The Search for Joyful (32 page)

Hiroshima. The dropping of the A-bomb brought an abrupt end to the war in the Pacific. Did it bring an end to man's humanity as well?

The technological aspect fascinated Erich. “A new energy source. Think of it! A teaspoon of U-235 will light the entire world. Submarines will be able to navigate the seven seas without needing to surface. The possibilities are unlimited.”

One moment a human being, the next etched into cement like a trilobite. We had achieved world peace.

 
I ARRIVED HOME one evening to find Erich waiting for me on the stairs. He had a telegram in his hand. “I don't know whether it's good news or bad. It's from my mother. She's coming to visit us.”

“All the way from Austria!” I ran up the remaining flight. “But that's wonderful, isn't it?”

“Of course it is. Only, the old life is so far away now. She'll bring it with her.”

“Are you afraid she won't approve of me?”

“Nothing like that. Of course not. It's just that it was a lifetime ago I was her son.”

“Yes, the Bodensee, the little boy in the sailor suit.” I looked around at our three rooms. Each item we'd added had been a cause for celebration. The bud vase Egg gave us I'd tried in a dozen places—the table, the windowsill, by the kitchen sink. Finally it came to rest on the secondhand end table Erich had bought. Now I wasn't so sure—our home that looked cozy and just right, I saw with other eyes. Instead of being charming, its age seemed a defect. It needed paint, the ceiling flaked, and the walls were dingy. The bannister leading to the landing had buckled and the wood splintered. The wardrobes in his mother's home were undoubtedly larger than our bedroom.

“I don't think this place will be what she expects.” And I don't think I will be either, I thought.

“Nonsense. You've done wonders with it. It's our home, pleasant, clean, comfortable—what else is needed?”

“Think of what she's used to.”

“Remember, Mother's gone through a war. We don't know what she's used to.”

“That's true,” I said, relaxing a bit.

Erich laughed suddenly. “Of course if you mean it's not elegant, no it isn't.”

His lightheartedness reassured me. After all, it was ours, brought together by borrowings, gifts, and castaways. Somehow it all fit together, and the result was warm and friendly. The china couldn't be so readily dismissed, two of the plates chipped and not all the same pattern.

Erich guessed my thoughts. “It isn't a crime to be poor and starting out. All Austrians have a touch of schmaltz in their nature, and Mother will think it romantic.”

“It isn't only things, Erich. It's me. Your mother has never seen a First Nation person. Maybe she isn't prepared. Well, I am many skin tones darker than you.”

“Once I get a good tan we'll be the same shade. Kathy, one of your amazing attributes is that you have no idea how beautiful you are.”

“
Schön
?”

“
Sehr schön.
”

Now it was my turn to laugh at him. “I think the German language should be called
schön
talk. Everything with you is
schön. Sehr schön, bitte schön,
and
danke schön.
Any others?”

“Only you,
Liebchen.
”

 
ELIZABETH VON KERLL was coming by air transport, which she had somehow managed with the occupation authorities. The same skies that only four months ago had been deadly now accommodated a first trickle of traffic. Imagine looking
down
and seeing clouds, and, when they parted, the ocean! Soon, we were told, there would be commercial flights. The map of the world had shifted. The islands of the Pacific, so bloodily fought for, whose every inch was counted in human lives, suddenly were worthless. The war had passed over them, removing yesterday's values. Now everywhere, everyone was making a new start. What if—But there would be no more what-ifs. I was grown up and knew how tragically meaningless they were.

Erich and I took a streetcar to Boucherville, seven miles outside the city. Our guest was coming in on the flying boat
Caribou,
at Imperial Airways. It was rumored they intended to expand and form a transatlantic mail service. How quickly the mindset of the country changed; this had been an embarkation point for Hudsons, Liberators, Flying Fortresses, Mitchells, and Martin Marauders.

“Suppose,” I asked, facing a fear I'd been struggling with, “suppose she wants us to go back with her to Austria?”

“We take a return flight, of course.” Then, shaking me by the shoulders, “Don't look so stricken,
Liebchen.
Don't you know that nothing, nothing could pry me out of here?” And his fingers interlaced with mine.

Just before our stop I asked in panic, “What shall I call her?”

This gave him pause. “I think Elizabeth. Elizabeth will be best.”

When I saw her I realized why. Young, blond, and beautiful, she gave no indication she had been in the air thirty-three hours with a stopover in Ireland, another in Newfoundland, and a midair refueling.

She stood still, letting crew members stream past as she took in her son. She seemed to inhale him, then inventory him, taking in the man. She came toward us smiling, allowing herself to be embraced, and then, catching sight of me, she made an instant assessment. Coming a step nearer, she clasped my hand and drew me to her.

“Kathy,” she said; and to Erich, “She's lovely.”

Then, if I remember, they both talked at once. “And how is father—?” But he scarcely paused when she shook her head in the negative. “—And uncle?”

“They both send their love. And Dorotea and Minna.”

“And cousin Arthur?”

And so it went. Family members, friends, and relatives, all with a message for him, all wanting to be remembered. I watched his face. It was animated, flushed, and eager. His mind was back there, home, where he came from.

She hadn't mentioned the cane he used. She knew, of course, but she didn't mention it. They acted, both of them, as though he were exactly the same as when he'd left. But he wasn't. He knew and I knew that he was a cripple, with all that entailed—physical limitations, need for frequent rests, pain, and pain medication. Into their mélange of greetings, endearments, nicknames, and remembrances I inserted how pleased we were to have her.

She nodded, smiled at me, and went on talking to Erich. Her English was fluent, with a trace of accent that set certain words off in a lilting manner. Her
th
's tended to
z
's. It was charming. Everything about her was charming. She wore a fox fur, which had probably originated here. I took in her nylons. Silk stockings were out, nylons were in. Her traveling outfit was an understated, tailored brown suit. Small diamonds were set in her ears, I knew they were diamonds because of the one in my onyx ring—they had the same shifting centers.

Once or twice she lapsed into German, but Erich answered each time in English.

Elizabeth stepped into the cab without a clue as to the hole it made in our budget. How else did one get from here to there? She was interested in the city, exclaimed at the sight of Mont-Royal, whose massive volcanic upthrust dominated the city, while the cross blessed it. Elizabeth was impressed by the well-to-do homes along its higher terraces, identifying Gothic revivals, French provincial, Tudor, and Queen Anne villas. It pleased her that there were so many parks and bridges, but in spite of an occasional French mansard roof and crenelated parapet, she thought the downtown looked gray with its massive fieldstone fronts.

“Impressive,” she said of the city, “more English than French. And the signposts, all English. I had thought of Montreal as a French city.”

“Actually,” Erich told her, “it's cosmopolitan, bilingual, and wonderfully old.” He ordered the cabbie to drive out of our way so he could show his mother the sights.

“There seems to be a church every few blocks,” she observed approvingly.

Erich pointed out the Place d'Armes with its monument to Paul Chomedy, Sieur de Maisonneuve, founder of the city, and the great basilica of Notre Dame. Then southeast to the St. Lawrence with its immense docking facilities going on block after block. “Fifteen hundred ships at a time could load here.”

But Elizabeth was more interested in the shops on St. Catherine Street. I kept stealing sideways glances at her. She seemed too young to be Erich's mother, hardly older than I. We came to the lower-middle-class suburb where we lived, and Elizabeth was immediately intrigued by the exterior stairs. She pronounced them quaint.

It wasn't until she was ensconced in our best chair, with her stole hanging in my closet and a glass of sherry in her hand, that she began what she had crossed an ocean to say. It involved an acknowledgment of Erich's condition. I will say for her that she faced it directly. “One would not necessarily realize—a limp is distinguished these days, the mark of a soldier. As to the cane, almost every gentleman carries a cane. You must believe me, Erich, it is not that bad. I was afraid—one sees so much in the way of disfigurement among our veterans. Actually, I am quite relieved. I'm sure your rehabilitation is due in large part to the excellent nursing care you received.” And she flashed me a brilliant smile.

I glanced at Erich. Usually, after he'd worn the prosthesis three or four hours, he would unstrap it and allow himself a period of relief. But with his mother here, he was determined to stick it out. The wound was still sensitive, and I was afraid of it becoming aggravated and inflamed. We had already gone through an ulceration, and I didn't want to deal with that again. But I couldn't say anything to embarrass him. Besides, seemingly he was tolerating it.

“Now tell me about Father,” he said.

She shook her head. “Your father is in failing health. The war—at first we thought you were dead. Then the terrible financial reverses. There was so much for him to handle.” She turned to me. “And now it must all be reassembled, the assets of the estate, everything, accounts in Switzerland, in the Caribbean, you've no idea. The bookkeeping alone is monumental. But,” she added brightly, “not to burden you. You children have your own life. I can see how good it is. I see what a lovely wife you've chosen, Erich. Your home, so welcoming, so comfortable. I have a warm feeling when I look at the two of you.”

When the sherry had been sipped, I suggested a rest for Elizabeth, which she was happy to take.

In this way I got Erich into our bedroom and helped him out of the prosthesis. The impacted area was inflamed, and I rubbed it with salve. This eased him, and he stretched out on the bed with a set of architectural drawings.

“Your mother is so pretty and so young.”

He agreed. “One of the few people the war hasn't changed.”

“Tell me more about your father.”

“He doesn't capitulate. That's the main thing about my father. He belonged to the old Social Democratic Party. In your terms that would be the more liberal party. He didn't change when it became convenient not to belong to it, when promotions were going to the National Socialists. And he didn't change when it became dangerous to belong to it.

“During my teen years it got ugly. There were threats, there were incidents, I had fights at school. Things grew so bad that he resigned his commission. Mother wasn't happy about that. But he stood firm. He was like a rock around which waters boil and swirl. His convictions, that's all he knew.”

Perhaps it wasn't as romantic as the Bodensee heritage, but it was, I thought, more substantial. And I pictured the old gentleman with side whiskers.

During dinner Elizabeth sketched in broad strokes the general tenor of her personal war. “Officially the war began in '39. For Austria it was 11 March 1938. I'll never forget it. They marched in from the east, through the Neusiedlersee Pass, which was still snowed in. Not only did they march, they skiied and trucked in, they came by rail through the Tyrol to Salzburg, and fanned out into Vienna and the farming districts, Bergenland, Steiermakki, Karnten, and Niederösterreich.

“Everywhere our soft-spoken melodious German was replaced by harsh Northern dialect. What a distasteful sound!” She shuddered. “They took over everything, of course, the chemical plants, the nitrogen plant in Linz, electrical power, crude oil, natural gas—but they aren't content with utilities—the National Bank of Austria is next, where, as you know, your father had a seat on the board. Fortunately, as it turned out, the commandant quartered on us was a career soldier, a gentleman of good family. It makes a difference. He saw to it that our larder remained full. We were not reduced to want, as so many of our friends and neighbors were. But our privacy was gone, our servants. We kept to our rooms while
they
had the run of the house.”

She paused for a sip of port. “Then of course you were called up. You remember the initial euphoria. But a year and a half, two years later, the war news began to be punctuated, perhaps I should say
lacerated
by news that didn't fit. One heard things, a returned veteran, someone in hospital—delirious, of course, but . . . Here and there, it is rumored, a ship is sunk, and another—and then Russia . . . utterly defeated, we are told. Yet I heard a captain with the Hitler medal who had been at Stalingrad say our troops were starving, and winter would finish them. Nothing is official. It is all indirect. And from you, Erich, no more letters, nothing. But your father and I don't speak of it. Even with his connections, we didn't know are you alive or dead.”

Elizabeth turned to me. “It is terrible to lose a child, an only son. Believe me, it is as bad not to know. To hope one day, despair the next, snatch the mail out of the postman's hands. It was then his father began to fail. I looked at him one day and saw an old man. But there—” She caught herself and turned back to Erich. “By a miracle you are returned to us.”