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Authors: Michaela August
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fastened to the wall above bulging sacks
of sugar, rice, and potatoes.
His stomach growled, reminding him of the long hours since the sandwich
eaten on the ferry from San Francisco. Siegfried forced himself to leave the pantry
and go back outside to finish unloading the remainder of Alice's supplies from the
truck.
But before he picked up the next sack, the breeze brought a faint, heady whiff
of wine and oak from the square stone building about a hundred feet up the
hill.
Tati had said Alice had nearly ruined Montclair, but he had seen no sign of that
yet. Perhaps his grandmother had been mistaken.
On his next trip past the kitchen, he saw that Alice had tied on a large apron.
Steam was beginning to rise from a pot of water on the gas stove. Thick pale-ivory
quarters of peeled potato tumbled into a bowl after each definitive thunk of her
broad-bladed knife against the cutting board.
"Peter and his wife Maria--our cook--are away at a family wedding, but I think I
can manage supper for the two of us," Alice said. "It's the least I can do for making
you work before dinner."
"Work? This is nothing," Siegfried assured her, depositing his burden in the
pantry. He made two more trips out to the truck to fetch the remaining items and
his valise, which he set at the foot of the stairs.
When he returned to the kitchen, the potatoes were boiling and a wooden bowl
filled with bright green asparagus sat next to the stove. He felt a rush of
homesickness. Asparagus in Alsace was white, but he wasn't in Alsace anymore.
He set down the last armful of Alice's purchases and looked for her.
She was in the adjoining dining room, positioning plain white dishes and
ornate silverware on a spotless tablecloth. A cluster of heavy-headed pink roses in
a crystal vase at the center of the table filled the room with fragrance. Siegfried
stood by the swinging door, just watching.
He remembered how his mother had loved her rosebushes. In the summer
months, every vase and bowl in their house had overflowed with pink, white, red,
and yellow blossoms. He wondered if Rodernwiller's new owners would take
proper care of the gardens, and if the rosebushes would bloom for them with the
same abundance.
The thought gave him a chill, raising prickles between his shoulder blades. He
shrugged uncomfortably. It did no good to dwell on something now forever beyond
his reach.
"Oh," said Alice, hastily putting down the linen napkin she had been folding. "I
didn't see you."
"I did not mean to startle you." Siegfried apologized, hoping she would speak
more. Her voice was like good cognac: smooth as velvet or honey, with a bite of
spirit underneath.
"Let me show you to your room," Alice offered after an awkward moment.
"Dinner will be ready in a half-hour or so, and I'm sure that you would like a
chance to wash up and unpack your things."
Alice led Siegfried up the carpeted staircase and opened the third door down
from the landing. "This will be your bedroom. I hope that it's to your liking--if there
is anything you need, please let me know."
Her tone and manner were those of a hostess to a guest, not of a wife with her
husband. When Siegfried smiled at her, his split lip smarted. He hoped that she
would not hold the unfortunate circumstance of the fight against him. He had only
been defending himself, after all.
As Alice preceded him, drawing back the drapes and opening the window to
let in the freshening late afternoon breeze, Siegfried stepped into the guest
bedroom. He had slept here during his apprenticeship with Opa Roye, and the
room looked just the same.
It was furnished with a heavy walnut wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a
writing table with chair. A narrow stencil of roses marched around the walls just
under the plaster moldings, matching the dark-green rug patterned with pink
cabbage roses. Near the window, an armchair upholstered in dark green leather
overlooked the vineyards.
No, there was one difference. The old gaslight hanging from the
of sugar, rice, and potatoes.
His stomach growled, reminding him of the long hours since the sandwich
eaten on the ferry from San Francisco. Siegfried forced himself to leave the pantry
and go back outside to finish unloading the remainder of Alice's supplies from the
truck.
But before he picked up the next sack, the breeze brought a faint, heady whiff
of wine and oak from the square stone building about a hundred feet up the
hill.
Tati had said Alice had nearly ruined Montclair, but he had seen no sign of that
yet. Perhaps his grandmother had been mistaken.
On his next trip past the kitchen, he saw that Alice had tied on a large apron.
Steam was beginning to rise from a pot of water on the gas stove. Thick pale-ivory
quarters of peeled potato tumbled into a bowl after each definitive thunk of her
broad-bladed knife against the cutting board.
"Peter and his wife Maria--our cook--are away at a family wedding, but I think I
can manage supper for the two of us," Alice said. "It's the least I can do for making
you work before dinner."
"Work? This is nothing," Siegfried assured her, depositing his burden in the
pantry. He made two more trips out to the truck to fetch the remaining items and
his valise, which he set at the foot of the stairs.
When he returned to the kitchen, the potatoes were boiling and a wooden bowl
filled with bright green asparagus sat next to the stove. He felt a rush of
homesickness. Asparagus in Alsace was white, but he wasn't in Alsace anymore.
He set down the last armful of Alice's purchases and looked for her.
She was in the adjoining dining room, positioning plain white dishes and
ornate silverware on a spotless tablecloth. A cluster of heavy-headed pink roses in
a crystal vase at the center of the table filled the room with fragrance. Siegfried
stood by the swinging door, just watching.
He remembered how his mother had loved her rosebushes. In the summer
months, every vase and bowl in their house had overflowed with pink, white, red,
and yellow blossoms. He wondered if Rodernwiller's new owners would take
proper care of the gardens, and if the rosebushes would bloom for them with the
same abundance.
The thought gave him a chill, raising prickles between his shoulder blades. He
shrugged uncomfortably. It did no good to dwell on something now forever beyond
his reach.
"Oh," said Alice, hastily putting down the linen napkin she had been folding. "I
didn't see you."
"I did not mean to startle you." Siegfried apologized, hoping she would speak
more. Her voice was like good cognac: smooth as velvet or honey, with a bite of
spirit underneath.
"Let me show you to your room," Alice offered after an awkward moment.
"Dinner will be ready in a half-hour or so, and I'm sure that you would like a
chance to wash up and unpack your things."
Alice led Siegfried up the carpeted staircase and opened the third door down
from the landing. "This will be your bedroom. I hope that it's to your liking--if there
is anything you need, please let me know."
Her tone and manner were those of a hostess to a guest, not of a wife with her
husband. When Siegfried smiled at her, his split lip smarted. He hoped that she
would not hold the unfortunate circumstance of the fight against him. He had only
been defending himself, after all.
As Alice preceded him, drawing back the drapes and opening the window to
let in the freshening late afternoon breeze, Siegfried stepped into the guest
bedroom. He had slept here during his apprenticeship with Opa Roye, and the
room looked just the same.
It was furnished with a heavy walnut wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a
writing table with chair. A narrow stencil of roses marched around the walls just
under the plaster moldings, matching the dark-green rug patterned with pink
cabbage roses. Near the window, an armchair upholstered in dark green leather
overlooked the vineyards.
No, there was one difference. The old gaslight hanging from the
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