Elsie quickly nodded.
“So I am thinking that maybe Fraulein Klinkhammer has this, too. Is this her meaning in the letter when she said she was ill?” he asked, thoughtfully scratching his whiskered chin. “At first, I am thinking to make this journey on my own,” he went on. “I was not sure how my mother would be on journey, and Anna, too. I predict that both of them are not being strong enough, but I do not want to leave them behind, alone, even though I have friends at university who might help. But I have no choice. My mother insisted that we all go together. I suggest that maybe I should just take Anna to reunite her with Fraulein Klinkhammer, but she predicts I am not able to take care of Anna alone. But look at me now,” he said with a sad grin. Elsie tried her best to give him an encouraging smile in return.
“No, the truth, I am thinking,” he said with a heavy sigh, “is that she had no wish to stay anymore. She was afraid. My father, she said, would understand. And so I got tickets and visas, which took some time, and finally we left.” He stopped pacing and looked down at Elsie. “Maybe we exaggerated the threat,” he shrugged, his voice tired. “Maybe we should have stayed. I do not know. Nothing has turned out as I predict it would.”
He slumped down into the chair opposite her again. “As you know, she died on the way over, my mother. I very much grieved her, as did Anna. Very much,” he said hoarsely. “Ach, Elsie. What is worse is that it has been for nothing. Look at us. No closer to finding Fraulein Klinkhammer than the day we first arrived.”
Elsie was at a loss for what to say to this poor man in front of her. “It must have been terrible, Gunther. What did you do? When you landed, that is. How did you come to be here?”
Gunther let out another sigh. “We docked in New York and made our way, me and little Anna, on the train to Chicago. I . . . I must say I did not understand how big America is, how big the cities are. I was . . . how do you say it? Overwhelmed? I felt despair of ever finding the fraulein, but I have no choice but try. At train station, I asked someone to direct me to Mundelein, and so we arrive here. It is what Fraulein Klinkhammer said in letter, no? That she had found work at a school? I asked many people . . . many of the girls as they walk by . . . if they know of a Fraulein . . . Miss . . . Liesel Klinkhammer. No one has heard this name, they say. I grow more and more upset. Finally, someone had pity on us and took us to see Sister Bernard. This sister welcomed us in, even though we were very dirty and shabby. I did not realize this until we were standing outside her office, how dirty we are.
“I tried to explain that I am seeking Anna’s mother. She tells me that this name of ‘Liesel Klinkhammer’ she has not heard before. She is not student and not worker at this school. I am made very low by this, as I am thinking that my searching is to be nearing an end. Sister Bernard asks me then if maybe this woman is using different name? Or if maybe she moved on to different place? I have no answer to this. Then Sister asked where we are to stay, and I say that I do not know. I was no longer thinking so clear. We had just come from train station. We have nothing and nowhere to go. She has pity on me, I am thinking, and says that we can stay for time in small house behind dormitories. It is small like a hut. It is where old Hausmeister? . . . caretaker? . . . once lived. In exchange, she says, maybe I can do odd jobs for them. I agreed, and Anna and I moved in right away, that day. I cleaned the place,” he said, looking around the room, “and unpacked our things, which was not much. We have little to bring. Thankfully, I know English because of my mother. She taught me this as child. It is not perfect, I know, but it is enough for me to get by,” he said with a small shrug.
“It is very good,” Elsie encouraged with a smile. She looked down at Anna and gently brushed her fine hair back from her eyes. “Then what?” Elsie prodded, looking back up at him.
“I . . . I work very hard at new job,” he said, pulling his mutual gaze away. “Though I admit I am not skilled at jobs mechanical, but most of work is not hard. Most of it is cleaning. I think constantly about Fraulein Klinkhammer—how I can find her. But I have not much time free and no . . . no help. On evenings off, I take Anna by hand, and we explore neighborhood. I go into shop after shop, asking if anyone has heard of woman with Fraulein Klinkhammer’s description. But there is nothing. No one.
“As time goes on, Sister Bernard offered me a permanent job as caretaker if I want. I was happy with this; I have nothing else,” he said with a shrug. “But she has condition, she says. Anna, she says, cannot stay. I am shocked by this—angered, too. I say I will refuse, but Sister explained. She says that living in a hut in back of school with man who claims not to be her father is not good life for a child. There is a place, she tells me, called the Bohemian Home for the Aged and Orphans. Not too far away, on Foster Avenue. I can visit often, she says. Many children in orphanages have parents still alive who cannot care for them, she tells me. For reasons many. So they put children there until they can. Or until someone else wants them,” he added, looking at Elsie again.
“Sister Bernard is very convincing,” Gunther went on, with an odd trace of defensiveness in his voice now. “She tells me that Anna will have good food, some school, a place to run and play, learn better English. It is a good place, she promised. ‘Do what is best for Anna,’ she says. In my mind, I am thinking she is right. I have to admit that Anna was not doing so good. Constantly she cries for my mother. I tell her to stay in this hut while I work, but two times already I find her wandering by lake and then by road,” he said with a nod toward the front of the college, where the busy, twisting Sheridan Road lay.
“I . . . I did not know what else to do,” Gunther explained, his eyes pleading. “I did not have much of choice. Not one that I could see. So I . . . I went to this place. This Bohemian Home. And in the end, I . . . I put her there.” He looked at Elsie with deep shame in his eyes.
Elsie was just about to reassure him when he suddenly broke down, putting his hand over his eyes to hide his tears.
“After everything. All that we went through in Germany. My mother dying. The terrible trip. All so that Anna could end up in orphanage anyway. Ach, Elsie. I have failed,” he groaned, and his shoulders actually shook as he cried.
Elsie’s heart went out to him, and she wished she could think of something to say that would comfort him.
“It was all for nothing,” he said before she could offer anything. He angrily wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I am no closer to finding Fraulein Klinkhammer than I was before. She could be anywhere. Even far away from here. Who knows?”
“Gunther,” Elsie began in a low, soothing voice. “You haven’t failed. You might not have found her mother . . . yet. But you saved Anna from a potentially horrible fate in Germany. That alone demands credit and praise. Your mother’s death was not for naught. She helped save this little girl. As did you.” Privately Elsie considered the loss of his studies and his life as a teacher as worthy of sorrow and regret as well, but she did not say so. “All is not yet lost,” she said softly, though, in actuality, she did think it to be nearly a hopeless situation. “What about her . . . her epilepsy? Has she . . . has she had any more fits?” Elsie asked tentatively.
Gunther sighed. “As if by miracle, she had none on the ship or during time with me here. I . . . I thought maybe they were over. That this condition has somehow gone away. That she is cured. Something like that. I know it was idiocy to think this.” He exhaled loudly again, pausing to think. “I did not tell Sister Bernard or people at orphanage about . . . about Anna’s illness because I have fear. Maybe this is wrong, but I decided to . . . what is the word? Zocken? Gamble? I prayed that all would be okay, but no. It was not to be. Since she has been at orphanage these fits have come back. She has had two. The people at the orphanage—a couple, a man and wife—have much understanding and kindness. They wish to help, they say, but they tell me they cannot keep a child who has fits. They say she should be sent to special institution for feebleminded children in different part of state.” Gunther put his hand over his eyes again. “Ach, Elsie,” he mumbled. “What am I to do? I must find Fraulein Klinkhammer.”