and prepared to leave, as you might expect. Then she paused, frowned, sat back down and told Elfriede that she was not her father’s child, that Elfriede had been conceived during a cure along the Baltic seaside nineteen years ago while Elfriede’s father stayed home to tend the business. She met a beautiful Danish student, an artist who was staying also at the hotel, and one day he forced her—well, urged her—well, coaxed her—into his room, no, not his room, they were taking a walk together and—my God, he was so beautiful, so soulful—what could she do? It was just the one time—well, maybe more than that—maybe a dozen times, maybe most of August, it was like a dream—but it wasn’t Elfriede’s mother’s fault, it was fate, it was God’s will, and Elfriede was not ever to tell her father this thing. It would break his heart.
Elfriede doesn’t remember the rest of this conversation, or how her mother made it out to the door to her carriage, or how they parted this final time before Elfriede was called to her mother’s deathbed. In fact, the entire episode seems unreal to her, and she’s long dismissed it from her mind as a symptom of shock. But the words return now with remarkable clarity, as she holds this letter in her hand, postmarked London. Also the brightness of her mother’s eyes, which Elfriede once attributed to her incipient illness. God sent him to me, Mother said, and then, That’s why you’re so beautiful, you know, you have his eyes and his hair and his soul. And again: God sent him to me, in my misery. Until that moment, Elfriede never knew her mother was miserable at all. Until this moment, she doesn’t remember.
Eight fifty-two.
Elfriede takes her butter knife and slices open the envelope.
There was no salutation. No date.
Forgive me for addressing you. Not for anything in the world would I disturb your peace of mind. I wish only to explain how much your friendship has meant and will always mean to me, except of course that I cannot. God has not given us any words large or subtle or beautiful enough, in my language or yours. On my knees I pray for your happiness. But if happiness is impossible, if you are made to feel hurt or misery of any kind, if you have any need whatsoever of a stalwart friend, you must dispatch a message to the address below. A postcard will do. W.
At one minute after nine o’clock, Elfriede knocks on her husband’s door, bearing his breakfast tray. The room is radiant with autumn sunshine, and so is Gerhard’s hair. She pours his coffee and butters his toast. Before she lifts the newspaper and reads him the headlines, she tells him she’s ordered a carriage to convey them about the estate for an airing on this warm, beautiful morning, so exceptional for November.
Nurse and Johann accompany them, swathed in wool. Gerhard, gentleman as he is, tries to insist that the ladies face forward in the open landau, but he’s overruled. Herr Doktor’s instructions. Nurse and Johann take the backward seats, except Johann won’t sit, he’s too thrilled by the journey. He points out the lake, the fountains, the stables, the forest, the distant hills, the driver’s hat, the two smart bay horses. Once, Elfriede reaches out to touch his pale hair, and its softness entrances her. But then he notices the intrusion and bats her away. She slips her hand underneath the carriage blanket and finds Gerhard’s fingers.
Really, it’s not that warm, just by comparison to the gray chill of the previous fortnight. The leaves have all dropped and the trees are like skeletons. As they pass the fringes of the wood, Elfriede can see deep inside, and the number of fallen trees amazes her. She turns to Gerhard with this observation, but he’s scowling at Nurse. Some infraction of the rules. Nurse doesn’t seem to notice. She’s pointing out something to Johann. The breeze blows against them, bearing the true chill of November, and Johann climbs up on the seat next to Nurse and cuddles into her side.
Elfriede’s used to this. Day after day, she climbs up the stairs to the nursery and plays with her son. She knows better than to send Nurse away during these hours. She knows better than to push herself on a small boy of three years, who knows nothing of mothers, only of Nurse. She’s learned to bear the pain of his attachment