The cab pulled up. David paid the driver and sprang out. Ernest, the cheerful and polite doorman, was on. He gave him the usual friendly nod, but instead of saying, “Good evening to you, Mr. Milford,” he said, “Where are you going, Mr. Milford?”
“To see Miss Karla.”
“But she left Friday morning.”
“Left!”
“That she did . . . with two suitcases.”
“Where? I mean . . . she didn’t move . . . or—”
The doorman saw the panic on David’s face. “Now come on, son . . . nothing to be so upset about. Of course she didn’t move. You know Miss Karla. She always takes off on a moment’s notice. None of us here knew she intended to leave. But on Friday morning down she comes at nine, huddled in that big fur coat and dark glasses, only instead of taking her usual walk to her dancing studio, she asks for a cab. And like I said, she’s got them suitcases. She tells me she left word for them to hold her mail and stop her Wall Street Journal. That’s the only newspaper she ever reads . . . but she told me to check on it and make sure. Then she told the driver Kennedy Airport. That’s all I know.”
“I . . . I was away myself,” David said in an attempt at recovery. He couldn’t bear the sympathetic look in the doorman’s eyes. “I was in Palm Beach . . . you can see by my tan . . . and I haven’t checked with my service. Afraid I took off without giving Miss Karla any notice myself and I called from the airport and when her phone didn’t answer . . . well, you know how phones are today . . . you never can tell . . . so I thought I’d come around. But I’ll probably find a message from her on my service.”
“Of course you will, my lad.”
David turned and walked away. She was gone. No more of those “Good evenings to you,” from the doorman. God, they had been such good evenings! Those evenings when he sailed in, confident and happy, smiling at the doorman who knew he was expected, nodding to the elevator man who also knew he was expected. And now she was gone again. For how long? And why? The lights of the street were blurring now . . . he began to run. She was gone . . . without even saying goodbye. He kept running . . . it was the only way to keep from cracking up. He ran all the way to his apartment. And when he let himself in, he called out to the empty walls: “OH GOD . . . KARLA! WHY?”
And then he stood there and sobbed . . . great dry sobs . . . the first time he had sobbed since the day he was cut from the football squad at Andover.
Thirteen
Karla sat huddled in the front seat of the jet. After calling all the airlines she had settled on TWA’s eleven o’clock flight to London when they had assured her that no one would share her seat.
She was still wearing her oversized dark glasses. So far the young stewardesses had not recognized her. Some of them were only children when she had retired. But these same children were members of the new cult who had discovered her on the Late Show. She watched them giggling together, preparing hors d’oeuvres and drinks, always smiling as they flashed up and down the aisle serving people. They were so young. And so very happy. Had she ever been that young or giggled like that? No . . . it was not possible. Not when you grew up in a village near Wilno.
WILNO. A mistake of migration by her father . . . a mistake made by so many Poles. In 1920, Poland had launched a successful attack on Russia and seized Wilno, the capital of Lithuania. And to this new state came farmers eager for new acres. In 1921, Andrzej Karlowski, his wife, his baby daughter, and their two small sons arrived. He came from a village near Bialystok hoping to make his fortune in Wilno; to send his sons to the university when they were grown. Instead he found a land that was scourged. His neighbors were Ukrainians and Rutherians who retained their national characteristics. There was a small Catholic church in the nearest village, a state school where the nuns taught, and Andrzej and his wife had no choice but to work fifteen hours a day to farm their barren land. There was no time to miss the old life or friends. The farm took all their energy—that and the dream of the university for their sons. And it was in this desolate atmosphere that Natalia Maria Karlowski was raised.
It was a placid unemotional childhood. She grew up with no laughter, no imagination, no dreams, and no ambitions other than to marry a boy with a nice piece of land.
The Karlowskis were good Catholics, and the only day she could remember seeing her mother sitting without peeling potatoes was Sunday, when she attended Mass. On that day her mother exchanged the babushka for the black hat with the large hatpin, the apron for the shiny black dress, and the rosary replaced the paring knife in her rough calloused hands. Her father wore his one black suit, the suit he wore to church, weddings, and funerals.
She attended the state school, and her first few years were as calm and as unemotional as her days on the farm. She was nine when Sister Thérèse arrived, bringing the first bit of beauty and excitement into the lives of the drab little students.
Sister Thérèse was from Warsaw. She had been to Moscow and Paris. She had studied for the ballet and had suddenly gotten the “calling.” She gave it all up and entered a convent. The little school had been her first assignment. She told this to her spellbound pupils in a quiet direct way. They stared like mutes—it was the first time any of them had seen a beautiful woman, a woman without weather-beaten skin and red hands. The hard Polish winter robbed young women of their beauty before it blossomed.
All of the girls worshipped Sister Thérèse. But little Natalia was enraptured. And when Sister Thérèse offered to teach some ballet exercises in the gym class, Natalia worked with demoniac energy. At home she spent hours in her small room practicing every exercise because she noticed how pleased Sister Thérèse was when any of the girls displayed the least bit of grace. And a word of praise from Sister Thérèse sent her home with vaguely disquieting, yet hauntingly wonderful daydreams. And then one afternoon, Sister Thérèse asked her to wait after class. Her palms were wet and her heart seemed to be beating in her neck and throat as she waited. Sister Thérèse came to her with a smile. “Natalia, I think you have the makings of a real ballerina. I have talked with the Mother Superior, and if it meets with your family’s approval, I would like to try to get you a scholarship at the Prasinski School of Ballet. You will have to live there, and your school work will continue there, but you will receive five hours of ballet a day.”
Her mother and father agreed immediately. They knew nothing about ballet; but if a nun had suggested it . . . then it was right. Natalia was torn. She realized it was a great opportunity, except it would mean leaving Sister Thérèse. But when the Sister told her she would visit the school and watch her progress, Natalia felt better. All of the students picked names to use when they danced in the school recitals. Natalia had no imagination. She was enrolled as Natalia Karlowska and that was her name.
For the next seven years her entire life was centered around the ballet and Sister Thérèse. Every Saturday afternoon the students performed a ballet in the little theater in the school. The money for the tickets helped toward running the company. During the first few years of recital, Natalia helped with scenery, makeup, and sewing costumes for the girls who performed. When she was twelve she made the corps de ballet. And each week Sister Thérèse would sit in the audience, and Natalia would dance her heart out to her.
Her mother and father had come to the first recital in their church clothes, looking uncomfortable and warm in the auditorium. Her father fell asleep during the second act and her mother had to pinch him to stop his snoring. They never came again—too long a trip, too much work to be done at home . . .
When Natalia got her first solo, and all the girls insisted she pick a name, it was Sister Thérèse who suggested “Karla.” And after the performance when she flung herself into the nun’s arms and Sister Thérèse whispered, “Congratulations . . . Karla,” she never thought of herself as anything but Karla again. She had been rechristened and reborn.
One day after a recital, Sister Thérèse requested to visit her parents. “You are nineteen. It i
s time to talk about your future. May I come next Sunday . . . after Mass?”
She would never forget that Sunday. She had left ballet school on an early train. When she reached the house, her parents were still at church, but she smelled the goose and the apple pie. She stood in the small living room. Suddenly it looked so shoddy. It was immaculate . . . but so very poor. It was June, and she rushed outside and picked some spring flowers. She put them around the room and tried to cover the worn spots on the chairs with the doilies. But when Sister Thérèse arrived she seemed unaware of the poverty. She admired the andirons at the fireplace . . . the pewter mugs . . . she moved about like. a beautiful porcelain goddess. Sister Thérèse praised the goose and red cabbage and knedlicky. Her mother’s round face beamed, and it was the first time Karla realized her mother had dimples . . . or that her father’s gray eyes were so beautiful when he smiled. She sat in silence as Sister Thérèse explained to her family that she would like to send Natalia to Warsaw.
“My family is very wealthy,” Sister Thérèse said softly. “And my mother’s brother, my Uncle Otto, lives in London. He is also a big merchant. They will do for Natalia what they hoped to do for me. She could stay with my family in Warsaw while she auditions for the ballet. Later perhaps she could stay with Uncle Otto if she tries out for the Sadlers Wells in London . . . but do I have your permission?”
Her parents nodded in unison. It was too much for them to fathom. Warsaw . . . London . . . anything the Sister wished was acceptable—only there was no way they could repay her.
Later Natalia and Sister Thérèse had taken a walk. The moment they were outside, Natalia said, “I am not going to Warsaw. I am not leaving you.”
Sister Thérèse had laughed. “In time you will be very happy there. Very shortly our little Prasinski Ballet will not be able to teach you anything more. You are almost ready.” Suddenly she pointed toward a tree. “And what is that?”
Karla blushed. “I made that for you when I was nine.”
Sister Thérèse walked over to it. Some planks were built around a tree forming a seat, and a crude picket fence surrounded the tree. Karla laughed with embarrassment. “You brought not only dancing, but poetry into my life. One day at school you talked about a beautiful gazebo . . . you made it so real . . . I could almost see you sitting in it. So I came home and built it. I used to dream that one day I would show it to you—and now I see how very ugly it is.”
Sister Thérèse entered and sat down. “It’s lovely, my little Karla. Come sit with me.” Sister Thérèse smelled of clean soap and violets. Suddenly Karla threw her arms around the Sister and said, “I love you. I have loved you since I first saw you.”
Sister Thérèse disengaged herself carefully. “I love you, too.”
“You do! Oh, then let me kiss you and hold you and—” She reached out and touched the Sister’s cheek . . . and held her hand.
But once again Sister Thérèse calmly extricated herself from the girl’s embrace. “You must not touch me. It is wrong.”
“It is wrong to love?”
“Love is never wrong,” Sister Thérèse said. “But physical love between us is wrong. You cannot kiss me or touch me.”
“But I want to. Can’t you understand? Oh, Sister, I know nothing about the ways of making love. I talk very little to the girls at school. But sometimes at night as I lie in bed in my cubicle, I hear them sneak into bed with one another and I know they are caressing. I have been approached . . . but I turn away. No one matters but you. I lie there alone and dream that you are in a nightgown and coming to me and taking me in your arms and then—”
“And then?” Sister Thérèse asked.
“And then I hold you close and kiss you . . . and touch you—” She paused. “Oh, Sister, I want you close to me. Is that really wrong?”
Sister Thérèse fingered the rosary that hung from her habit. “Yes, Karla, it is wrong. You see, when I studied ballet in Warsaw, I too paired off at night with other girls. It is something that happens . . . girls reach puberty . . . they only have one another . . . there is no time to meet young men. So they love one another. I did it, but I knew it was wrong . . . and it tormented me. And I also knew I was not as fine a dancer as some of the others, that I had been accepted because of my family’s money and prestige. And one day after I had just been given a role that another girl had tried out for, I heard someone whisper, ‘It is her face that got her the role . . . not her feet.’ And the girl who did not get the role ran off sobbing, saying my beauty was evil—that it got me things I did not deserve.” Sister Thérèse’s face was drawn as she forced the unpleasant memory into words. “That night I fell to my knees and prayed for help. And suddenly it was as if I had been released from a prison. I realized I didn’t want to be a great ballerina. I found I wanted only to serve and love Him . . . my sweet Jesus. I spent days meditating. I read the lives of all the Saints, read about how they had gotten the calling, and suddenly when I read the life of the Little Flower—Saint Thérèse who just wanted to do ‘little things’—I knew then that I must become a nun. I knew I could never bring about any big miracles . . . but I could make people happy by doing little things. And the first little thing happened when I left the ballet. The girl who had run off sobbing got my part. And believe me, Karla, it was the first genuine happiness I had known. And when I came here, and saw all the serious little faces, I knew that the years of study had not been in vain . . . not if they could bring some little bit of happiness to the children of Wilno . . . and to you, my little Karla. And you must work hard at your dancing . . . and always remember He is watching and that it is a mortal sin to make love with a woman. One day a man will come along . . . and then you will understand true love.”
“Why didn’t that man come along for you?”
“He did. His name is Jesus.”
Then they left the gazebo, and they never spoke about love again. As the summer drew to an end, Sister Thérèse changed the plans about the Warsaw trip. “We must arrange for you to go to England. . . .”
“When?”
“Immediately. I have written to Uncle Otto in London about you. Today I received an answer. He and Tante Bosha will be delighted to have you stay with them while you audition for the Sadlers Wells.”
Karla tried to put her off. “Not for a while. Next year perhaps.”
But Sister Thérèse was insistent. “You must make your plans to leave in ten days. Here is your plane ticket to London.”
Karla stared at the ticket Sister Thérèse had placed in her hand. She shook her head. “No . . . no . . . I don’t want to go.”
“Karla, you must listen to me. War is just seconds away. Germany has signed the nonaggression pact with Russia. Von Ribbentrop went to Moscow last week. Why do you think I said you must not go to Warsaw? You will only be safe in London.”
“But what about you? If it is so dangerous . . . why are you staying?”
“I am protected. I am in the church. Even in wars, the church is not molested. God will protect me. Jesus watches over us all.”
“Then let Him watch over me.”
“No. You have your own calling.”
The following day there were no classes as all the students and teachers huddled around the radio and listened to the news that Hitler had served notice on England and France that Germany wanted Danzig and the Polish Corridor. There was talk . . . groups huddled together—how would war affect the ballet? But the following day all the students were back to their bar work and rehearsals went on as usual. But reality and fear hit the Prasinski Ballet on August 31, when Hitler offered Poland sixteen conditions of peace and Poland rejected the terms. Suddenly there was frenzied activity at Prasinski. Classes ended. Suitcases were dragged out. Instructors tried to get train reservations to get back to their homes. That night everyone gathered in nervous little groups, whispering together. Students who had to part to return to homes in distant cities sat together, their arms around each other, openly professing their love. Kar
la sat alone and thought about Sister Thérèse. What was she doing? Praying with the other nuns? Was she thinking about her?
The following morning at dawn, without any formal notice of war, Germany invaded Poland. Students no longer waited for proper trains. They left on foot. They sat at railroad stations waiting for any train. Karla was fortunate. She managed to get a lift from a milk farmer who had land near her parents.
When she finally reached the farm, she found her parents sitting in front of the radio in a somnambulistic stupor. Their sons had left the university to join the army . . . everything they had worked for was gone. Karla had never read newspapers, but now she went to the village to buy the daily paper. She read about things she couldn’t understand. She suddenly realized she knew so little about anything other than ballet. She knew all about Nijinsky—his wife, his manager, his instructors. But she knew nothing of the world she lived in. She had been aware of the peril of Hitler . . . but the full impact of war had never permeated the Prasinski Ballet.
Now the most important moments were the broadcasts from Radio Warsaw—listening to it sign on with the first few notes of the Chopin Polonaise in A Major. When she learned German mechanized units had reached the outskirts of the capital and had opened fire on Warsaw, she knew it was time to leave. She must get to London and Uncle Otto. She packed her bag, kissed her parents goodbye, and walked the two miles to the convent to tell Sister Thérèse.
When she arrived, Sister Thérèse was sitting at the radio, fingering her rosary, her eyes staring into space. All night she had tried to get through to her parents in Warsaw, but the lines were down. When she saw Natalia’s bag and heard she planned to go to London, she shook her head with a sad smile. “It is too late for that. No planes . . . no trains . . . no more ballet . . . the dream has ended.”