A Life, APart

By Cynthia Strauff

Claire Mueller is of the generation of Abzug, Friedan, and Steinem. She will tell you, if you ask, that her career presented itself without plan, strategy. Chance, she will say. It was chance, and taking advantage of opportunities that presented themselves, a solid work ethic, and a vocabulary that leads people to think that she is smarter than she really is. That is what she believes.
A Life, APart tells Claire’s story, her journey from naïve daughter to world-damaged adult. It chronicles her career, her friendship with Naomi, an unconventional, drug-dealing free-spirit who provides support and inspiration, and her unconventional love affair with Viktor, the soul-damaged, East European war refugee, who accompanies her on her final journey.
Grounded in historical fact, Claire’s story is that of one woman working in the man’s world of the 1950s and 1960s, before feminism became a byword. It is a character study, of Claire, and those flawed, authentic individuals who helped shape her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716612978

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APart

Cynthia Strauff

Copyright 2020 by Cynthia Strauff

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means – whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic – without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

A Life, APart is a work of fiction set in an historical context. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-71662-956-3

ISBN: (e) 978-1-71661-297-8

Library of Congress Control Number:  2020917116

The First Chapter

It was in her mind before she woke, always there, just under the surface. Viktor had wanted to stay, but she wanted this last night to herself. We’ve spent enough nights together, she told him. "Let’s remember those. This, well, this would only make the memory, the last memory, sad. And we’ve had enough of that for this life, don’t you think?

He had taken her hand and kissed it, then left without saying another word.

He would arrive, earlier, she knew, than they had agreed upon. She was grateful for that. She rose, splashed cold water on her face, then looked in the mirror and laughed. She smoothed her eyebrows. Today I’m looking pretty good. It figures. She said these last two words aloud, and was glad.

She took care when she dressed, chose a favorite black cashmere sweater, although black was not the most becoming color for her these days; a pleated Stewart-tartan skirt, complete with oversized safety pin, a bit too young for her, a bit too big on her now slight frame. But it was a favorite. And black hose, black patent-leather flats, with a black grosgrain bow. Yes, this was how she wanted to look. She brushed her hair back, and with all that had befallen her, still mourned that it was no longer thick, that, if she looked, she could see her skull. What does Viktor see, she wondered, and then closed her eyes.

She wanted to be fully present this day, to experience this day, with Viktor. Books, music, they had spent many of their precious hours planning it.  And ice cream, Hendler’s Vanilla Bean, topped with bourbon. She had planned; all that needed to be taken care of was taken care of. No loose ends, no one to leave them to anyway, except Viktor. He would handle what needed to be handled.

He arrived, an hour earlier than they had agreed upon. He always knocked, three rapid raps, before he used the key he had possessed for years. His favorite books, favorite records already part of her, their, collection.

They sat through the afternoon, left the lamps unlit as the evening came, nursed their drinks, from habit. Their ritual, important on this day, to both. They read, each with their own thoughts, but close, sitting close, on the sofa. Later Claire lay, her head in Viktor’s lap as he stroked her forehead. She reached for his hand and placed it on her chest.

It’s time, I think. She spoke without looking at him, and started to sit up.

He helped her as she raised her head, her shoulders, from his lap. I need to tell you, he said, as he leaned her body against his. I’m going with you. We’ll do this together. He put his fingers to her lips. Don’t waste, don’t use your energy talking about this. If you are not here, then I have no life, no life that I am interested in living. How many deaths have I escaped? This is one I don’t want to. We’ll go. We’ll go together.

Claire shook her head. Agata. What about Agata? She was so tired, couldn’t muster up energy to say words she knew should be said.

Agata. Another sad soul. But she knew, from the beginning she knew. And decided on what she wanted. Another broken soul, Claire, just one more. She will be relieved, I think. This has been no life for her, not really. She has friends, people who love her. They’ll make her life better. Viktor took her hand, kissed it. She knew, Claire. She always knew.

They sat, each with only thoughts; words insufficient, or unnecessary, now. She knew, Claire thought. Yes, she knew. And Viktor, my love, will do exactly as he chooses. I was, I am his love, she thought. Yes, it is I.

They walked to the bedroom, Viktor steadying her gait. He helped her onto the bed, straightened the coverlet, fluffed the pillows behind her. She reached into the drawer of the bedside table, pulled out the containers of sleeping pills. She had been accumulating them for months. I think ice cream now. Would you fix it?

Viktor went into the kitchen, spooned two scoops into the two bowls Claire had chosen, emptied the capsules and added enough morphine to do what it was meant to do. He added a spoonful of bourbon to each, for taste, and the memory.

Returning, he handed one dish to Claire, then got into bed on his customary side. After a few bites, Claire looked over. Make sure I get all this down.  She paused. I know this is the right thing for me, the right ending. She stared into the bowl. And you? Are you sure?

Viktor smiled, scraped the last of the liquid onto his spoon.

Now don’t forget to wash the bowls and put them in the dish drainer.

Viktor smiled. Ah, yes. We will follow our plan.

And make sure that we’re sitting up. In case things get messy. I would hate that.

No worry. No worry. My Clairedelune.

He returned from the kitchen and took her hand. Her breathing had slowed; he knew his would soon follow suit.

But who will be the executor? Who will take care of all the details? We shouldn’t leave that to Harriet. It isn’t fair. I, we, haven’t prepared her for this.

Viktor took her hand, leaned to kiss her forehead. Oh, my Clairedelune. Some things you just have to leave to chance.

Claire smiled and closed her eyes, feeling her hand in his, and thought of Viktor, of Fritz, of Lily, of Sylvan Cliffs, and General.

Part One

One

Tuesday

Claire shifted from one foot to the other waiting for the fire-engine red pick-up truck. But it was the maroon Packard that made its way south on Charles Street to turn onto Mt. Vernon Place. She leaned against the cold grey stone of the Peabody Preparatory building, and frowned as the car turned the corner and made its way down the steep hill.

She tapped at the window on the driver’s side. Where’s Faht? I thought he was picking me up. Her mother rolled down the window and started to speak. Claire interrupted her. No matter, she said. I’ll drive, Mamma, let me drive. Slide over. Please, for me. Who’s just had a great piano lesson? She laughed and started to open the driver’s side door.

Lily waved her hand. No, I don’t want to move; this skirt will wrinkle even more than it has. You just get in the other side.

Claire rolled her eyes. She wanted, needed, driving practice. Crossing in front of the car, she threw her satchel onto the back seat. The loosely-fastened clasp opened, and textbooks, papers, music scores spilled onto the floor and under the seat. Claire leaned over to kiss her mother.

Lily smiled. Hello, sweetness. Faht’s meeting Uncle August for an early dinner, so it’s you and me.

I like that, spending time with you. We can talk, Claire responded She shifted in her seat to face her mother. Now, what should we talk about?

Let’s start with your piano lesson. How did that go?

Claire presented a report that was just-a-bit more glowing than accurate.

Lily smiled. Claire, she thought, you can always count on Claire.

Will Faht be home in time for you to go to Ford’s? I can go if he’s too late, you know. I’d love to see Guys and Dolls. Without taking a breath, Claire added, I wish that next year you’d get me tickets to go with you.

Lily nodded. She knew how Claire loved plays, the theater. But next year you’ll have graduated, and who knows what you’ll be doing? So much life ahead of you.

Claire giggled. I know. And I’m hoping – well, you know, Daniel.

Lily’s mouth hardened as she negotiated the turn onto Franklin Street. She kept her eyes on the rush hour traffic. Now you know I think Daniel is a nice boy. But, Claire, he’s a boy, nowhere near to settling down. Don’t forget that. She forced a smile.

And don’t you go settling down either. You are too young, too smart, too pretty, to limit your life. You could have anything, do anything, you want. Even college. I wish you’d at least consider that.

But you weren’t even eighteen when you married Faht. And Louisa. She was nineteen, barely. Why wouldn’t you want that for me?

Lily gripped the steering wheel. She blinked, hard, willing away the sudden dizziness.

Her tone sharp, she answered. That was the war. Two wars. Those times were different. People weren’t using their heads. All we thought of was – I don’t know, the glamour, the romance of marrying a soldier before he went off to war, never knowing if we’d ever be together again. Like it was in a book.

Lily turned to her daughter. But real life is different, Claire. You know that. Oh, your father and I, I wouldn’t change that for the world. But you. You have a chance for more. Don’t…

Claire looked toward Lily, alarmed that she had stopped talking. She heard her mother moan, felt the car hit the curb, jump the pavement. Her head hit the windshield as the Packard mounted the three marble steps of the brick row house.

She screamed, Mamma, what’s wrong? What happened?

She heard horns blaring, sensed a man opening her door. She screamed for her mother.

Tuesday

The waitress greeted August as he descended the wooden stairway, noticed that his steps were slower, more tentative these days. He held his gold-handled cane in his left hand, while his right gripped the carved banister rail.

Guten Abend, Herr Ziegler, she sang out, glad to see him, and anticipating a large tip this evening. He was more generous since the war.

Ah, Trude, good to see you are working this evening. I’m meeting my godson, so give us a quiet table, would you?

He is already here, and he asked for exactly the same thing. The dirndl-clad hostess led them to a table in a dark corner of the Rathskeller. August noted Trude’s legs and ankles. Swollen, he thought. Not an easy life for her. Getting old, like all of us. He resolved to give her an extra, what, dollar? Why not? he decided. Better for her than for my pocket.

August smiled as he saw Fritz, remembering the times they had spent here. Such celebrations. And their old haunt, Schellhase’s on Howard Street. Graduations, birthdays, watching Fritz grow tall, to manhood. Through thick and thin as they say here, he thought. It was the thin that he knew Fritz wanted to talk about.

The factory, such high-flying days during the war. And now. Times change, August thought, and noticed that even Fritz had changed, thinner, a bit stooped, tired, a grey pallor to his skin.

August stopped leaning on his cane, pulled himself erect. If Fritz is old, what does that make me? he wondered. No. Willenssache. Mind over matter, as they say here.

He quickened his step. "Ah, Fritz, mein Sohn."

Fritz stood to pull out the chair for August, then shook his hand. "Onkel August," he said, giving the older man a slight bow.

The two took their places at the table. Trude, who had been standing at a respectful distance from the table, brought the two men menus. And will you have your drinks now?

The men nodded. Trude knew what to bring.

August opened the menu, but didn’t look at it. Let’s order quickly. I sense you have something on your mind. Souse with potato salad for me.

Fritz nodded, but said nothing. August waited.

Trude delivered their drinks, and, noting August’s closed menu, stood, pencil in hand. Order taken, she nodded, realizing that tonight was not the time for their usual banter.

August re-arranged the silverware at his place. Concentrating on that, he said, Let us begin, Fritz. What is the problem? Spit it out and we can go on. Use our time well. No dilly-dally.

Fitz pulled out the gold-and-white pack of Chesterfields, tamped it on the table before he pulled out a cigarette. August watched while he flipped the top of his lighter. Stalling for time, he thought.

Fritz inhaled, smiled. I’m stalling for time, I guess, he said, and put his head into his right hand. "Onk, I’m in a jam. Money. My streak of luck has run out." He looked down, took a deep drag from his cigarette.

August remained silent, and kept his face expressionless. Get on with it, Fritz, he thought.

"It’s the factory. You know that it’s been tough, since the end of the war, since those contracts ended. I’ve tried to get others to replace them. But the department stores, Hutzler’s, Hochschild’s, I’ve been to them all. Hamburgers, they look to New York, to the big manufacturers. I’ve made arrangements to go there next week, at least to the ones who’ve agreed to see me. But my time is running out. I’ve cut back hours for the workers. Haven’t had to let anyone go yet, but they see the inventories stacking up, sitting up there on the second floor. They’re not stupid. But there’s no place for them to go either. So it’s a fuckup, to be sure.

And that’s not the biggest fuckup.

August studied his godson, surprised at the language that appeared to come so easily to him. Not like Fritz, he thought. Something beyond the factory worrying him.

August put down his beer. "Fritz, yah, this is bad. But we have been through bad before. The Great War, the Depression, this last war. And we are still here, drinking beer at the Deutsches Haus."

No, August, this isn’t the same. Fritz realized that his voice was raised. He leaned in toward his godfather. "Well, here is it. I might as well spit it all out. I mortgaged the house to keep the factory running. And that looks like it’s all a cockup. If something doesn’t turn around, if I don’t find a way out of it, the house, the factory, it’s all gone. The bank will take over; what they’ll do with it, I don’t know. Maybe they’ll run things better than I could.

So there you have it. A fiasco, a shambles, a failure. Fritz leaned back. Funny, I feel almost relieved just saying it. He held his cigarette, not quite touching his lips. He shrugged. "Did you think that you’d be father-confessor this evening, Onk?"

August sat, deciding if it would be better to be silent, wondering if Fritz wanted advice, fearing that he might want money.

"I know this is my mess, only mine. And I am kicking myself for being such a madman to think that I could pull everything together. And the worst part, well, perhaps not the worst, but another great muddle. I haven’t told Lily. She knows things are bad, but she doesn’t know about the loan, the one on the factory. And worse, she has no idea that I put a second mortgage on the house.

"So I am facing it on all fronts. I’ve done this all myself. There is not a soul I can blame. One bad, stupid decision after another. All because I was sure that I could pull it out, make it work.

After all those good years, all that work, the factory humming like it never did before, I thought that I could do anything. I thought that I was the one making it work. But it was luck, a stroke of luck, the war. To profit from the war. Maybe this is my just desserts, what I get, retribution.

August reached for his godson, stopped short of his hand. "Now, Fritz, that’s not so. To have the luck of getting a contract, making shirts, that is hardly profiteering. And you gave work to so many, all those women who came to you. You did good for them. So, everybody profited. That is not the same as profiteering. Put that one aside.

"You have enough to worry about, real things, without making up some story that might come from the bible. Forget that. That is feeling sorry for yourself. What you need to do is concentrate on figuring a way out, not hold your head and say that you deserve punishment. You took some risks and they didn’t work out. That, my boy, is what risk is. So, this time you’re on the wrong side of it.

"But changes are to come. So leid, so leid, but sorry doesn’t fix things." August paused as Trude laid their meals before them. She knew to be quick and quiet.

August piled his fork with potato salad. The men ate in silence.

After a few minutes, Fritz looked up. So. There you have it. A mess.

August pushed his plate to the side. Let us look at specifics here. What is the timeframe you have? Exactly. How many weeks, I am assuming weeks, do you have? What contact have you had with the bank? Who have you talked to?

An hour later, the men ended the meal with a toast, their usual, German cognac and Bernhard beer. Fritz reached for the check. August did not stop him.

Thank you for meeting me, August. I know the time was off. And I’m off to Ellicott City; Lily and I head back downtown to Ford’s this evening.

As they left the restaurant, Fritz reached to help August negotiate the stone