“Tante Emma, die zeitung.”
She handed the newspaper to her aunt, but the old woman refused it.
“English,” she insisted. It was part of the agreement. If Aunt Emma was to sponsor you to come into the United States, you were expected to speak the local tongue. Her generosity would extend only so far; you would make your own way, the sooner the better, and English was a requirement to do so. Even better if they could shed their accents.
This was all the more vital now that the government was arresting Germans en masse and sending them to internment camps. Enemy aliens. As if they hadn’t lived here for decades and contributed to the robust fabric of the country.
These were dangerous times.
The girl’s cheeks reddened and as the words played in her mind, Emma decided to at least join the effort and try to recall her name. She was a stout thing. Bountiful, her mother would have said. That’s how she’d tried to remember them all: associate an image with the name. Ah—that was it. Leizel. A name that meant God’s bounty. The Maker had certainly used a larger mold when casting this one, but the reference helped her.
“Paper,” Leizel managed slowly.
“Newspaper,” corrected Emma. But the attempt was an admirable one. “Paper could mean many things.”
“Nees-pah-per,” the girl tried and it was enough for Emma at the moment. She was still new and at least up for the challenge. Unlike some of the lazy ones.
“Set it there,” she said, pointing to the table next to her. Leizel did as she was asked and disappeared back into the foyer.
Emma cared little for the headlines; she’d be gone soon enough and the news of today would mean nothing when she lay in the grave. But no doubt her family would be atwitter at dinner on Sunday with the interview she’d given to an untried reporter who’d come by asking her questions about the brewery. Emma expected there would be more in due time—they were approaching the sixtieth anniversary of Pearl Beer, and San Antonio was already preparing great fanfare for its native and beloved company. Even as there was a war going on across the ocean. But perhaps people were eager for some reason to have gaiety. The Fiesta City, it was called, and not for nothing.
Not surprisingly, the reporter had been more interested in the story of three decades ago. Otto’s murder. The other Emmas.
Anything they wanted to know about that incident could be found in archives and they needn’t bother her to rehash things that had been put in print long ago. Emma Koehler had no patience for unoriginal questions. If they wouldn’t do their homework, she wouldn’t give her time. She had too little of it left.
But sometimes, a well-meaning relative would answer the telephone and grant an appointment without asking her permission before knowing that she detested such things. They always brought back memories she preferred to forget and allowed the past to inhabit her thoughts for days after. Yesterday’s young man had at least asked one interesting thing: What was her secret to living fifteen years beyond a woman’s life expectancy?
“Pearl Lager,” she’d replied.
She directed all things back to her beloved brewery. Her only child.
As for the rest, she would tell it her way. In her own good time.
Emma glanced at her wristwatch and wheeled herself to the parlor door. It sat to the right of the grand staircase and was the place she most liked to do the work of correspondences and bill paying. The house was not without a study. That one was across the hall, but it had been Otto’s domain all those years ago and was never to Emma’s taste. Dark blue walls and even darker paneling. Its best light came in from the octagonal alcove, but even that was so masculine in its design that Emma felt suffocated just being in there. So it remained unused, and depending on the attention of the most current maid, sat dusted or undusted.
The parlor, on the other hand, had once been a most lively gathering spot for philanthropic and social bigwigs alike. Hemming and hawing over Otto’s latest business endeavor, or imploring the Koehlers for donations in support of the charity du jour.
It was in this room that Emma suggested to Otto that they incorporate ostrich racing at his Hot Wells Resort; a notion conjured during a dream after a particularly raucous night sampling some of the newest offerings from Pearl.
Emma had always had the best ideas.
On occasion, Otto would admit it.
The parlor was also the most cheery place in the house. Light pink walls, creamy brocade curtains from floor to ceiling around the curved bay of windows. And Emma’s favorite: the iridescent green glass tiles that surrounded the fireplace.
Otto’s only contribution had been the odd frieze of a woman’s naked form with vines growing out of her reproductive organs. Ridiculous enough on its own, but a perpetual mockery of the fact that she had never been able to give him children.
What were the odds that his two mistresses had never borne children, either? She’d long suspected that the fault had lain not with any of the women he’d bedded, but at Otto’s own feet. All those decades ago, though, it was presumed that such a failure was distinctly female.
How many times had she said she’d redo this room and get rid of the silly art piece? Too many. But there were always more urgent tasks at hand.
She heard the front door open.
“Helga?” she called.
“Mrs. Koehler, I have the mail.”
At last.
Helga’s accent was perhaps the most pronounced of all the nurses Emma had employed ever since her automobile accident so many years ago. It reminded her of her dear stepmother’s, bringing comfort in these uncomfortable days.
“Good, good. Any more letters?”
“None, ma’am. Not for the past three days. I think the advertisement has run its course. Have you made a decision?”
Emma removed three from the top drawer of her desk and handed them to Helga.
“These are the most intriguing out of the bunch. I wanted to see what you think.”
Helga pulled up the hard-backed chair in the corner, careful to not let its wooden legs scrape the floor.
The nurse was of good German stock, as all of them had been.
Well, all had been German. Not all had been good. The two other Emmas, the affairs, Otto’s death. No, not all had been good.
Helga took the letters from her and as she read, Emma fell into the light doze of the elderly that lasted about ten minutes, but refreshed like an ale on a summer day in Texas. Though she’d likely be dead and buried before the mercury shot up the thermometer. She should have had an Alpine love of the cold given her heritage, but she herself was one generation removed from the German homeland, having been born in St. Louis. And she’d lived in Texas long enough to consider it home.
“Is there anything to deliberate over, Mrs. Koehler? This one seems to be the most qualified.”
Emma awoke and continued as if there had been no break in the conversation and appreciated that Helga never drew attention to the interruption.
The nurse held out the one with the Brooklyn postmark and handed it to her. “This young woman is eminently better than the others. A degree from Columbia in journalism. And a beauty. Look at her picture.”
She turned the woman’s photograph around so that Emma could see it. Indeed, she was a looker, elegant in the way that her niece, Ernestina was. But that was decidedly not what Emma was aiming for. This was not a beauty pageant. Emma had asked for photos because she wanted to see their eyes. Those proverbial windows to the soul that would tell her which girl would be the right one.