Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
“I see,” Gudrun sighed, leaning back once more, her thoughts now more desolate than they had been before she set out. It would be necessary to speak to Maxl, to ask him to apologize to the Schnaubels. And if he would not—he was often stubborn—she must attend to it herself, distasteful as it was to her. She would not allow Maxl to rob her of one of the few opportunities for friendship she had discovered since moving here.
A Benz touring car came down the road toward them, going slowly over the treacherous snow. Hässlich snorted but did not panic as Otto pulled him to the edge of the road. The driver waved in appreciation, then continued by. Gudrun turned to stare after it.
“Who was that?” she asked as Otto gave Hässlich the office again.
“I think it was the caterer from the Kristall Ufer at Bad Wiessee. He has such an automobile.” He hoped that Gudrun would not wish to talk again about Maximillian. “There are quite a few automobiles there. It’s the way these hotels are. They say that next year there will be a New Year Gala at the Kristall Ufer, just as there used to be.”
“Do they?” Gudrun’s voice was distant. “I wonder where he was going.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Otto promised her, his apprehension fading as he approached the drive to Wolkighügel. He was pleased with himself for his deft handling of Gudrun’s inquiries.
If he had seen the measuring expression in her eyes, he would not have been so satisfied; Gudrun had decided that Maximillian owed her some answers.
Text of a letter from James Emmerson Tree to his cousin Audrey.
Le Faubourg Saint-Germain des Prés
Paris
France
February 15, 1919
Dear Audrey:
As you can see, I’m still in Paris, and I think they’re going to okay my extension so I’ll be able to stay on awhile. I like this place, and it seems to like me. Maybe you can talk Uncle Ned into letting you come for a visit. I’d love to show you around the place. With the Great War over (and it looks as if they’re going to make that treaty stick, harsh as it is), there’s not very much hazard, and if you’re with me, there won’t be any difficulties with the people here. The French are a funny lot, most of them, but not hard to deal with once they stop turning up their noses at you.
I was really sorry to hear about Mrs. Collins. The influenza has been horrible here, with a lot of deaths. The trouble is, there really aren’t enough doctors and medicine yet to have ways and places to treat the disease. It spreads so fast, too. One doctor I was talking to a couple of weeks ago blames the war for it, but right now everything is the fault of the war. There was one old woman in the marketplace who told me, quite seriously, that the war had caused the shortage of eggs. She said that the chickens were not able to lay because of the sounds of the guns. Mind you, the guns have been silent for three months, but that didn’t stop her at all.
Thanks for sending me that note on my articles. There are times I wonder if anyone is reading them. I’m planning on doing a follow-up a little later on this year, so that everyone will see what the end of the war meant for these displaced people. I know that the old man in Brittany died, but I think I’ll get an interview with his son, just to wrap it up. I’ve asked for permission to visit the châteaux that were wrecked, so I can give some idea of how bad the damage has been. There are places where the owners had fine art and antique furniture that are just burned-out shells now. Most of these people will not be able to rebuild because of the costs, and because much of what was destroyed is truly irreplaceable. That’s a rotten thing to have happen. Some of these wealthy families are haughty and not easy to talk to, but most of them are willing to say how much they miss their homes and all the good things they had in their lives. It’s hard for some Americans to understand, because the war didn’t touch us all that much. Can you imagine losing not just your father and brothers and friends, but your house and everything you valued, as well? It happened to a lot of people here. I doubt they’ll ever get over it.
I haven’t done much more than work, but I do want to go to the Opera and see the museums when I get the chance. I don’t know where to begin on that, but I’m going to make time for a symphony or something soon.
I read about the airmail service between New York and Washington. That’s encouraging. Maybe one of these years they’ll have airmail service across the Atlantic, and it won’t take so long to get a letter from you. I guess they might have something like that in fifteen years or so, and I’ll probably be back at the
Post-Dispatch
by then. That airmail idea is a good one, if they can get the aeroplanes a bit more reliable. That’s going to take time, but I think it can work. I went up in one just after the Armistice, to look at the last of the battle lines, and I thought it was great. There were a couple scary times, and when the rain began we had to land, but we were up for more than two hours, and it was quite an experience. One of these days you’ll have to try it.
The first rough figures on the Great War look pretty grim. They figure now that more than eight million were killed. That’s eight million, Audrey. There’s another seven million or so unaccounted for—they’re either prisoners or missing. The wounded are more than the other two together. I heard the other day that they’re estimating as high as twenty million wounded. It doesn’t look real, does it? Who can imagine twenty million men, and all of them wounded? Can you picture eight million graves? I can’t.
Yesterday I talked with a reporter from Lansing, Michigan. He said he was over here to find put how many of the casualties were from Michigan, so he could do stories on them for a couple of the papers. He’d only got here at Christmas, so he didn’t have any close-up experience of the war. He didn’t care much about it, either. All he wanted to know is where the red-light district was and how much he should pay for what. It was embarrassing to be with him, and he comes from my own country. I began to see why it is that a lot of the French people don’t like to talk to Americans and think that our whole press is filled with scoundrels. This guy wanted to talk about two things: whores and baseball. It was awful. Here I am, a countryman of his, and I couldn’t wait to get back to the French and British journalists.
There was a little more news out of Russia, but nothing confirmed. A Danish writer had been allowed into. Petrograd for a week, very supervised, and he was in Paris on a holiday, so a few of us tried to pump him. We’d heard about the Czar and his family getting killed, but there weren’t any new details.
Did you hear that women over thirty got the vote in Britain? A British Colonel I know predicted that it could not turn out well. He said it was nonsense, but at the end of a war like this one, strange things get done. The Suffragettes are just as determined as the ones at home. A couple of them got killed during their protests, just like that woman in the Midwest (what was her name?) who stood in front of that Senator’s train so that he could not go to Washington to vote against votes for women. They said the train didn’t even slow down, just went over her. One of the women here got in front of a racehorse, and it killed her. I don’t believe most of this. I know it’s happening, but it’s not real. Colonel Bridley said that he was sure Parliament would revoke votes for women as soon as they came to their senses. But when you think of the women who came over here and did so much for the men at the Front, and all the jobs they did at home, it doesn’t seem fair that they not be allowed to vote. They’ve earned it. I hope it works out.
They tell me that Congress ratified Prohibition. It makes me glad I’m still in France. I’ve learned to like wine and cognac, and the thought of giving them up because a group of narrow-minded bigots prefer sarsaparilla, well, I think the whole notion is foolish. If all the people really wanted the country dry, they simply would stop buying beer and wine and hard liquor. No one is forcing an abstainer to drink. If a man would be happier with lemonade, all he has to do is say so. But these sanctimonious old hypocrites, with their postures of virtue, they’ll do more harm in the long run than a man who likes his glass of beer at the end of the day.
A couple nights ago I saw
Mater Dolorse.
I don’t know if many French flickers make it to Denver, but you might like this one. I’ve seen a fair number of moving pictures since the war ended, and some of them are quite good. It isn’t all just comedy over here (not that it is at home, either, but with Chaplin and Keystone Kops all over the place, it isn’t quite the same feeling as here).
Thanks for sending along Tarkington’s
The Magnificent Ambersons
, which is quite a book. I’ll pick up a few things for you to read, that’s assuming you’re keeping up with your French lessons. I’ll get a copy of Valery’s
La Jeune Parque
if I can find one. If I can’t, then I’ll try to get you a couple magazines, anyway. You’ll be amused: I’m trying to learn a little German. Crandell said he might send me to Germany if I could learn enough of the language to ask intelligent questions. So one of these days I might send you a book from Berlin. I can’t make much sense of the vocabulary yet, but I’ve met a student from Prussia who is willing to teach me in exchange for a few square meals. His own family was kicked out before the war, but he said that he was treated pretty badly during the Great War, and I can believe it.
Next time you have a photograph taken, send one along to me, will you? It’s been almost two years since I’ve seen you, and at your age, that makes quite a difference. I’m pretty much the same, but a little leaner. Must be the hard living. I was thinking just the other day that if anyone had told me while I was in high school that ten years later I’d be working for a big paper, living on the Left Bank in Paris, I would probably have laughed in his face. But here I am.
Give Aunt Myra and Uncle Ned my regards, and tell them I’ll write again in a few weeks. I’m glad the new car is working out so well. I haven’t driven a Packard, but one of the reporters from Atlanta has, and he said he liked the way it handled.
I’ll have to close now, since I’m due at supper with a couple of foreign journalists, but I’ll keep you up on what I’m doing, never fear.
Your loving cousin,
James
2
As Franchot Ragoczy entered the garden salon, his three visitors rose. “Pray, take your seats. This is apt to be a long interview and there is no reason for you to be uncomfortable.” His smile, elusive and wry, touched his mouth and was gone. “Now, then, which of you is Pfahl?”
The youngest of the three, a man of no more than twenty-two, got nervously to his feet. “I am, Mein Herr.”
“Educated at Tübingen, I see. Honors in Romance Languages. Most impressive.” Ragoczy motioned him to be seated. “And Mauser?”
The woman nodded her head. She was older than the two men, approaching forty, with stern, intelligent features. “You have my references, I think.”
“I do indeed. You’ve been a most busy woman.” He strode across the room toward the windows. “And that means that you”—he gestured toward the third person, an awkward man of about thirty—“are Bündnis.”
“Yes,” was the nervous acknowledgment.
“May I ask if we’ll be allowed to speak with your daughter?” Fräulein Mauser asked in her clear, precise way. “Surely we’re entitled to that courtesy.”
“You’re a little premature, Fräulein, if you will permit me to say so. Before you meet my ward, I wish to speak to each of you privately. It might interest you to know that I had responses from more than forty qualified tutors, and you were the three with what seemed to be the most likely and useful combinations of experience and abilities. I am not going to employ all of you, but I will be more than pleased to give you statements of recommendation,” His German was crisp and elegant, but slightly accented, foreign in sound without being obtrusively so. He looked at the painting hung over the hearth, and for a moment his dark eyes were distant.
The room was cozy enough, warmed by the fire that chuckled to itself on the hearth, but none of the tutors appreciated this. The chairs were comfortable, products of the early part of the last century, upholstered in striped satin, but the tutors found them unyielding as bricks. Gas-lights augmented the wan sunlight, but no one noticed the cheerful brilliance of them.
“Herr Ragoczy, it is customary to allow prospective tutors to spend some time with the child or children they will be instructing.” Clearly Fräulein Mauser was not going to be put off by the Graf’s good manners. “You may not understand this—”
“Fräulein Mauser,” Ragoczy said with a pleasant, unnerving smile, “I do not like being pressed.”
The men exchanged looks and Herr Bündnis’ Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Fräulein Mauser persisted. “We have not come all this way to be treated in such a cavalier fashion, Herr Ragoczy. I have had several years’ experience and I must tell you that your conduct so far has been most irregular. It may not suit me to be employed here.”
“And I have not yet offered you the position,” Ragoczy reminded her gently. “You will have to allow me to make this interview more irregular still.” He went to an antique end table and picked up a silver bell, which he rang once, then set down again. “I do not wish to be rude to you, and little though you think it, I am fully aware that each of you has made a considerable journey at my request. I’ve instructed my chef to prepare a meal for you, and when you have finished, I will want to speak to each of you, in turn, in my study. Roger will show you where it is when the time comes.” He looked up as a middle-aged man with sandy hair and steady blue eyes came into the room. “Ah, there you are now, Roger,” he said, pronouncing the name in French. “Thank you for this most opportune arrival. These are the tutors I’ve mentioned would be here at luncheon. I would appreciate it if you will escort them to the informal dining room.”