His Majesty's Hope(12)

Elise appeared in her mother’s doorway, wearing a white cotton nightgown and robe.

“Oh, there you are,” her mother said, stretching her back like a cat. “Get me some aspirin, Mausi, won’t you? Mutti’s had too much champagne.”

Elise did as she was bade, going to the large black-marble bathroom and taking out two white tablets from the mirrored medicine cabinet. Then she filled a heavy crystal glass with cold water from the tap and brought it and the aspirin to her mother.

“And would you fetch me a cold cloth, too?” Clara asked. She began to remove her heavy jewelry. “Oh, it was a wonderful night—but there’s a price for everything, isn’t there?”

“Where were you tonight, Mutti?” Elise asked.

“Out with Joseph. We saw Ich klage an—it’s his favorite, you know.”

“I read the book.” Elise frowned, remembering how much she’d disliked it. The controversial bestseller was about a woman suffering from multiple sclerosis. The woman had pleaded with doctors to help end her suffering; when they refused, her husband gave her a fatal overdose. He was arrested and put on trial, where he argued that he’d committed an act of mercy, not murder. He had been acquitted. The novel had been denounced by the Catholic Church.

“What?” Clara said. “Darling, you’re mumbling, I can’t hear you. What have I told you, again and again, about the mumbling?”

Elise gritted her teeth. “Sorry, Mother.”

“Only people who don’t trust what they have to say mumble, you know.”

Biting her lip, Elise went back to the marble bathroom, took one of the thick washcloths folded on the counter, and ran it under the cold water. She wrung it out in the sink, then brought it back into the bedroom.

“How’s the piano practice coming along?” Clara asked. “My party’s this weekend, after all, and I want there to be fantastic music. A small orchestra, of course, but I’ve chosen a few pieces to sing—just me with piano accompaniment. I’ll have my secretary draw up a list of possible songs for you.” She gave Elise an up-and-down look. “And perhaps we could cut back on the marzipan for the next few days?” she suggested, patting the young woman’s cheek. “Your face is looking a bit full, not to mention your bottom. And I’ve picked out an appropriate dress for you to wear.…”

Elise’s face crumpled under the weight of her mother’s criticism. It had been a long day. She was worried about Gretel, she was worried about Frieda and Ernst, and now she was worried about how to approach her mother. Tears pricked at her blue eyes and threatened to overflow.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—don’t cry, darling. You’re so sensitive sometimes. I feel I can’t say anything around you. You take everything so personally—really, you must get over that.”

Elise blinked her eyes, hard. As she often did, she decided to change the subject. “Is Papa coming to the party?” Alaric Hess was one of the Reich’s most famous opera conductors, and often away on tour.

“I don’t know, Mausi.” Clara unhooked the clips from her silk stockings and, one after the other, rolled them down her legs. “Why don’t you telephone and ask him yourself?” She stripped out of her dress, then out of her girdle, garter belt, and bra. There were red welts where the elastic had bitten into her skin. With a sigh of relief, she slipped on a black silk nightgown. She lay on the bed and draped a slender arm over her eyes. “Where’s that washcloth, Mausi?”

Elise laid the wet cloth over her mother’s temples. “Ah, that’s better,” Clara sighed. “It’s good to have a nurse in the family. If you recall, I wasn’t too thrilled about it at first, but it does have some perks. As does your piano playing. I do wish you’d take it more seriously, though. Wouldn’t you rather be touring as a pianist, instead of cleaning up God-knows-what at the hospital?”

“I’ve told you,” Elise said, sitting down on the gray satin duvet covering the bed. “I don’t like classical German music. I like jazz.”

“Jazz!” Clara groaned. “Why listen to that scheisse?”

“Well, I can’t, actually—not since you broke all of my records.” Elise spoke in a neutral tone, but her point was made. Clara had thrown all of Elise’s records from her window in a fit of anger when she’d discovered them, then had the gardener toss the broken pieces into the trash. She and Elise hadn’t spoken for weeks after that.

“It’s not right for my daughter, of all people, to own such things—let alone play them.”