by Michelle Cox
According to proper etiquette, Karl should have announced her as “Mrs. Howard” to the already assembled personages in the room, but instead he merely gave a sort of awkward wave of his hand, made a slight bow, and then disappeared.
Henrietta sighed. She had spoken to Elsie before about holding the servants more accountable—Antonia would have been shocked by such behavior!—but it wasn’t really Elsie’s concern anymore. Not that it ever had been, really, and especially now that she had moved out to attend Mundelein College. Henrietta considered whether she should bring it up to Ma, but before she could decide, her attention was instead caught by the sight of a man seated rather close to Elsie on the horsehair sofa. They were seated at a right angle to Ma, who was perched in her usual spot in one of the velvet armchairs by the fire. The man politely stood upon Henrietta’s entering the room and gave her a slight bow. Puzzled, Henrietta looked from Ma to Elsie, who stood up hurriedly now, too.
“Oh, Henrietta!” Elsie said in a rush. “You’ve finally come! This is my . . . my friend, Mr. Stockel,” she said, and Henrietta did not fail to notice how Elsie ever so briefly touched his arm as she did so.
“Mr. Stockel, this is my sister, Mrs. Howard,” she said, gesturing toward Henrietta.
The man before her was, if not dirty, then slightly disheveled. His clothes were relatively clean but ill-fitting—a bit too big for him—and worn thin. They looked to have been well-made and of quality material once upon a time, but now were quite old and faded. He had a shock of blond hair, a trim blond moustache and beard, and the bluest eyes that Henrietta thought she had ever seen. He stood looking at her, his eyes inquisitive behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. Henrietta thought she saw kindness there, but perhaps a trace of fear, too. She held out her hand to him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stockel. You must call me Henrietta, of course. Since you’re a friend of Elsie’s,” she said, smiling stiffly.
The man took her hand and kissed it. “Please, I am Gunther. I am honored to meet you. Elsie speaks very much highly of you,” he said sincerely in a thick German accent.
Henrietta moved to the armchair on the other side of the fireplace from Ma and shot Elsie an inquisitive look, as she and Gunther moved to sit back down as well. Elsie twisted her hands together and glanced surreptitiously at Ma, inclining her head just a little, suggesting to Henrietta that perhaps she did not wish to speak openly in front of Ma, which slightly irritated Henrietta. Why had Elsie arranged for them to meet here, then? And—if the callouses Henrietta felt on his hands were any indication—why had she brought this German laborer with her? Perhaps he was in trouble? Or in need of a job? Elsie was forever picking up strays as a child, only to have to release them in the end because the family had barely enough to feed themselves, much less mangy animals. Elsie wanting to help this man in a similar capacity would be infinitely superior than any other uncomfortable explanation that had come to mind since she had entered the room, especially after she had witnessed Elsie gently placing her hand on his arm.
“Tea, Henrietta?” Ma asked, nodding toward the pot on the elaborate service set on the small table between them.
“Yes, thank you,” Henrietta said.
“You pour it, would you?” Ma asked, settling herself back in her chair. Henrietta could not help but smile to herself, even in her current state of mind. Despite the fact that she was now the wife of Clive Howard, heir to the fabulous Howard fortune and nephew to Lord and Lady Linley, and as such possessed a veritable army of servants to do her bidding, luxury cars, jewels, and houses across the country—none of that meant anything here amongst her family. Here, she was still just Henrietta.
With a weak smile, she silently poured herself some tea and then looked across at Elsie, whose eyes, she saw, were on Gunther and that she was looking at him, Henrietta could not fail to observe, in a more intimate way than should reasonably exist. Surely Elsie didn’t care for him, did she? Henrietta worried. My God, was Elsie so love-sick that she fell in love with every man that even remotely came into her life? Henrietta had known plenty of women like that, but she never dreamt that her sister would be one of them!
Henrietta looked around the room at each of them as she took a sip of her tea. Why didn’t anyone say anything?
“Well,” Henrietta said, clearing her throat. “How nice of you to join us, Mr. Stockel. Gunther,” she added when he looked about to correct her.
“I’m sorry not to have told you, Henrietta,” Elsie said, clenching her hands together and stuffing them into her lap. “Gunther thought it best if he came along, too, but it was too late to telephone and tell you. So . . . I . . . I hope you don’t mind,” she said anxiously.
“Of course, I don’t mind,” Henrietta said placidly. “How kind of Gunther to escort you.”
Gunther looked as if he were about to say something, but Henrietta again noticed Elsie lay her finger on his hand, this time as if to caution him. Gunther responded by twisting his cap in his hands. Henrietta looked over at Ma, who remained oddly quiet. She was nibbling on a biscuit and looked as contented as a cat. Henrietta thought it best to turn her attention there, since Elsie was apparently not yet ready to impart her pressing news.
“So how are you, Mother?” Henrietta asked, assuming a formal address in the presence of a third party, and sitting up straight as if to brace herself for whatever mood Ma might be in. “Have you heard from the boys? I’ve a letter here from Herbie,” she said, patting her handbag. “Would you like me to read it?” Henrietta was glad she had had the foresight after all to bring it, as the current conversation was indeed lacking.
“Not right now,” Ma answered. “I’ve one from him, too. Not many from Eddie, of course. Takes after Eugene, that one does. Jimmy writes from time to time but can’t make anything out of it usually. Haven’t seen you in an age,” Ma sniffed.
Henrietta sighed. Well, here it was, at last, she thought. Ma’s bitter callousness finally surfacing. At least she knew now how to proceed.
“I’ve been a bit under the weather, you could say, Ma,” Henrietta said bitingly. Had Ma not one sympathetic bone in her body? She had come expecting a certain level of blame or . . . or something, but to completely refuse to acknowledge what she had just been through was infinitely worse. Henrietta knew she was being unfair, however, in wanting it both ways. On the one hand, she was sick of everyone at Highbury walking on eggshells around her and insisting she rest as though she had some sort of terminal illness, but on the other hand, she couldn’t help but to feel hurt now, too, that not only was she not receiving any sympathy regarding her loss, but that it wasn’t even acknowledged at all. But how very typical of Ma, Henrietta fumed. Even in the face of death, all she could think of was herself. Why had she expected anything more?
“Least these two have been to see me since Christmastime,” she said, nodding at Elsie and Gunther. “Has a look of Stanley about him, doesn’t he?”
Henrietta was more than a little thrown off at the revelation that Gunther had already been to the Palmer Square house and had already met Ma! Whatever could that mean? And why was Ma comparing him to Stanley? Surely that was not a good sign. Oh, Elsie! Why was she forever getting herself into these scrapes? If Elsie was indeed involved with this . . . this man, it would be Henrietta who would have to ultimately answer to Grandfather. Hadn’t she assured him that by Elsie attending an all-women’s college run by nuns, she would not have even the slightest chance of romantic attachments? And yet here she was, bringing home men off the streets, apparently. Where else would she have met him? It was too much, really, even for Elsie. Something was clearly wrong with her.
“What’s going on, Elsie?” Henrietta finally asked, ignoring Ma’s jabs at her and not caring anymore whether or not Elsie wished to speak in front of Ma. This needed to be sorted out quickly.
“Well . . . you see, Gunther here is the caretaker at Mundelein,” Elsie began in a pleading tone. “Though he was once a teacher in Germany,” she said, Henrietta not faili
ng to catch the pride with which she said it—another indication that alarm might be in order. “I . . . I did try to tell you about him that day you came to say good-bye to the boys . . .” There was a trace of hope in her voice. “Remember?”
Henrietta quickly leafed through her memories of that day and only vaguely recalled something of Elsie’s tale about a custodian being injured on New Year’s Eve, but, admittedly, she hadn’t been paying much attention at the time. It was a bad habit she had—not really listening to Elsie, she realized shamefully. It was a habit she would have to try to break.
“I think so,” she said hesitantly.
“Well, you see, he came here from . . . from Germany about eight months ago looking for this little girl’s mother. Not his little girl,” she said, looking from her to him quickly, “but a little girl that was left at his mother’s boardinghouse. By one of the lodgers. Her name is Liesel Klinkhammer—the mother, that is. The little girl is Anna.”
Henrietta was having a hard time following.
“We need to find her, you see,” Elsie rushed on. “This Liesel. So we, well, I thought that maybe you and Clive could help?” Elsie’s voice was getting higher and more faint as she spoke. “You know, with the new detective agency,” she said quietly, shooting a glance at Ma.
“Detective agency?” Ma blurted out. “I thought he gave all that up!”
“Well, sort of, but—” Henrietta began before Elsie interrupted her.
“Forget that for now, Ma! It’s not important. Remember? I told you all of this before,” Elsie pleaded.
Ma gave a sniff, but she fell miraculously silent, Elsie’s firm handling of Ma surprising Henrietta.
“Anyway, this little Anna needs help, Henrietta. We need to find her mother.”
“What sort of help?” Henrietta asked, intrigued, looking around. “Is she here as well?”
“No, she’s at an orphanage on Foster Avenue.”
“The Bohemian Home?” Ma broke in unexpectedly, looking up from her plate of cookies.
“That’s right, Ma; it is. But she’s epileptic, apparently,” Elsie said, turning her attention back to Henrietta. “And they won’t keep her much longer if her fits continue. They want to send her to some sort of place for the feebleminded. Like an asylum.”
“It would probably be Dunning they would send her to,” Ma said matter-of-factly. “That’s an awful place. For anyone, much less a child.”
Henrietta looked from one to the other, baffled by what was unfolding. None of this made sense. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Elsie. Why don’t you start from the beginning?” she suggested.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Elsie said, clasping her hands together nervously and taking a deep breath, collecting her thoughts. She then proceeded to tell Henrietta, and Ma by default, the whole of Anna’s story, just as Gunther had told her, including how, based on a letter he had received from Fraulein Klinkhammer, he followed her here to Chicago. They felt it important, Elsie explained, to find this Fraulein Klinkhammer, perhaps if not to immediately reunite mother and child then to at least discover if she might be able to shed some light on Anna’s epilepsy, and to likewise inquire if she herself was subject to similar episodes.
“If you could help, Mrs. Howard, in any way, I would be very much grateful. I . . . I cannot pay you just at the moment, but I will find a way,” Gunther said when Elsie was finished. It was the first he had spoken since they had been introduced. “If not for me then maybe for Anna. The Bohemian Home is not so bad, though they say she cries for my mother, even still—but she cannot go to asylum. Please,” he begged, looking so morose that Henrietta felt she might suddenly cry, as tears were never far from the surface these days.
“Yes, of course I’ll help you,” she said softly. “If I can.” She paused, thinking. Could she and Clive really find this woman? It seemed an impossible task, and yet isn’t this what detective work was? It might be good for Clive to have a challenge, she reasoned hopefully. Surely, he would know how to go about it. “It might be best to ask Clive,” Henrietta said to Elsie.
“But don’t you have any ideas?” Elsie asked. “Maybe just to get us started?”
Henrietta touched her finger to her lips, thinking. “Well. You say that you received one letter from Liesel while you were still in Germany, correct?” she asked Gunther.
He nodded.
“And in the letter, she says she is working at a school near Mundelein?”
Gunther nodded again. “Yes, this is why I go to Mundelein.”
“Maybe she meant Loyola?” Henrietta mused. “Do you happen to have the letter with you?” she asked him.
“I did, yes, bring it,” he said, reaching inside his jacket pocket and pulling out a creased envelope. He handed it carefully to Henrietta. It looked like it had been handled and read many times, its original crispness having melted now into a buttery softness. She looked it over. She could not read the address in German, which she presumed was his mother’s boarding house. The stamp was American, as was the postmark.
The return address caught her eye, however.
“Look here,” she said, pointing at the return. “She sent this from Mundelein, Illinois. Not Mundelein College. If she were writing from Mundelein College, the return city would be Chicago.” Henrietta held out the envelope for them to see, and Gunther looked at Elsie for confirmation of Henrietta’s explanation.
“Yes, you’re right, of course,” Elsie said excitedly. “I didn’t even think to look at the envelope. Well done, Henrietta!”
Henrietta gave a little laugh, her first in a long time. “Well, I haven’t found her yet, but this is a good clue, I think.”
“Where is Mundelein, Illinois?” Gunther asked. “Is it close by? It is different from university?”
“Yes,” answered Henrietta. “It’s also the name of a town. Outside of the city. North, maybe?” she said, looking at Ma.
“Yes, it’s north and west,” Ma responded. “Maybe forty or fifty miles or so.”
“I wonder how she got there,” Henrietta contemplated as she opened the letter and quickly perused it. The ink was faint. “Why is it written in English?” she asked.
“She does not know how to read or write, I am thinking. She says in letter that she had a friend write it for her. So maybe this is problem, too, with the information. Fraulein Klinkhammer does not know English. At least she did not in Germany. She must know some little bit now, but maybe wrong thing got written down?” he suggested.
“So this isn’t her handwriting, then?”
Gunther shook his head.
Henrietta gazed back at the letter and began to read.
May 10, 1933
Greetings, Mrs. Stockel,
I make it safe to America. I find job at school in Mundelein. It is school for priests. I am cleaner here. My friend Teresa Wolanski writes this for me. She is cleaner, too. I am trying to learn English, but it is hard and I am very much sick many times. I do not find Heinrich, and I do not think I will be going to. I think I have no hope to find him. I have no money to send, but I keep working to save money. I am being sorry that I go with no saying good-bye. You understand, I hope.
Liesel Klinkhammer
Henrietta looked up from the letter. Not much to go on.
“Well,” she said. “I can see how the mistake was made. Although, this was written almost four years ago,” she said, looking at Gunther. “You’re sure no other letters came?”
Gunther shook his head. “None that I know,” he said nervously.
“Well, maybe she did send more but they somehow didn’t make it, or perhaps you crossed them on the voyage over.”
“Maybe yes,” Gunther said, but Henrietta could tell he was not convinced. He had been a teacher, Elsie had just said, and Henrietta could imagine him as such. He seemed intelligent, and the kindness she thought she had first perceived about him seemed genuine. It made her want to help him even more. She perused the letter once more.
�
��Let’s see,” she murmured. “She mentions a school for priests. That must mean a seminary. Do you know of a seminary out in Mundelein, Ma?” Henrietta asked, turning to her.
Ma shrugged. “There might be; I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, if she’s still there, it shouldn’t be too hard to find her,” Henrietta said encouragingly. “Seems all we need to do is telephone this place. That or drive out there. Shouldn’t be so hard,” she said, though privately she confessed that not hearing from this woman in almost four years was not a good sign.
“I don’t know why you’re all so eager to find this woman,” Ma said. “I don’t think it matters all that much. Your real problem is this Anna. If she’s one that has fits, it’s only a matter of time before she has another, and they boot her out. That’s what you should be thinking about.”
“Ach. Yes, I know. You are right,” Gunther said forlornly.
“Ma!” Elsie chastised her.
“Me saying it out loud doesn’t change the truth,” Ma retorted.
“Listen.” Henrietta’s tone was calm. “I’ll speak to Clive tonight, and we’ll either place a telephone call or drive out to Mundelein as soon as we can to investigate. Hopefully we’ll uncover at least some information, or maybe even Liesel herself,” she said, trying to give Elsie an encouraging look. “In the meantime, I’ll try to think about what to do about Anna. Don’t worry,” she added, giving Gunther a smile. “We’ll think of something. It sounds to me like she should have a full medical examination. But first thing’s first.”
“Oh, Henrietta! Thank you so much!” Elsie exclaimed. “That’s what I thought, too.”