Marta's Legacy Collection (9 page)

He walked quickly down the hall and disappeared into another room.

Smells inside the house made Marta’s stomach growl with hunger. She hadn’t eaten since early morning, and then, only a small bowl of
Müsli
. Men’s laughter swelled, startling her. She heard mumbled conversation and more laughter, less loud this time.

A young and attractive dark-haired woman came into the hallway. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved blue dress covered with a white apron that accentuated her advanced pregnancy. Cheeks flushed, she dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand as she came toward Marta. “Mademoiselle?”

“Fräulein Marta Schneider, madame.” She dipped in a curtsy. “I’ve come to apply for a position.” She scrambled for her documents.

“I’m serving dinner now.” She spoke fluent German, glancing back over her shoulder as someone called out.

“I can help you now, if you’ll allow. I worked in the kitchen of
Hotel Germania
in Interlaken. We can talk about the position later.”

“
Merci!
Just leave your things there by the door. We have a room full of hungry lions to feed.”

The dining room had a long table, its straight-backed chairs filled with men on both sides, most young and professional by the look of their clothing. The room reverberated with loud talk, laughter, the clink of wineglasses, and the call for bread being passed in a large basket. Pitchers of wine moved from hand to hand.

“Solange!” the handsome man at the head of the table called out. Solange went to him and put her arm around his shoulder, whispering in his ear. He looked at Marta and nodded.

Solange clapped her hands. The men around the table fell silent. She waved her hand toward Marta while speaking rapid French. The men gave Marta a cursory glance before returning to their conversations. Solange pointed to a large tureen at the end of the table; Marta hastened to it and tried to pick up the heavy bowl. “No, mademoiselle,” Solange protested quickly. “Too heavy. Let them pass their bowls to you.”

Marta filled each with thick, delicious-smelling stew, her stomach cramping with hunger. The tureen held just enough for each man to receive one full bowl. She followed Solange into the kitchen and set the empty bowl on the worktable. Solange sank onto a stool. “You did well, mademoiselle! Not a drop spilled.” Lifting her apron, she dabbed beads of sweat from her forehead. “God be praised you came when you did. Those men . . .” She laughed and shook her head. “They eat like horses.”

Marta’s stomach growled loudly. Solange raised her brows. Murmuring in French, she crossed the room, opened a cupboard, and took out a soup bowl. “Eat now. We have a few minutes before they start shouting for more.” She rubbed her back as she sat on the stool again.

“This is wonderful, Madame . . . ?”

“Fournier. Solange Fournier. My husband, Herve, was the one sitting at the head of the table.”

Marta quickly finished her stew, mopping up the last bit of juice with a piece of bread. Setting the bowl in the washbasin, she took the pitcher on the stove. “Shall I refill the tureen?”

Solange nodded. “I need someone to help me clean house, change the linens, do laundry, and work in the kitchen.”

Marta poured thick stew. “I need room, board, and sixty francs a month.” As soon as the words came out, Marta held her breath. Perhaps she had spoken too quickly and asked too much.

“You are a girl who knows her mind and is willing to work.” She planted her hands on her thighs and stood. “Done. How soon can you come?”

“All I need to do is move the knapsack I left in the foyer upstairs.”

“Magnifique!”

“Do all of those men live here, Madame Fournier?”

“Call me Solange,
s’il vous plaît
.” She smiled brightly. “And I will call you Marta.” She put more bread in a basket. “Only twelve live here. The others come for dinner when they are in town on business. A friend invites them the first time and they keep coming back. Sometimes we have to turn them away. Not enough room.” Laughter made the walls shake. “They are noisy,
oui
?” She laughed when a man called out loudly. “And my husband has the loudest voice of all.” She tossed the last few pieces of bread into the basket. “He doesn’t speak German. Do you speak any French?”

“No, but I’m eager to learn.”

“Je pense que vous allez apprendre rapidement.”
Smiling, she pushed the door open and held it so Marta could follow her with the filled tureen.

Marta wrote to Rosie.

At last, I will learn French. I have found a position in a boardinghouse full of bachelors. The house is run by a lovely couple, Herve and Solange Fournier. Madame Fournier insists I call her Solange. She speaks German, but French is her first language. She also speaks Italian and Romanian. She is a fine cook. I will need to learn French quickly if I am to be any help to her. She is enceinte. The baby will come the middle of January.

Marta sent Mama the Fourniers’ address and asked how she and Elise fared.

Dearest Marta,

I am pleased you have found a better situation. Frau Gunnel is a woman to be pitied, not despised. We never know what another person suffers in this life.

Do not worry so much about Elise. She helps me in the workroom. She does all the cutting and basting now. My cousin Felda Braun came for a visit. She lost her husband, Reynard, last year, and is very lonely. I took you to Grindelwald when you were a little girl. You loved Reynard’s cows. Do you remember? God never blessed Felda and Reynard with children. If anything happens to me, Elise will go to Grindelwald and live with Felda. This is her address . . .

Marta wrote back immediately.

How ill are you, Mama? Should I come home?

Mama’s handwriting had changed. The perfectly formed letters now showed signs of a tremor.

Do not be afraid for me, Liebling. I am in God’s hands, as are you. Remember what we talked about on the mountain before you went to Interlaken. Fly, Liebling. I fly with you. Do not forsake the gathering of believers, Marta. It is the love of brothers and sisters that has strengthened me over the years. We are one in Christ Jesus. Let it be so for you, too. You are precious to me. I love you. Wherever you go, know my heart goes with you.

Mama

Marta wrote to Rosie.

I’m afraid for Mama. Her last letter made me believe she is dying, but she tells me to fly. Have you seen Elise?

Each day, Marta got up before dawn and started the fire in the kitchen stove. She baked pull-apart bread drenched in butter and rolled in cinnamon and raisins. She prepared two platters of sliced fruit, then filled a large bowl with
Müsli
and a pitcher with milk. She set out carafes of coffee and hot chocolate. By the time Solange came downstairs, Marta had everything set out on the sideboard for the morning buffet. Marta poured her a cup of hot chocolate as they sat on two stools in the kitchen.

“I’ve had more rest in the last month than I’ve had in over a year. You will have to cook all the meals when the baby comes.”

“I have some wonderful recipes from the
Hotel Germania
, and I know how to make the best sausage in Switzerland.”

“Herve doesn’t like German food. I will share my best recipes.” Solange winked as she sipped hot chocolate. “More to write in that book you carry.”

Marta patted her apron pocket.
“Un jour, quand j’aurai une pension à moi.”

“You are learning French
très rapidement
, though we will have to work harder on your accent.” She gave a teasing grimace.

A letter arrived from Rosie.

I have gone to your home three times this week. I met your mother’s cousin, Felda Braun. She is a kind woman. I didn’t see Elise. Your mother made no excuses this time. She said Elise doesn’t want to see anyone. Your brother attended church last Sunday. I asked about your mother and sister; he said Elise had stayed home to look after your mother. He and your father are going to Bern. Things cannot be too bad if they feel they can leave. . . .

Marta felt the tension mount inside her. She wanted desperately to go home and see Mama and Elise for herself, but winter snows had come and Solange’s baby could come any hour. Marta could not leave her alone with a boardinghouse full of residents. Torn between fear and guilt, she prayed for God’s mercy.

Each day that Herve came with the mail, Marta waited tensely.

“
Rien pour vous aujourd’hui
, Marta.”

Each day, she heard the same words. Nothing for her today.

The silence filled her with fear.

7

Awakening with a start, Marta heard Herve yelling. He pounded on her door and she called out to him. She slipped into her coat and opened the door enough to look out. “Solange?”

“Oui! Oui!”
He spoke French so fast, Marta couldn’t understand him. She waved him away and told him she would come down in a moment. Throwing on her clothes, she headed downstairs while still buttoning her shirtwaist. Men had come out into the hallway. She waved them back inside as she hurried down the second-floor hall to the Fourniers’ large bedroom. Herve had pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and held Solange’s hand. He still wore his nightclothes. Marta stood at the end of the bed, not sure what to do.

“Ah, Marta,” Solange said, but her relief was short-lived as pain made her gasp. Herve stood and started rattling off French again, pacing back and forth, raking his hands through his dark hair.

Marta gathered Herve’s clothes from the floor and dumped them in his lap. “Get dressed and go for the . . .” Marta searched for the French word for
midwife
. Solange had taught her. What was it? “
Sage-femme! Maintenant
, Herve.
Vite. Vite!
Don’t forget your shoes.”

Men talked in the corridor. Hoping they hadn’t delayed Herve, Marta stepped out. “Is anyone a doctor?” They looked at one another and shook their heads. “Then unless you want to help deliver a baby, go back to your rooms.” They disappeared like a thundering herd of mountain goats, doors closing quickly behind them.

Oh, God, what do I do now?
Pretending calm she didn’t feel, Marta came back into the bedroom. Other than one afternoon lecture at the
Haushaltungsschule Bern
on assisting at a childbirthing, Marta knew nothing at all of such matters. But she supposed she could do better than a panic-stricken husband. “Everything will be fine, Solange. The midwife will be here soon.”

An hour later, the door slammed and feet pounded up the stairs. Herve spoke so rapidly, Marta couldn’t understand a word he said. She did understand the look on Solange’s face. “The midwife isn’t coming.”

“Herve says she is delivering someone else’s baby.
Mon Dieu.
What are we going to do?” She groaned, another contraction coming within a few short minutes of the last one. Herve looked wild-eyed. He moaned with his wife, looking from her to Marta. When he started talking again, Marta cut him off and told him to boil a big pot of water and bring clean towels and a knife. When he just stood there, gaping, Marta repeated her words with quiet authority. “Go, Herve! Everything will be all right.”

Solange began to sob and speak French as rapidly as her husband had. Marta took her hand. “German, Solange, or French more slowly.”

“Keep Herve out of here. He makes me nervous. He gets upset if I so much as cut myself, and this is—” Another contraction came and stopped her from saying more. “Do you know what to do?”

Marta didn’t want to lie and claim knowledge she didn’t have. “God made women to have babies, Solange, and He knows what He’s doing.” She put her hand on Solange’s damp brow. “You’re going to manage this as well as you do everything else,
ma chère
.”

Herve came up with a pile of towels. He disappeared again and returned with a bowl and steaming kettle. When he came to the bed, Solange raised her head.
“Partez! Sortez!”
Stricken, Herve went, closing the door quietly behind him.

Solange relaxed against the pillows Marta had put behind her, for a few minutes at least, until the next contraction took her breath away. Marta worked through the night, dabbing Solange’s forehead, holding her hand, speaking words of encouragement. Solange screamed when the baby pushed his way into the world, just as the sun peeked over the horizon. Marta tied two strings around the cord and cut it with shaking hands. Wrapping the wailing baby boy in a soft blanket, she placed him in Solange’s arms.

“He’s so beautiful.” Solange gazed raptly into her son’s face. She looked pale and drained, damp tendrils of dark hair framing her face. “Where is Herve?”

“Downstairs, I think, waiting to find out if you and the baby are well.”

She laughed. “Tell him he can come back now. I won’t bite him.”

The door opened and a heavyset, gray-haired woman came hurrying in. Her face looked weary with exhaustion.

“Madame DuBois!” Solange smiled. “He’s already come.”

“So I see.” The midwife removed her shawl and tossed it aside as she approached the bed. “Two babies in one night.” She drew down the blanket to look at the baby. “Herve is bringing warm water and salt. We must wash you both to prevent infection.” She drew blankets aside and encouraged Solange to nurse the baby. “It will bring the afterbirth.” She straightened and turned to Marta. “We must strip the soiled sheets and replace them.” Marta followed the woman’s quick instructions.

Herve came in with another pot of hot water and a bag of salt. “You have a son, Herve.” Tears of joy ran down Solange’s cheeks. The midwife told him to wash his hands before he touched either babe or mother. Herve sloshed water into a basin and scrubbed past his wrists, grabbing one of the towels. When he sat on the edge of the bed, Solange gasped. Herve dropped to his knees beside the bed, murmuring endearments as he kissed Solange and beheld his son.

Feeling useless, Marta gathered up the soiled sheets. “I should soak these right away.” No one noticed when she left. When she came downstairs, she found several men dressed for work sitting in the empty dining room. She had had no time to set out the usual breakfast buffet. “
Müsli
this morning, gentlemen. And no lunch today. You’ll need to find a nice restaurant. We’ve had a busy night. The Fourniers have a healthy son. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow morning.”

The midwife came down to the kitchen. “Solange and the baby are sleeping. Herve fell asleep on the settee. You did well, mademoiselle. Solange speaks very highly of you.”

“Solange did all the work, Madame DuBois. All I did was dab her forehead, hold her hand . . . and
pray
.” Madame DuBois laughed with her. “You’ll need something to eat before you leave.” Marta prepared an
omelette
, fried bread, and hot chocolate. Madame DuBois left as soon as she finished breakfast, and Marta went upstairs to her attic room to rest for a few hours before starting preparations for dinner.

Unexpected emotion welled up inside Marta. She had never seen anything more beautiful than the way Solange and Herve looked at one another and at the perfect infant they had made together. Would a man ever look at her with such love? Would she ever have a child of her own? Perhaps her father was right: she had no beauty to offer and she lacked Mama’s gentle spirit. How many times had Papa said no man would look at her, and in truth, not one of the bachelors in the house had given her a second look, other than to ask for some needed service.
“Mademoiselle, would you mind ironing my suit?”
“How much to do my laundry, mademoiselle?”
“More sausages, mademoiselle.”

Marta put her arm over her eyes and fought tears of longing and disappointment. She must concentrate on what she could have with hard work and perseverance, and she must not long for things beyond reach. Solange had her Herve. Rosie would have her Arik. Marta would have her freedom.

She could thank God she would never again live under her father’s roof. She would never again bear the bruises of a beating. She would never again sit in silence as a man told her she was ugly, ill-tempered, and selfish.

“Fly,”
Mama said.
“Be like an eagle.”
In those words, Mama had acknowledged that Marta would not have the comfort of a loving husband or children of her own.
“An eagle flies alone.”

As she fell asleep, Marta thought she heard a voice. “Mama?” She dreamed Mama flew above her, face radiant, arms spread like angel’s wings. Elise stood below, hands raised, snow swirling around her until she disappeared.

Over the next few weeks, Marta worked such long, hard hours she had no time to think about anything but what needed to be done. Herve hired another servant, Edmee, who took over the household chores. Marta prepared all the meals for the Fourniers and twelve boarders and looked after Solange during her first weeks of recuperation. Baby Jean proved demanding of his mother’s time. After the first few days, Herve slept in the parlor.

Herve came into the kitchen one afternoon. “Two letters, Marta!” He tossed them onto the worktable. “Ah,
ragoût de bœuf
.” He lifted the lid from the bubbling beef stew and inhaled while Marta slid the bread from the oven and set it on the counter to cool. She picked up the two letters, one from Elise, another from Felda Braun.

Heart thumping with dread, Marta took a paring knife and sliced both open. She felt something inside Elise’s envelope and carefully opened the note. Folded inside were Mama’s gold earbobs.

Mama gave these to me before she died. I love you, Marta. I have asked God to forgive me. I hope you will, too.

Elise

Marta sat down heavily on the stool.

“Est-ce qu’il y a quelque chose de mal?”
Herve stood looking at her.

What was wrong? Marta remembered the dream and felt her throat close tight with pain. Hands shaking, she put the earbobs onto the note and folded it back into the envelope. Slipping it into her apron pocket, she opened Felda Braun’s letter.

Dear Marta,

It is with greatest sorrow that I write this letter. . . .

“Mademoiselle?”

Marta couldn’t see through her tears. While she was here helping Solange bring a baby into the world, her mother was dying. She dropped Felda’s letter and covered her face.
“Ma mère est morte.”

Herve spoke quietly. She didn’t understand anything he said. He came around the worktable and put his hand on her shoulder. “I should’ve gone home.” Marta rocked back and forth, muffling her sobs with her apron. Herve squeezed gently and left the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Mama. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” Trembling violently, she picked up Felda Braun’s letter, expecting further details of her mother’s passing and Elise’s move to Grindelwald.

Your mother wrote to me some months ago about her illness and asked if I might consider taking Elise to live with me when her time came. I went to Steffisburg immediately to speak with her in person. I hardly recognized Anna. The doctor confirmed her own belief that she had consumption. She did not want you to know she was dying because she knew you would come home. She said if you did, your father would never let you go again. She said the minister would write to me when it was time to come for Elise.

When I went home, I began to prepare her way. I told my friends about your mother’s illness and how your sister had lost her husband in a tragic accident. In this way, I could assure Elise that she could raise her baby without fear of scandal.

Marta went cold.
Her baby?
She read more quickly.

When I heard from the minister, I went immediately to Steffisburg, but Elise had already disappeared. Your father thought he would find her in Thun. Everyone was looking for her, but I grieve to tell you that we did not find her in time. Your friend Rosie found her body by a stream not far from the house.

Marta cried until she felt sick. She pulled herself together enough to set the table and serve dinner. Clearly, Herve had told the men about her mother, for they offered condolences and spoke in subdued voices. Marta did not mention Elise. Edmee stayed to help wash dishes and clean the kitchen, insisting Marta go upstairs to her attic bedroom and try to rest. Curling on her side, Marta cried as she remembered dreaming of Elise standing in the snow with her hands raised to heaven.

A few days later, Marta received a wire from her father.

Return immediately. Needed in shop.

Tears of fury filled Marta’s eyes. She shook with the power of her rage. Not one word about Mama or Elise. Crumpling the message, she threw it in the stove and watched it burn.

Solange sat in the kitchen with Marta, baby Jean sleeping contentedly in a basket on the worktable.
“Je comprends.”
She took Marta’s hand. “God brought you to us when we needed you most, and now you must go.
C’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?
”