Aloysia is promoted; the Weber family make an abrupt move to Munich.
Weeks passed before Papa spoke to Aloysia, but at last they made up in a weeping, kissing, hugging storm in which we all joined. I remember hoping that now Papa wouldn’t be so sad and cross all the time; that things could go back to the way they’d been. I had not yet learned that change is the only certainty in this mortal life.
The next upheaval, coming hard on the heels of Aloysia’s surrender, was unrelated to our particular family tempest, but momentous anyway. The Elector of Bavaria died without an heir and our own Prince Elector was next in succession.
When this gentleman became a man with two kingdoms, he decided he’d like to rule from the more prestigious Bavarian capital of Munich. His Court and all his servants would simply have to follow where he went. As soon as the word went out, everyone began to pack.
Ordinarily, moving would have been a terrible hardship for us, but now, under Count Hadik’s protection, it was a tribulation we could handle. On the day after Aloysia’s surrender, a court official had arrived with a signed, sealed appointment to the opera for “Fraulein Aloysia Maria Weber” at the astonishing salary of one thousand florins a year.
A thousand florins for a semi-trained seventeen year old!
Everyone knew quite well how such positions were obtained. Some of our old friends snubbed us. The none too subtle jokes at the opera house made Papa’s days a constant humiliation.
Thinking back on it, I believe that this dishonor, one which he was powerless to avenge, accelerated my father’s decline. Never one to risk disputing with Mama, who had loudly and defiantly taken the position that “honor” was for people who could afford it, drink became a solace to which he all too regularly resorted.
Chapter Four
The Christmas party had been Aloysia’s idea. Papa was gloomy and reluctant, but Mama blithely dismissed his objections.
Once again, we had money! We would display it, too, with music, dancing, and lots of food.
Josepha was the other complainant, for she would have to do most of the cooking. She scowled across the table at Aloysia. Of course, just like Papa, she had a point.
As was usual these days, Papa withdrew. First he left the table, then, only a few moments later, we heard him leave the house. It was winter, and he could not sit with his pipe and beer in the garden. Instead, he would head for his new Munich haunt, The Pan’s Pipe, where he would find cronies and drown his misery in a brimming stein.
“I’ll help you, Jo,” I said.
“You can’t even boil water,” she growled nastily.
“That’s not true . “ I began a defense. As a matter of fact, I liked to cook, simple things, anyway, and, after I got away from home and had a kitchen of my own, one not jealously guarded by her, I got rather good at it.
“I may not know as much as you,” I persisted, “but I can mix and grate and set things out. I can watch the fire—”
“That’s right, Konstanze dear. We’ll all help, won’t we?” Mama rapped Sophie meaningfully on the shoulder. “A party is a wonderful idea. Why, we haven’t been able to do anything like this in years. We’ll invite absolutely everyone.”
This was said in a tone with which we were all too familiar; one which indicated the matter was settled. Even Jo couldn’t summon the strength for another protest.
The first step was to plan the food, then we cleaned and polished. We started cooking sweets days ahead, for things made with honey are better after some aging. In spite of all the bickering and the work, I found I enjoyed the bustle.
At last the great party day came. Sophie and I helped set the table. There were sweets: a host of honeycakes and a tall torte of nuts and cream. There was a three-legged punch bowl brimming with a head-exploding mixture of rum, brandy, wine, sugar, and lemon juice. There were two other expensive luxuries, coffee and tea, steaming in lovely new china pots.
I was self-conscious in Aloysia’s latest hand-me-down, a dress of royal blue cambric, but that was because I’d never had anything as nice before. Moreover, to everyone’s surprise, including my own, I nearly overflowed the top.
My goodness, Konstanze,” Mama said, tugging as she stitched the bodice to my stays, “Just look at you! Here’s another of my chicks all grown up.”
When she was done, she hugged me warmly, fierce blue eyes moist. “Sixteen in two weeks!” she added. “I can hardly believe it.”
Dublin 1941. A brutal murder. Mistaken identity. And barman Eamon Foley is running for his life.
Nine months later Foley is in a crowded pub, and his brother-in-law is shot dead.
Based on the memoirs of a Pearl Harbor survivor. Letters from two pen pals take the reader on a journey into the past, a past where nightmares came true, and when hatred reigned.
Tralee, Ireland. September 1948.
An arrogant, and highly agitated, priest arrives home after 40 years.
Days later he's dead. Suicide? Or did his past catch up with him?
