometimes it brings on another fit, so we finally stopped trying to give these to her. We tried to keep her fits a secret, but too many of the lodgers knew about them already. We asked them please to be silent about this, but,” he said with a shrug, “students cannot always be relied upon. More than them, though, we were having much worry about the neighbor, Frau Mueller, who is now hanging Nazi flag in her front window and is always asking about Anna.”
He stopped talking then and stretched his neck, the strain of holding the sleeping girl evident.
“Why . . . why don’t you lie her back down,” Elsie suggested, nodding toward the trundle.
“Ach, no. She will wake and start screaming. Best to hold her. She did not sleep well again last night.”
Elsie looked at him, her heart overwhelmed. Hesitantly, she held out her arms and inclined her head toward Anna. Gunther did not move for several moments, looking at her as if weighing the risk of transferring the girl, his face conflicted. Finally, though, he inched forward and gently placed the sleeping girl in Elsie’s arms, watching carefully to see if Anna would settle. Anna did stir, but Elsie carefully cradled her against her body. “Go on with the story,” she said softly to Gunther. “Your voice will soothe her.”
“There is not much more to say, I am thinking,” Gunther said, slowly easing back in his chair and tentatively watching Anna in Elsie’s arms. He gazed at her for several moments and then let out another deep breath.
“As time passed, things started to get very much worse. Lodgers started to leave. I suppose people everywhere are ignorant, yes?” he asked grimly. “Some of the lodgers were afraid of either the possessed girl, as she begins to be called, or the Nazis, so they went other places. Then other things not so good begin to happen. In the town.” He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Another war is coming, I am afraid, Elsie. Hitler is not the Kaiser. This is different. Much evil is already happening.”
He stood abruptly.
“Like this,” he whispered fiercely, gesturing at the sleeping girl. “Only a monster would . . . would sterilise her—or worse—because of her illness. Something she cannot control . . .” He gripped the back of the chair and bowed his head down between his arms. “Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “This is not the point.”
He stood up straight and began pacing back and forth, occasionally looking over at Elsie. “Each week we had less and less money, and we lived more in fear,” he said. “It was my mother’s idea to come to America. To get Anna out of the country and maybe back to her mother if possible. We had the fraulein’s one letter, so we were thinking that maybe we could find her. Idiocy, I know,” he said, glancing at Elsie. “Also, I read that this epilepsy can be passed down . . . hereditary? Is that the word?”
Elsie quickly nodded.
“So I am thinking that maybe Fraulein Klinkhammer has this, too. Is this her meaning in the letter when she said she was ill?” he asked, thoughtfully scratching his whiskered chin. “At first, I am thinking to make this journey on my own,” he went on. “I was not sure how my mother would be on journey, and Anna, too. I predict that both of them are not being strong enough, but I do not want to leave them behind, alone, even though I have friends at university who might help. But I have no choice. My mother insisted that we all go together. I suggest that maybe I should just take Anna to reunite her with Fraulein Klinkhammer, but she predicts I am not able to take care of Anna alone. But look at me now,” he said with a sad grin. Elsie tried her best to give him an encouraging smile in return.
“No, the truth, I am thinking,” he said with a heavy sigh, “is that she had no wish to stay anymore. She was afraid. My father, she said, would understand. And so I got tickets and visas, which took some time, and finally we left.” He stopped pacing and looked down at Elsie. “Maybe we exaggerated the threat,” he shrugged, his voice tired. “Maybe we should have stayed. I do not know. Nothing has turned out as I predict it would.”
He slumped down into the chair opposite her again. “As you know, she died on the way over, my mother. I very much grieved her, as did Anna. Very much,” he said hoarsely. “Ach, Elsie. What is worse is that it has been for nothing. Look at us. No closer to finding Fraulein Klinkhammer than the day we first arrived.”
Elsie was at a loss for what to say to this poor man in front of her. “It must have been terrible, Gunther. What did you do? When you landed, that is. How did you come to be here?”
Gunther let out another sigh. “We docked in New York and made our way, me and little Anna, on the train to Chicago. I . . . I must say I did not understand how big America is, how big the cities are. I was . . . how do you say it? Overwhelmed? I felt despair of ever finding the fraulein, but I have no choice but try. At train station, I asked someone to direct me to Mundelein, and so we arrive here. It is what Fraulein Klinkhammer said in letter, no? That she had found work at a school? I asked many people . . . many of the girls as they walk by . . . if they know of a Fraulein . . . Miss . . . Liesel Klinkhammer. No one has heard this name, they say. I grow more and more upset. Finally, someone had pity on us and took us to see Sister Bernard. This sister welcomed us in, even though we were very dirty and shabby. I did not realize this until we were standing outside her office, how dirty we are.
“I tried to explain that I am seeking Anna’s mother. She tells me that this name of ‘Liesel Klinkhammer’ she has not heard before. She is not student and not worker at this school. I am made very low by this, as I am thinking that my searching is to be nearing an end. Sister Bernard asks me then if maybe this woman is using different name? Or if maybe she moved on to different place? I have no answer to this. Then Sister asked where we are to stay, and I say that I do not know. I was no longer thinking so clear. We had just come from train station. We have nothing and nowhere to go. She has pity on me, I am thinking, and says that we can stay for time in small house behind dormitories. It is small like a hut. It is where old Hausmeister? . . . caretaker? . . . once lived. In exchange, she says, maybe I can do odd jobs for them. I agreed, and Anna and I moved in right away, that day. I cleaned the place,” he said, looking around the room, “and unpacked our things, which was not much. We have little to bring. Thankfully, I know English because of my mother. She taught me this as child. It is not perfect, I know, but it is enough for me to get by,” he said with a small shrug.
“It is very good,” Elsie encouraged with a smile. She looked down at Anna and gently brushed her fine hair back from her eyes. “Then what?” Elsie prodded, looking back up at him.
“I . . . I work very hard at new job,” he said, pulling his mutual gaze away. “Though I admit I am not skilled at jobs mechanical, but most of work is not hard. Most of it is cleaning. I think constantly about Fraulein Klinkhammer—how I can find her. But I have not much time free and no . . . no help. On evenings off, I take Anna by hand, and we explore neighborhood. I go into shop after shop, asking if anyone has heard of woman with Fraulein Klinkhammer’s description. But there is nothing. No one.
“As time goes on, Sister Bernard offered me a permanent job as caretaker if I want. I was happy with this; I have nothing else,” he said with a shrug. “But she has condition, she says. Anna, she says, cannot stay. I am shocked by this—angered, too. I say I will refuse, but Sister explained. She says that living in a hut in back of school with man who claims not to be her father is not good life for a child. There is a place, she tells me, called the Bohemian Home for the Aged and Orphans. Not too far away, on Foster Avenue. I can visit often, she says. Many children in orphanages have parents still alive who cannot care for them, she tells me. For reasons many. So they put children there until they can. Or until someone else wants them,” he added, looking at Elsie again.
“Sister Bernard is very convincing,” Gunther went on, with an odd trace of defensiveness in his voice now. “She tells me that Anna will have good food, some school, a place to run and play, l
earn better English. It is a good place, she promised. ‘Do what is best for Anna,’ she says. In my mind, I am thinking she is right. I have to admit that Anna was not doing so good. Constantly she cries for my mother. I tell her to stay in this hut while I work, but two times already I find her wandering by lake and then by road,” he said with a nod toward the front of the college, where the busy, twisting Sheridan Road lay.
“I . . . I did not know what else to do,” Gunther explained, his eyes pleading. “I did not have much of choice. Not one that I could see. So I . . . I went to this place. This Bohemian Home. And in the end, I . . . I put her there.” He looked at Elsie with deep shame in his eyes.
Elsie was just about to reassure him when he suddenly broke down, putting his hand over his eyes to hide his tears.
“After everything. All that we went through in Germany. My mother dying. The terrible trip. All so that Anna could end up in orphanage anyway. Ach, Elsie. I have failed,” he groaned, and his shoulders actually shook as he cried.
Elsie’s heart went out to him, and she wished she could think of something to say that would comfort him.
“It was all for nothing,” he said before she could offer anything. He angrily wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I am no closer to finding Fraulein Klinkhammer than I was before. She could be anywhere. Even far away from here. Who knows?”
“Gunther,” Elsie began in a low, soothing voice. “You haven’t failed. You might not have found her mother . . . yet. But you saved Anna from a potentially horrible fate in Germany. That alone demands credit and praise. Your mother’s death was not for naught. She helped save this little girl. As did you.” Privately Elsie considered the loss of his studies and his life as a teacher as worthy of sorrow and regret as well, but she did not say so. “All is not yet lost,” she said softly, though, in actuality, she did think it to be nearly a hopeless situation. “What about her . . . her epilepsy? Has she . . . has she had any more fits?” Elsie asked tentatively.