White Wind Blew (11 page)

Benson stuck his bald head out from the covers and then quickly ducked back under. His words faded to a whisper. “Shut up…I let the dog out…shut up…”

“Maverly at Waverly…Maverly at Waverly…”

Herman was a huge man with a thick chest and a deep, powerful voice. His hands and feet were huge, probably second only to Big Fifteen’s on the entire hillside. Although fat hung in rolls beneath his droopy chest, he could easily pick up Susannah or Rita and throw her, or worse. Tuberculosis hadn’t seemed to deplete his strength.

Susannah stepped farther into the room with Herman’s tray of food. Wolfgang grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking him his food.”

“Just leave it there on the floor.”

“He won’t eat it unless I bring it to him.” Susannah carried the tray to the bed and placed it where the covers weren’t rumpled. Herman’s beady eyes watched her like a jackal. She kicked his clothes toward him. “Get cleaned up and get dressed, Herman. Don’t disgrace yourself.”

“No one listens.”

Susannah moved toward the door. “I listen plenty, Herman.”

“But you don’t hear me.” Herman looked directly at Wolfgang. “I’m like you, Father. I have secrets.” A laugh emerged from Herman’s mass of hair and lips.

What
odd
words.
Wolfgang turned away from Room 502, wondering what Herman could have meant. When the other patients called Wolfgang “Father,” he never minded, but hearing Herman utter the word made his skin crawl. When Wolfgang looked back over his shoulder before exiting the nurses’ station, Rita’s eyes were following him.

***

The cafeteria at dinnertime echoed with the sound of silverware clanking off plates piled high with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Wolfgang sat with Susannah, Abel, and Lincoln at a table near the back of the cafeteria, where most of the staff preferred to eat. Fifty tables with six chairs per table, but easily expandable to over four hundred seats if needed. A quarter of the chairs were occupied by patients mobile enough to be there, and the rest were currently empty. The staff was supposed to eat during the downtime. The cafeteria was a picture of cleanliness, white and bright and optimistic. The walls were decorated with paintings and drawings made by the patients during workshop and occupational therapy. Proper diet was essential to beating tuberculosis, and when the current building was completed in October 1926, they’d designed the cafeteria to be as welcoming as possible. It was open at all times, and more than two thousand meals were served daily. In an average meal, the cooks went through 140 pounds of bacon, one hundred dozen eggs, thirty pounds of cottage cheese, thirty gallons of ice cream, 140 pounds of ground beef, and 190 pounds of liver.

Abel attacked his food as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Susannah watched him proudly, knowing that a healthy appetite often meant improved health. His exuberance was starting to show more every day. His color was better.
If
only
the
adults
had
the
same
success
rate
as
the
children,
Wolfgang thought. One day it would happen.

Between bites of meatloaf, Lincoln puckered his face and furrowed his brow in a crude imitation of their boss. “Stop wasting your time on tunes, Wolfgang.”

Susannah laughed and then gave Abel a quick glance. He laughed as well. Dr. Barker had yelled at Abel a few times in the past for being up too late.

Lincoln ratcheted it up a notch. “I bet his wife is a stiff too.”

“She’s a nice woman,” said Susannah. “They’re in a rough patch, though.”

Lincoln took a bite of potatoes. “Shocking.”

“Barker is a decent man,” Wolfgang said. “He has a stressful job here.”

“He took my bird. It’s my job to get the birds.” Lincoln put his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He looked over his shoulder and then leaned forward over the table toward Susannah. “Brought some hooch up the chute.”

Susannah rolled her eyes. “How on earth do you get this whiskey?”

“I got my ways.”

“That he does,” said Wolfgang. “He got roses to bloom in the dead of winter.”

“But don’t tell Barker, Susannah,” Lincoln said. “He doesn’t know we borrowed his stuff.”

“You scare me, Lincoln.” Susannah leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Somehow, Prohibition doesn’t affect you, and I don’t care to know the reason why.”

“Prohibition doesn’t affect you either, does it, Father?” Lincoln winked at Wolfgang. “I got plenty of ciggies too.”

Abel put on a miniature man-of-the-world face. “That’s not illegal.”

“That’s all we need,” Wolfgang said. “One of our staff smoking in a TB hospital.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Lincoln.

“Wolf thinks those cigarettes you smoke kill your lungs,” Susannah said.

Lincoln waved a hand at them. “Horsefeathers.” He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I heard Al Capone and some of his gangster friends frequent the Seelbach downtown. They’ve been pushed out of Chicago, so they do their bootlegging down here. Chicago of the South.”

“Nonsense,” Wolfgang said, more for Abel’s ears than anything else. It was a common belief that Prohibition had caused more problems that it had solved, and crime was a major product—a new type of crime that was organized and frightening. The most recent note from the Klan was a glaring example.

“McVain said he knows Capone,” said Lincoln. “Knew him in Chicago before he moved south to Louisville. I bet McVain’s a gangster.”

“He’s a pianist, Lincoln.”

“So? He can be a lot of things.”

“Like a pervert,” said Susannah, mouthing the word “pervert.” “He’s still trying to get me to wheel some of the women up to the fourth floor.”

“And how does that make him a pervert?” asked Lincoln.

Susannah winced, glancing at Abel.

Lincoln grinned. “Makes him a man if you ask me.”

Susannah rolled her eyes.

Abel snickered, hanging on Lincoln’s every word. Lincoln looked across the table at Abel. “Hey, little fella, what are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be with the other children?”

Abel lifted his chin. “Miss Susannah said I could be here.”

Lincoln stared at him. “Not contagious, are you?”

“They’re all contagious, you buffoon.” Susannah sipped her tea. “Leave him be.”

Lincoln let it drop. Wolfgang could tell Lincoln was getting on Susannah’s nerves. He always did. Lincoln fidgeted in his chair and looked around the cafeteria until he found Rita sitting at a table all alone. Her food was untouched. She stood, left her tray, and hurried out, holding her mouth clamped shut as if trying not to throw up. Lincoln saw it too. “What’s wrong with Rita lately? She’s not talking to me anymore.”

Susannah sighed. “She must be depressed.”

“She hasn’t been here long enough to get depressed.”

“It doesn’t take long in the mental ward,” Wolfgang said, knowing where this was going.

“Try working in the Death Tunnel all day.”

“This isn’t a competition,” Susannah said.

“What’s the Death Tunnel?” asked Abel.

“You bring Herman his birthday cake yet, Susannah?” Lincoln laughed and then picked at his teeth. “Benson let his dog out?” Another laugh. “Maverly at Waverly. Maverly at Waverly.”

Susannah stood and slid her chair back. Abel followed her to the counter where they deposited their trays and left the cafeteria.

“When
is
Herman’s birthday?” Lincoln asked Wolfgang.

“Good job,” Wolfgang said.

“What?”

“It can be dangerous up there on the roof,” Wolfgang said. “Make jokes if you want, but those women have a tough job.” Lincoln stared over Wolfgang’s shoulder as he chewed another bite of meatloaf, and eventually his eyes settled on Wolfgang. An unreadable smirk crossed his face.

“What?” Wolfgang asked.

“Susannah. She laughs at everything you say.”

“So?”

“You’re not that funny a guy, Wolf.”

***

Mary Sue Helman’s eyes opened when she felt her bed moving. Wolfgang’s face hovered above as he hurried toward the elevators.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere I should have taken you weeks ago, Mary Sue.” He smiled down at her. “Now, put your head back down on the pillow and relax.”

Mary Sue’s hands gently rested on her pregnant belly. “You could have at least given me time to fix my hair.”

Wolfgang helped her into a wheelchair and they took an elevator to the fourth floor. He pushed Mary Sue quickly down the hallway that cut a border between the rooms on the left and the solarium porch on the right. Even though Dr. Barker was gone for the night, he still felt the need for haste. Plus, she was on the mend; she was walking outside, taking basket-weaving classes. He wanted to get her in and out as quickly as possible. She probably should not be visiting the “terminal rooms,” but Wolfgang had weighed the options and allowing her a few moments with her dying husband seemed worth the risk. The baby would be fine. In fact, a baby born to tubercular parents was apt to have more immunity.

Frederick’s room was near the middle of the hallway. The bed on the left side of the room was unoccupied, the sheets pulled taut, prepped for a new patient. Cool air filtered in through the screen. Frederick lay on his left side, facing the far wall. His skin was pale, his hair disheveled. Weak breaths pushed from his only operating lung.

“Oh, Frederick.” Mary Sue pushed herself closer to the bed as Wolfgang gave them a little space. Frederick’s right arm was limp against his right hip. She looked over her shoulder toward Wolfgang. “Can he hear me?”

“I believe he can, Mary Sue, but he doesn’t even have the strength to eat.” Wolfgang squatted beside her wheelchair. “We’ve been feeding him for weeks now.”

“I need to see his face.” Her lower lip quivered. “Can you turn him?”

Wolfgang carefully repositioned Frederick’s body so that he faced the ceiling. His eyes were open. His lips were slightly parted. He blinked, but even that appeared difficult. “His chest is slightly sunken in on the left side where we collapsed the lung and removed the ribs.”

Mary Sue sniffled, wiped moisture from her eyes, and then grabbed Frederick’s right hand. She kissed the top of it, held it against her lips, and then kissed it again. Then she placed his hand against her belly. “Frederick, can you feel your child kicking?” She blinked away tears. “He keeps me up at night. He can’t seem to get comfortable, and I’m the one who pays for it. I think he will have your stubbornness, Frederick.”

No response.

“I said ‘he,’ didn’t I?” Mary Sue smiled. “A boy. He’ll have blue eyes and brown hair just like his daddy.” She watched her husband.

“I’m sorry, Mary Sue.” Wolfgang stood behind her wheelchair. “We better get you back to your floor.”

She kissed Frederick’s hand again and lovingly positioned his arm on the bed. “Until next time, Frederick.”

In the hallway Mary Sue asked, “Will he die soon, Doctor?”

He hesitated. “It is very likely, Mary Sue.”

“But not a certainty.”

“No, nothing is ever a certainty. Not with prayer.”

“Can we visit him again tomorrow night?”

“Yes, we can.”

“Will you play music for him?”

“Of course.”

She grinned. “Until then.”

“Until then, Mary Sue.”

Wolfgang was in his high school years at Saint Meinrad when the war in Europe began, and even though the action seemed worlds away, isolated as they were at the seminary, the priests and brothers kept abreast of what was happening on the European continent. And close by at home. It became real to them all when a fellow student named Heinrich Becker, a German and a roommate of Wolfgang’s, had been called back home for duty. He’d left the campus with tears in his eyes, explaining to Wolfgang that “all German nationals have been ordered back home for war duty.” Friar Haas was the next to go a week later, and the departure was even more solemn than that of Heinrich Becker. There was a look of fear and sadness in Friar Haas’s eyes that none of them had seen before. In Louisville, the French consulate countered by summoning all the French nationals.

The Louisville newspapers took sides. Henry Watterson’s
Courier
Journal
began its daily attacks on the Central Powers led by Germany and Austria-Hungary. But Louisville had a large German American population, which leaned heavily toward what the
Louisville
Anzeiger
was printing in support of Germany. Even the Irish tended to lean toward the
Anzeiger
, because they were so anti-English. But when the
Lusitania
was sunk by a German U-boat in May 1915, several local residents nearly lost their lives and public opinion shifted toward the Allies.

As time moved on, even though most Americans wanted no part in the conflict, it became harder to remain neutral. In 1917 Woodrow Wilson asked Congress for a declaration of war against the Central Powers. After a Louisville-owned wood and timber vessel was torpedoed by a German submarine on its way to Africa, patriotism heightened. Wolfgang followed it all from his southern Indiana seminary, eighty-five miles west of Louisville, part of him wanting to be back home to witness the excitement of the marches and parades that filled the streets. Women volunteered in abundance for the Red Cross. Recruiting stations in Louisville swarmed with men wanting to enlist. Many from the German and Irish communities enlisted as well, and even the
Louisville
Anzeiger
claimed devotion to America. Several banks and insurance companies dropped “Germany” from their names, replacing it with “Liberty.” At Saint Martin of Tours Catholic Church on South Shelby, which had been threatened with being burned to the ground in 1855 by the Protestant mobs during the Bloody Monday riots, English replaced German as the language for services and sermons. But the
Courier
still questioned the loyalty of the German Americans and warned all to be aware of the “Kaiserists” hiding around the city.

When the government announced that Louisville would be the site of one of the nation’s largest army training facilities, the American sentiment swelled. More men enlisted. More women volunteered back home in the factories and for the Red Cross. Forty-five million feet of lumber later, Camp Zachary Taylor was quickly built between Preston and Poplar Level, housing about fifty thousand troops in barracks and tents. Named in honor of President Zachary Taylor, who had been raised in Jefferson County, the camp first became home to the 84th Division, the 159th Depot Brigade, a field artillery training school, and several other military units. It would become the largest artillery training camp in the country and eventually would be used as a demobilization center and hospital for the troops.

So was the scene when twenty-year-old Wolfgang returned home after his sixth year at Saint Meinrad, where he met Rose Chandler, a young woman and recent graduate of the Louisville Girl’s High School, and also one of the first to volunteer for the war effort at the local Red Cross.

Everything with Rose moved in fast-motion, so fast, in fact, that Wolfgang never had time to think about where his love was heading. He struggled to keep up with what it all meant. They’d seen each other every night since they’d met at the Cathedral of the Assumption. Immediately he’d felt comfortable with her, comfortable enough to talk about not only his high school and early college years in the seminary and his devotion to the Lord, but also about his relationship with his parents, his passion for music, and even about what had happened to his father.

Rose’s parents, Wilma and Thomas Chandler, owned a successful clothing and jewelry store on Main Street, which was actually run by an old Jewish couple who doubled as store managers and as Rose’s nannies as she’d grown up. Thomas Chandler was a member of the Pendennis Club in which Charles Pike had so badly sought inclusion. The Chandlers had friends in high places. Thomas was well-mannered, educated, sophisticated, and a heavy drinker of bourbon and scotch. He came from old money, and he and his wife, according to Rose, their only child, traveled out of the country most of the year. But what they were unable to give Rose with their time (she’d been an accident and only complicated their travel and social outings), they made up for in her allowance. So in the summer of 1918, when Wolfgang balked at the notion of their going out every night because he had no money, Rose shushed him and started paying for everything.

The work at the Red Cross was at times stressful, and she needed to have some fun. The city was still alive with patriotism, the streets at night teeming with soldiers from Camp Taylor, and Rose often went out of her way to engage them in conversation. She loved to ask the soldiers about their plans after the war. One soldier told her he wanted to open a factory for boots. One soldier dreamed of owning his own farm. Another soldier named Fitzgerald talked to Rose about writing novels.

Rose and Wolfgang ran into several soldiers watching a movie at the Strand and ended up sneaking that same group of soldiers into the Gayety for a burlesque show two nights later. The Baroque had nightly bourbon specials for the soldiers, although a sign outside the front door did call for well-mannered soldiers only. And the sign had an arrow pointing next door to the Rue de Lafayette: GO TO THE RUE IF YOU FEEL THE NEED TO ROUGHHOUSE.

When they passed the Baroque on one of their many walks, Wolfgang told Rose about how his father would drink there on Monday nights after passing the prestigious Pendennis Club.

She waved as if swatting a fly. “The Pendennis Club is for snobs, Wolfgang. Your father missed out on nothing, I assure you.” And then she peered inside the Baroque, where tables of finely dressed patrons and several soldiers played cards and downed whiskey. “The Pendennis doesn’t have the charm of this place. Look at the art on the walls.” She hooked his arm in her own and led him away from the window. “You know the Baroque is half brothel, don’t you?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, indeed,” she said. “This is the red-light district, after all. It’s on the second floor. It’s called Babylon.”

For an instant Wolfgang wondered if his father had ever ventured up the stairs to Babylon on his Monday night excursions.

Rose walked on. A beer bottle shattered against the inside of the Rue’s window and she gave it little attention. “The city agreed to shut down all the brothels while the soldiers are here. Or the government would never even start building Camp Taylor.”

Wolfgang looked inside the Rue, curious. “You think they obeyed?”

Rose giggled. “Of course not, Wolf.”

At night they walked hand-in-hand along the walkways of Central Park, watching their distorted reflections in the wading pool and laughing at how their bodies shimmered in the moonlight. He wondered what the monks would think. He’d completed two years of college work as a major seminarian but was not yet a theologian. What he was doing may have been frowned upon by a few of the monks, but it was not forbidden. He still had three years of schooling to become a priest. So he continued to spend his time with Rose.

They enjoyed rides at Fountaine Ferry Park and got stuck atop the Ferris wheel. At the Magnolia Gardens pavilion and beer garden they danced until Wolfgang’s legs hurt. Wolfgang was convinced that his father would have been impressed, and even moved to dance. They bet on horses at Churchill Downs, and every time they went there, Rose wore colorful hats with wide brims and fancy bows. Sometimes they lost and sometimes they won. But it didn’t matter. Rose loved watching the powerful horses round the turns, kicking up mud in tiny thunderclaps.

One clear night that summer, thousands of stars watched them on their walk, along with a moon that was nearly full and illuminating the night as if it were day. Rose clung to Wolfgang’s arm, giddy. “Pick any restaurant and we’ll go tonight.”

He suggested the Vienna Model Bakery on South Fourth but then added that it was too expensive. His parents had always discussed going there because of their fondness for Vienna, but they never managed to go. Rose rolled her eyes at any mention of cost.

“But I don’t have anything nice to wear,” said Wolfgang.

Rose gripped his hand and walked him to West Market. She bought Wolfgang his first suit at the well-known men’s store M. Cohen and Sons. They dined on roasted duck and fine pastries for dessert. They talked a lot about the war. Even though men across the country were enlisting by the thousands, the country still needed twice as many for the war. The Selective Service Act had begun to pluck the men they needed. Rumor was that the draft was going to be changed to include eighteen-year-olds soon. Rose was nervous for some of her friends. Wolfgang was nervous himself, even though he would be ineligible for the draft because of his deformed leg. And he was on his way to becoming clergy, making him twice ineligible.

“But not yet, right?” Rose had asked him.

***

Wolfgang was already having trouble sleeping at night as a future with Rose seemed inevitable. He had begun to flirt with notions of leaving the seminary. Even if he did return to the abbey at Saint Meinrad, his mind would not be fully committed. He could not give the monks his full, undivided attention knowing that Rose was back in Louisville, waiting to be swept away by other men. When he was a child, his days had been so regimented: breakfast, school, music, church, prayer, and then bed. And his schedule at Saint Meinrad had been no different—his mornings, afternoons, and evenings revolving around prayer and study. And now, for the first time in his structured life, he planned the day as it developed, adjusting on a whim with every ebb and flow of Rose’s unpredictable personality. The summer days passed so quickly. He’d begun to volunteer his services to the Red Cross, as well, working with some of the wounded at Camp Taylor with Rose. He began toying with crazy thoughts of what it would feel like to be a doctor and to be able to help people all the time as he was helping at the army camp. Since he couldn’t fight in the war, it gave him a sense of worth as far as the war effort was concerned.

Even though he was sleeping at home, he rarely saw his mother. He awoke early every morning to meet Rose and arrived home late every night. One day, he brought Rose home to meet Doris. She eyed Rose from several paces away, her condescending gaze an affront to the way Rose was dressed, with a hint of makeup and a skirt that showed her knees.

“I assume you’re Catholic?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Rose.

Doris didn’t even shake her hand. Instead, and in perfect Charles Pike fashion, she’d turned away from Rose’s offer of a handshake and left them alone in the living room. Wolfgang took Rose’s hand and stormed out of the house.

***

That night Wolfgang returned for a suitcase and some clothing. It was the same suitcase he’d taken with him to the seminary. He hadn’t planned on packing and leaving with it for several weeks, but the circumstances now demanded it. The wedge between him and his mother had been driven too deep. He couldn’t understand her stubbornness and refusal to accept anything Catholic, and her attitude had gotten worse during his time at the seminary. He didn’t know where he would stay, and he didn’t care—as long as he could be with Rose and away from his mother. Rose’s father had a Model T that he’d allowed them to take, and Wolfgang stuffed his suitcase and belongings inside of it, along with every instrument that had belonged to his father. Doris Pike screamed at him as he carried each instrument from the house, from the violins and cello to the harmonica, piccolo, and flute. He took them all while Doris knelt on the floor praying to God to save him. The piano he left, only because it would have been impossible to remove on his own.

Doris Pike pounded her fists on her thighs and raised her Bible in the air. She pleaded to God. What had happened to her son since his father had passed? Why was the devil taking her son away from her? “Wolfgang, how dare you disgrace your father’s memory,” she yelled at him, “running off with a Catholic girl who dresses like a whore from Babylon.”

***

Wolfgang moved into a spare bedroom at the Chandlers’ house, temporarily, as he still planned on returning to Saint Meinrad at the end of the summer. A few days later, Rose’s parents were away for a weekend trip. He and Rose were alone in the Victorian home just south of Central Park at Saint James Court, which, with its central esplanade, cast-iron fountain, and luxurious homes, was reminiscent of the fancy residential areas of England. It was home to many of the city’s elite, and Rose’s family had purchased one of the initial lots in the 1890s. Rose convinced Wolfgang to come up to her bedroom. He knew he shouldn’t be doing it, but he wanted her. He’d dreamt of seeing her naked since the day he’d met her.

He played her a tune on his father’s flute, and when he turned to face Rose, she took the instrument from him. They kissed. She slid her tongue into his mouth and began to unbutton his shirt. This they had done on several occasions, but never had they gone further. Moments later, Wolfgang was almost naked on her four-poster bed, wearing only his underwear and black socks. His skin was alive. His heart pounded inside his chest. His mind was swimming with terrifying visions of his mother and father making love on the other side of his bedroom wall. His focus was fully restored when Rose, sitting atop his waist, still in her yellow summer dress, leaned down and kissed him again. And then all of a sudden she slithered off of him and stood beside the bed, giggling.