Dawn O'Hara: The Girl Who Laughed Read online

  CHAPTER VIII. KAFFEE AND KAFFEEKUCHEN

  I have visited Baumbach's. I have heard Milwaukee drinking its afternoonKaffee.

  O Baumbach's, with your deliciously crumbling butter cookies and yourkaffee kuchen, and your thick cream, and your thicker waitresses andyour cockroaches, and your dinginess and your dowdy German ladies andyour black, black Kaffee, where in this country is there another likeyou!

  Blackie, true to his promise, had hailed me from the doorway on theafternoon of the following day. In the rush of the day's work I hadquite forgotten about Blackie and Baumbach's.

  "Come, Kindchen!" he called. "Get your bonnet on. We will by Baumbach'sgo, no?"

  Ruefully I gazed at the grimy cuffs of my blouse, and felt of mydishevelled hair. "Oh, I'm afraid I can't go. I look so mussy. Haven'thad time to brush up."

  "Brush up!" scoffed Blackie, "the only thing about you that will needbrushin' up is your German. I was goin' t' warn you to rumple up yourhair a little so you wouldn't feel overdressed w'en you got there. Comeon, girl."

  And so I came. And oh, I'm so glad I came!

  I must have passed it a dozen times without once noticing it--just adingy little black shop nestling between two taller buildings, almostwithin the shadow of the city hall. Over the sidewalk swung a shabbyblack sign with gilt letters that spelled, "Franz Baumbach."

  Blackie waved an introductory hand in the direction of the sign. "Therehe is. That's all you'll ever see of him."

  "Dead?" asked I, regretfully, as we entered the narrow doorway.

  "No; down in the basement baking Kaffeekuchen."

  Two tiny show-windows faced the street--such queer, old-fashionedwindows in these days of plate glass. At the back they were quiteopen to the shop, and in one of them reposed a huge, white, immovablestructure--a majestic, heavy, nutty, surely indigestible birthday cake.Around its edge were flutings and scrolls of white icing, and on itsbroad breast reposed cherries, and stout butterflies of jelly, andcunning traceries of colored sugar. It was quite the dressiest cake Ihad ever beheld. Surely no human hand could be wanton enough to guidea knife through all that magnificence. But in the center of allthis splendor was an inscription in heavy white letters of icing:"Charlottens Geburtstag."

  Reluctantly I tore my gaze from this imposing example of the Germanconfectioner's art, for Blackie was tugging impatiently at my sleeve.

  "But Blackie," I marveled, "do you honestly suppose that that structureis intended for some Charlotte's birthday?"

  "In Milwaukee," explained Blackie, "w'en you got a birthday you got t'have a geburtstag cake, with your name on it, and all the cousins andaunts and members of the North Side Frauen Turner Verein Gesellchaft, infor the day. It ain't considered decent if you don't. Are you ready tofight your way into the main tent?"

  It was holiday time, and the single narrow aisle of the front shop wascrowded. It was not easy to elbow one's way through the packed littlespace. Men and women were ordering recklessly of the cakes of everydescription that were heaped in cases and on shelves.

  Cakes! What a pale; dry name to apply to those crumbling, melting,indigestible German confections! Blackie grinned with enjoyment while Igazed. There were cakes the like of which I had never seen and of whichI did not even know the names. There were little round cup cakes made ofalmond paste that melts in the mouth; there were Schnecken glazed witha delicious candied brown sugar; there were Bismarcks composed of layerupon layer of flaky crust inlaid with an oozy custard that evades theeager consumer at the first bite, and that slides down one's collarwhen chased with a pursuing tongue. There were Pfeffernusse; there,were Lebkuchen; there were cheese-kuchen; plum-kuchen, peach-kuchen,Apfelkuchen, the juicy fruit stuck thickly into the crust, the wholedusted over with powdered sugar. There were Torten, and Hornchen, andbutter cookies.

  Blackie touched my arm, and I tore my gaze from a cherry-studdedSchaumtorte that was being reverently packed for delivery.

  "My, what a greedy girl! Now get your mind all made up. This is yourchance. You know you're supposed t' take a slant at th' things an' makeup your mind w'at you want before you go back w'ere th' tables are.Don't fumble this thing. When Olga or Minna comes waddlin' up t' youan' says: 'Nu, Fraulein?' you gotta tell her whether your heart saysplum-kuchen oder Nusstorte, or both, see? Just like that. Now make upyour mind. I'd hate t' have you blunder. Have you decided?"

  "Decided! How can I?" I moaned, watching a black-haired, black-eyedAlsatian girl behind the counter as she rolled a piece of white paperinto a cone and dipped a spoonful of whipped cream from a great brownbowl heaped high with the snowy stuff. She filled the paper cone,inserted the point of it into one end of a hollow pastry horn, andgently squeezed. Presto! A cream-filled Hornchen!

  "Oh, Blackie!" I gasped. "Come on. I want to go in and eat."

  As we elbowed our way to the rear room separated from the front shoponly by a flimsy wooden partition, I expected I know not what.

  But surely this was not Blackie's much-vaunted Baumbach's! This long,narrow, dingy room, with its bare floor and its iron-legged tables whosebare marble tops were yellow with age and use! I said nothing as weseated ourselves. Blackie was watching me out of the tail of his eye.My glance wandered about the shabby, smoke-filled room, and slowly andsurely the charm of that fusty, dingy little cafe came upon me.

  A huge stove glowed red in one corner. On the wall behind the stovewas suspended a wooden rack, black with age, its compartments holdingGerman, Austrian and Hungarian newspapers. Against the opposite wallstood an ancient walnut mirror, and above it hung a colored printof Bismarck, helmeted, uniformed, and fiercely mustached. The clumsyiron-legged tables stood in two solemn rows down the length of thenarrow room. Three or four stout, blond girls plodded back and forth,from tables to front shop, bearing trays of cakes and steaming cups ofcoffee. There was a rumble and clatter of German. Every one seemed toknow every one else. A game of chess was in progress at one table, andbetween moves each contestant would refresh himself with a long-drawn,sibilant mouthful of coffee. There was nothing about the place or itsoccupants to remind one of America. This dim, smoky, cake-scented cafewas Germany.

  "Time!" said Blackie. "Here comes Rosie to take our order. You can takeyour choice of coffee or chocolate. That's as fancy as they get here."

  An expansive blond girl paused at our table smiling a broad welcome atBlackie.

  "Wie geht's, Roschen?" he greeted her. Roschen's smile became still morepervasive, so that her blue eyes disappeared in creases of good humor.She wiped the marble table top with a large and careless gesture thatprecipitated stray crumbs into our laps. "Gut!" murmured she, coyly, andleaned one hand on a portly hip in an attitude of waiting.

  "Coffee?" asked Blackie, turning to me. I nodded.

  "Zweimal Kaffee?" beamed Roschen, grasping the idea.

  "Now's your time to speak up," urged Blackie. "Go ahead an' order allthe cream gefillte things that looked good to you out in front."

  But I leaned forward, lowering my voice discreetly. "Blackie, before Iplunge in too recklessly, tell me, are their prices very--"

  "Sa-a-ay, child, you just can't spend half a dollar here if you try.The flossiest kind of thing they got is only ten cents a order. They'llsmother you in whipped cream f'r a quarter. You c'n come in here an' eatan' eat an' put away piles of cakes till you feel like a combinationof Little Jack Horner an' old Doc Johnson. An' w'en you're all through,they hand yuh your check, an', say--it says forty-five cents. You can'tbeat it, so wade right in an' spoil your complexion."

  With enthusiasm I turned upon the patient Rosie. "O, bring me some ofthose cunning little round things with the cream on 'em, you know--twoof those, eh Blackie? And a couple of those with the flaky crust andthe custard between, and a slice of that fluffy-looking cake and some ofthose funny cocked-hat shaped cookies--"

  But a pall of bewilderment was slowly settling over Rosie's erstwhilesmiling face. Her plump shoulders went up in a helpless shrug, and sheturned her round blue eyes appealingly to Bl
ackie.

  "Was meint sie alles?" she asked.

  So I began all over again, with the assistance of Blackie. We wentinto minute detail. We made elaborate gestures. We drew pictures of ourdesired goodies on the marble-topped table, using a soft-lead pencil.Rosie's countenance wore a distracted look. In desperation I was aboutto accompany her to the crowded shop, there to point out my chosendainties when suddenly, as they would put it here, a light went herover.

  "Ach, yes-s-s-s! Sie wollten vielleicht abgeruhrter Gugelhopf haben, undauch Schaumtorte, und Bismarcks, und Hornchen mit cream gefullt, nicht?"

  "Certainly," I murmured, quite crushed. Roschen waddled merrily off tothe shop.

  Blackie was rolling a cigarette. He ran his funny little red tonguealong the edge of the paper and glanced up at me in glee. "Don'tbother about me," he generously observed. "Just set still and let theatmosphere soak in."

  But already I was lost in contemplation of a red-faced, pompadouredGerman who was drinking coffee and reading the Fliegende Blatter at atable just across the way. There were counterparts of my aboriginesat Knapf's--thick spectacled engineers with high foreheads--actors andactresses from the German stock company--reporters from the Englishand German newspapers--business men with comfortable Germanconsciences--long-haired musicians--dapper young lawyers--a gigglinggroup of college girls and boys--a couple of smartly dressed womennibbling appreciatively at slices of Nusstorte--low-voiced lovers whosecoffee cups stood untouched at their elbows, while no fragrant cloud ofsteam rose to indicate that there was warmth within. Their glances growwarmer as the neglected Kaffee grows colder. The color comes and goes inthe girl's face and I watch it, a bit enviously, marveling that the oldstory still should be so new.

  At a large square table near the doorway a group of eight men wereabsorbed in an animated political discussion, accompanied by much wavingof arms, and thundering of gutturals. It appeared to be a table ofimportance, for the high-backed bench that ran along one side wasupholstered in worn red velvet, and every newcomer paused a moment tonod or to say a word in greeting. It was not of American politics thatthey talked, but of the politics of Austria and Hungary. Finally theargument resolved itself into a duel of words between a handsome,red-faced German whose rosy skin seemed to take on a deeper tone incontrast to the whiteness of his hair and mustache, and a swarthy youngfellow whose thick spectacles and heavy mane of black hair gave him thelook of a caricature out of an illustrated German weekly. The red-facedman argued loudly, with much rapping of bare knuckles on the tabletop. But the dark man spoke seldom, and softly, with a little twistedhalf-smile on his lips; and whenever he spoke the red-faced man grewredder, and there came a huge laugh from the others who sat listening.

  "Say, wouldn't it curdle your English?" Blackie laughed.

  Solemnly I turned to him. "Blackie Griffith, these people do not evenrealize that there is anything unusual about this."

  "Sure not; that's the beauty of it. They don't need to make noartificial atmosphere for this place; it just grows wild, likedandelions. Everybody comes here for their coffee because their auntsan' uncles and Grossmutters and Grosspapas used t' come, and comeyet, if they're livin'! An', after all, what is it but a little Germanbakery?"

  "But O, wise Herr Baumbach down in the kitchen! O, subtle Frau Baumbachback of the desk!" said I. "Others may fit their shops with mirrors,and cut-glass chandeliers and Oriental rugs and mahogany, but you sitserenely by, and you smile, and you change nothing. You let the brownwalls grow dimmer with age; you see the marble-topped tables turningyellow; you leave bare your wooden floor, and you smile, and smile, andsmile."

  "Fine!" applauded Blackie. "You're on. And here comes Rosie."

  Rosie, the radiant, placed on the table cups and saucers of anunbelievable thickness. She set them down on the marble surface with acrash as one who knows well that no mere marble or granite could shatterthe solidity of those stout earthenware receptacles. Napkins there werenone. I was to learn that fingers were rid of any clinging remnants ofcream or crumb by the simple expedient of licking them.

  Blackie emptied his pitcher of cream into his cup of black, blackcoffee, sugared it, stirred, tasted, and then, with a wicked gleam inhis black eyes he lifted the heavy cup to his lips and took a long,gurgling mouthful.

  "Blackie," I hissed, "if you do that again I shall refuse to speak toyou!"

  "Do what?" demanded he, all injured innocence.

  "Snuffle up your coffee like that."

  "Why, girl, that's th' proper way t' drink coffee here. Listen t'everybody else." And while I glared he wrapped his hand lovingly abouthis cup, holding the spoon imprisoned between first and second fingers,and took another sibilant mouthful. "Any more of your back talk and I'lldrink it out of m' saucer an' blow on it like the hefty party over therein the earrings is doin'. Calm yerself an' try a Bismarck."

  I picked up one of the flaky confections and eyed it in despair. Therewere no plates except that on which the cakes reposed.

  "How does one eat them?" I inquired.

  "Yuh don't really eat 'em. The motion is more like inhalin'. T' eat'em successful you really ought t' get into a bath-tub half-filled withwater, because as soon's you bite in at one end w'y the custard stuffslides out at the other, an' no human mouth c'n be two places at oncet.Shut your eyes girl, an' just wade in."

  I waded. In silence I took a deep delicious bite, nimbly chased the coyfilling around a corner with my tongue, devoured every bit down to thelast crumb and licked the stickiness off my fingers. Then I investigatedthe interior of the next cake.

  "I'm coming here every day," I announced.

  "Better not. Ruin your complexion and turn all your lines into bumps.Look at the dame with the earrings. I've been keepin' count an' I'veseen her eat three Schnecken, two cream puffs, a Nusshornchen and aslice of Torte with two cups of coffee. Ain't she a horrible example!And yet she's got th' nerve t' wear a princess gown!"

  "I don't care," I replied, recklessly, my voice choked with whippedcream and butteriness. "I can just feel myself getting greasy. Haven't Idone beautifully for a new hand? Now tell me about some of these people.Who is the funny little man in the checked suit with the black braidtrimming, and the green cravat, and the white spats, and the tan hat andthe eyeglasses?"

  "Ain't them th' dizzy habiliments?" A note of envy crept into Blackie'svoice. "His name is Hugo Luders. Used t' be a reporter on the Germania,but he's reformed and gone into advertisin', where there's real money.Some say he wears them clo'es on a bet, and some say his taste in dressis a curse descended upon him from Joseph, the guy with the fancy coat,but I think he wears 'em because he fancies 'em. He's been coming hereever' afternoon for twelve years, has a cup of coffee, game of chess,and a pow-wow with a bunch of cronies. If Baumbach's ever decideto paint the front of their shop or put in cut glass fixtures andhandpainted china, Hugo Luders would serve an injunction on 'em. Next!"

  "Who's the woman with the leathery complexion and the belt to match, andthe untidy hair and the big feet? I like her face. And why does she sitat a table with all those strange-looking men? And who are all the men?And who is the fur-lined grand opera tenor just coming in--Oh!"

  Blackie glanced over his shoulder just as the tall man in the doorwayturned his face toward us. "That? Why, girl, that's Von Gerhard, the manwho gives me one more year t' live. Look at everybody kowtowing to him.He don't favor Baumbach's often. Too busy patching up the nervous wrecksthat are washed up on his shores."

  The tall figure in the doorway was glancing from table to table, noddinghere and there to an acquaintance. His eyes traveled the length of theroom. Now they were nearing us. I felt a sudden, inexplicable tighteningat heart and throat, as though fingers were clutching there. Thenhis eyes met mine, and I felt the blood rushing to my face as he cameswiftly over to our table and took my hand in his.

  "So you have discovered Baumbach's," he said. "May I have my coffee andcigar here with you?"

  "Blackie here is responsible for my being initiated into the
stickymysteries of Baumbach's. I never should have discovered it if he had notoffered to act as personal conductor. You know one another, I believe?"

  The two men shook hands across the table. There was something forcedand graceless about the act. Blackie eyed Von Gerhard through a mistycurtain of cigarette smoke. Von Gerhard gazed at Blackie throughnarrowed lids as he lighted his cigar. "I'm th' gink you killed off twoor three years back," Blackie explained.

  "I remember you perfectly," Von Gerhard returned, courteously. "Irejoice to see that I was mistaken."

  "Well," drawled Blackie, a wicked gleam in his black eyes, "I'msome rejoiced m'self, old top. Angel wings and a white kimono, wornbare-footy, would go some rotten with my Spanish style of beauty, what?Didn't know that you and m'dame friend here was acquainted. Known eachother long?"

  I felt myself flushing again.

  "I knew Dr. von Gerhard back home. I've scarcely seen him since Ihave been here. Famous specialists can't be bothered with middle-agedrelatives of their college friends, can they, Herr Doktor?"

  And now it was Von Gerhard's face that flushed a deep and painfulcrimson. He looked at me, in silence, and I felt very little, andinsignificant, and much like an impudent child who has stuck out itstongue at its elders. Silent men always affect talkative women in thatway.

  "You know that what you say is not true," he said, slowly.

  "Well, we won't quibble. We--we were just about to leave, weren't weBlackie?"

  "Just," said Blackie, rising. "Sorry t' see you drinkin' Baumbach'scoffee, Doc. It ain't fair t' your patients."

  "Quite right," replied Von Gerhard; and rose with us. "I shall not drinkit. I shall walk home with Mrs. Orme instead, if she will allow me. Thatwill be more stimulating than coffee, and twice as dangerous, perhaps,but--"

  "You know how I hate that sort of thing," I said, coldly, as we passedfrom the warmth of the little front shop where the plump girls werestill filling pasteboard boxes with holiday cakes, to the brisk chill ofthe winter street. The little black-and-gilt sign swung and creaked inthe wind. Whimsically, and with the memory of that last cream-filledcake fresh in my mind, I saluted the letters that spelled "FranzBaumbach."

  Blackie chuckled impishly. "Just the same, try a pinch of sodabicarb'nate when you get home, Dawn," he advised. "Well, I'm off to thefactory again. Got t' make up for time wasted on m' lady friend. Aufwiedersehen!"

  And the little figure in the checked top-coat trotted off.

  "But he called you--Dawn," broke from Von Gerhard.

  "Mhum," I agreed. "My name's Dawn."

  "Surely not to him. You have known him but a few weeks. I would not havepresumed--"

  "Blackie never presumes," I laughed. "Blackie's just--Blackie. Imaginetaking offense at him! He knows every one by their given name, from Jo,the boss of the pressroom, to the Chief, who imports his office coatsfrom London. Besides, Blackie and I are newspaper men. And people don'tscrape and bow in a newspaper office--especially when they're fond ofone another. You wouldn't understand."

  As I looked at Von Gerhard in the light of the street lamp I saw atense, drawn look about the little group of muscles which show when theteeth are set hard. When he spoke those muscles had relaxed but little.

  "One man does not talk ill of another. But this is different. I want toask you--do you know what manner of man this--this Blackie is? I askyou because I would have you safe and sheltered always from such ashe--because I--"

  "Safe! From Blackie? Now listen. There never was a safer, saner, truer,more generous friend. Oh, I know what his life has been. But what elsecould it have been, beginning as he did? I have no wish to reform him.I tried my hand at reforming one man, and made a glorious mess of it. SoI'll just take Blackie as he is, if you please--slang, wickedness, pinkshirt, red necktie, diamond rings and all. If there's any bad in him,we all know it, for it's right down on the table, face up. You're justangry because he called you Doc."

  "Small one," said Von Gerhard, in his quaint German idiom, "we will notquarrel, you and I. If I have been neglectful it was because edgedtools were never a chosen plaything of mine. Perhaps your little Blackierealizes that he need have no fear of such things, for the Great Fear isupon him."

  "The Great Fear! You mean!--"

  "I mean that there are too many fine little lines radiating from thecorners of the sunken eyes, and that his hand-clasp leaves a moisturein the palm. Ach! you may laugh. Come, we will change the subject tosomething more cheerful, yes? Tell me, how grows the book?"

  "By inches. After working all day on a bulletin paper whose city editoris constantly shouting: 'Boil it now, fellows! Keep it down! We'recrowded!' it is too much of a wrench to find myself seated calmly beforemy own typewriter at night, privileged to write one hundred thousandwords if I choose. I can't get over the habit of crowding the story allinto the first paragraph. Whenever I flower into a descriptive passageI glance nervously over my shoulder, expecting to find Norberg stationedbehind me, scissors and blue pencil in hand. Consequently the book,thus far, sounds very much like a police reporter's story of a fire fourminutes before the paper is due to go to press."

  Von Gerhard's face was unsmiling. "So," he said, slowly. "You burn thecandle at both ends. All day you write, is it not so? And at night youcome home to write still more? Ach, Kindchen!--Na, we shall change allthat. We will be better comrades, we two, yes? You remember that gaylittle walk of last autumn, when we explored the Michigan country laneat dusk? I shall be your Sunday Schatz, and there shall be more rambleslike that one, to bring the roses into your cheeks. We shall begood Kameraden, as you and this little Griffith are--what is it theysay--good fellows? That is it--good fellows, yes? So, shall we shakehands on it?"

  But I snatched my hand away. "I don't want to be a good fellow," Icried. "I'm tired of being a good fellow. I've been a good fellow foryears and years, while every other married woman in the world has beenhappy in her own home, bringing up her babies. When I am old I want somesons to worry me, too, and to stay awake nights for, and some daughtersto keep me young, and to prevent me from doing my hair in a knob andwearing bonnets! I hate good-fellow women, and so do you, and so doesevery one else! I--I--"

  "Dawn!" cried Von Gerhard. But I ran up the steps and into the house andslammed the door behind me, leaving him standing there.