The Quintland Sisters(72)
“These letters are so strange, and so—well, sad.” He pointed to a stack of thirty or forty envelopes. “We are getting more and more from Europe now, desperate people, all of them writing to Dr. Dafoe to ask for help. I have the sense that Dr. Dafoe and the quintuplets must be the only Canadians many of these people have ever heard of.” He shook his head and plucked one from the pile. The envelope was rumpled and soft, as if it had been passed through many hands, or carried in a pocket for many days before making it into the post. Or perhaps George himself had been carrying it with him. It was from an Austrian girl, named Klara. He read it aloud.
When he was finished, he handed me the letter. The penmanship was beautiful, with scarcely a word blotted out or spelled incorrectly. Astonishing, really, since English wasn’t her first language.
George was watching me. “I have an aunt on my father’s side who has married into a Jewish family in Toronto that immigrated before the Great War, but they still have family in Europe. You’ve read of the labor camps in Germany, I’m sure. Now Herr Hitler has opened another camp in Austria.”
His eyes were searching my face. “Canada cannot simply stand by, as a member of the Commonwealth. I’d bet my bottom dollar: we cannot and we won’t.”
Not sure what he was expecting, I made to hand Klara’s letter back to him, but he shook his head, muttering, “Keep it. I have three dozen others just the same.”
I know George wanted more from me, a political position of some kind, no doubt. It’s simply not a topic I fully understand, and this clearly frustrates him. Obviously it’s upsetting, unimaginable, really. But what was I to say? I forgot all about the sketch I’d done for him and, not long after, excused myself to go fetch the girls inside for lunch.
May 29, 1938
Dear Dr. Dafoe, My name is Klara Eisler and I am 13 years old. My father is Dr. Walter Eisler, a renowned physician in my country, Austria.
I write to you because we have studied Canada at school, and also because my father and I have for many years been interested in the Dionne Quintuplets, whose lives you saved.
My mother and father are deciding we must leave Austria because we are Jewish. Therefore I write to you to ask if you could use an assistant. My father received his medical degree from the Sorbonne University in Paris and received his fellowship in internal medicine from the University of Bologna. He has for many years been a professor at the Medical School of Vienna in addition to his clinical practice and has published many medical papers. I am an only child. I play the violin and can read and speak German, French, and English. My favorite subjects at school are literature and mathematics.
I hope you will consider having my father join you as your assistant in Canada at your earliest convenience. Please convey my warmest regards to Annette, Yvonne, Cécile, Marie, and émilie.
Yours sincerely, Klara Eisler
No. 7–14 Tuchlaubenstra?e, Vienna, Austria
June 11, 1938
I was sitting on the back steps outside the kitchen writing a letter to Lewis when George tracked me down. He was carrying two glasses of lemonade with ice, a real treat. The perks of being Dr. Dafoe’s secretary, presumably, or perhaps the perks of being George. Marguerite is clearly smitten with him and is continually finding excuses to pop by the office when Dr. Dafoe is out.
“Are you writing about me?” he joked, setting one of the glasses down beside me before easing himself onto a lower step.
I didn’t say anything because, of course, I had been writing about him! I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
He pretended to furrow his eyebrows at me. “Who are you writing to, Miss Trimpany? You have a new pen pal, I see, in our Quint-stone friend, Lewis Cartwright. Is it to him you are writing this evening? Or to Ivy?”
George can be so irritating, truly. It’s as if he can see right through to my bones. We’d been relatively cool to each other since our conversation about the letter from the Jewish girl. Now here he was with a peace offering and the first thing he does is start nettling me about whom I’m writing to and what I might be saying!
I blushed beet red, as usual, and my hand went up to my left cheek, the way it always does. In an instant, George’s face was smooth again, his mock frown gone. Calm as glass, like a lake the instant the breeze drops.
“I’m sorry, Emma, I shouldn’t tease. It’s none of my business who you’re writing to, obviously. I came out to say I’m sorry for being so moody yesterday morning. I’ve had a lot of long days and late nights.” He flashed a smile: two rows of shiny teeth, white and perfect. It’s no wonder Marguerite is happy to squeeze a dozen lemons for him at the end of her workday.
I shook my head, not knowing what to say. I didn’t have anything to apologize for, other than being sorry we didn’t agree on, well, whatever it was he was hoping we should be agreeing on. And then I lied, I don’t know why. I outright lied. “I’m writing to Ivy,” I mumbled. Then I blundered on. “Lewis is like a brother to me. We went to the same school in Callander.” This was true, although we were never actually there at the same time. “I write because I promised him I’d keep him up to date on Mr. Cartwright, his father, who was poorly over Christmas.”
George was still watching me with a slight smile, his floppy hair sliding out from behind his ear. Then we chatted casually for a bit, him asking me whether I was taking any time off this summer and saying that he was heading to Ottawa for his sister’s wedding. We talked about a few more things while we finished our drinks, then I stood up and gathered the glasses and went back inside. I finished my letter to Lewis in my room. A rather abrupt ending, I realize, but somehow I’d lost the thread of whatever it was I’d been planning to write.