Pictures of the Past (24 page)
I
t was one more lead to find Sarah after two years of diligent searching. A contact who had come from Berlin discovered that the people who had sailed on the
St. Louis
had disembarked at Antwerp and been dispersed to England, Belgium, France, and the Netherlands. He made inquiries on Taylor’s behalf, but once again the trail led nowhere. The last record of her existence was when she boarded the
St. Louis.
It was as if she never got off. From his investigations, which had been hard and intense, he was aware of at least one suicide attempt among the passengers once the ship was denied entry to both Cuba and the United States, and such a possibility did cross his mind, but it seemed unlikely, as it was unpalatable that Sarah was capable of that act. Of course, he had no idea that she had boarded using her original passport, and after disembarking, became Liesel Schultz again.
And just as Taylor was at his lowest, with his parents extremely concerned for him, proud that he wanted to aid this family, but anxious for his own mental health, that a call came from Emily Kendall.
He had not even spoken to Emily in over three years. Their separation was easier than he ever would have anticipated, for sometimes all of the planning in the world cannot compete with the happenstance of life. In this case, just as he returned from his time with Sarah in Europe, knowing he would have to be forthcoming with Emily, she could hardly face the reality of her father’s infirmary and subsequent death. Unable to cope with her new circumstances, she needed an extended time at her home. In her defense, her depression was not just because she understood now that the family finances had actually been depleted, but because she really had loved her father and missed his unconditional love for her. She was like a lost girl. Her mother, who had been her entitlement tutor, was devastated herself. And the boys had proven unable to give her the support that she sought. They could not cope with the neediness of the women and were each escaping the family home. But to their credit, they had moved elsewhere to establish careers and earn livings, until eventually they were called to military duty.
Although Taylor had, of course, been the gentleman, gone to Newport to be there for Emily upon his return to Chicago, and had stayed with her family through the funeral and mourning period, he could not hide that his feelings had changed. He was there for her in many respects, acting concerned and supportive, but certainly not loving and passionate. When he could be alone, he was preoccupied with communications regarding the Berger family. And soon he realized that his short temper with Emily was more hurtful than helpful.
But years had passed and now Taylor sensed immediately that Emily had changed. On the phone, she seemed so sweet, so soft, so vulnerable. In some ways, she was barely reminiscent of the old Emily, the self-confident debutante, the girl who was always placed above the mundane crowd. And it wasn’t only her fault. Just as people on seeing Paris for the first time seek the Eiffel Tower before the Louvre, so Emily had been an admired and sought-after object, although previously she was all façade like the renowned landmark and did not offer the depth of richness of the museum.
Now she had simply called him and asked if he might come to Newport to visit her. She knew through friends that he had not shipped abroad like so many of the men, that he had no new girlfriend, hadn’t even been seen much socializing with the group. They encouraged her to connect with Taylor as much for his needs as for hers.
Though Taylor accepted Emily’s invitation to visit her at Newport, he was careful not to commit to staying at her residence. He didn’t want to feel an obligation to her in any way, in case he realized early on that he had made a mistake by going there. On the phone, she had asked about him and his family, and he had found her to be very genuine. Surprisingly, he was drawn to the familiar cadence of her speech, as if their years of separation had been only months. But he was cautious now—he would visit her as a friend, not as an old boyfriend looking to reignite a relationship. He was simply a person in need of a change of scenery, a stateside “soldier” in need of a leave. But he didn’t know her motivation, even though she had professed only friendship on the telephone. And so he didn’t want to be trapped in an awkward situation from which he could not easily extricate himself. No, he would look for a comfortable, convenient hotel for his stay.
Immediately after he replaced the phone receiver, he was trying to remember the name of a hotel in Newport that a family friend had told him about the first time he had planned to visit there. Although at the time in 1937, Taylor was quick to mention that he would be staying at the Kendall residence, the man continued on about the Hotel Explorer. It was the Woodmeres’ neighbor in Kenilworth, Jacques Van Shaw, who offered the history of the hotel and convinced Taylor that “no finer accommodations on the seafaring shores of that state or any adjacent ones existed.”
“You know my grandfather, my mother’s father,” he had told Taylor in 1937, “was a Beaumont. When you visit the area, you will see it—the Beaumont Estate, I mean— well, the current one that is. There were others before it—fires—you know in those times—before the turn of the century when the really big money built their summer homes there—kitchens weren’t necessarily part of the main house. There were grand stone edifices built— The Breakers and Marble House—but so many wood structures would easily catch fire. And you don’t want a simple kitchen fire to burn the whole house down. Legend has it that the Beaumonts were slow learners and stubborn about that.”
Taylor remembered how annoying Jacques was with his almost incoherent soliloquy on Newport, but he had been more than a bit drawn to the history embedded in Jacques’ story and he planned to find out more about the alluring destination at a time when his mind would be less preoccupied.
“Yes, sir—that gets me thinking—the Breakers and Marble House,” Jacques was continuing,
sans
encouragement. “How pretentious to ‘name’ your place—as if ‘the Vanderbilt Estate’ wouldn’t be impressive enough. But then again—those in my grandparents’ set—they had many homes in many places. When you see them, you won’t believe it. Grand mansions. Some used for three months out of the year—some for weeks only—some were vacated for two years at a time, the owners off to Europe or preferring Maine or Cape Cod.”
Jacques Van Shaw was not one of a kind on Chicago’s North Shore, but possibly, he was one of the wealthiest of the “trust fund babies.” At fifty-five—that was still how he referred to himself. And he encouraged people to call him “Sport,” further evidence of his childlike demeanor, since he was known for his prowess at all athletic endeavors from ball or racquet games to water activities. He was a little bit Eastern erudite—educated at Harvard with a degree of no practical value. But his father had a fondness for horses and so Jacques had developed a southern accent and even a slow drawl attitude from so much time in the Kentucky Blue Grass region.
“Never worked a day in my life,” he would expound proudly within the first hour of any new introduction. He may have often grabbed the ear of Taylor or his father, Addison, when they met on walks along the lake behind their houses, but he never grabbed the respect of either Woodmere. They thought him to be an irritating namedropper and tried encouraging him to put his time and money to better use, aligning him with some charitable causes.
And now, some years later, Taylor sought out his colorful neighbor to confirm the name of the hotel.
The last time Taylor had been to Newport left him with the almost unbearable memory of Emily’s father’s funeral and his own poor manners. But already this time was different. This time there was no chauffeur to meet him at the station. Emily had driven herself. She was still beautiful. He studied now the fantastic auburn hues of her hair—noticed once more its striking contrast to the pale tones of her skin. And surprisingly, almost immediately, he felt an urge as never before to revitalize its luster. He was thinking that she hadn’t smiled in a long time— that he would receive more pleasure in hearing her infectious laugh than in experiencing a long kiss—for now.
She actually had not protested when he insisted on taking a room at the Hotel Explorer instead of her home. At that point, Taylor had no knowledge that her family compound had already suffered greatly from neglect. She said the Explorer was such a wonderful place and she encouraged him to study all of the pictures lining the walls. She told him that he would be familiar with some of the names of the boarders from industry, politics, and show business.
That first afternoon she was anxious to walk with him on the beach, showing him the boats docked in the marina before he checked in. But by four o’clock, she was evasive. She had somewhere to go.
“I hope you don’t mind, but tonight I will need to leave you for a while,” Emily said, at first almost mumbling, facing away from him, embarrassed by her own words. But then with a renewed strength she continued, “From five until ten each evening now, I work at the Newport Arms, as a hostess in the restaurant.” She still couldn’t even look at him when she said it; he was, after all, a wealthy young man who was used to being served. Although he had always been overtly kind to the help, she understood that he did not mingle with them socially.
But he didn’t miss a beat. There was no hesitation in his voice to try to absorb this admission. “You are amazing. I am proud of you. You’ve become a resourceful woman now.” With those words, she fell into his arms and cried. She cried as she had never before allowed herself to cry. She cried sad tears for her dead father, for her absent brothers, for her fragile mother, but mostly for her lost innocence. And after Taylor tenderly brushed her tears away, she cried for the welcome and caring touch of a friend.
When she stepped back from him now she was confident and excited to reveal the rest of the evening plans. “If you drop me at work with the car, then you can see where it is and pick me up afterward. I want you to meet all my friends from work. The cook is a total showman and always saves us some of the special dessert to share with us and tonight it should be cherries jubilee. Then we’ll go on with that group to a beach get-together. I want you to meet some of the Newport boys, especially Chase and Mac III, who are stationed at the local base and can join us. They are so unbelievably immature. You’ll know why I couldn’t stop thinking of you.”
When Taylor finally did check into the Hotel Explorer, he was more than impressed with his room. It was beautifully furnished in a colonial style and had an enormous four-poster bed. He was not surprised that nestled to one side was a daintily appliquéd step stool, as he could not imagine a petite woman having the ability to easily mount the mattress. The view from his open window stretched far down Bellevue Avenue and offered the most welcoming cool breeze to enjoy the tops of mansions and the ridges of coastline that he was anxious to survey. The hotel name was appropriate to his mission now, although it did not refer to an exploring tourist, but rather to the Scandinavian Vikings who were purported to be the original inhabitants of the region.
Just a short time later, although he was not hungry for a full dinner, he was anxious to enjoy a drink at the bar and peruse a map he had secured from the concierge in the lobby. While studying the outlines of Newport and putting little checks at sights he knew he would want to investigate—mansions, or parks, or churches—one small square caught his eye. Was this correct? In the midst of this white-steepled Presbyterian and Episcopalian enclave was actually a Jewish House of Worship. He looked down at the accompanying map legend—The Touro Synagogue, founded in 1763, was the oldest synagogue in the United States. George Washington himself had sent a letter of good wishes to the congregation.
It was not something that ever would have previously captured his attention—but now he felt a strong need to see it—as if the air within would have some scent of Sarah Berger. And a mezuzah. He thought now of when he asked her about the slanted silver object on so many door frames at her home in Berlin.
“So God will bless our home,” she had told him. “There is a sacred paper scroll inside.” And then when he looked at her doubtfully, she continued, “Yes, a tiny sheet of prayer.”
He might have once again been lost in the past with his thoughts and the subsequent depression of his memories if he had not been interrupted by a booming voice halfway down the bar, interjecting an “Excuse me, sir,” in his direction. Taylor lifted his face to see a well-dressed gentleman in his midfifties. The man was so insistent on grabbing his attention that Taylor returned his words with a polite nod.
“You’re visiting here—I’m guessing—don’t mean to be prying, but the map is a true giveaway. Don’t need to be a detective,” he said in a most colloquial dialect, although he exuded an extremely sophisticated presence with his navy blue blazer and plaid patterned ascot.
“You are correct, sir,” Taylor responded in the encouraging tone of one open to a continuing dialogue.
The gentleman then rose from his stool, martini in hand, and re-sat himself just two seats from Taylor.
“Friends call me Harold,” he continued, setting his drink once again on the bar and extending his right hand for a solid shake.
“Taylor Woodmere. Pleased to meet you.”
“I see you’re not in uniform, but from your age I wonder if you are stationed here at the naval base.”
“No, sir. I am in adjunct services in my hometown of Chicago. Actually I am from a village outside of Chicago—Kenilworth, Illinois, north of the city, along the Lake Michigan shore.”
