Translations
August 20th, 2004
To William Krenshaw, Director of the Olmsted County Historical Society:
I have in my possession some letters that I believe may interest you. They were found in one of the caves located in what is now Quarry Hill Park on the outskirts of Rochester. As you can see by the photocopies, the letters have weathered the elements quite well.
I had them translated from the original German by Professor Gustav of the University of Minnesota. He was quite amused. I’ve enclosed his translations here as well.
Sincerely,
Jim Stuvey, Minneapolis, MN
The letters:
January 12, 1898
My Dearest Christoph:
How many years have passed since Gerta and I laid you to rest? Time goes so quickly and so slowly all at once!
I write this on a train crossing the Mississippi River in the United States of America. It’s beautiful, flowing through heavily wooded valleys much like those of the Rhine. I can only imagine it in the summer, when all is green, or in the autumn, when colors dazzle the eye. But now is the heart of winter, and the hills roll with thick white snow, and the bare trees sleep, stark and gray. Yet all is still so beautiful!
Only moments ago, I witnessed a pack of wolves race across the river and pull down a male deer. It happened so quickly, and before the train passed out of view, the deer’s blood began to spread in a slow red dance across the ice. Horrible, yes, but quite amazing.
Ah, Christoph. You say, “Get to the point.” You know I am Master of Procrastination when it comes to matters concerning your mother.
Two months ago, I received a telegram from Superintendent Hastings of the Rochester Asylum for the Insane. The message contained three words:
What trouble has your mother gotten into this time? I will not allow myself to waste energy on premature worry. If she is dead or dying, I shall find out soon enough. Am I callous? It is only because I learn from the past.
Let me say this; here, complete honesty is in order. You know how I skip timidly around the subject of Gerta, but to do so would be a disservice to you. So let’s cast all molly-coddling aside, and I shall treat you like the man you’d be if you were still with us.
And of course you are still with me here, Christoph, in my heart.
January 13, 1898
My Dearest Christoph:
To travel so far, only to find I’ve been the subject of a hoax. I should’ve known from the beginning. I should’ve confirmed the telegram with Superintendent Hastings, but what does your father do when it comes to matters of family? He does not question. He drops everything, his appointments, his classes, his studies, and tramples like a blind rhinoceros into the glass factory.
I arrived in such a state of excitement, not bothering to shave or comb my hair, that Dr. Hastings didn’t recognize me. He pushed away from his desk as if ready to fend off a bear.
I held out my hands in supplication. “Please.” I showed him the telegram. “What is this?”
He stared hard at me, and then relaxed. “Zwick? Is that you?” He squinted at the telegram. “I didn’t send this.”
“Surely, you joke?”
Hastings grinned perplexedly and adjusted his red velvet tie. His black double-breasted suit hung loosely on his small frame. “Wouldn’t be much of a joke, would it?”
“Then who—”
It was your mother, Christoph. Who else could it be?
You laugh. You say, “Father, surely you knew.” And you are so right. But I was too stubborn to listen to myself!
Hastings led me out of the red brick receiving building and into the frozen night. We trudged through fresh snow to the women’s wing of the dormitory. My eyes stung with cold. I had to rest in the entryway of the building to stop shivering. “How in God’s name could a patient send a telegram from these grounds?” I asked.
Hastings stomped the snow from his boots. “I’m sorry, Brahm, but you know the liberties our patient’s enjoy. Gerta has vacated the premises twice in the last year, and was found both times in Rochester. She obviously sent the telegram during her last absence.”
“Take me to her, then.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy on her. Surely you realize the guilt she feels for the loss of your son. The telegram was merely a cry of loneliness. It’s been years since you visited.”
Gerta’s room is small and smells of tulips. She lay asleep on a single bed beneath a blue quilt. I quietly sat on a wicker rocking chair next to her bed. On top of a dresser I recognized her wedding ring sitting in a glass dish like a piece of candy. And her necklace — do you remember the one? A modest braid of gold, around which hang five small crucifixes.
She stirred. “Do you recognize my wedding present?”
The sweetness of your mother’s voice surprised me. She sat up in bed, the quilt falling from her naked bosom.
