Midnight Harvest (25 page)

For all his pessimism, I was happy to be his wife and to raise his surviving children as best I could, but I had no illusions of the place I held in his life; ours was an arranged marriage, and neither of us expected grand passion from it which suited us both. He was many ways caught in the past, and the past never completely released him. I hope that his death has finally ended his anguish. I have to say that he was always good to me, and our life together had genuine contentment, and I cannot fault Simeon for his loyalty to Amalie and Dietbold—had I been his first wife and his murdered child, I would want him to remember, too.

You inquire after the family, so I will do my best to fill you in on what has happened in the last dozen years. I am enclosing Bruno’s business card: as you can see, he is practicing psychology here in Chicago. He graduated summa cum laude from Northwestern and has his Master’s and Doctorate from there; he is on the staff at the H.T. Smith Institute, as well as having his own practice and offices, all of which pleased Simeon immensely. He is engaged to a wonderful girl—Rachel Fishman—and they plan to marry next spring. I know he would be glad to hear from you, if you have the time to call upon him.

Olympie married in ’34, and she and her husband now make their home in New York. Eli Rosenblatt is a junior executive for Intercontinental Insurance, specializing in insuring commercial property and large construction projects. So far they are doing fairly well, which, given the nature of the times, is most encouraging. She and I maintain a regular correspondence, and from time to time, she telephones me. Olympie expects a baby in October, which would have delighted Simeon; he wanted—no, longed for—grandchildren so much, but he didn’t live to see one; Olympie plans to name the child for him if they have a boy, and for her mother if she has a girl, and Eli is in complete agreement with her. I think this is a lovely tribute.

Emmerich is a lawyer now, and has a practice in Detroit, and for a young man only a short time out of law school, he is doing very well for himself. He already has a house of his own, and a Buick. Some of his clients are shady, and Simeon worried for his boy, doing business with such men. The firm he joined has made a reputation defending all manner of men associated with organized crime, and, as is often the case, the reputation of the clients has rubbed off on the attorneys defending them. Emmerich is young, and he may still realize that the excitement of taking on the cases of crime lords is not compensation enough for the damage to his integrity, no matter how much they pay.

You know that Hedda saw the men kill her mother and brother and was never quite the same afterward. Her affliction has only gotten worse over the years. She has spent a considerable amount of time in the care of an excellent psychiatrist and has received the best therapy available, but nothing seemed to help. She even spent some months in a hospital, but with little improvement in her condition. Then, five years ago, she converted to Catholicism, which grieved Simeon greatly, and three years ago, she became a novice at the Poor Clares’ convent, Holy Redeemer, in Menomonee Falls, just outside of Milwaukee. She is Sister Eustochium now, named for an obscure saint who lived in the Holy Land in the early days of the Christian religion, or so she told us when she entered the convent Simeon was heartbroken over her joining the Order, and for almost a year wouldn’t even mention her name, or accept anything she had done; toward the end he became resigned to her decision, saying that if it gave her peace, then he would have to consider it a blessing for her. She isn’t allowed to write to any of us except at Christmas, and so I don’t know very much about her that I can tell you, but that she says she is happy for the first time in her life. I was never able to get close to Hedda while she lived with us, and I sometimes feel I failed her when she had the greatest need of me. Of course, Simeon never made such a suggestion, but I can’t help but think it must have crossed his mind now and then.

Simeon’s architectural firm, Schnaubel & Wood, has done very well. Simeon has left his family comfortably off, and not even the Crash eroded the greatest part of the wealth he accumulated over the years. You may see his work in buildings throughout the Midwest which the firm continues, with his founder’s shares still providing a little money each year, and should continue to do so as President Roosevelt continues his policy of public works to bolster the economy. The investments Simeon made in land have proven to be of some worth, as well, so neither I nor his children need ever be in want provided a little good judgment is exercised. As you may know, Simeon distrusted stocks after the German currency underwent such outrageous inflation a decade ago, and for that reason, he put his money in land and jewels. At the time I believed that he was being too cautious, but events proved him right, and I am grateful to him for his decision. So many of our friends have sustained appalling losses and may not have the opportunity or time to earn it all again.

I would be happy to have you visit if you decide you have time to come by. If you can’t I do understand the problems travel imposes, and I will pass on your greetings to as many in the family as you would like, except Hedda, since she isn’t allowed to receive mail from any of us, and will not be until her vows are final. I have heard the family speak of you many times, always with a kind of clemency and a shared sorrow for the death of your ward Simeon called you merciful once, and although that was a strange choice of words for him, from what I have learned of you, it is singularly apt On his behalf, and on behalf of his family, I would be glad to receive you any afternoon but Friday, if it suits your schedule to drive out to our house. Simeon designed it and it is easily recognized. You will know it when you see it.

In your note you say you are leaving for the West in a few days. If this precludes time for a visit, then let me take this opportunity to thank you for all the graciousness you showed my husband in Bavaria, and the help you provided in his time of greatest need. Many others have turned their backs on the plight of the German Jews, but you were not willing to set aside your humanity so readily. Without your help, he would probably not have made it to America, and he and his family would be facing who knows what problems in Germany, and my life would have been a great deal lonelier. If you cannot spare the time to call, then let me wish you a safe and pleasant journey. From all I know of you, it would be richly deserved.

Most sincerely yours,

Sarah Schnaubel

(Mrs. Simeon Schnaubel)

chapter one

“This is a Packard Twelve,” said the salesman. “The ’34 model, the last year they made them. A truly fine piece of machinery. It’s as good as anything Rolls-Royce turns out” He patted the automobile on the hood, taking care to buff the light tan finish when he had done. “Hand-made, only two thousand of them in existence.”

“What if it needs repair?” Saint-Germain asked, stroking the small black leather valise he carried under his arm. He looked around the showroom, a vast hall half the size of an airplane hangar, but with Corinthian columns and a few improbable murals of buxom Greek maidens in brightly colored but inaccurate chitons and hymations performing unlikely athletic feats. Three large fans hanging from the ceiling stirred the air but provided little alleviation from the heat.

“But it won’t, not this car. It’s as close to perfect as a car can get,” the salesman insisted, his voice becoming edgy; he was in his late thirties in a summer-weight suit that had once been expensive but had seen better days. His shirt was spotlessly white but there was a beginning of fraying at the collar and cuffs, and on this feverish afternoon, he was sweating heavily enough to need to wipe his brow every five minutes or so. “And Packard’s part of Studebaker now, and Studebaker’s everywhere. If anything happens to it, you can get it fixed. Don’t worry about that. Not that it’s going to need fixing, just regular servicing.”

“How much do you want for it?” Saint-Germain asked, knowing that Americans expressed real interest by asking about price.

“We’re asking four thousand five hundred.” The salesman mopped his brow.

“A considerable amount,” Saint-Germain remarked.

There was a long pause, and the salesman cleared his throat. “We can’t lower the price—it’s a rare car. It’s held its value and it will continue to do so.”

“I was not asking for a lower price; I am only commenting that this is an expensive auto,” said Saint-Germain.

“The former owner paid a much higher price for it,” the salesman said, a bit defensively.

“And disposed of it within two years of buying it,” said Saint-Germain.

“He suffered some business reversals,” said the salesman with a quick gesture that he had made a great many times before. “The car’s a real classic already, and a bargain at the price we’re asking.”

“If you say so,” said Saint-Germain. “Do you think you would take four thousand three hundred for it, if you had the amount today, in cash?”

“Well,” the salesman stalled nervously, “it’s possible. I’ll have to ask my supervisor to—” He stopped talking.

“If you need approval from someone else, then please, submit my offer. It’s quite serious, I assure you.” Saint-Germain seemed unaffected by the heat; his clothes were elegant and un-rumpled, and his face was completely dry. “Four thousand three hundred dollars in cash by three this afternoon.”

The salesman was flustered. “That’s a considerable sum,” he said nervously.

“Is it,” Saint-Germain said as if without interest. “I will take your word for it. It is an amount I have to hand; if you will accept it, we can conclude the negotiation this afternoon, and you will enjoy your commission.”

The salesman coughed. “I’ll talk to my superior as soon as he returns from lunch.” He put his hands together, rubbing the palms as if to start a fire.

“When will that be?” Saint-Germain asked.

“Two o’clock?” The salesman lowered his voice. “He sometimes takes a late lunch, and he did today. If you don’t mind waiting twenty minutes? He’ll be back and then I can submit this offer to him. If it were up to me, I’d say yes right away, but…”

“But?” Saint-Germain prompted when the salesman faltered.

“Any sale over a thousand dollars has to have his approval.” He swallowed deeply. “I don’t know what to say besides wait.”

“Twenty minutes, you say?” Saint-Germain inquired.

“Thirty at the most” The salesman patted the Packard fondly. “It’s a really wonderful car. If you want to take it for a test-drive, you may, but I have to ride along. You understand, a car this valuable, it can’t be let out without someone from the dealership to keep track of it, and to vouch for it in case anything happens.” He tried to show an ingratiating smile and only managed to look as if his feet hurt.

“I do understand,” said Saint-Germain, only a hint of irony in his voice. “And I am willing to leave a surety deposit with you—say five hundred dollars?—while I take it for a test; alone.” He let the salesman consider his offer, then went on, “I will endeavor to have the auto back here in fifteen minutes, twenty at the most.”

The salesman, who made three hundred dollars in a good month, stared at the black-clad foreigner. He hadn’t seen anyone handle money the way this fellow did since before the Crash, and it took him aback. “Five hundred?”

“Toward the purchase, of course,” said Saint-Germain at his blandest.

“Of course,” said the salesman, recovering himself enough to behave as if such offers were common occurrences. “Five hundred surety and you’ll be back in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“You may ride with me, if the amount isn’t sufficient.” He managed to appear more willing than he was.

“Five hundred is a lot of money,” said the salesman, again wiping his brow.

“Well and good,” said Saint-Germain. “It should persuade you: I am sincere.” He looked at the auto again. “It is elegant.”

“Servo-assisted drum brakes on all four wheels, semi-floating rear axle,” the salesman agreed, misunderstanding the compliment. “Top speed is just over one hundred miles an hour. Passenger windscreens, as well as for the driver. Eight coats of paint, each hand-polished. Same with the chrome. Six-volt electrical system. It weighs around two tons. Two spare tires. You can almost put a piano in the trunk. And the backseat compartment is thirty percent larger than in most cars.” His recitation seemed to steady him a bit and he took a deep breath. “It’s the best we have on the floor.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Saint-Germain, his attention directed to the overhead fans again. “I do want to drive it before I spend all this money on it.” The money meant little to him, but it clearly meant a great deal more to the salesman.

The salesman laughed a little. “Leave your five hundred here and I’ll explain it all to my boss if he gets back before you do. Just remember, we have all the paperwork here. You can’t drive very far without proof of ownership.” As a joke it fell flat; as a warning it was a great success.

“I have no wish to abscond with such an automobile—it is far too conspicuous.” Saint-Germain opened the driver’s door and got in, noticing how well-appointed the interior was. “Very nice,” he said as he noticed the salesman looking at him nervously.

“For a car like this, we recommend insurance,” the salesman added. “It’s a good-sized investment and you want to protect it.”

“I gather it can carry fairly heavy loads,” said Saint-Germain as he pressed the ignition and heard the engine purr into life. He put his valise on the seat beside him.

“It can. As you see, the passenger compartment is larger than most. They like these cars for grand occasions.” He coughed a bit nervously. “The five hundred?”

“Oh,” said Saint-Germain as he took his black Florentine-leather wallet out of his inner breast-pocket and pulled out five 100-dollar bills; the salesman clasped them to his chest as if he feared a sudden wind might blow them away. “And here,” he added, giving him a card for J. Harold Bishop of Homer Bishop Beatie Wentworth & Culpepper. “My local attorney’s card. In case anything should happen.”