Days of Winter (16 page)

Arriving home at last, Magda told Solange what had happened. She hadn’t felt so good in months. There was nothing like a good fight to free the emotions and clear the air.

Solange was rather sober. “I don’t think you should have slapped her.”

“Why? Was it all right for her to treat me like some shit? To tell me I’m not fit to live with decent people? That I belong in the gutter? I’ll see her in hell first. That’s rather bad language, especially from such a cultured lady, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would, Magda, but behavior like that only makes things more difficult”

“More difficult than what?”

“Well, if you want so much to be accepted into London society … this isn’t quite the way to go about it”

“My dear Solange, I’m going to make London society whether Mrs. Maurice Hack accepts me or not.”

“Magda, stop being so childish. And stop this obsession.”

“It’s not an obsession. Rubin and I will be welcomed into the best houses in London, but for the time being that isn’t my concern.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have antagonized Sylvia deliberately by blocking her way—”

“She could have walked around me … or crawled. In fact, if she hadn’t glared at me the way she did, I was going to introduce myself politely …Now what do you think of that for ladylike behavior?”

“The French are no different.”

“They probably learned it from the English. Now let’s have dinner. I’m starved. And if I don’t get a letter from Rubin before the end of the week, I’m going to the Foreign Office and sit there until they give me an answer.”

That night Magda slept poorly. Her meeting with Sylvia had ignited her. She made up her mind that precious Sylvia was going to regret what she’d done.

In the morning she went straight to Solange’s room. Solange was brushing her teeth. “I’ve got a lot of things to tell you,” said Magda.

Sitting down in front of the dressing table, Solange looked at Magda’s reflection in the Venetian mirror. She seemed more relaxed today, yet there was a look of determination that played around her eyes and mouth. Solange glanced back at her own image and said, “What do you have in mind?”

“A great deal. We’re going shopping today for our baby. To the best and most expensive shop in town, the one that the Hacks patronize.” Solange looked again at Magda’s face reflected in the mirror. She knew that look …It meant man your battle stations.

“I think that’s a good idea, and about time.”

“I was afraid you’d say I shouldn’t tempt the fates by shopping in the sacred places of the Hacks.”

“You
are
a Hack.”

“And I’m not going to let anyone forget it. Now just to show how much I love you, I’m going to let you ride in my new Rolls-Royce.”

“In your what?”

“I’ve made an appointment with the agent at two o’clock.”

“Sylvia Hack has affected your mind.”

“Indeed she has, and it’s about time. I’m not going to live like a poor relation …Also, I can’t go on wearing your sable, so I’m buying one. The furrier will be here at five.”

Solange shook her head and sighed. “I think you’re being terribly extravagant. Remember, Rubin isn’t made of money. I think a little restraint on your part is in order.”

“If I couldn’t afford it, I wouldn’t do it.”

“Well, I’ll say one thing for you. If you joined Kitchener’s forces, the war would be over tomorrow.”

“I may suggest that to the war office.” Magda laughed with delight.

“Any other plans, Magda?”

“No. That’s about it for today. But tomorrow the painters are going to start on the nursery. This child of mine … ours … is going to be treated like the princess she is. After all, her great-aunt is a countess.” Whereupon Magda got up and walked out of the room like an empress.

That morning the letter came, only the second since the one responding to the news of the baby.

Dearest Magda

My thoughts are always of you …Your beauty and love keep me going …The war is terrible, but probably much exaggerated in the papers. Don’t believe everything you read …Take care of yourself, I beg you …We have so much life ahead of us …I hoped the war would be over by now but it seems there’s a good deal of real estate to be taken. And I probably won’t be with you when the baby is born … although I pray I will. Well, give my love to Solange and gratitude for all she’s done …Tell her that France is on the right side … thank Mother for the cakes.

Love to all, Rubin.

Magda went straight to the phone and put through a call to the Hacks.

“Hello, Martin. This is Mrs. Hack … Mrs. Rubin Hack …Well, thank you, you’re very kind to ask. Yes, I got a letter today. Is either Mr. or Mrs. Hack in …? Would you be good enough to take a look at the post and see if there’s anything from Mr. Rubin …? Yes, I’ll hang on …Two, you say …Oh, thank you, Martin. Please tell the Hacks I’ll speak to them later. …”

Hanging up, she sighed deeply. At least it seemed Rubin was safe … for the time being.

No feelings stay the same, not pain, not boredom, not happiness. Emotions change, like circumstances, as life and events move forward.

In the weeks that followed, Magda and Solange finished the nursery and bought all the clothes, the toys. A nurse had been hired to live in. She would help with the birth, and take charge of the baby later.

Magda rarely went out. Her abdomen was so large she moved about only with a great deal of effort. Occasionally, they went for a drive in the gray Rolls-Royce. Magda loved it. It was just like Nathan’s. But she wasn’t happy with the chauffeur. He was much too old for service, but he was the only chauffeur she could find. And he looked presentable in his uniform. His manners were good, his credentials were not only excellent but many—he had outlived any number of employers. Still, Magda held her stomach each time he turned the corner a little too close to the curb, and was always grateful to get home in one piece.

She had dinner in bed, with Solange for company. Each night she wrote Rubin about the day’s events … describing the nursery in great detail … the layette … the nurse. Rubin would like her. She was not what Magda expected an English nurse to be. She was jolly … reassuring, and a joy to have around.

“
July 12, 1915. Dearest Rubin
,” she began. “
Your bravery touches me deeply. You try to shield me, I know, but I want to share with you everything—
” She stopped writing and touched her abdomen. The first pain had started. Quickly she put down the letter and went to Solange. “I think it’s started,” she said joyfully.

“You’ve had a contraction?”

“Yes.” Magda smiled. “By tomorrow Rubin will have his son.”

Nurse Williams summoned the doctor. Methodically, she went about the business of bringing a new child into the world, a thing she’d never quite become matter-of-fact about. She still marveled at the miracle of each new baby born.

The birth was an easy one. Magda had been in labor less than five hours. The doctor slapped the child on the buttocks and a new cry was heard in the world.

Magda lay back, soaking wet. She smiled at Solange, who was holding her hand. “We did it!” she said. “We did it.”

Stroking Magda’s damp hair, laughing, Solange said,
“You
did it, my dear …You …”

Magda smiled up at her. “I want to see my son.”

“I made a slight error, Magda …It’s a beautiful little girl.”

Magda cried, happily. “I
wanted
a daughter, Solange. I did. And I love this baby as you said I would … I hope God will forgive me for the things I said. …”

When the infant was placed in Magda’s arms, she trembled with shock …The child was her … a small replica. At birth this baby was like no other child Magda had seen. Although she weighed only six and a half pounds, she was not red or scrawny or wrinkled as most newborns were. She was plump, delicately pink and white, with a perfect head of burnished light-brown down. Her tiny hands, which Magda held, were tapered as though they’d been sculptured. In awe, Magda said, “Did you ever see anything so marvelous? She’s going to be a princess, the talk and envy of London society. She’s a Hack. Her father is the son of respected barristers going back three hundred years. Her grandfather is a member of the House of Commons. Her grandmother is a great and revered lady. But most of all she is Magda Charascu’s child. And … she’s the godchild of her great-aunt, the Countess Boulard. Now what do you think of that?”

Solange smiled. Magda, my dear, naïve little Magda. We’ll be fortunate if she’s accepted into a good school. But today Magda was entitled to her dreams. “I think she’s fortunate to be so loved.”

“Oh, Solange, she is. You don’t know how many nights I laid awake and felt her body moving and kicking.”

“What will we name her? We never talked about a name.”

“Jeanette,” said Magda. “That was my mother’s name.”

Solange repeated, “Jeanette. Jeanette Hack, it’s a beautiful name.”

“Well,” Magda said, “her namesake was a beautiful woman.”

Miss Williams came in to take care of her charge. Reluctantly, Magda let her go.

“I’ll bring her back when she’s ready to be nursed,” Miss Williams assured her.

Magda got ready to give her the news. The time was now. “Miss Williams, I’m not going to nurse.”

“But you discussed nursing with Doctor Bemiss.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Solange frowned. “Magda, I know you’re tired, but I think you should nurse.”

“No, Solange. I’ve thought about it. When I’m up again, I want to do volunteer work for the war effort. Nursing would be very confining.”

“But your first duty is to your child.”

“You don’t need to remind me of that, Solange.” Magda spoke without anger. “Now, darling, I’m really very tired. …”

As Solange stood in the hall just outside Magda’s closed door, she thought, Isn’t it too bad not to have any illusions …? To be blinded by love is better … Magda would love her child, of that Solange was certain, but on her own terms, as she loved Rubin … in her own fashion. Magda was a bundle of contradictions. She loved and hated with equal passion. She was restless, arrogant, compassionate, generous, selfish and kind. Solange wondered what there was about this girl, such a paradox of nature, that made her love her so much. She shook her head, unable to figure it out. But one thing she knew: Magda would always be a free, uncontrolled spirit.

She would always keep a part of herself that was only Magda’s … and Magda’s alone.

The battle at Verdun had been fought in the terrible August heat. The men lay exhausted in the trenches, their lips parched dry and blistered. Listlessly, they talked of what kept them going. …

“Bloody well to survive, I’d say …Self-preservation, first bloody law of nature.”

“I hope the next one doesn’t miss me. …”

“If I can make it today, I’ll live to be a hundred.”

“For God’s sake, why don’t they blow up the whole bloody world and let the rats take over?”

“At least they’re not killing us with gas.”

“I’d like to ram a bayonet up the Kaiser’s ass.”

“Hell’s got to be better than this.”

“If I ever get back, I’m going to stay in bed with a girl for a whole bloody year and never take my pecker out. Of her, I mean!”

Rubin lay back against the wall of the trench, completely spent. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. Every day was the same, filled with carnage, the explosion of cannonfire, suffering, killing, dying. And for what …? To gain a little more ground. Shutting his eyes he tried to go to sleep.

“Hack!”

“Yeah?”

Someone handed him a letter. It was from Magda, postmarked July 14. What was today? He’d lost all track of time.

“Hey, somebody, what’s the date?”

“August 22.”

My God, he’d completely misplaced July. He tore open the letter and began to read. …

“Hey!” he shouted, bolting upright and throwing his helmet in the air. “I’m a
father.
It happened yesterday, I mean, the day before this letter was sent.” Jesus …For a moment it didn’t seem possible. But somewhere in the world there was sanity. Somewhere there were beautiful things … like a beautiful new person named Jeanette … Jeanette Hack … a daughter …

I
T WAS WINTER, AGAIN
. And Sara Hack was busy in London. Daily, troop trains rolled in and out of Victoria Station … returning the sick and wounded. She was a Red Cross volunteer. She served biscuits and tea in all kinds of weather, snow … sleet …Aching with fatigue, still she served until she could no longer stand on her feet.

One night after she’d collapsed into bed, Nathan chastised her. “You know, Sara,” he said, “you can’t go on working this way. It’s beyond your endurance.”

Sara smiled at the face she had loved for so long. “Nathan … would you really have me not do my share?”

“You do more than your share … that’s the trouble.”

“But we’re so fortunate. Our sons are still alive. And Phillip is home to stay.”

“Yes, he’s home … minus an arm.”

“I work with a woman who’s lost six sons, Nathan. Six. And still she never stops giving.”

“I’m sorry for her,” said Nathan, “but I must insist that you devote yourself to less strenuous efforts.”

She smiled.” Like what?”

“Rolling bandages. Attending charity functions the way Matilda and Sylvia do. Work that’s less demanding.”

“We’ll see, Nathan. We’ll see. …”

“You’re a very difficult woman, Sara. Very difficult.” But her eyes were already closed in sleep.

That night, Sara’s cough became so bad that Nathan summoned the doctor. He waited outside their room while the doctor examined Sara. Finally he came into the hall from the bedroom. Nathan could tell from the look on the doctor’s face that Sara was seriously ill.

“She has pneumonia.”

Nathan had to lean against the wall for support. The doctor promised to try to send a nurse.

Nathan sat up with Sara through the night. Her condition worsened. By dawn she was coughing blood. The nurse arrived at nine.

At four that afternoon Sara was gone. Nathan sat at her bedside, alone in the silent room, bewildered … disbelieving, looking at Sara’s uncovered face in repose. Incoherently, he spoke to her as though he expected an answer. “How could you leave me, my dearest Sara …? Come back … come back …” On and on he grieved. He lay his head against her face, weeping uncontrollably, unaware that he was doing so.