I changed some history of real places in this chapter, so please forgive? -M.R.-
54
Three weeks had passed, and summer heat had begun. Soon the families would go their separate ways from the Lefevre Estate.
George decided (against his cousin's approval) that he would go to Paris with them and 'see how things stood.'
Two things became rapidly apparent, first that at some point George had been given an account of Erik by Fergus, and second that he was intent on learning the business of Opera.
Life went on much as it had, with the added oddity of seeing George about, hands in pockets, oblivious to them.
It was mid-way through summer, just as casting for the next season's performances began, that Erik called Katrina into the studio.
She settled herself on Helen's stool, glancing at the new paintings, and a sculpture by one of the twins. Her uncle's music was stacked in a neater fashion than usual, most of it tied into folders. Some of it sealed with black or red wax skulls.
He stood in silence for a moment before sinking to the organ stool. "What I have to say is not easy for me, and I think you will understand why." After a pause, he went on. "Monsieur Folks intends to open a modest theater in America, and has requested one of our seasoned workers to accompany him as advisory. I suggested you."
"Me? But why?"
"There is nothing here for you any longer."
"But there is you, and the cousins, the other aunts and uncles, Grandmamma and Grandpapa,"
"Yes, and we all live under shadows of our own making. You need not."
Katrina had never felt fear of the unknown until then. She would be alone, in strange territory. She could speak English, but only just. She had been happy among the shadows, and was afraid of what the light would show her. "Must I?" Came her anguished question.
"No, but I think it would be for the best."
Both studied the floor, thoughtful, confused, afraid. At last, Katrina asked, "When do I need to decide?"
"Before two weeks are out. Folks will leave then."
The letter read:
Dear Uncle Erik, Aunt Helen, and Horde,
I have arrived safely.
Having George alongside was a mixed blessing, as I had to rely on him to translate much of what was said to me on the boat. I discovered he has a wry sense of humor, and isn't above playing pranks on those who (like me) carry some form of ignorance.The crew was kind, and made a game of pantomiming to teach me English. One in particular, named Smith, would help me in conversations when he could.I think he was really just fond of Tomino.
After getting through Ellis Island, we stayed in New York a few days. It is like Paris, and unlike Paris.It's got the same feel of weight and people, but it's young, rough, and not sure of its melody yet.
Next, we took the wagon of theater items out of New York to a small town called Kingston. We left before sunup and arrived after dark.George insisted that he unload and deliver the wagon, but first left me at the house of a pastor and his family for the night.
Upon awaking, I found that most of the children are redheaded, and rowdy, but in the delightful sense. They were very willing to chat, and I understood nothing they said and could only nod or shake my head where I felt it appropriate.I cannot believe the rate at which they rattle out their words!
George took me to the theater that afternoon and introduced me to the manager. (I suppose George is considered patron.)The manager's name is Harry Jones.It took me three tries to say it right.
You'd like Monsieur Jones, Helen. He laughs louder and longer than you. Everything is fine to him, and he didn't seem in the least insulted that my first attempt at his name came out Hurry Zones. He just laughed and asked if my family was German, because of my name I suppose. I just shrugged, and that seemed to satisfy him.
He absolutely DWARFS everybody.I've never seen anyone so large!He has to duck to get through doors, and I swear that you can hear him walking a mile away.People call him Paul Bunyan, which makes him laugh and ask for a blue ox.I couldn't understand what was so funny until George took pity and explained that it is a folk legend about a giant who cut trees and rode a blue ox named Babe.
The theater is only a building someone was putting up and ran out of use for. It was empty for a year before George bought it, and he's had it for a while.He must have planned to convert it before he came to France, because much of the seating, lighting, and dressing areas are arranged.It is very small, and they had to be clever with their space. Much of the scenery will be painted on roll down screens behind the stage to save room.
I am not the only immigrant here, it seems. There is a family from Sweden that all play string instruments, and their grandmother plays harp. It must have cost her a great deal to bring it with her. The pastor's wife plays piano and organ, not like you, Uncle Erik, but she can play.We seem to be remarkably short of wind and brass instruments, but I can figure out something.Not everything will require music.
I was given a room in a widow's house. George stays in her cellar, as he comes and goes, and holding a permanent room is expensive.I begin to think he's somewhat close with his purse.
The house is clean, quiet, and nice, and I find it a novel experience to be in the attic rather than below. The area is beautiful!So many trees, grass, and gardens around town.The colors 'pop', as George says.
Madame Jenkins runs the place, and has three others here besides me. One is a school teacher, one a seamstress, and one that won't tell.The schoolteacher is a kind man, and hopes to have enough money soon to send for his fiancé in Texas. I asked where Texas was and he ran to fetch a map. The one that won't talk groaned, and suggested we go there. At least I think that's what he suggested.
The teacher's name is Carl, the seamstress is Clara, and they called the other Grubb. I think they do it to make fun of him because he is so sour, and not because it's his name.Though it could be.There are Grubbs around, George says.
Best and love always,
Katrina.
Dear Family,
I am sorry it has been so long since I last wrote. It has been rather hectic.
First, I am learning English very badly. Many have been shocked.Monsieur Jones howled after someone told him what I'd been saying to greet people.I'm not sure what it was, but was advised to forget anything I had ever uttered on American soil and begin again.
A man that was seeing Clara began to correct me on how I address people. "No, no, no," he said as if I pained him, "It isn't Madame, Mademoiselle, Monsieur, it's Mrs., Miss, Mr., and Master for boys." He treated me like a misbehaving child, and I said that Monsieurwas welcome to his opinion. I am learning, but not at the feet of that overbearing fellow.
Second, I am trying to advise on two plays, arrange Christmas carols and hymns for Yuletide, and have been handed the task of teaching the children something for the fall gathering. They are to present something about Thanksgiving.What is Thanksgiving?I don't know, but Carl is trading me English lessons for it.
Third, we had a fire in Madame Jenkins' not long ago. Mostly a fright, nothing is really damaged.Clara's beau was ousted because of it. Apparently he was smoking in the garden shed and knocked out his ashes on some straw.Clara demanded to know why he had been so careless, and discovered he was drunk.She is firm believer of the rule, 'everything in moderation' and informed him he was not to come back except to pay Madame for the loss of property. I am anything but sorry.
He did pay, and apologized handsomely. He has even helped to clean up the mess and start rebuilding the new shed.I will say that he was honest enough in that respect.
After that fright, and all the work it created, Carl brought out some schoolbooks, insisting I learn to read along with speech. It is surprising the number of English words derived from Latin, (which is where French comes from) and other languages I am already used too from the opera.Once I know the history of the word and country of origin, much of it falls into place. Carl was right that seeing it would help to connect the familiar to the new.
When we are not studying, he talks of nothing but his bride-to-be.Monsieur Jones had stopped by to leave something for me, and heard him going on.It struck him as endlessly funny, but he graciously admitted that Carl would not have picked a bad woman.
Clara and I get along well enough, but I think I am something of an oddity to her. She is very solid in personality, very sure of herself.It seems to be that way for many American women. They are proud of being women; they embrace it, and love their roles as mothers and wives. Yet, they often develop the ability to survive alone.None of them expect or seek it, but they are ready, just in case.
Perhaps I am closer to that mindset than some, but I am a different form of it. Less solid.
I still cannot form names well. Monsieur Jones' name comes out Hurry or Hearty, and even his last name is wrong, though less noticeable.I cannot open my mouth without my nationality becoming istantly known.
George left for another of his ventures the other day, and told me if I had any trouble Monsieur Jones or Madame Jenkins would help me. They do, but I long for the day I can speak alone.
I must go finish some work,
Blessings,
Katrina.
Dearest Grandmamma and Grandpapa,
I trust that you are well.
The box arrived safely, and I was thrilled to see some of my favorite books! It was kind of Uncle Stephan to throw in the Red Book for me.Sunday, I read nothing else.
Monsieur Jones explained to me what Thanksgiving was. When the first colony began, the Indians helped them survive.Apparently, there are people trying to say that there was trickery and fighting between them, but it is much less than that.To celebrate their survival and friendship, they put on a day of celebration and it is remembered as Thanksgiving.
Understanding that helped and I can work with that in mind. I shall write a special hymn for the children to sing.
The children are good for the most part, but they are human. They are also resourceful.
One epic day we had the plague of frogs. Two boys agreed between themselves to smuggle them to the theater in very large milk containers.I turned my back to work with the first part, and before I knew it, our poor little rehearsal pianist was screaming, along with half the other girls. The rest of the children didn't know if they should be afraid as well, or enjoy the sight.
After we had found all we could and returned them to their tin prisons, I told the boys they were to remain after.
We went over every inch of the theater, just the three of us. When we had assured ourselves that the frogs had hidden beyond finding, or been recaptured, I took the boys back to Madame Jenkins'.I taught them to prepare frogs' legs, and the house ate them for dinner with mashed potatoes and baked carrots.
There was enough left to send home with the boys, so I gave them each a parcel after they had washed the milk containers and dishes.
Word got out, because at the next practice, I was viewed with something akin to awe. I am fearless to them, and know how to cook things that should annoy me.
Most of them are, unfortunately, tone deaf. We spend much of the time learning to hear.
I found a few wood instruments, but the family is reluctant to join us. Apparently, they are Irish, and have been poorly treated because of it.It is foolish, to behave that way to the Irish!Many cannot even find work, or feed their families.
Monsieur Jones explained that they have kept to themselves, and not given the town a chance to like or dislike them. He thought that I might be able to convince them to help, but he wouldn't bet much on it.
The next week, I walked up into the hills where they have their farm, and found a young girl feeding chickens. I asked if it were the O'Reilly home, and she said it was.
"Might I see your parents?"
"Are ye here about school?"
"No, that is not my work." Already my English was taxed.
She took me around the house, and her mother was there hanging out wash. There were several small children about, some repairing tools, some playing.I smiled, and introduced myself, then told her why I had come.
"Why do ye need us? Let the town fill the places."Madame O'Reilly sounded suspicious.
"They cannot play flutes. We need singers too.Can you sing?"
"We are Irish." I took that as a yes.
"We pay, not well, but we can pay. The children are also giving a Thanksgiving concert, if yours wish to help?" She said nothing. "Men could help, if your husband and sons care to."
She went back to hanging wash, and I gave up. I thanked them and left.
The following week, however, the O'Reilly children were there at practice. I checked their ranges, and found they do have some natural skill.Dividing them among the parts helped the other children as well.
I am optimistic that they will gradually warm. The Christmas program should be much improved by the older ones, if they decide to join.
My English improves, but I am often frustrated, and at a loss.
I do hope that Stephan's fever has broken and he is working again.
Love to all,
Katrina.
