The Things We Cherished (5 page)

Then one morning when he least expected it, Rebecca rushed into the barn as he milked the cows and wordlessly took his hand and pressed it to her midsection, smiling broadly. He thought that his heart would burst. They had about five months, Rebecca said, and so he redoubled his efforts on the clock. He wanted them to
go before it became too difficult or unsafe for her to travel, so their child could be born in America, in the comfort and safety his precious wife deserved.

The decision to leave had not been a simple one. It was more than just the farm: Johann generally felt as though he belonged here, considered himself first and foremost German—felt that way, at least, until the outside world reminded him otherwise every so often. The latest incident had come last winter, word of a Jewish merchant in a village to the east murdered by neighbors he had lived among all of his life who were convinced he was hoarding wheat in order to drive up prices. The man was shot, his house burned with his family still inside.

Things were worse in the countries around them. He’d seen it in the eyes of the poor haunted immigrants from the Pale who passed through town on their way to the cities looking for work, heard the whispered stories of pogroms that had decimated their lives in an instant. The violence wasn’t just limited to the east—in Paris, a Jewish military officer was hung not a decade earlier, despite evidence of his innocence. And as much as Johann hated to admit it, Bavaria, stubbornly provincial and still steeped in its Catholic traditions decades after unification, was fertile ground for Jew hating. No, something told him that the time to get out was now. His son (he did not know why he always pictured the child as a boy) would not be raised with the shadow that caused Johann to wake with every scratch in the night, reaching for the knife that he hid under the mattress. And in America, Rebecca would be safe.

So he had planned their route—a train to one of the North Sea ports, then a ship to America. Going by wagon to the coast would have been cheaper, but Rebecca’s belly was growing every day. Time was of the essence.

He had of course told Rebecca immediately of his plan. She
was bright and strong-willed and would not have permitted him to do otherwise, even if he had been that sort of husband. He had discussed it only in the most hypothetical of terms, not wanting to get her hopes up in case something went wrong. He had worried that she would object to leaving her parents before their only grandchild was born. But she simply smiled. “Whither thou goest, I will go,” she said, quoting the Book of Ruth, eyes shining as she reaffirmed the promise she made on their wedding day to cast her lot in with his. She cleverly pointed out that they should sail to Baltimore, where the entry requirements were reputed to be less stringent than the busier New York port. She had a cousin there who might be willing to help. They agreed to tell no one of their plan, knowing that her parents would be enraged, and that their need to depart would signal desperation to sell and bring a lower price for the land.

He reached the end of the forest about twenty minutes later, and the thinning trees gave way to a wide, rising plateau. In the distance to the south, Johann glimpsed the alpine peaks, snowcapped and breathtaking, ringed by a wreath of clouds. Though he had seen the view his whole life, it still filled him with awe. He had never been as far as the mountains, of course. He’d had romantic notions of taking Rebecca there for a weekend after their wedding, but there had always been fields to be planted, clocks to be made. Now he felt a sense of tugging sadness that he would never go. He would travel many times farther, but in the opposite direction, and the mountains would always remain just out of reach in his mind.

A few minutes later the land dropped off again, sloping gently downward. Below sat a sea of clustered red rooftops, a lone gray steeple rising from their midst. A wide plume of smoke, yet to be blown away by the fresh spring winds, seemed to hover over the town like a flock of birds.

Johann navigated the descent carefully, relaxing slightly as the road grew broader, turning from dirt to cobblestone. He crossed the wooden bridge over the small stream by the mill that signaled the edge of the town. Then he paused, studying the two- and three-story buildings that lined the street, their whitewashed fronts stained with the winter coal dust. He shook his head. It was considered a sign of prestige to live in the wood-latticed houses, but the idea of having neighbors so close on all sides made it hard for him to breathe.

The town had done better than its tiny size might have predicted, the beneficiary of geography that made it the last outpost after leaving Munich before heading over the border for points south in Austria. It was a place visited out of necessity rather than choice, frequented by merchants making their way to and from Vienna, wealthy holiday-goers pressing onward to hike and breathe the restorative alpine air. This weekday morning, the streets were crowded with wagons and men on foot, loading supplies.

The
Gasthaus
sat just east of the square, set back from the shops on either side, the centerpiece of the nicest street in town. Laborers stayed at the dingy boardinghouse by the depot, but the wealthiest visitors all made their way to Hoffel’s, with its dozen or so bedrooms and stately garden beneath.

Johann walked up the steps, taking care to kick the dried mud from his boots before entering.
“Entschuldigen Sie bitte,”
he managed, excusing himself to the young woman in the vestibule, whom he recognized as one of the Hoffel daughters. She looked up from the register she’d been studying with annoyance. She was clad in a yellow silk dress he dearly wished he could afford for Rebecca, but she had a hawkish nose and harsh chin that no amount of money could soften.
“Ist hier Herr Hoffel?”
The girl eyed him incredulously,
as though the notion he might have business with her father was unfathomable, then disappeared without speaking.

He peered around the dining room at the cloth-covered tables, not daring to sit on the finely upholstered chairs. The mantelpiece above the stone fireplace was crowded with porcelain figurines clad in the traditional Bavarian dirndl and lederhosen. A savory smell, fresh roast and
Kartoffeln
cooking for the midday meal, tickled his nose and caused his stomach to rumble. It would be nearly lunchtime when he returned home and he hoped Rebecca might have warmed some of the dumplings from last night’s supper for him.

A moment later Herr Hoffel burst into the dining room. “Johann!”

“
Guten Morgen
, Herr Hoffel,” he managed as the older man wiped his hands on his pants, not daring to reciprocate with the same familiarity. Johann set the clock on the table where Herr Hoffel indicated, then stood motionless as the portly innkeeper studied the clock, trying not to cringe as he ran his fat fingers across the glass, smudging the pristine surface.

Herr Hoffel pulled at his graying beard, not speaking for several minutes. “Hmm,” he said finally, equal parts murmur and snort. Johann held his breath. “It is nice.”

Johann bristled inwardly at the word.
Nice
described the cheaply made clocks that sat in the department store windows, one the same as the next. His stomach twisted. Was Herr Hoffel being coy, acting unimpressed as a bargaining technique? Johann wished again that he had asked for a deposit up front or even a higher price, but he had not known how dear the parts would be, how long it would take. No, he could not afford to negotiate, to go any lower than what he had asked, and still cover the money they needed for their passage.

“The face is porcelain,” he offered, but Herr Hoffel’s expression
did not change. The man was not haggling over the price, Johann realized suddenly. He simply did not have the eye to appreciate the workmanship, the difference between this treasure and the cheaply made clocks produced by the factories for the department stores. To him, it was just another commodity, like the cloths that covered his tables or the meat he purchased from the butcher for that night’s stew.

“When we spoke last year, you said a hundred marks,” Johann offered, reminding the innkeeper of his promise.

Herr Hoffel whistled through his teeth, pushing stale air through his pipe-stained mustache.
“Ja, ja,”
he replied, but his tone was more protest than agreement. “I had no idea it would take so long, though.” Neither had he, Johann conceded to himself. He had not known that it would take months to save for the materials, or that the work would be so painstaking. “Business is slow,” Herr Hoffel continued, gesturing around as if to persuade Johann that the empty dining room at mid-morning was indicative of a lack of boarders. “And Frau Hoffel bought these during our last trip to Munich.” He waved in the direction of the mantel, where the row of figurines stared down.

Anger rose within Johann. Comparing his masterpiece to those trinkets was an insult. He fought the urge to pick up the clock and walk from the inn. “I suppose I could still take it, but I couldn’t afford to pay more than forty for it.”

Forty. Johann’s stomach dropped. Forty, though more than he otherwise might see in months, would barely get them to Rotterdam. Herr Hoffel rubbed at a mark on the floor with his foot and suddenly it seemed to Johann that all of his dreams were being ground to dust beneath the innkeeper’s boot. His dream for a better life for Rebecca and their child could not possibly come true now.

Looking out through the thick-paned glass of the front window to the street, Johann’s vision burned white. The older man was playing him, using his wealth and power to take advantage. But what other choice did he have than to accept the meager offer? Herr Hoffel was the only man in town with the money to buy the clock. But then he turned back to the table and as he looked at the work of art into which he’d poured his sweat and soul, Johann’s spine stiffened. He would not part with it for a figure so far short of its worth. He would take the clock to the city, try to sell it to one of the merchants there, before he would let Herr Hoffel steal it from him at such a price.

Unless, of course, Herr Hoffel could be swayed. He took a deep breath, prepared to try again. “Herr Hoffel, forty is less than half our agreed price,” he began, struggling not to stammer. The innkeeper’s eyes widened in fury at the unexpected challenge, but Johann had gone too far to stop now. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly …”

“That clock is extraordinary.” A voice behind him interrupted the exchange. Johann and the innkeeper turned toward it. A man whom Johann did not recognize from town stood behind them. “May I?”

Johann and the innkeeper stepped back, parting to allow the stranger access to the clock. Older than Herr Hoffel, the man had a wide girth that bespoke muscle in his earlier years and a mass of silver-gray beard that seemed to swallow his face. His eyes were a curious pale blue that Johann had seen only once before in the eggshells of a robin’s nest, formed in the eaves of the barn.

“Which clockmaker?” the man asked. His German, Johann could tell, was not quite native to the region but from the north, somewhere urban and cosmopolitan.

“Me,” Johann blurted. “That is, I made it myself.”

The stranger considered Johann for several seconds, not speaking, and Johann realized he had been expecting the name of one of the finer clockmaking houses. An odd expression crossed the man’s face, as if he doubted the truth of Johann’s words. Then he reached out, grazing the top of the clock with considerably more care than Herr Hoffel had done. Though his clothes were dusty from the road, his nails were trimmed and a band of solid gold marked the fourth finger of his right hand. But beneath were calluses that no amount of grooming could mask. Not a laborer’s hands, but hands that had known honest work. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the man murmured, more to himself than to the others.

“It’s called an anniversary clock,” Johann offered, the confidence and strength in his voice growing. “A new design from America. It only needs to be wound about every four hundred days.”

“How much?” the stranger asked.

Johann hesitated, resisting the temptation to raise his original price, lest Herr Hoffel think he was gouging his guests. “One hundred.”

“Now wait a minute,” Herr Hoffel interjected, his interest piqued by the competition.

The stranger turned to him. “Are you buying it?”

“I don’t—” Herr Hoffel faltered. “That is, the price—”

“The question is a simple one: yes or no?” Anger flicked across Herr Hoffel’s face at the audacity of the stranger using such a tone with him in his own inn, and for a moment Johann thought he would confront the man. But travelers were Hoffel’s stock in trade and word got around—an innkeeper reputed as rude would soon find his rooms empty.

“One hundred, then,” Herr Hoffel said, reaching for the till.

But the stranger was not finished. “One ten.” His eyes glinted, a seasoned trader bargaining for wares.

“One fifteen,” Herr Hoffel replied evenly. To him, the clock was still just a commodity. “Not a penny more.”

The stranger delivered the final blow. “One twenty.” A hand squeezed Johann’s throat, making it impossible to breathe. Did the man really mean to pay him such a sum?

There was a moment of hesitation. Would Herr Hoffel bid again in spite of himself? But the innkeeper’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The stranger reached into his jacket and pulled out a billfold, producing one hundred twenty marks. “You could have asked several times that,” he said, as he handed the money to Johann. “Never undersell yourself.”

Johann’s eyes darted to Herr Hoffel, wondering if he would protest, but the innkeeper shrugged and turned to the counter, busying himself with the ledger. Without another word, the stranger picked up the clock and carried it carefully from the room. Johann watched, feeling as though a part of himself was leaving too.

“Who was that?” he asked the innkeeper.

Herr Hoffel did not look up. “Just a boarder. Checked in last night, leaving today. Name is Rosenberg. Don’t know where he’s from. Hamburg maybe, or Berlin.”

Johann was seized with the urge to run after the stranger, find out where the man would be taking his clock. But it didn’t matter—he had his money. Without speaking further, he walked from the inn onto the street, making his way through the wagons and merchants.