by Michelle Cox
“Isn’t it unusual for a seminary to hire a woman?” Clive asked coolly as he walked toward the door. He put his hand on the doorknob and glanced back at the monsignor, waiting for an answer.
Msgr. Gaspari cleared his throat. “It is unusual, yes, but not unheard of.”
“Surely you have many young men who could easily fill the role of personal secretary,” Clive suggested.
“Mrs. Middleton’s son was a priest here, if you must know, but he died of polio. It was the least we could do to offer her a form of employment. She would be destitute otherwise. A case of Christian charity, you might say,” Msgr. Gaspari said in a patronizing tone.
“I see,” Clive said, still observing him carefully before opening the door and passing through.
“Your next appointment is here, Monsignor,” Mrs. Middleton said without looking back, as Clive and Henrietta made their way into the windowless chamber. It seemed very dully lit compared to the pleasant morning light that flooded Msgr. Gaspari’s office.
“Send him in, please,” called the monsignor, again now seated behind his desk.
Mrs. Middleton gave a nod to a young, nervous-looking priest sitting on one of the wooden chairs along the opposite wall, who stood up, then, and hurried into the office, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“So, which are you looking for? Liesel Klinkhammer or Teresa Wolanski?” Mrs. Middleton asked, finally looking up at Clive and Henrietta with her sad brown eyes. For a brief moment Henrietta felt a flutter of hope, thinking she saw Mrs. Middleton give her a wink, but she realized after watching her carefully, that it was merely a tick, her right eye involuntarily winking every few seconds.
“How did you know—?” Henrietta began to say.
“I can hear everything he says,” Mrs. Middleton sniffed.
“We are looking for a Miss Liesel Klinkhammer,” Clive said. “We believe she was a cleaner here.”
“Yes, she was a cleaner here,” Mrs. Middleton answered simply, rubbing the red, raw patch under her nose with a small handkerchief.
“And I understand she was taken to the hospital some time ago, is that correct? Some sort of fit?” Clive asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said slowly.
“Well, what happened to her? Did she come back? Or perhaps she’s still there? Do you know anything of her?” Clive asked impatiently.
“I couldn’t say what happened to her,” she said, picking up one of the envelopes in front of her. “She didn’t come back, as far as I know.”
“How long have you worked here, Mrs. Middleton?” Clive asked.
The woman seemed surprised by the change in questioning. “About five years, I suppose,” she said, her right eye twitching. “Why?”
“And have you always worked under Monsignor Gaspari?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered hesitantly. “Why?”
“I understand your son was a priest here. And that he died of . . . polio? Was that it?”
A wave of something rippled across Mrs. Middleton’s face, the first sign of emotion they had seen yet. “Yes, that’s right,” she said absently. “Excuse me, Mr. Howard, but if that’s all, I need to finish these.”
“What about Teresa Wolanski?” Henrietta asked softly, shooting Clive a private scowl.
“What about her?”
“Might we talk with her instead, since Liesel isn’t here? It seems she wrote at least one letter for Liesel, so she must have known her.”
“Yes, I’d say they knew each other. They shared a room in the staff residence.”
“Where’s the staff residence?” Clive asked.
Mrs. Middleton looked up at the black institutional clock on the wall. “It wouldn’t do any good to go over there now. Teresa’s on duty at the moment, working, just like I should be,” Mrs. Middleton said, picking up the whole stack of envelopes and tapping them crisply on the desk. “Please, that’s all I know, and I have to get on here.”
“Of course, Mrs. Middleton,” Henrietta put in. “We’ll be going now. But could you perhaps tell us where on the campus Teresa might be cleaning, so we can try to find her ourselves? It would really help us.”
Mrs. Middleton sighed. “This time of day,” she said, looking at the clock again, “she’s probably in the refectory.”
“Refectory?” Henrietta asked, looking at Clive curiously.
“Dining room,” he answered.
“Thank you, Mrs. Middleton,” Clive said, moving toward the door. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Middleton,” Henrietta said, following him. “And I’m sorry about your son,” she added quietly.
Mrs. Middleton did not respond to this nor did she look up, but Henrietta could see, under the desk, that her leg was shaking.
Having ascertained directions to the refectory from the still sulking Fr. Moran behind the front desk, Clive and Henrietta decided it would be faster to walk across the sprawling campus than to drive, and accordingly made their way there via a maze of pathways. At the entrance they happened upon several young students who paused to hold the door for them, and Clive took the opportunity to ask one of them if he could direct him to one of the cleaners, a Miss Teresa Wolanski. The young man shook his head, almost in an embarrassed way, saying that he didn’t know any of the cleaners by name.
It was then that Henrietta spotted an older woman with her head down, mopping the floor in the far corner of the room. She tapped Clive’s arm and inclined her head toward the woman. She felt an unexpected thrill when Clive’s face lit up and he shot her a sly smile. Taking that as encouragement, she led him across the room.
The refectory was a large, vaulted room with long tables where only students appeared to be sitting. On the other side of the room, separated by a short screen, were more elegant tables with white tablecloths at which sat a smattering of priests. Lively discussions seemed to be unfolding on both sides of the room, allowing Henrietta and Clive to pass through relatively unnoticed—but perhaps the sight of visitors and guests was a common enough occurrence to not attract attention.
The woman they approached was plump, her gray uniform dress stretched tight across her broad shoulders and her brown stockings pulled thin over her massive calves. Somehow she seemed to sense them as they neared and turned to look at them, a worried frown forming on her face.
“Miss Wolanski?” Henrietta asked tentatively.
“Mrs.”
“Mrs.,” Henrietta corrected, trying not to look at the large birthmark that covered the woman’s neck and part of her face.
Mrs. Wolanski stood up a little straighter, her mop still in hand. “What is wrong?” she asked nervously, her Polish accent thick.
“Nothing’s wrong, Mrs. Wolanski. We . . . we’re looking for a woman I believe you know. Liesel Klinkhammer?”
Mrs. Wolanski remained silent for a few moments and peered at Henrietta. “Yes?” she finally asked. “What of her?”
“She was in the hospital recently,” Henrietta began.
Mrs. Wolanski nodded.
“We were told she had some sort of fit. Was she ill? What can you tell us?”
Mrs. Wolanski hurriedly made the sign of the cross. “Yes, she had spell. Like possessed,” she said just above a whisper, her eyes darting toward the rows of priests that were filing in to find places at the long tables.
Henrietta glanced at Clive, who was standing slightly behind her with his arms crossed. He seemed willing to let her take the lead, so she went on.
“Did she often have these spells?” Henrietta asked.
“No. Never. Then one day, terrible. On floor, rolling. Like devil. I get Father. I say ‘she has devil.’ He say ‘no. Not devil. Sick.’ Send to hospital,” she said, gesturing helplessly.
“Do you know how long she was there? Did you go to see her?”
Mrs. Wolanski shrugged. “Week? Maybe two? I not go. Devil jump,” she said, gesturing from the imaginary Liesel toward herself. “I very worried.”
“Did you write a
letter for her? You speak German?”
“Yes, some. Yes, I write. Not too good, but . . .” she said with a shrug.
“Do you know where she is now? Did she come back here?”
“No,” Mrs. Wolanski said worriedly. “They send to crazy house.”
“Crazy house?”
“Yes, for wariatkowo . . . crazies. In city.”
Henrietta paused to consider this. Surely it couldn’t be . . . “Do you mean an insane asylum?”
Mrs. Wolanski nodded enthusiastically. “Tak. Dom dla psychicznie chorych. Crazy house.”
“Do . . . do you know where? Which one?”
Mrs. Wolanski slowly shook her head as if trying to remember.
“How do you know this?” Clive asked sternly, causing her to look up at him in alarm. He softened his voice and then asked again. “How do you know she was sent to an asylum?”
“I finally go. To hospital. I very worried about Liesel. I bring crucifix for devil. But she gone. Nurse tell me where she go. I forget,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Starts with D . . .”
“Dunning?” Henrietta offered, her heart racing a little at the thought of it.
“Tak!” Mrs. Wolanski said, looking up at her. “That is one. Dunning.”
“Jesus Christ. They sent her to an insane asylum?” Clive muttered.
Henrietta looked at him briefly before turning back to face Mrs. Wolanski. “I’m sorry about your friend, Mrs. Wolanski. We’ll try to find her and let you know somehow.”
Mrs. Wolanski’s face looked troubled. “Excuse, but what is name?” she asked, nodding toward Henrietta. “You know Liesel, too?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Henrietta said. “My name is Henrietta Howard, and this is my husband, Clive. We’re . . . well, actually, my sister and her friend, Gunther Stockel, are looking for Liesel—”
“Gunther from Germany?” she asked, incredulously. “Is here?”
“Yes, he got your letter . . . well, the letter addressed to his mother . . . and came looking for Liesel. He brought Anna with him. Her child,” Henrietta added upon seeing Teresa’s confused look. “He got mixed up, though, and is living in the city. He didn’t realize that she was out here,” Henrietta said with a wide gesture.
“Baby is here, too?” Mrs. Wolanski exclaimed, tears forming in her eyes. “Liesel will be so happy. Have joy.”
“I hope so,” Henrietta said. She considered telling Mrs. Wolanski about Anna’s similar fits, but then thought better of it. “You were good friends with her, Mrs. Wolanski?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, good friends,” she reiterated. “I miss her. She very sad always.”
“She came here looking for a man, I believe. By the name of Heinrich?”
Mrs. Wolanski’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. This is so.”
“Did she ever find him, do you know?” Henrietta asked, wondering why Mrs. Wolanski suddenly seemed apprehensive again.
“Tak. He find her, and then she have spell,” she said fearfully and crossed herself again.
Chapter 7
“But you simply have to go!” Melody begged. “Please, Elsie! It’s all arranged. The boys are coming in half an hour! You can’t back out now!”
“Why ever not? Clarence Frazier doesn’t give a hoot for me, Melody.”
“But he does! Or he might, anyway, if you’d give him the time of day.”
“Get Vivian to stand in for me. He probably wouldn’t even notice. And if he does, he’d probably be pleased, actually.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Melody said loudly, sitting up on her bed and crossing her arms. “What am I to do with you?”
“Must you do anything with me?” Elsie asked with a sigh, remembering a very similar conversation she once had, in fact, with Aunt Agatha. Why was everyone so determined to plot out her future? Why couldn’t she be left to her own devices? Was she so boring and nondescript that people saw her as putty—something they couldn’t resist playing with? This was exactly why becoming a nun had been so attractive. It was the only way she could think of that would allow her to chart her own path . . .
“Well, of course I have to do something with you! You’re my very best friend!” Melody exclaimed.
Given the large number of friends Melody possessed, Elsie very much doubted she was her best friend, but she let the comment go.
“Essentially we’re here to find husbands, Els; let’s face it.”
“Well, I’m not!” Elsie retorted, tossing her pencil onto the open history textbook in front of her.
“Oh, yes, this again. Wanting to be a teacher and all that. Well, you’re more than likely wasting your time. You won’t be able to work once you’re married, so why bother? Have fun, like the rest of us! You’re much too serious, Elsie. Has anyone ever told you that?” she asked, her bright eyes flashing.
Almost everyone, in fact, Elsie thought, biting her lip, including Lloyd Aston who, unbeknown to Melody, had actually proposed to her downstairs in the parlor just over a month ago, if proposed was even the right word. More like demanded she marry him, due to some apparent backroom arrangement between his father and her scheming grandfather. She had disappointed everyone, she knew, in rejecting him, most especially her Aunt Agatha, who, in a rare fit of emotion, had nearly despaired, when she’d heard the news, of ever helping her again. But like herself, Elsie guessed that Aunt Agatha’s life was likewise not her own, and she had more than once wondered what claim her grandfather must have on his daughter-in-law to convince her to be his puppet.
“Of course, Charlie and Douglas and even poor Clarence, I’m sad to say, are ridiculous dolts,” Melody continued, interrupting Elsie’s thoughts. “They’re virtually harmless, which makes them the perfect suspects to practice on. You know, for your real lover,” Melody whispered excitedly.
“For the last time, Melody—I don’t have a lover!” Elsie insisted, but the hint of a blush on her cheeks was not lost to one such as Melody. “And I know for a fact that you don’t think Douglas Novak is a ‘ridiculous dolt’.”
“Perhaps not,” Melody replied with a dimpled smile. “But you can’t fool me! I saw the hearts you drew on your paper in theology!”
“That was just . . . just something to draw!” Elsie flustered. “Not everything means something, you know,” she said with an effort at nonchalance, but she was shocked at how close Melody was coming to the truth. Elsie knew she couldn’t put her off forever.
“Come on, Elsie, aren’t you ever going to tell me? You promised, remember? Aren’t we pals by now?” Melody pleaded in a much more somber tone.
Elsie stared at her new friend, and as much as she wanted to confide in her, she just couldn’t. She was feeling increasingly cornered and trapped where Melody and the girls were concerned, who seemed to think of nothing else but boys and weddings. It was a type of anxiety that she suspected Ma perhaps suffered from as well, which explained why Ma sometimes acted as she did. It wasn’t as hard for her to understand Ma as it was for others, especially Henrietta.
“I . . .” she began, but then fell silent.
Melody gave her a look of disappointment and sighed. “Well, if you don’t have a lover, then you have no excuse to not go out with Clarence and the rest of us,” she said matter-of-factly, brushing the palms of her hands back and forth against each other. “And anyway, it’ll be terrifically fun!” she continued, her enthusiasm already rising again. “Charlie’s borrowing his dad’s motor and—”
“I’m thinking about becoming a nun,” Elsie suddenly blurted out in a panic, and then instantly regretted it.
Melody stared at her.
“A nun?” she said finally after several moments awkwardly ticked by. “No, you’re not!”
“I am. Actually.”
“You can’t really be serious . . .” Melody said with a nervous laugh.
“Why not? Don’t you . . . don’t you think I’m good enough to become a nun?” Elsie asked, her face well and truly flushed now, doubts about her self-worth creeping f
orward again.
“Of course, you’re good enough, no one could question that,” Melody exclaimed. “It’s just that . . . gee whiz, Els, a nun?”
At the sight of Melody’s distressed face, Elsie suddenly felt a wave of guilt at so meanly deceiving her new friend, but it had just come out, as it seemed the only way to steer clear of Melody’s many schemes of love for her. Last month it had been Bernie Talbot; this month the chosen victim was Clarence Frazier. She could have just told her, she supposed, that she was in truth in love with Gunther—but she wasn’t ready to tell anyone that just yet. That was something private . . . almost holy, she felt . . . and she wasn’t ready to share it. Besides, with so many unanswered questions regarding Fraulein Klinkhammer and Anna, she didn’t know what she could realistically expect from Gunther.
Just last night, she had received a late telephone call from Henrietta, relating what she and Clive had so far discovered regarding Fraulein Klinkhammer’s whereabouts. Elsie had been stunned that they had tracked her down so quickly, and she was now desperate to tell Gunther the awful news—that poor Liesel was in an insane asylum! Doing so last night after the call from Henrietta was out of the question, and this morning she tried seeking him out early at his hut, before her classes began, but he was not there. No one answered when she knocked at his door, even Anna, whom he had said he was going to extract from the orphanage this weekend for a visit. But perhaps Gunther had instructed her not to answer the door? For a moment, she considered calling out, but upon second thought, she decided it would not be a good idea. Clearly Gunther wasn’t in.
She asked various persons throughout the day if they had seen him to no avail. She had therefore been obliged to finally consult Sr. Bernard herself, who had told her, after peering over her spectacles at Elsie in a most uncomfortable way, that she had sent Gunther out on a variety of errands. She then asked for what purpose Elsie would need to address the custodian in the first place. “Oh, it’s nothing, Sister,” Elsie flustered. “I . . . I . . . my door handle is loose.”
Sr. Bernard did not answer but merely continued to stare, convincing Elsie that she could see right through the fib.