Chapter Fifteen

                                               Stu, Cyn & Susan

 August 16, 1945
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
9:08 PM

Quietly repeated, “ ‘Do I Like young girls’?” His breathing returning to normal. “I do…” this girl, this Margery the nearest he wanted, needed, that had been presented to him in the near two years of visits to the House of Flowers “...but not as you think,” he said.

Thinking, ‘Not as I think’! “What the hell’s that mean?” Margery, AKA Pansy, asked. “ ‘Cause I don’t do kinky.!”

“Don’t worry about that, Margy…” aware that his fetish had been discussed by the women he’d ‘had’; the women he had paid to partake in his obsession that Stuart Karlin was positive had certainly been considered as ‘kinky’, “...I’m not going to hurt you, you know.”

“I know that, they’d all said that you’d do nothing bad to me, but…” beginning to feel that whatever it was this man wanted, she just wanted it over with. Lifting her stiletto shoes from the floor, standing “...okay to go to my room now?”

Pulling to his feet, “Sure,” the mid-fifty year old man followed the pretend fifteen year old school girl, whom, in reality was a fifteen year old school girl pretending to be an eighteen year old whore garishly dressed in a fifteen year old school girls costume.

Opening the door, “Here we are.”

If with tony, she’d know exactly what, and how to do it. But with this old man? Angling towards the bed, sitting on it’s edge and patting alongside in a ‘come here’ gesture. However, standing, leaning his back against the closed door, the man stood intently staring at the girl for four or five long seconds, until, standing, going to him, pressing her body onto his. “You want to kiss me?” Margy  brazenly asked.

The man’s hands cupping the girl’s shoulders, moving her away. “No.”

Shrugging out of his hold, “No?” She asked, “Wanna see my titties, then?”

“No, I don’t…” hands back upon her shoulders, walking her backward to again sit on the edge of the be “...want to see your titties.” Standing before her, “I don’t want you to do that either,” removing her hands from the crotch of his slacks.

Losing patience, shoving past him. “You want I should get naked, then?” Margy asked angrily, jerking the bottom of the pretend schoolgirl blouse from the knee length pretend school girl skirt.

Taking hold of her hands,“Margy, Stop!” stopping their frenzied movement. “Calm down! I don’t want to see you naked! I don’t want you to do anything but… Hold on, will you?” One foot following the other, toeing the loafers he wore off, then placing both of the beds pillows flat against each other against the wall. Holding Margy’s hands as, sitting upon the bed—his back against the nest of pillows, Stuart sat up with widely spread legs, prompting Margy to sit between with her back flat upon his chest, her head gently urged to rest upon the hollow of his shoulder and the side of his face as, his arms encircling Margery Binkowski’s waist, there came the feel and barely heard whisper of soft breath upon her cheek then a gasp and harsh intake of breath as Stuart Karlin cried.

Washington DC/ /London, England: 1/19/23

Notation: Future opportunities provided by plastic injection molding were to be implemented by essentially every manufacturing sector; electronics, automotive, home appliances, housewares and so on, as Plastic Injection Molding was an affordable and effective method of producing high-quality parts and products. And so a diplomatic request from the British Government had been made to the U.S State Department early in year 1923 then forwarded on to the ‘DSBD’— ‘Department of Small Business Development’, asking for the ongoing advice of an — in the field — attache’ knowledgeable in the construction and production of inexpensive, seemingly never ending usage of molded plastic.

Within three weeks one applicant had been chosen within a field of four civil engineers that had been willing to sign a three year U.S. State Department civilian contract to transfer and relocate to London in order to help facilitate Britain’s ongoing Civilian, Professional and Military need for comparatively inexpensive plastic made products.

In 1923 Stuart Keith Karlin was a handsome thirty-two year old, unmarried graduate of University of California, Berkeley holding a degree in civil engineering along with an unshakable desire to build something, and factories to house large plastic injecting machinery throughout England absolutely did fit Stuart Keith Karlin’s need. Besides, he thought, his three year stay in London would give him the opportunity to see Europe, primarily on the U.S. State Departments bill.

5/17/23: Earning a fine living as an independent architect specializing in small factory architectural renditions and superviceability — actually cutting a large chunk of yearly income due to his switch from ‘independent’ to a U.S. State Department specialized employees salary, Stewart vacated his cramped, third floor fashionable ‘Lake Michigan view’ apartment on Chicago’s north-east end on May 17,1923, relocating in a pre-scouted lovely two bedroom house in the suburb of Hampstead having the convenience of a proximity to Central London.

7/4/23: On the night of July 4, 1923, although among a crowd, sitting alone at the bar in one of the two Hampstead pubs at 8:05 p.m., feeling blue, missing America’s Fourth of July celeb ration — which certainly is not celebrated in the British Empire— while sipping their awful, room temperature ale.

Squeezing between Stuart and the man to his right. “You got to be our Yank, looking so sad on this night of your countries birthday. Are you?” The woman said in her, to an American, clipped British accent, that this American was becoming used to, and rather liked.

Tall, Possibly 5’6” or 7” on the thin side; the light complected, light blonde woman was not by any means what one might consider ‘beautiful’, but certainly easy enough to notice, and to look at. Smiling. “Am I what?”

Stuart asked.

“Our new Yank? Here in Hampstead we don’t have many, uh, Yanks here in the village, you know. So are you and why so down looking.”

“First off, no insult meant…” jiggling the mug of remaining ale “...yuck!”

“Yes. We know you Yanks got strange tastes. But for that...”tapping the mug “...I agree.” Signaling to the barkeep,“Glass of my wine, and another…” taping Stewart’s mug “...for our new guest, Morris.”

“No-no!” Shaking his head. “I’ll have whatever the lady, uh…?”

“ ‘Cynthia’,” the lady said. “My name’s Cynthia. And you’re…?”

“ ‘Stewart’ or Stu, if you’d rather…” Nodding, ‘thanks’ to Morris as he placed two glasses of red wine before Cynthia and the newcomer. “And, yes, I guess I am your new resident Yank here in Hampstead and yes, I am a bit homesick tonight.”

Sipping her wine. “Miss the fireworks, do you?” she asked cordially.

“Yeah, no offense, …” said cordially “...but I do miss our day of Independence from you ‘Brits.” Taking more than a sip. “Yuck! This almost worse than that other stuff.” Nodding towards a table. “Want to sit with me awhile?”

“No offense taken.” Cynthia said. “And, yes, I do want to sit with you awhile.” Thinking, Or for as long as he likes.

Glasses held by their stems, walking the few steps to the table, holding the chair out, Stewart sat after the lady.

“So where you live?”

Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “Down the road a piece.”

“On Hampstead?”

“ ‘Lane’, yeah.” Bringing the glass to his mouth, but changing his mind. “You?” he asked.

Nodding her head over her shoulder. “In the other direction.”

“On Hampstead?”

“No. On ‘Brighton Way’” Sipping wine. “Where you from, Stuart?”

“America.”

Pretending impatience. “Oh, I know that! I mean where did you live.”

“Oh. Near San Franco, California. And after six years at Berkeley...”

“ ‘Berkeley’?”

“  ‘University of California, Berkeley’; then, after got my first job, in Chicago and lived there until this job brought me here.”

“So, where do you work now?”

Not beneath attempting to impress this woman whom Stuart found himself becoming extremity found of. “Oh…” he said “...I’ve an office in the U.S. Embassy.”

Indeed impressed. “You some kind of an ambassador, then?”

Laughing. “No, far from that! I’m an independent architect under contract to the U.S. State Department, with a pin-head size office in the embassy that I go to only when called in for a general conference, but more often when they wan to check on my progress.”

“ ‘Your progress’?” For an unknown reason—as of yet—intent on learning all she can about this man. “What kind of an architect are you?” she asked, “And where do you work, then?”

“My House. I work from the place I rented because it shows some great daylight through the living-room window, so I’ve set my drafting table there,” he said, finishing the remaining wine with a grimace.

“ ‘Drafting table’? You some kind of an artiest?”

“You might say that. I’m a structural architect locating sites for the construction of small factories within a twenty-five mile radius of London, then drawing the architectural renditions for their construction and then directing construction.”

Quiet a long moment. “So you’ve been sent for by my government and paid by your government to build factories near London, to make what?”

“Plastics; you name it.” Stuart said. “Plastic knives, forks, dishes, knobs of all sizes and sorts all at a fraction the cost being paid today.”

“Very impressive, Stuart!”

Smiling. “Thought you’d say that. Enough about me. How’s about you, Cynthia, what do you do?”

“First off, ‘Stu’, if you’d rather, it’s okay to call me ‘Cyn’.”

“ ‘Sin’? Sounds rather, uh, no offense, but Sin sounds rather a suggestive like name.”

Laughing. “No, not Sin like a bad thing, but ‘Cynthia’ sounds so formal and I’d rather not…” hesitating, what was on the tip of her tongue too much to admit this soon, but “… remain ‘that’ formal with you.”

Their eyes touching, and holding. “Me, too.” Stuart said. “I’d rather not ‘remain that formal with you’ also.”

Nodding her head in acceptance. “I do some bookkeeper and secretary service in a barristers office.” Glancing at her wristwatch. “And it’s getting rather late…” preparing to stand “...and I’ve work tomorrow, so better get to sleep.”

Not wanting to see this evening to end. “If you don’t mind…” standing also “...I’ll walk you home.”

“No, I do not mind at all…” thank you, Jesus “... but I’ll be going in the opposite direction from you.”

“No matter, Cyn. Whichever way you go, I’ll go along with you.”

7/4/23 to year 1939

On this night, Stuart Karlin walked alongside Cynthia Goodwin the quarter mile in the opposite direction to her home on Brighton Way in relative silence, both hoping for another ‘accidental ‘ meeting once again the following night, however, neither met on the fifth of July as Stewart had been called to London on for a meeting by direction of the U.S. State Department, then, on the sixth, Cynthia was asked to stay over to take notes as her barrister employer had a late meeting with a new client.

7/7/23, 7:33 PM..: Morris, the bar keep nodded to his right as Stuart entered the pub, indicating…

Approaching the small table, “Hello,” he said, placing a hand upon Cynthia’s shoulder which immediately was covered by hers.

9:48 PM: The conversation on this night, lasting the length of time of the second glass of red wine for now ‘Cyn’ and the one pint of ale for now ‘Stu’, going beyond that of two attractive, and mutually attracted strangers, but moreso the gentle probing of the past history of two people that had no intention of reaming ‘strangers’.

10:52 PM: Saying ‘Goodnight’ to Morris, outside the night becoming a bit chilly, for whatever minimal warmth there may have been, or more than likely the narrowing of the distance between Stewart’s left side — as a gentleman always walks along the curb side— and Cynthia’s right side becoming but a brush distance from one to the other, their arms moving fore and back with the slow pace of their foot steps, the outside of their hands touched, once, then moments later, once again and a moment later, Cyn’s hand held within the cool warmth of Stu’s hand.

11:o3 PM: Neither wanting to say, ‘Goodnight’, however tomorrow, Friday, a work day for Cynthia, this day ended with a quick kiss upon Stu’s cheek and a mutual agreement to meet at the pub tomorrow evening.

7/8/23; 7:22 PM: Within the familiar, friendly crowd of early Saturday night occupants, seated at what both now referred to as ‘our table’, glass of wine and pint of Ale near untouched. “I don’t feel like sitting here tonight. Do you?”

His fingers cupping the rim, turning the mug in a clock like circle while, in deep thought, Stewart’s eyes intent upon the ladies face. “Strange.” he said.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

“Where should we go, then?”

Wanting to say, ‘back to my place!’ Instead. standing, taking her hand, urging Cynthia onto her feet. “We know a place.”

Well aware of ‘where’. “We do?” Cynthia innocently asked.

Doing something he’d never dared before, placing an arm about her waist... “Of course we do!” ...clumsily moving towards the pubs door.

Outside, walking the third mile to the high hedged, double wide auto, horse and cartage entrance/exit of Hampstead, crossing Hampstead Boulevard the two entered onto a gas lit path leading through the park-like verge that separated the Village of Hampstead from from the City of London, then across a narrow, cobblestone road into a city park and a few minutes later, onto a paved circular walkway facing a huge lagoon housing a boat-house.

8:15 PM: Like to go for a boat ride?” Pointing to the boat-house. “Think it’s not too late?”

“No. They’ll rent boats until nine on Saturday night, and ‘yes’,” Cynthia said, “I’d love to go for a boat ride.”

8:43 PM: Paying the lagoon attendant twenty-five cents for the one hour row-boat rental; Cynthia purposely sitting so far forward on her seat so their knees touched as Stewart slowly, easily rowed

Cynthia and Stewart both quiet, but for the sound of muted laughter and indescribable words drifting from the one other boat on the far side of the lagoon along with the soft splash  of the oars dipping in and out of water all was quiet.

A thick cloud cover blotting all stars and whatever moonlight that might have shown through, the night dark but for the numerous gas-lit street lights set at twenty foot intervals along the circular lagoon-side walkway.

“Been thinking, Cyn…” softly spoken “...I like it here. How hard you think it would be to become a British citizen?”

“You work for the embassy, shouldn’t be too hard to find out, I’d think.”

“You know, in America, in some cases it’s not too hard to become an American citizen at all...” withdrawing the oars from the water by crossing the handles on his lap slowing the minimal motion of the small boat “...because all you have to do is to marry this American that’s in love with you.”

Silent. Her heart jumping as his words sunk in.

“ So, Cyn…” he asked “...you want to become an American?”

But for the orar handles crossed on his lap, springing into his arms, near knocking him backwards off the seat, in the process almost capsizing the boat. “ ‘I cannot wait to become an American’!”

9/15/23; 3:35 PM: Cynthia Goodwin and Stewart Karlin were pronounced ‘man and wife’ in the chapel within the American Embassy officiated by— Of all people! In the American embassy on business — after having asked permission and being ordained to preform the ceremony, bringing together, in holy matrimony, the American man and British woman by Mister Stanley Baldwin, the leader of England’s ‘House of Commons’.

Remaining in London; after a delicious early dinner at Cynthia’s, now, Mrs Stewart Karlin’s favorite ‘way’ upper end restaurant, staying the night of the first night of their marriage— with the consummation of their marriage on both their minds—Stuart had reserved a room in one of London’s ‘way’ upper end hotels.

Stuart had had two sexual dalliances throughout the near thirty-three years of his life. One: At age sixteen, with a sixteen year old neighbor girl that for both became more exploratory than sexual ending in mutual masturbation that both enjoyed and did but once again. Two: With a fellow female architect, both working out of the same office that, sensing no emotional ties and fearing dismissal if discovered, Stewart and the lady ended their short term affair after their third meeting. As for the new wife? At age thirty-four Cynthia Karlin was still virgin.

8:05 PM: Dinner finished, Cynthia having had her usual two glasses of, on this night rather expensive red wine and Stewart two of those new drinks named after the city where hey had been invented: Manhattan. Leaving the upper end restaurant and quickly finding a large tavern with a jazzy live band and — though both anxious to be together: literally and figuratively— between another red wine for the bride and one more Manhattan for the groom, dancing until exhausted and more than a bit tipsy, agreeing that their combined shyness be damned, it was time take advantage of their expensive hotel room.

10:34 PM: With but one buttery yellow light semi-brightening the room, taking first crack of the bathroom and a quick shower, as — shoes and socks off, slacks and shirt still on, Stuart nervously sat on the edge of the bed awaiting his new wife’s departure from the bathroom and what, if anything she might be wearing, or hopefully not be wearing.

10:47 PM: The door to the steamy bathroom opening, Cynthia emerged clad in a sheer, but opaque bathrobe. Going to the bed; to the far side of the bed, folding her side of the light blanket to the side, her back to her anxious husband, revealing none but her backside, allowing the robe to fall to the floor, the lady demurely lay onto the bed drawing the blanket over herself.

The mental picture of his wife’s beautiful back, and ass, replaying in his mind, a quick shave while within the shower. Body dried, hair brushed, light scented aftershave patted onto his face.

11:03 PM: Deciding to cover himself also; bath-towel wrapped about his waist, his eyes meeting her eyes as, walking to the far side of the bed, folding the blanket back, his back to Cynthia, humorlessly allowing the towel fall to the floor, showing none but his back, and ass, laying down, he pulled the blanket over himself and, within the breath of a second, her breasts pressed upon his back, her lower body spoon-like folded upon his now backward arched hips, arm about his waist, finding penis, holding him. Turning, his face to his wife’s breasts, his mouth drawing upon a nipple. Kissing… Words of love spoken… Touching… Caressing... Instinctively finding his way. Instinctively thighs loosening, legs widening. Insertion. Hips inward and outward within penile thrusting and withdrawal.

For Stewart Karlin, his first time loving one. For Stewart Karlin within the body of one so dearly and truly loved. For Cynthia Karlin, for her first and only time held within a sexual embrace. For Cynthia Karlin, loving the sensation of her husband inserted within her tightly held vaginal embrace.

Cheek to cheek, breasts pressed tightly to his chest. “I love you!” Mouth to his ear. “I love you, Stu!”

Breathing quickening, breath hot upon his ear. Breathing quickening, Breath hot upon her ear.

Slowly. Slowly the fore and back movement came with the lowering of the husband’s body upon that of the wife.

The husband and the wife aware that he and she for the time of their lives will be held within their physical, and mental embrace for so long as both lived.

The night! Their lives, within Cynthia and Stewart’s love: Magical!

9/16/23; 11:42 AM

A small truck on loan to Stuart from the British Embassy car pool, Cynthia’s meager furnishings moved from her small apartment to Stuart’s two bedroom house added to his meager belongings causing the ‘home’ of Cynthia and Stuart to be less… far less than meager.

1923 to 11/14/27

Cynthia continuing her secretarial position with the London barrister as Stewart sought locations for the construction of plastics injection factories. In early 1924 two proper locations having been discovered, with approval from London’s department of small factory development, the British Embassy commissioned Stewart to begin the architectural renderings for both, bringing along a substantial increase of Stewart Karlin’s overall income, allowing the couple—who’s loving lives remained as magical as ever — to spend their free times traveling, by sleeper train, throughout France, Italy, Spain and picturesque Europe.

On June 22, 1925, Cynthia and Stewart Karlin became the greatly anticipating parents of Susan, Elizabeth Karlin, when life in the Karlin home went beyond merely magical; life for the mother, the farther and their baby, Susan, Elizabeth was to become enchanted.

In January of 1926, Stewart’s three year contracts with the U.S State Department and the British Embassy terminated and rather than renewing his U.S. State Department contract and returning to America with his small family. However, having being offered complete management of his first fully constructed and operational plastics production factory at a truly substantial salary, after lengthy decisions with Cynthia the decision had been made to remain in London and because of the villages one street proximity to the city, to remain in their presently occupied two bedroom house.

In March of 1927, rather enjoying their elevated financial circumstances and status, along with the friendship of many of the older residents of the Village of Hampstead, quitting her secretarial job at the Barristers office, Stu and Cyn purchased a two story, seven room house in a more affluent area where Cyn became — what most mothers were at that time— what Cynthia yearned to be: a full time mother to her Susie.

1927 to 1934

‘Hampstead Plastics’ under the guidance and leadership of Stewart Karlin, along with the bookkeeping and secretarial skills of his wife, and after school, when she wanted to, now fourteen year old Susan, earning fifteen cents an hour, put an hour or two at a screw tapping press for various size knobs; ‘Hampstead Plastics’ financially doing better than even Stewart could imagine— and once away from the occasional tension of ‘business,’ life for the small Karlin family remained as joyful and loving as always.

1934 to 1940

Adolph Hitler, the leader of Germany had signed a non-aggression pact with Poland in 1934. Hitler also signed a promise to England that Germany and Great Britain would never go to war.

However, Hitler had a habit of saying one thing and doing another. Hitler stated in 1934 that he had no intention of merging the country of Austria into the Third Reich and did just that in 1938, and then managed to convince British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain— along with the French government that left Britain to take the lead in negotiations with Hitler— to pursue a policy of appeasement towards Nazi Germany.

Appeasement was ultimately based on the belief that Hitler would be reasonable, but this rather naive idea was shattered when the Nazi leader reneged on the Munich Agreement and invaded the rest of Czechoslovakia in March 1939. This started World War II. Hitler’s expansion plans were clear and aggressive.

Appeasement is a diplomatic strategy. It involves making concessions to an aggressive foreign power in order to avoid war.

On September 7, 1940, 300 German bombers raided London, in the first of 57 consecutive nights of bombing. This bombing ‘blitzkrieg’ (lightning war) continued until May 1941.

2/15/41: 9:07 PM

Outside: Throughout the City of London and outskirts, hundreds of sirens blaring their, shirking, nerve tingling warning of this nights fleet of the hundreds of Nazi bombers approach, as crisscrossing streaks of London’s spotlights stripe the black sky along with the pum-pum-pum of speckling illumining reports as dozens upon dozens of cannon pepper the sky with distant, flack shattering explosions.

Sirens! The shrieking sirens.

Inside: windows, doorways, anyplace that might allow a sliver of light to sneak through covered with whatever opaque material available. Fireplaces with naught but smokey, embers allowing minimal heat. The now ignored stammering in the background, this days newspaper pages scattered when thrown onto the floor by Stewart, as — sitting on the sofa closely alongside— Standing, grabbing Cynthia’s hand and scooping his daughter from the carpeted floor before the sofa, shoving the nearby door open — As the one bare bulb hanging above the foot of the stairs could not be seen from the basement, jerking the string lighting it, Susan, Cynthia and Stewart— Leaving the door open, as their one means of escape, should their house be hit, rushed the one short flight of stairs downward into the comparative safety of the basement and huddled closely upon the secondhand sofa Stu had purchased for the families air-raid shelter, that had been used on three horrifying occasions before.

Closer! With the barely felt internal vibrations coming from within the floor, from within the entire structure as simultaneously came the overhead roar of a hundred Nazi bombers — Distant explosions coming closer. “Daddy…” scrambling onto her fathers lap, arms clasped about his neck cheek to cheek sobbing “...daddy, daddy...” As the screech of descending bombs, “...Stu, Stu! Oh. My God!” Tightly held arms about her husband’s shoulder, cheek to cheek. “Daddy, daddy!”

The screeching sirens! The approaching cacophony of whistling bombs! The horrid Explosions! Explosions!

“Daddy!” Explosions! “Stu, my, God, Stu!” Explosions! “Susie, Cin...” as though to further protect his daughter, drawing her even closer, the fathers arms tightly held about her waist. “Daddy!” Blasts...constant blasts, closer, closer! “Stu...” arms protectively held tightly about her husbands shoulder “… Stu..”... “Daddy!” Wet with the mingling of tears, faces cheeks to cheek. “Susie, Cyn…” he gasped “...I lo...”

3/27/41: 9:07 AM
Military Hospital 
Bethesda, Maryland, USA

The slit of one eye opening for the first time in a month and a half. Bright sunlight flowing through the window on the far side of the light green room stinging, closing the eye as, the last memory returning: “Susie? My daughter, my wife?” Stewart’s harsh gasp catching the nurses attention.

“There you are!” she said in a cheerful tone, adjusting the chemical flow in one of the tubs taped to his forearm. “You just hold on till I get your doctor.”

“ ‘Doctor’?” Attempting to move his right arm, but could not. “Where am I?” Attempting to move from his tightly suppressed supine position, but could not. Aware something was terribly wrong. Frightened now, just breathing sent stabs of pain through his chest. Tilting his head a bit he was able to see his right leg held upward by a medical apparatus his left leg secured to the steel bed weighed down by a heavy cast.

“Hello.” Standing alongside the bed, a stubby, near bald, dark completed man wearing spotlessly clean green surgery scrubs. “I’m Doctor… Actually, for the duration, I guess, ‘Captain’ Abramson and I’m the guy that patched you up and put you back together again.”

Stuart’s one eye looking from Abramson to the rooms doorway. “How long here? My daughter? My wife?”

“About forty-five days.” Abramson said, avoiding other questions. “Because of your State Department status, they loaded you up with morphine and hustled you into a transport and shipped you stateside instead to a local, Brit hospital.”

“Oh, God!” A tear forming, and rolling downward. “It was awful! So awful! I was holding her, my Susie, my wife…”

Nodding his head, motioning to the nurse. “Mister Karlin, we’ll talk later,” Abramson said, as the nurse injected a syringe of strong sedative into the plastic tube.

Attempting to fight the drug, within the three seconds it took to become effective, ‘Daddy’, hearing his daughter’s voice, sensing the weight of her body upon his lap. ‘Daddy’.

3/28/41: 2:15 PM

Two pillows beneath his head, able to sit up slightly as a nurse spoon feeds clear broth to Stewart as, Doctor Abramson, “We’ll be removing your feeding tube when we’re…” standing alongside, glancing at the nurse “...through with this,” Abramson said as nervously tapping a 5X7 manila envelope from hand to hand wondering if it might be too soon to give it to the man.

Swallowing the spoonful of broth, cocking his head, “My eye…”— the wrapping around his head covering the left eye — “...is it gone?”

“No. Had to bandage that way to keep your… Your head was split, Mister Karlin, and you’ll have one hell of a scar, but we were able to save your eye.” Chuckling “And your head.” Considering, deciding. “When they brought you in…” holding the manila envelope forward “...this was pinned to your jacket.” Laying it on the area of his lap, looking into Stewart Karlin’s eye, and saying nothing more, the doctor left.

Aware of the envelopes content, wanting to be away when he opened it, “One more spoonful.” the nurse said… adding as she left the room, “sorry.”

Holding the envelope before his face, his one eye, knowing whatever it contained would not be good. Pulling the flap, turning it upside down, weighed by a diaper pin a crumpled, blood smeared note that apparently had been pinned to his coat, slipped out.

___________________________________________________

‘Stu… it said in shaky handwriting ...your house took pretty much a direct hit but I was able to convince them to keep digging through the rubble and found only you still alive, but, So Sorry my friend. Molly and me loved Sue and Cyn, and hope you make it.’

                                              Walt

___________________________________________________

The note from their friends and neighbor falling from his shaky fingers; Crying! The convulsions within his chest causing sharp stabs of pain, but Stuart Karlin could not stop crying.

7/24/41
Physical therapy helping Stewart walk with an extremely noticeable leg  dragging limp, to try to breath easily so as not to aggravate the continuing healing process of his five broken ribs. The healing process of the scar on his forehead working, but in no way softening the look of a jagged red scar. And nothing’‘ — ‘nothing’ helped to relieve the memory, and very often the actual nightmare of his wife holding him closely, so very closely, of Susan on his lap arms squeezed about his neck… “Daddy!’ Begging for his protection, “Daddy!” for her daddy to protect her but he couldn’t and this haunted him: the young girl on his lap, her arms about his neck, his arms protectively about her waist.

Released from the hospital in Maryland on august, fourteen, 1941, Due to his product knowledge, having been offered a junior partnership of a large plastics factory outside of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Stuart Karlin purchased a house in White Fish Bay, Wisconsin that— other than for minimal comfort and what was needed for his survival, had no decorative furnishings.

Having no memory of the one bomb he did not hear, flashes of the moments before the deaths of his fourteen year old daughter and wife seemingly on a continual loop within his mind, relief coming only while at work when his mind was forced to linger on other thoughts.

December 7, 1941:

“Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, Members of the Senate, and of the House of Representatives:." President Roosevelt proclaimed over national radiio.

"Yesterday, December 7th, 1941a date which will live in infamy— the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.

The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific.”

December 8, 1941: Spending almost an entire day attempting to get through to the US State Department, then giving his past information,
including his British and American embassy security codes to in effort
to extend his service in any way possible to the clerk that finally had an open telephone line and was told that someone will ‘get back to him’, but no one did, once again freeing, or capturing thoughts of the death of Susan upon his lap pleading for her ‘daddy’s’ protection.

Fetish: Irrational reverence or attachment. Object of unreasoning devotion or concern.

So then did the mind of Stewart Karlin force upon the now fifty -four year old man the compulsion — the ‘need’ to hold upon his lap… to protect a fourteen— as Susan would now be older, or fifteen or even a sixteen year old girl. And as a grown man could not very well advertise or in any way to cajole a young girl to do so without being arrested, and labelled a pervert, Stewart’s only avenue became a house of prostration and the hunt for a fourteen, fifteen or sixteen year old whore.

Houses of prostitution not listed in the Milwaukee Bell Yellow Pages, and of course he could never ask an employee if they knew the address of local whore houses, but being a friendly boss he would often take coffee breaks or have lunch with some of the men and, keeping his ears open, did learn of ‘The House of Flowers’, however being far from an an attendee of houses of prostitution, or even working up the nerve to ask for what he needed, forcing himself to live with his fetish, it took Stewart two years to work up the courage to make his first visit to The House of Flowers in 1943 by way of the flower shop and a conversation with Rosie regarding the type of ‘flower’ he was in need of, when he had been given the anonymous name of Elmer Fudd.

On three occasions Elmer Fudd did spend time with two of the youngest— as they were referred — flowers, where, due to his, ‘sit on his lap fetish’ was considered to be a very nice, though extremely strange man as he always paid what was required without ‘any’ type of, or so much as a look or touch of sexuality involved.

As for Stewart Karlin, AKA Elmer Fudd, the three encounters with the two women left him feeling physicality dirty and mentally hollow as the young women were, just that, ‘women’, and not a fourteen, fifteen or sixteen year old girl; and maybe, as an after-thought; maybe, if he found such a girl in a place such as a whore house, maybe, possibly he might, possibly, be able to save her.

August 16, 1945
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
11:50 AM

He’d reluctantly given Rosie his private number if ever such a girl might join the ‘House of Flowers’.

“Elmer?”

Recognizing the rough tone of voice. “Rosie?”

“Yeah. Girl came in this morning like you’re looking for. Joined the bunch.”

“How old?”

“Says eighteen, but ain’t.”

“Gladdy let her in?”

“Had her sign the form, but it’s bullshit. Broad can’t be more’n sixteen.”

“She been with anyone yet?”

“No. You’ll be her first trick.”

House of Flowers
9:55 PM

Taking hold of her hands,“Margy, Stop!” stopping their frenzied movement. “Calm down! I don’t want to see you naked! I don’t want you to do anything but… Hold on, will you?” One foot following the other, toeing the loafers he wore off, then placing both of the beds pillows flat against each other against the wall. Holding Margy’s hands as, sitting upon the bed—his back against the nest of pillows, Stuart sat up with widely spread legs, prompting Margy to sit between with her back flat upon his chest, her head gently urged to rest upon the hollow of his shoulder and the side of his face as, his arms encircling Margery Binkowski’s waist, there came the feel and barely heard whisper of soft breath upon her cheek then a gasp and harsh intake of breath as Stuart Karlin cried.

 

 

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                                              Chapter 16