Her Mother’s Hope

she stood in the Alpine meadow with Mama or Rosie.

Soon, she could walk a mile before exhausting herself. When it rained one day, she sought warmth and rest in the Hare and Toad pub. Three men sat drinking from mugs of beer, giving her a cursory glance as she found her way to an empty table in a dimly lit corner. Though she felt out of place and uncomfortable, she decided to stay. At least here, she would hear English spoken.

The men talked in low voices and then, forgetting her presence, spoke more naturally. When another entered, the three greeted him and made room. He spoke to the proprietor, handed over some coins, and took a mug of ale to the table. A few minutes later, the burly proprietor came out with meals stacked up his arm-fish, judging by the smell, and cooked in some sort of dough. She listened, trying to pick up words. Some sounded familiar, no doubt derived from German.

Gathering her courage, Marta went to the counter and tried to make sense of the English words written on the menu overhead. She understood the prices well enough. The proprietor stood behind the counter, drying a beer mug. Pointing to the menu, Marta took out a few pence from her pocket and lined them up on the counter. She put her palms together and moved her hands like a fish.

“Fish and chips?”

“Fish and chips,” she repeated. “Danke.”

He brought her meal and a glass of water. He took a bottle of malt vinegar from another table and set it in front of her. “For the fish.” He pointed.

Marta ate slowly, experimentally, not sure her stomach could stand deep-fried fish caked in dough. Others came in over the next hour, and the pub began to fill with men and women. Some had children. Marta felt self- conscious taking up a table by herself and left. The sun had gone down and the mist had turned to rain. It took an hour to walk back to the Swiss Home for Girls.

“Look at you, Marta!” Frau Alger shook her head. “Do you want to catch your death this time?” She made her sit by the stove and drink hot tea. “Here. I have a letter for you.”

Heart pounding, Marta tore Rosie’s letter open.

My dearest friend,

I feared you would blame me for not keeping better watch over Elise. I went to see her the day after your mother’s funeral. I should not have waited. Had I gone right after the services, Elise might still be alive. But I did wait and will forever be sorry for it. My mother went with me.

Your father said he didn’t know where Elise had gone. He said she would not come out of her room on the day of the funeral. He didn’t look in on her until the next. Your father went out to call the alarm.

I remembered how Elise loved to sit by the stream and listen to the living water. When I found her, she looked like an angel asleep beneath a white blanket of eiderdown.

I don’t know how much Felda Braun told you, but I discovered why Elise hid herself away. She was heavy with child. May God have mercy on the Meyer men for what they did to your poor sister.

I found Elise curled up on her side, as though to embrace the baby inside her and keep it warm. My father told me people who freeze to death feel no pain. I pray that is true.

You asked me to forgive you. I ask now for your forgiveness. Please do not stop writing. I love you like you are my own sister. I miss you desperately.

Ever your friend,

Rosie

Marta wrote back and asked where Papa had buried Elise. She wept at the thought of Elise buried somewhere other than beside Mama, but she knew the church would not want a suicide laid to rest in consecrated soil.

Marta bundled up the next morning, walked to a coach stand, and rode down to Westminster Abbey. She sat on a pew, wondering what Mama would think of this magnificent coronation church. Massive gray columns rose like enormous tree trunks holding up a shadowed canopy above. A rainbow of color splashed across the marble mosaic floors, as sun shone through the stained-glass windows. But the light quickly faded. She listened to the living walking among the shrines to the dead, standing and whispering in the naves lined with crypts holding the bones of great poets and politicians, or gazing at some bronze effigy tomb or sarcophagus.

Oh, God, where does my sister sleep? Can You show mercy and carry her home to heaven? Or must she suffer the agonies of hell because she lost hope?

A woman touched Marta on the shoulder and spoke. Startled, Marta wiped tears away quickly. The woman spoke to her in English. Though unable to comprehend the words, Marta took comfort in the woman’s gentle smile and tone. Mama might have comforted a stranger in the same way.

Marta went to Hyde Park the next day and sat on the grass, watching the boats drift by on the blue Serpentine. Even in the open air and sunshine, Marta felt grief weigh down upon her. Mama said God offered her a future and a hope. But what did that mean? Was she supposed to wait until God spoke to her from the heavens? “Go,” Mama had said, but Marta didn’t know where to go anymore.

She only knew she couldn’t continue this way, drowning in sorrow and living with regret. She had to remember what had driven her away from home in the first place. She wanted freedom to become all she could be. She wanted something to call her own. She couldn’t have either of those things by sitting and feeling sorry for herself.

Before heading back to the Swiss Home for Girls, Marta went to the Swiss consul’s offices.

“Fraulein Schneider!” Kurt Reinhard greeted her warmly. “It is good to see you. I heard you left the consul’s house.”

Surprised he remembered her at all, Marta told him what had transpired. “I would like to put my name on your list again, Herr Reinhard. But may I request an English household this time, preferably one away from the soot and smoke of London?”

“Of course. How soon will you be able to work?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Then I think I have just the place for you.”

9

Marta rode to Kew Station and walked the rest of the way to Lady Daisy Stockhard’s three-story Tudor house near Kew Gardens. She expected to meet with the mistress of housekeeping. Instead, a stooped butler showed her into a parlor with daybeds and wingback chairs, and a large, low, round table covered with books. Every wall boasted a gilt-framed landscape. The floor was covered with a Persian rug. Curved, carved-legged tables with marble tops held brass lamps, and a pianoforte stood in the far corner with a marble bust of Queen Elizabeth. Over the fireplace hung a portrait of an English army officer in dress uniform.

It took but a few seconds to take it all in and redirect her attention to a white-haired lady dressed elegantly in black, sitting in a straight-backed chair, and another much younger, plump and dressed in frothy folds of pink, sitting on a chaise, her back to the windows and a book open on her lap.

“Thank you, Welton.” The older woman took Marta’s documents from him and put on tiny, wire-framed glasses as she read.

The younger woman, whom Marta took to be the lady’s daughter, said something in English and sighed. Her mother answered pleasantly, to which the daughter lifted her book and made a dismissive sounding comment. The only part of the conversation Marta was fairly certain she understood was that the young woman’s name was Millicent.

Lady Stockhard removed her glasses carefully and looked up. She addressed Marta in passable German. “Don’t stand in the doorway, Fraulein Schneider.” She beckoned. “Come in and let me have a good look at you.” Marta came a few steps into the room and stood with her hands clasped in front of her. “Mr. Reinhard tells me you don’t speak English. My German is limited. Enid, my cook, will teach you English. Honore and Welton will help as well. He takes care of the gardens. I used to love gardening. It’s good for the soul.”

Millicent sighed in annoyance. She said something that Marta didn’t understand.

Lady Stockhard answered pleasantly and then indicated that Marta should sit in a chair close to her. “I like to