Marta's Legacy Collection Read online

  “What did I do wrong, Herr Lang?”

  “I don’t know, but Chef Fischer was furious. She wanted you dismissed. What did you do yesterday?”

  “I measured out the meats and spices for her sausage. I had everything—” She grew indignant. “Why are you laughing?”

  “You were too helpful, Fräulein.” He snapped his fingers and motioned to a woman in the blue Dirndl costume of the restaurant. “Guida will show you what to do. You’ll need to change into a Dirndl before you can go up to the platform.”

  As Guida searched through the rack of uniforms in a small dressing room, Marta grumbled about being kicked out of the kitchen. “I could make her sausages if she wanted to take a day off.”

  “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? You’re fortunate Chef Fischer didn’t stick a fork in your back! The old crone guards her recipes the way a banker guards his vault. No one is allowed to know what she puts in her sausage. She’s famous for it.”

  “I wondered why my questions always annoyed her. I thought she expected me to figure out things for myself.” It had taken three weeks of watching before Marta finally figured out all the ingredients and proper portions. She recorded everything in the book Rosie had given her.

  On her way home, she ordered beef, pork, and veal from the butcher, asking him to grind them and have everything ready on Saturday. She purchased the spices she would need, then worked late into the night so the family would have Fischer sausages, Rösti—fried potatoes—tomatoes Fribourg-style, and cherry bread pudding for dessert.

  She set aside enough for Rosie to sample.

  Pleased, she watched her family devour the meal. Mama and Elise complimented her cooking. Even Hermann had something nice to say. Papa paid her no compliments, but when Hermann reached for the last sausage, Papa got his fork into it first.

  “I hope you like it, Rosie.” She bit her lip, watching her friend sample the sausage. “I didn’t use all of the spices Frau Fischer does, but I added some allspice.”

  Rosie raised her head, eyes gleaming. “It’s wonderful!” She spoke with cheeks bulging. “Mama would die for this recipe.”

  “I’ll write it out for her.” Marta flopped back on the spring grass and put her hands behind her head. “I have others, too, for Streusel, Jägerschnitzel, and Züricher Geschnetzeltes.”

  Rosie licked her fingers. “Are you going to start a restaurant?”

  Marta snickered. “And have Frau Fischer coming after me with her meat cleaver?” She looked up at the cloudless blue sky and allowed herself to dream. “No. I’m just collecting the best so that someday, when I have a hotel or boardinghouse, I’ll know how to cook well enough to keep my guests happy.”

  “They’ll be happy and fat!” Rosie laughed. She flopped back beside Marta. “It’s good to have you home, and not just because you’ve learned how to make the best sausage I’ve ever tasted!”

  “I’m not going to stay long.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every muscle in my body aches. I’m nothing more than a pack mule carrying trays up and down the mountain. I need to find another job where I can learn more. And there are none in Steffisburg or Thun.”

  Rosie grinned. “Think of the honor of working inside the walls of Schloss Thun!”

  “Very funny.”

  “Go to Interlaken, then. It’s not so far away you couldn’t come home every few weeks to visit. We could still have our walks in the hills. My father could help you. He knows the manager of the Germania Hotel.”

  Herr Gilgan was more than willing. He wrote Marta a letter of recommendation. “Derry Weib always needs good workers. I’ll send him a wire.” A few days later, he told Marta that Herr Weib needed an assistant cook. “He’ll pay fifty francs a month, and you’ll have a room off the kitchen.”

  Mama congratulated Marta on her good fortune. Papa didn’t care where she worked as long as she paid him twenty francs a month. Elise took the news poorly. “How long will you be gone this time? And don’t tell me to sleep with the cat. She purrs and keeps me awake.”

  “Grow up, Elise!”

  Her sister burst into tears and turned to Mama for comfort, then felt too sick to attend church the next day.

  “Mama, you can’t keep coddling her.”

  “She has such a tender heart. She’s easily bruised.”

  When services ended, Papa stood talking with other business owners, discussing hard times. Hermann went off with his friends. Mama tucked Marta’s hand into the crook of her arm. “Let’s take a walk. It’s been a while since I’ve gone up the hill to the meadow. Remember how we used to walk there when you were a little girl?” They stopped several times along the way. “You’ve been restless all week, Marta. Something’s on your mind.”

  “I’m worried about you, Mama. You work too hard.”

  She patted Marta’s hand. “I do what needs to be done, and I enjoy it.”

  She sighed. “So you’re going to Interlaken. I think this will be the beginning of a long journey for you.” She walked more and more slowly, each breath more difficult. When they came to the bench near the road to Hotel Edelweiss, Mama could go no further. “When I was a girl, I walked all day in the hills.” Her lips had turned a faint tinge of blue despite the warmth of the afternoon.

  “We should go back, Mama.”

  “Not yet. Let me sit awhile in the sunshine.” Mama didn’t look down over Steffisburg, but up at the heavens. A dozen finches flew by, chittering as they landed among the branches of a nearby tree. A crow had come too near a nest and smaller birds attacked wildly, driving it away. Mama’s eyes shone with tears. “Papa called you a cuckoo bird, once.”

  “I remember.”

  She had been five or six at the time, and Papa had flown into one of his drunken rages. He grabbed her by the hair and shoved her across the room to the mirror. “Look at you! You’re nothing like your mother! You’re nothing like me! Dark hair and muddy eyes. It’s like some cuckoo laid her egg in our nest and left us stuck with her ugly chick. Who will be fool enough to take you off my hands?” Papa had let go of her so abruptly, Marta fell against the mirror and cracked it. “And now bad luck on top of everything else!”

  Tears slipped down Mama’s cheeks. “You cried for hours. I tried to explain he’d been drinking and didn’t know what he was saying.”

  “He knew, Mama. That’s what hurt so much.”

  Mama sighed. She took Marta’s hand firmly. “You have my mother’s eyes. She didn’t like your father. She didn’t want me to marry him.”

  “Maybe you should have listened.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have had Hermann or you or Elise. The three of you are my greatest blessings in life. I’ve never been sorry.”

  “Never?”

  “God permits suffering. He permits injustice. I know your father can be cruel and selfish at times. But there were tender moments in the beginning. He lives with bitter disappointment. He’s never learned to count his blessings. If you are to rise above your circumstances, you must learn that, Liebling.” She took Marta’s hand again. “Don’t worry so much about me. I learned a long time ago to take my pain to Christ, who understands suffering so much more than I.” She closed her eyes. “I imagine Jesus gathering me in His arms and lifting me onto His lap and holding me there like a child cradled against a mother’s heart. His words are full of comfort. He strengthens me in my weakness.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at Marta. “You won’t welcome this, Marta. But you are more like your father than you are like me. You have his passion and ambition. You want more than life has given you.” She sighed deeply. “And I love him. I have always loved him and always will, despite his faults and frailties.”

  “I know, Mama. I just wish your life could be easier.”

  “And if it were easier, would I have given my heart so fully to God? Wherever you go, let Christ be your refuge. Put your hope in Him, and you won’t be disappointed by what life offers.”

  Mama lifted her he
ad again. “Look at the birds, Liebling.” Shivering despite the warm day, Mama drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “Most species fly in a flock.” A tear ran down her white cheek. “An eagle flies alone.”

  Marta felt her throat tighten. Pressing her lips together, she closed her eyes.

  Mama put both hands around Marta’s. “You have my blessing, Marta. I give it to you wholeheartedly and without reservation. You have my love. And I will pray for you every day of my life. Don’t be afraid to leave.”

  “What about Elise, Mama?”

  Mama smiled. “Elise is our lovely little barn swallow. She’ll never fly far from home.”

  They walked down the hill together, Mama leaning into Marta for support. “Don’t come home too often. There may come a time when your father won’t let you go.”

  5

  1904

  Marta slipped into the small room off the kitchen, momentarily escaping the infernal heat of the stoves. She wilted onto her cot and dabbed the sweat from her face with the towel she kept over her shoulder. Leaning back against the stone wall, she sighed in relief. On the other side flowed the River Aare that ran between the Thunersee and Brienzersee. Constant moisture seeped through the mortar, making icicles in winter and sprouting with mushrooms through summer.

  “Marta!” the chef, Warner Brennholtz, shouted from the kitchen. “Marta!”

  “Give me a minute or I’ll melt faster than your chocolate!” She hadn’t had a break all evening, and Herr Weib had brought her a letter from Mama. She took it from her apron pocket, tore it open, and began to read.

  My dearest Marta,

  I hope you are well and happy. I hold you close to my heart and pray for you unceasingly. I have sad news. Papa had to go to Bern and fetch Elise home from the housekeeping school. Countess Saintonge said she is unfit for service.

  Papa didn’t go the first time they wrote. He thought Elise would adjust. But he had to go when the count wired him to come for Elise or pay the expenses of having her escorted home.

  The count refused to return a single franc. He said she had taken space that should have been given to another girl, and he would not accept the loss. That was bad enough, but he made it worse by telling Papa a father should know whether his own child could bear separation from her family. I know God has a lesson for all of us in this.

  “Oh, Mama.” Her mother had unwittingly encouraged Elise’s dependence, but the full responsibility couldn’t be laid at her feet. Marta blamed herself for giving Papa the money to send Elise to Bern. He had made her feel so guilty when she had said no the first time.

  “If you loved your sister . . . if you weren’t so grasping and selfish . . . You think nothing of your family. . . . You hoard your francs when they could help. . . .”

  She should have told Papa how he’d been duped by those two counterfeits in Bern. Instead, she’d convinced herself Elise might benefit by getting away. Perhaps she would blossom among the other girls her age and enjoy Bern as much as Marta had. Marta had sent extra francs to Elise and told her to walk the Marktgasse and buy some chocolate and pastries at the Café Français.

  Now, all she could do was pray Papa wouldn’t take out his anger on Elise.

  Marta lifted the letter and continued reading.

  Please don’t be angry with her. I know it was your money wasted, but Elise did try. She managed to stay three weeks before she wrote the first time. And she suffers now. Papa hasn’t spoken a word to her since he brought her home.

  Elise helps me as much as she can. Her stitches are as fine as mine now. She will learn to work faster with more experience. She also helps Frau Zimmer with little Evrard. He is so dear, but he’s at that age when he’s into everything. He got away from her for a few minutes the other day. She is keeping closer watch now.

  Write soon, Liebling. Your letters are a great comfort to us all. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May His face shine upon you. I love you.

  Mama

  Marta folded the letter and tucked it back into her apron pocket. She would write and tell Mama to make Elise go to the market. She needed to learn to talk with people. She could buy the bread from the Beckers and talk with Frau Fuchs about more honey. Elise needed to learn to stand on her own. She wouldn’t always have Mama.

  The clatter of china went on in the other room. Warner Brennholtz shouted an impatient order to someone. Her door banged open and the chef stepped into her room. She had long since learned not to be surprised or offended when someone barged in. The heat of the kitchen made escape necessary, and her small bedroom was convenient. All day from breakfast through dinner, workers danced around one another, and someone would regularly slide in for a few minutes of cool respite before facing the stoves and ovens again. Only after the last customers had gone and the last dishes had been washed and put away did Marta have any privacy.

  Brennholtz stood taller than Papa and several stones heavier. He liked his beer, too, but became jolly when he overimbibed, rather than moody or violent like her father. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you ate bad Sauerkraut.” The chef wiped perspiration from his red face and neck.

  “My sister wasn’t able to finish housekeeping school.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “She’s fine, now that she’s home with our mother.”

  “Ah. Is she a good worker? She could come here and live in this room with you. We could use another dishwasher.”

  “You’d frighten her to death.” Brennholtz could shout louder than Papa. Even his laughter boomed enough to rattle crockery. Elise would probably break half the dishes before the end of her first week.

  “A pity Derry doesn’t need another maid.”

  “He would if he rented rooms to the English.”

  Warner wiped the towel over his thinning blond hair. “He did a few years ago, but the English and Germans are like oil and water, and Derry doesn’t speak enough English to sort things out. When he couldn’t bring peace, customers didn’t want to pay. So now he caters to Swiss and Germans.”

  “And makes less money.”

  “And has fewer headaches.” Warner slapped the towel over his shoulder. “Money isn’t everything.”

  “People who have it always say that.”

  He laughed. “You’d know how to stop a ruckus, ja? Bang two heads together. Derry should train you to manage and take a long vacation.”

  She knew he meant it as a joke, but she pushed herself up and faced him. “If I could speak French and English, I’d figure out a way to fill every room in this hotel.”

  He laughed. “Then learn, Fräulein.”

  “In a basement kitchen?” She put her hands on her hips. “Do you speak French?”

  “Nein.”

  “English?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Then I should quit and go to Geneva or London.” She brushed past him.

  “I don’t like your joke!” He followed her.

  “Do you think I plan to remain an assistant cook for the rest of my life?”

  Warner snatched a pot off a hook and slammed it on the worktable. Everyone jumped except Marta. “This is the thanks I get for training you!”

  How many times did she have to say it? Marta bared her teeth in a smile and dipped in an exaggerated curtsy. “Vielen Dank, Herr Brennholtz.” She spoke with cloying sweetness. “Danke. Danke. Danke.”

  He laughed. “That’s better.”

  Her anger evaporated. Why take out her frustrations on Warner when he had been nothing but kind? “I told you I wouldn’t stay here forever.”

  “Ja. I know. You have big dreams! Too big, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  His hands worked quickly, coating pieces of meat in flour and seasonings. “It takes years to become a chef.”

  She tossed flour on her work area and grabbed a hunk of dough from a bowl. “I don’t have to become a chef, Herr Brennholtz, just a good cook.”

  “Ha! Then you’re not as ambitious as
I thought!”

  She felt a fierce rush inside her. “I’m more ambitious than you’ll ever know.”

  Mama wrote again. Papa had found a position for Elise in Thun.

  The family is wealthy. They come from Zurich and spend the summer. Elise has room and board, and she can come home on her day off.

  When will we see you? You haven’t been home since Elise returned from Bern. Papa told her you’re probably upset over the wasted money.

  Marta wrote back right away.

  Mama, please tell Elise not to be distressed. I work fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and spend Sunday mornings in church. When summer ends, the Germania will have fewer patrons. I’ll come home then. In the meantime, give our little barn swallow my love.

  Mama’s next letter gave Marta some hope that Elise would do better.

  Elise seems well settled. She hasn’t been home for two weeks. Herr Meyer told a friend what a lovely child she is. Their son Derrick changed his plans to return to Zurich. . . .

  Marta wondered if Derrick might be the reason Elise didn’t feel the need to come home.

  Rosie wrote, too, filling two pages about Arik Brechtwald dancing with her at a summer festival, and wouldn’t her father lock her up if he knew she’d received her first kiss! She filled another page with news of her sisters and brothers and mother and father, and town gossip.

  Marta wrote back and asked Rosie if her father knew any hotel managers in Geneva.

  Warner speaks High German, but not a word of French. . . .

  Rosie responded quickly.

  Father has only acquaintances in Geneva; unfortunately, no one upon whom he could prevail for a favor. Mama has an older second cousin in Montreux. Luisa von Olman is a widow with six children, only two left at home. Her eldest son is the commander of a fortress, but I’ve forgotten where. Mama says he married a lovely little Swiss-Italian girl and they have ten children, but since it was too far for the children to go to a valley school, the government built one right there on the mountain where they live. Mama will write Cousin Luisa. . . .