Marta saw a row of plank platforms with uninviting graying feather beds rolled at the end. The room was cold. The small, narrow windows faced east, leaving the room dimly lit in the afternoon. No curtains to keep out the dawn. When Marta peered out, she could see only empty window boxes and the street below.
“I’m leaving soon,” Hedda announced from the doorway. “I’m marrying Arnalt Falken. Have you heard of him?”
“I’m new to Montreux.”
“His father is very rich. They live in a mansion up the road from here. Arnalt came one evening by himself and ordered beer and sausage. He says he took one look at me and fell in love.”
Marta thought of Elise. Hedda had periwinkle eyes and long blonde hair, too. She hoped the girl had good sense.
Hedda nodded toward the window. “Frau Gunnel will expect you to plant flowers soon. She made me pay for them last year.”
“Why should either one of us pay for them?”
She shrugged. “Frau Gunnel says we’re the ones who get to enjoy them.”
Marta dumped her knapsack on the bed. “If Frau Gunnel wants to dress up the outside of this place, she’ll have to pay, or there’ll be no flowers.”
“I wouldn’t argue with her, Fräulein, not if you want to keep your job. Flowers don’t cost too much, and the patrons give good tips.” She laughed. “Analt droppped a ten franc coin down my bodice the first time he came.”
Marta turned away from the window. “No one is going to drop anything down my bodice.”
“They will if you’re friendly.” The gleam in Hedda’s eyes told Marta the girl valued money more than reputation.
* * *
By the end of the first week, Marta saw ways to improve the eatery. When she overheard Frau Gunnel complaining about poor business, Marta shared her thoughts.
“With a few changes, your business would improve.”
Frau Gunnel turned. “Changes? What changes?”
“It wouldn’t cost much if you repainted the front window boxes with bright colors and filled them with flowers that would attract the eye. The menus you have now are greasy. You could reprint them and put them in sturdy folders. Vary your menu occasionally.”
Plump face reddening, Frau Gunnel put her hands on her ample hips. She looked Marta up and down in contempt. “You’re sixteen and you think you know so much with your fancy certificate and recommendations. You know nothing!” She jerked her head. “Go back to the kitchen!”
Marta went. She hadn’t meant to insult the woman.
Frau Gunnel came in a few minutes later and went back to work on a hunk of beef, using a mallet as though attempting to kill a live animal. “I know why customers don’t come. I have one pretty waitress who used to attract customers before she decided to marry one of them. And I have little Fräulein Marta as plain as bread and as friendly as Sauerkraut!”
No one in the kitchen looked up. Marta felt the heat rush into her face. “No one wants to eat in a dirty restaurant.” Marta barely managed to dodge the flying mallet. Stripping off her apron, she tossed it like a shroud over the embattled beef and headed for the stairs. She threw her few things into a bag, marched downstairs and out onto the street. People up and down the block turned when Frau Gunnel stood in the doorway cursing her.
By the time the woman slammed the door, Marta’s body felt so hot, she was sure steam came off her. She walked uphill rather than down. She pounded on one door after another, making inquiries. The first few opened the door, took one look out, and ducked back inside their houses, closing the door quickly in her face. Still fuming, Marta realized what a sight she must be and tried to calm down.
Now what? No job. No place to live. Her prospects were dimmer than when she had arrived in Montreux a month ago. She didn’t want to go back to Luisa von Olman’s and be a burden. She didn’t want to go home and admit defeat. Bending over, she covered her face with her hands. “God, I know I’m impossible, but I work hard!” She fought back tears. “What do I do now?”
Someone spoke to her. “Mademoiselle?”
She burst into frustrated tears. “I came here to learn French!”
The man switched to German as easily as someone might strip off a glove and toss it aside. “Are you unwell, Fräulein?”
“No. I’m unemployed. I’m looking for work.” She apologized and wiped her face. The man standing in front of her looked to be in his eighties. He wore an expensive suit and leaned heavily on a cane.
“I’ve been out walking. Do you mind if I sit, Fräulein?”
“No, of course not.” She moved to give him room, wondering if he expected her to leave.
“I passed a house with a sign in the window in German, French, and Italian.” He sank gratefully onto the bench. Lifting his cane, he pointed. “If you go up that way three or four streets, I think you will find the house.”
Thanking him, she began a search that took her the rest of the afternoon. Just as she was about to give up, she saw the sign in the window of a three-story house. No chipped paint here, and the eaves had been painted red. She heard muted laughter when she approached the front door. Brushing down her skirt and pushing the straggling damp tendrils of hair back from her face, she said a quick and desperate prayer before rapping the doorknocker. Clasping her hands in front of her, she forced a smile as she waited, hoping she looked presentable and not like some worn-down, bedraggled waif who had been walking up and down the mountain all afternoon.
Someone spoke French behind her. Marta jumped as a man reached past her and opened the door. “Excuse me?”
He spoke German this time. “Just go in. They won’t hear you out here. They’re already serving.”
Marta entered behind him. “Would you please tell the proprietor I’m here to answer the sign in the window?”
He walked quickly down the hall and disappeared into another room.
Smells inside the house made Marta’s stomach growl with hunger. She hadn’t eaten since early morning, and then, only a small bowl of Müsli. Men’s laughter swelled, startling her. She heard mumbled conversation and more laughter, less loud this time.
A young and attractive dark-haired woman came into the hallway. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved blue dress covered with a white apron that accentuated her advanced pregnancy. Cheeks flushed, she dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand as she came toward Marta. “Mademoiselle?”
“Fräulein Marta Schneider, madame.” She dipped in a curtsy. “I’ve come to apply for a position.” She scrambled for her documents.
“I’m serving dinner now.” She spoke fluent German, glancing back over her shoulder as someone called out.
“I can help you now, if you’ll allow. I worked in the kitchen of Hotel Germania in Interlaken. We can talk about the position later.”
“Merci! Just leave your things there by the door. We have a room full of hungry lions to feed.”
The dining room had a long table, its straight-backed chairs filled with men on both sides, most young and professional by the look of their clothing. The room reverberated with loud talk, laughter, the clink of wineglasses, and the call for bread being passed in a large basket. Pitchers of wine moved from hand to hand.
“Solange!” the handsome man at the head of the table called out. Solange went to him and put her arm around his shoulder, whispering in his ear. He looked at Marta and nodded.
Solange clapped her hands. The men around the table fell silent. She waved her hand toward Marta while speaking rapid French. The men gave Marta a cursory glance before returning to their conversations. Solange pointed to a large tureen at the end of the table; Marta hastened to it and tried to pick up the heavy bowl. “No, mademoiselle,” Solange protested quickly. “Too heavy. Let them pass their bowls to you.”
Marta filled each with thick, delicious-smelling stew, her stomach cramping with hunger. The tureen held just enough for each man to receive one full bowl. She followed Solange into the kitchen and set the empty bowl on the worktable. Solange san
k onto a stool. “You did well, mademoiselle! Not a drop spilled.” Lifting her apron, she dabbed beads of sweat from her forehead. “God be praised you came when you did. Those men . . .” She laughed and shook her head. “They eat like horses.”
Marta’s stomach growled loudly. Solange raised her brows. Murmuring in French, she crossed the room, opened a cupboard, and took out a soup bowl. “Eat now. We have a few minutes before they start shouting for more.” She rubbed her back as she sat on the stool again.
“This is wonderful, Madame . . . ?”
“Fournier. Solange Fournier. My husband, Herve, was the one sitting at the head of the table.”
Marta quickly finished her stew, mopping up the last bit of juice with a piece of bread. Setting the bowl in the washbasin, she took the pitcher on the stove. “Shall I refill the tureen?”
Solange nodded. “I need someone to help me clean house, change the linens, do laundry, and work in the kitchen.”
Marta poured thick stew. “I need room, board, and sixty francs a month.” As soon as the words came out, Marta held her breath. Perhaps she had spoken too quickly and asked too much.
“You are a girl who knows her mind and is willing to work.” She planted her hands on her thighs and stood. “Done. How soon can you come?”
“All I need to do is move the knapsack I left in the foyer upstairs.”
“Magnifique!”
“Do all of those men live here, Madame Fournier?”
“Call me Solange, s’il vous plaît.” She smiled brightly. “And I will call you Marta.” She put more bread in a basket. “Only twelve live here. The others come for dinner when they are in town on business. A friend invites them the first time and they keep coming back. Sometimes we have to turn them away. Not enough room.” Laughter made the walls shake. “They are noisy, oui?” She laughed when a man called out loudly. “And my husband has the loudest voice of all.” She tossed the last few pieces of bread into the basket. “He doesn’t speak German. Do you speak any French?”
“No, but I’m eager to learn.”
“Je pense que vous allez apprendre rapidement.” Smiling, she pushed the door open and held it so Marta could follow her with the filled tureen.
Marta wrote to Rosie.
At last, I will learn French. I have found a position in a boardinghouse full of bachelors. The house is run by a lovely couple, Herve and Solange Fournier. Madame Fournier insists I call her Solange. She speaks German, but French is her first language. She also speaks Italian and Romanian. She is a fine cook. I will need to learn French quickly if I am to be any help to her. She is enceinte. The baby will come the middle of January.
Marta sent Mama the Fourniers’ address and asked how she and Elise fared.
Dearest Marta,
I am pleased you have found a better situation. Frau Gunnel is a woman to be pitied, not despised. We never know what another person suffers in this life.
Do not worry so much about Elise. She helps me in the workroom. She does all the cutting and basting now. My cousin Felda Braun came for a visit. She lost her husband, Reynard, last year, and is very lonely. I took you to Grindelwald when you were a little girl. You loved Reynard’s cows. Do you remember? God never blessed Felda and Reynard with children. If anything happens to me, Elise will go to Grindelwald and live with Felda. This is her address . . .
Marta wrote back immediately.
How ill are you, Mama? Should I come home?
Mama’s handwriting had changed. The perfectly formed letters now showed signs of a tremor.
Do not be afraid for me, Liebling. I am in God’s hands, as are you. Remember what we talked about on the mountain before you went to Interlaken. Fly, Liebling. I fly with you. Do not forsake the gathering of believers, Marta. It is the love of brothers and sisters that has strengthened me over the years. We are one in Christ Jesus. Let it be so for you, too. You are precious to me. I love you. Wherever you go, know my heart goes with you.
Mama
Marta wrote to Rosie.
I’m afraid for Mama. Her last letter made me believe she is dying, but she tells me to fly. Have you seen Elise?
Each day, Marta got up before dawn and started the fire in the kitchen stove. She baked pull-apart bread drenched in butter and rolled in cinnamon and raisins. She prepared two platters of sliced fruit, then filled a large bowl with Müsli and a pitcher with milk. She set out carafes of coffee and hot chocolate. By the time Solange came downstairs, Marta had everything set out on the sideboard for the morning buffet. Marta poured her a cup of hot chocolate as they sat on two stools in the kitchen.
“I’ve had more rest in the last month than I’ve had in over a year. You will have to cook all the meals when the baby comes.”
“I have some wonderful recipes from the Hotel Germania, and I know how to make the best sausage in Switzerland.”
“Herve doesn’t like German food. I will share my best recipes.” Solange winked as she sipped hot chocolate. “More to write in that book you carry.”
Marta patted her apron pocket. “Un jour, quand j’aurai une pension à moi.”
“You are learning French très rapidement, though we will have to work harder on your accent.” She gave a teasing grimace.
A letter arrived from Rosie.
I have gone to your home three times this week. I met your mother’s cousin, Felda Braun. She is a kind woman. I didn’t see Elise. Your mother made no excuses this time. She said Elise doesn’t want to see anyone. Your brother attended church last Sunday. I asked about your mother and sister; he said Elise had stayed home to look after your mother. He and your father are going to Bern. Things cannot be too bad if they feel they can leave. . . .
Marta felt the tension mount inside her. She wanted desperately to go home and see Mama and Elise for herself, but winter snows had come and Solange’s baby could come any hour. Marta could not leave her alone with a boardinghouse full of residents. Torn between fear and guilt, she prayed for God’s mercy.
Each day that Herve came with the mail, Marta waited tensely.
“Rien pour vous aujourd’hui, Marta.”
Each day, she heard the same words. Nothing for her today.
The silence filled her with fear.
7
Awakening with a start, Marta heard Herve yelling. He pounded on her door and she called out to him. She slipped into her coat and opened the door enough to look out. “Solange?”
“Oui! Oui!” He spoke French so fast, Marta couldn’t understand him. She waved him away and told him she would come down in a moment. Throwing on her clothes, she headed downstairs while still buttoning her shirtwaist. Men had come out into the hallway. She waved them back inside as she hurried down the second-floor hall to the Fourniers’ large bedroom. Herve had pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and held Solange’s hand. He still wore his nightclothes. Marta stood at the end of the bed, not sure what to do.
“Ah, Marta,” Solange said, but her relief was short-lived as pain made her gasp. Herve stood and started rattling off French again, pacing back and forth, raking his hands through his dark hair.
Marta gathered Herve’s clothes from the floor and dumped them in his lap. “Get dressed and go for the . . .” Marta searched for the French word for midwife. Solange had taught her. What was it? “Sage-femme! Maintenant, Herve. Vite. Vite! Don’t forget your shoes.”
Men talked in the corridor. Hoping they hadn’t delayed Herve, Marta stepped out. “Is anyone a doctor?” They looked at one another and shook their heads. “Then unless you want to help deliver a baby, go back to your rooms.” They disappeared like a thundering herd of mountain goats, doors closing quickly behind them.
Oh, God, what do I do now? Pretending calm she didn’t feel, Marta came back into the bedroom. Other than one afternoon lecture at the Haushaltungsschule Bern on assisting at a childbirthing, Marta knew nothing at all of such matters. But she supposed she could do better than a panic-stricken husband. “Everything will be fine, Sola
nge. The midwife will be here soon.”
An hour later, the door slammed and feet pounded up the stairs. Herve spoke so rapidly, Marta couldn’t understand a word he said. She did understand the look on Solange’s face. “The midwife isn’t coming.”
“Herve says she is delivering someone else’s baby. Mon Dieu. What are we going to do?” She groaned, another contraction coming within a few short minutes of the last one. Herve looked wild-eyed. He moaned with his wife, looking from her to Marta. When he started talking again, Marta cut him off and told him to boil a big pot of water and bring clean towels and a knife. When he just stood there, gaping, Marta repeated her words with quiet authority. “Go, Herve! Everything will be all right.”
Solange began to sob and speak French as rapidly as her husband had. Marta took her hand. “German, Solange, or French more slowly.”
“Keep Herve out of here. He makes me nervous. He gets upset if I so much as cut myself, and this is—” Another contraction came and stopped her from saying more. “Do you know what to do?”
Marta didn’t want to lie and claim knowledge she didn’t have. “God made women to have babies, Solange, and He knows what He’s doing.” She put her hand on Solange’s damp brow. “You’re going to manage this as well as you do everything else, ma chère.”
Herve came up with a pile of towels. He disappeared again and returned with a bowl and steaming kettle. When he came to the bed, Solange raised her head. “Partez! Sortez!” Stricken, Herve went, closing the door quietly behind him.
Solange relaxed against the pillows Marta had put behind her, for a few minutes at least, until the next contraction took her breath away. Marta worked through the night, dabbing Solange’s forehead, holding her hand, speaking words of encouragement. Solange screamed when the baby pushed his way into the world, just as the sun peeked over the horizon. Marta tied two strings around the cord and cut it with shaking hands. Wrapping the wailing baby boy in a soft blanket, she placed him in Solange’s arms.