Pictures of the Past (14 page)
Emanuel smiled and nodded.
“And you know, I hope, that I have immense respect for you as a businessman, a family man, and from what I have seen and heard, as a man in the community. If I challenge you now, it is not meant disrespectfully.” He didn’t look up at Emanuel as he spoke, and so he continued without monitoring his expression. “No, I am not Jewish…not German. . just a man and maybe a young, naïve one at that. But even I can feel, even I know from what I have seen and learned…I believe that Germany is not a safe place for you and your family.” Now he looked up at Emanuel, “I am sorry, perhaps out of line, but sometimes an outsider can add a fresh perspective. I am scared for you and the family. Have you never considered leaving Berlin?”
As he had on the first night, Emanuel rose and paced the room, this time leaning on the fireplace mantel with his coffee cup in hand. “You remember what I alluded to before, that since Hitler came to power, he has had one main mission, to drive the Jews from Germany.” He took a long sip from his drink and then placed it on a small table nearby. “But I did not explain it well enough—that from the moment in 1933 when he became this Reich Chancellor, our Jewish community has worked together to be stronger. This is always the case—people turn to each other when united against a common enemy. Of course, Hitler knows this the best— it was his doing first, targeting the Jews—rallying the support of German workers with this hatred—we are the scapegoats for the sad state of Germany.”
Now Emanuel walked back to his chair and sat to have a more intimate distance between them. “Sometimes, we laugh at our own meetings—how disparate opinions have always been among Jews. Often, we were our own worst enemies—arguing among ourselves. But now, he divides us from our Aryan countrymen, and suddenly that unites us. He denies us public schools and suddenly our Jewish schools that were floundering, now cannot accommodate all of our students. The school on Grosse Hamburger Strasse has well over one thousand boys and girls now. He expels our artists, our scholars, our musicians—and we answer. We have made a
Kulturbund,
our Jewish cultural league. And we organize our own concerts and lectures and museum showings.”
At this point Sarah and Inga entered the room and Emanuel rose again and walked over to his daughter and looked at her as he spoke. “As Jews, we will survive, as we always do. I do not fault our friends and neighbors for leaving, but I am determined to stay until this dark era will pass and we will regain our place in society.” Then he turned to Taylor. “I cannot leave; I cannot take my family and run. I believe that people look to me for strength and guidance.”
Taylor was not sure how to respond. After a few moments, he said only, “I think I understand,” although with more of a doubtful tone than one of conviction.
That night, a strong, summer rain pounded the roof of the Berger home, further making sleep impossible on an already restless night. Taylor would be leaving early the next morning to begin the route to meet up with his ship. He had already said his good-byes to Sarah’s parents and to Sarah. There had been shared moments for expressing deep gratitude and optimism for a quick reunion, and private moments for embraces and kisses. But now the loud reverberations of the thunderstorm gave Taylor the idea that he could have one last farewell, and he went to Sarah’s room as quietly as possible, using the piercing cracks of the severe weather to veil his footsteps.
She was waiting for him, having read his heart and mind. She was unconsciously flipping through the pages of a book, and when he entered her room, he was once more enraptured by the golden streaks of blond hair softly framing her beautiful face, illuminated by the bedside lamp. Without a word, he moved the covers aside, lay down next to her, and switched off the light. For a long while, he held her as close as possible and barely let their lips separate. Briefly, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, and when they awoke with a start, fearful that it was already morning, they were relieved to find it was barely 4:00 a.m. He began to slip out as silently as he had entered, but at the last moment, his hand on the doorknob already, he spoke.
“I have left it for you. You will find it by the entry hall. I will count the days until you both find a home with me in America.”
In the morning when she woke up with the first light of day, she knew it was long after his 5:00 a.m. departure, yet she ran down the stairs, nonetheless. She was not looking for him. She wanted confirmation that the night had been real and not a dream. And she cried when she saw it leaning against the wall, the beautiful painting,
Jeune Fille à la Plage.
T
he Grand Salon of the RMS
Queen Mary,
the new flagship of the merged Cunard and White Star Lines, served also as the first-class dining room and had the two-story columned look of an Art Deco masterpiece. Only a little over a year earlier, the ocean liner had been launched. It was meant to rival the
Normandie,
which had been the ship to transport Taylor on his initial trip east across the Atlantic, but whose return ticket he had abandoned.
Taylor had thought that his passage back to the States would have given him ample solitary time for absorbing all that had happened to him, for formulating a plan, but he soon found himself falling into the entertainment routines of shipboard life in order to maintain his sanity. Surprisingly, he suffered from a bit of seasickness. Although he hadn’t felt this way on the trip over, it seemed that the currents were stronger this voyage. He found that if he simply relaxed in his suite there was nothing to concentrate on but the ebb and flow of the waves. As a sailor, it caught him off guard. He had often borne the strong currents on a thirty-foot sailboat on Lake Michigan, and so it would seem that the motion of a large ocean liner would not bother him. But, perhaps, he was especially vulnerable now—his stomach queasy from both the sea and from love.
At dinner the first evening, he found himself at a well-placed table of ten.
“’Mr. Taylor Woodmere of Chicago.’ Pardon me for perusing the place cards before dinner.” The speaker was a full-bosomed woman who offered her exquisite, but rather gauche, jewelry as if on a display shelf on her décolletage.
“I am wondering if it is possible that you are related to Addison—I believe it was Addison Woodmere, Jr., who my husband and I were friends with during the men’s Yale years.”
“Why yes, my father is Addison—my grandfather, still quite alive, is Addison Senior.” Taylor was happy to feel the familiarity of American camaraderie.
“Well, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Newland Pritchard, of Scarsdale, New York, and please,” at this point she shoved a somewhat masculine, more than timid, girl into his sight. “This is my daughter, Katherine. Katherine Pritchard. She is twenty years old. You must be?”
“Ma’am, I am twenty-two.”
“Oh,” and she nodded to her daughter, who was embarrassed to the point of blushing. “How wonderful, a dance partner for the duration.”
Taylor would have been maddened by the woman’s forwardness, if she were not such an almost comical character, if the mortified Katherine had not given him such a look of desperation, saying with her eyes,
Just be happy you don’t have to live with this.
Later, as they walked together along the deck after dinner, Kamerine said, “I know how embarrassing this is and I apologize for my mother. Believe me, this is not a new situation for me. Aside from the fact that I am twenty and practically an old maid in her eyes, I have a boyfriend who she will not acknowledge, who she looks down her nose at.”
Taylor was surprised. Katherine was not a particularly pretty girl; his first impression was that she was awkward and shy, actually a little tomboyish. She seemed extremely uncomfortable in the evening gown that he now realized was certainly of her mother’s choosing, and she was constantly rearranging her shawl to obscure that same feminine feature that her mother was thrusting at strangers.
“Actually, I’m in love,” she continued. “And even this European trip—my God, we met two lords and a prince—is not going to make me love Edgar less.”
“Well, little Miss Surprising Lady, we may just have a wonderful time on this sailing, as I too am in love. Only I have a major dilemma and I might benefit from some advice.”
“That might cost you a bit,” Katherine retorted. “If we can just entertain each other and play a role like we are somewhat interested, we could both benefit.”
“I see what you mean.” Taylor was actually quick at assessing social situations. “If I monopolize your time, your mother will leave you alone, at least for the voyage.”
“Yes,” Katherine was nodding, “You get it. And, now don’t get more of a swelled head than you probably already possess, but you will have dozens of other mother-daughter combinations trying to grab you, if you don’t already appear taken.”
“Katherine,” he said, nodding his head as he spoke, “I am thinking this Edgar is one lucky guy. You are quite a little character.”
Within the first few days of the cruise, Taylor recognized that he had made a wonderful friend in Katherine. For the first time in his life, he felt he had met a different kind of soul mate, as if he had found a sibling. And for an only child, that is as precious a gift as is offered.
And as they became further acquainted, walking the decks, participating in competitive games of shuffle-board, looking for sea animals off the side of the ship, he felt comfortable sharing his complicated story with her, seriously seeking her advice on what to do next.
It was actually Katherine’s idea to go together to the ship’s head purser, Mr. Anthony Bailey, who they found to be an amazing confidante. He was eager to help Taylor in his attempt to secure passage on any future voyages for the family of Sarah Berger. But the well-informed purser was explaining to him the difficulties that affluent businessmen were finding in leaving Germany with their holdings and investments.
Taylor’s situation gave Katherine a new perspective on her own romantic troubles and all of a sudden her problem seemed easy and quite solvable. She was in love with a young man, an apprentice in a bicycle shop. They had met when she brought in her bicycle, a birthday gift from her parents, for a minor repair and an adjustment to the handlebars. It seemed to her initially that he never even acknowledged her, his work cap covering his eyes. She could only focus on his greasy fingers as he adjusted the bars, while she straddled the bike as he had requested. Again, seemingly without looking at her, he suggested he accompany her on a ride to test out his work.
After they had ridden down the block and turned by the grocery store, he raised his head up at her, moved back his cap, and smiled.
“My name is Edgar Spinner.”
“Oh,” was all she could answer initially. She was surprised at the familiarity of his demeanor and its accompanying smile. Then finally she thought to return, “I’m Katherine.”
“I know. I sold the bicycle to your father. He said it was for your birthday and that is how I know we are the same age.” And then, after a brief pause, he added, “You look like your father.”
“Yes, I am told that often—I’m never quite sure how to take that.”
“Well,” Edgar Spinner said, hesitating, “I like your looks a lot.”
And with that they began sharing afternoon rides and eventually sharing dreams. And many of those conversations she was now sharing with her new friend, Taylor Woodmere.
“His name is Edgar Spinner,” Katherine offered, “and when he started to decide on a profession, he thought that he was drawn to cycling because of his name. He had a dream of opening his own store, maybe many, maybe employing Mr. Ford’s assembly line technique and building bikes. His shingle would read, ‘Spinner’s Cyclery—Our Name and Our Destiny.’”
Taylor was impressed by the passion with which Katherine told Edgar’s story and knew that she would be a strong force behind his future success in business. And as it would turn out, in the recurring theme of life he was experiencing when meeting people, being in the right place at the right time, in the not too distant future, Spinner’s Cyclery would be the first of many businesses Taylor would invest in as a silent partner and it would do him well. And aside from his financial gain, he would count the future Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Spinner among his closest friends.
W
hen he finally arrived in New York, Taylor decided not to book a train to Chicago right away. He needed to unwind from the trip, needed to reflect on his situation—to devise a plan to move his life ahead in the new direction to which he had committed himself.
For this brief period of time he stayed at the beautiful and posh Waldorf=Astoria Hotel, on Park Avenue. Despite having been christened in 1931 during the height of the ongoing Great Depression, it presented itself as the largest and tallest hotel in the world and it actually filled an entire city block. This Art Deco structure was the vision of two cousins, William Waldorf Astor and John Jacob Astor, who previously each owned hotels adjacent to one another, with none other than the Empire State Building constructed on their combined lots. Almost immediately, the new hotel became the favored destination of the rich and famous.
Perusing the hotel lobby and corridors as he entered, Taylor saw an impressive display of pictures documenting the history of the hotel, including a photo of former president Herbert Hoover delivering a radio address at the opening—an optimistic high point of that new decade.
After registering, Taylor continued his tour. Walking toward the Park Avenue foyer, his eyes were immediately drawn upward toward the top of the dozen or so imposing columns, where six clusters of enormous and multicolored balloons were decorating the ceiling. He overheard a bellman explaining to another visitor that the decorations were remaining from a children’s charity ball held the night before in the adjacent ballroom. Still, his innate sense of style, which was yet one more impressive inheritance from both of his parents’ lineage and had been enhanced by his new European exposure to art, immediately found these an offensive addition to the exquisite hotel décor. He knew that perhaps if he had been an attendee at the event, which undoubtedly sported complementary centerpieces, chairs decked with ribbons and bows, and a fanciful backdrop behind the orchestra stage, that he might have appreciated the context of the floating helium balls. But now he found them only frivolous objects. Was this to be his fate, he wondered, to find fault in everything, to walk into the largest and most beautiful hotel in the world and find only details to criticize? Had he gained sensitivity only to lose sensibility? And as if to prove to himself that he was able to remain sane, he focused now on the intricate pebbled tile work—the Art Deco lines, the gold leaf on the ceiling, the silver leaf images of plants and animals…
The following day he had full audience to the preparations for an elite society wedding and he soaked in every detail like the most appreciative guest. In fact, he was so endearing to the wedding party as they gathered early in the lobby to take their photographs, so helpful to the elderly grandparents, and a spirited playmate occupying the time of the energetic mix of junior bridesmaids, groomsmen, the ring bearer, and flower girl—that more than once someone asked to which side of the wedding couple he was connected. When it was understood that he was merely a guest at the hotel, he was not shooed away as any ordinary interloper would be, but he was invited to attend the celebration after the dinner, with more than one of the bridesmaids offering him a position on her figurative dance card.
Before he left the group, they let him take an early glimpse into the ballroom set up for the ceremony. At the end of the long aisle, where in a church would be an altar or at least a podium, stood an ornately decorated canopy. From a distance, it seemed to be a broadly arched wooden structure of branches and leaves and garlands of flowers. The grandfather, peering in the room alongside Taylor and hearing him remark on its beauty, told him, “It is a
chuppah,
a beautiful part of our Jewish tradition. And for your interest, young man,’ he continued, “I will tell you the most wonderful part of our Jewish ceremony. At the end, after the couple is pronounced man and wife, a glass wrapped in a napkin will be placed beneath the groom’s foot and when he stomps down and breaks it, the guests will shout ‘Mazel Tov,’ which means congratulations and good luck.”
Taylor was thinking now of the property at his Kenilworth home, how the backyard was landscaped in a park-like setting overlooking Lake Michigan, how his father had constructed the most intricately arched gazebo, a wooden latticework edifice, and he could picture Sarah’s eyes light up when he showed it to her. Perhaps he could walk away now from this crowd of celebrants and try to sustain positive thoughts for his own future.
And then he saw her. She was seated halfway across the extensive lobby, and although most of her back was to him, when she turned her head slightly, a glimpse of her distinctive profile and her shock of blond hair made his heart race. How could this be that she actually made it to America before him? Had she returned on the speedier
Normandie?
He supposed that it was possible, that her father may have come to his senses more quickly than even Taylor had anticipated. And although it would be a coincidence that she would be here at the Waldorf=Astoria, since he had not formulated and certainly had not articulated any such plans, this would be the natural choice for a family such as the Bergers when traveling to New York. All of these thoughts delayed him half a minute in approaching her, and just as she was within his reach, one or two more seconds and his arm would have circled her waist, she rose and approached another man almost in a run. And now that man was experiencing the bliss of her embrace, his ecstatic face in Taylor’s full view, his hands resting on that very portion of the small of her back that he had been targeting. He was confused. Who was this—a relative she had never mentioned—another family friend or business associate? But it could not be either, holding her like that, kissing her with his same passion and then twirling her. Twirling her. Thank God, twirling her. For then he saw she was not Sarah at all. She was yet another blond young woman, not even really as soft and pretty as his girl.
Immediately he searched for the picture. Although he knew he had been keeping it close on his person, he was flustered and couldn’t locate the right pocket—outside jacket, right and then left, pants empty except for change, but then, of course, closest to his heart in his inside jacket pocket—the photograph with her at the Paris Exposition. He was glad he had insisted that they take advantage of one of the most popular kiosks at the fair, even though it meant waiting in a fairly long line. When it was finally their turn, the photographer had put them in their proper places at a predetermined distance from the camera and from each other, and then went about fidgeting with the mechanics of the process. They stood in a stilted pose as the assistant adjusted the height of the white bulb on its metal stand and then stepped down from his ladder and arranged Taylor’s position so that his hat was hanging down from his left fingertips. The photographer, still unsatisfied with the artistry of the shot, placed a flower in Sarah’s right hand for symmetry. And now Taylor remembered the moment it was shot, when he looked at her instead of the camera. Despite the impropriety of the bold move to be recorded, he reached out quickly and connected their free hands. He could swear there was a shot of electricity in her touch, and he refused to be sensible and attribute it to the dryness in the air.
Over the years it would be the music of the era that would reignite his feelings of emptiness and longing for Sarah. As it was, foreign songs did not have any consistent play on American airways; that would have been unbearable. Of course, they never shared a song, had “our song.” It was just the collective music of the times that would catch his ear and then his heart. So he created memories from these first days back in America, with the first songs he heard. And the most powerful one was from a new musical that had just become popular,
The Lullaby of Broadway.
As he rested and contemplated his future, it reverberated through every corridor, echoed as he passed any dance lounge of the Waldorf=Astoria Hotel.
