Fraulein Schreiber

[This is an excerpt from the story Christine's Miracle Christmas]

Fraulein Schreiber
It was dark soon after Mr. French and Christine left the village, and dark and wet when they arrived at the Hotel.  It was rain, soon to change to snow, and probably to ice.
“What do I do now?” she asked Mr. French.
“Let’s take your stuff in,” he said.
They asked the woman at the desk whether there was a reservation for a Miss Hedge, or a message from a William Taylor.
“Yes, and yes; we’re expecting you, er ...  Miss Hedge? Ah!  And ...  will you be staying too, Mr. ...  ?”
“No,” he said smiling, much too experienced to be embarrassed, “I’m just transportation!”  He turned to Christine, and asked her to begin filling out the guest form.  “Is there a Fraulein Schreiber registered?”
“Yes, right next to Miss Hedge, as a matter of fact; and you are to call up as soon as you get here.  You can use that phone, right there!”
While Christine filled out her form, Mr. French spoke on the phone, and presently a woman stepped out of the elevators.

She was of average height, solidly built, and beautifully dressed.  She had an oval face and a polite smile.
“Mr. French?” she asked in a soft voice.  “Good!  Good, good to see you!”  Christine took the electronic key, and turned to greet the great lady, smiling.
“Christine, this is Maria Schreiber; Fraulein Schreiber, Christine Hedge!  Christine will help you find your way around the town, and generally look after you.”
Christine nodded and held out her hand, which was enclosed in both Ms. Schreiber’s hands which felt cool and dry.
“Let’s go upstairs and get you settled,” said Mr. French, and they all took the elevator.
“And do you sing, also?” asked Maria.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Christine, politely, as Mr. French smiled encouragement.
“And what part?”
“Soprano!”
“Wonderful!”
The gentle questioning went on a little longer, until the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, and they got out, and found Christine’s room, remarking that it was, indeed next to Maria’s room.

“Are you ready for a meal?” asked Mr. French, smiling at both of them.  Christine said yes, and Maria nodded, and they went downstairs again.  But the weather was getting worse, and Mr. French excused himself, and with a last anxious look and smile at Christine, went home.  The next morning there was a message for Christine that he had, indeed, arrived safely.
Meanwhile, Christine and Maria Schreiber had supper in the hotel restaurant.
“So tell me all about yourself!” said Maria, after Christine had helped her to order.
Christine told her as much as she could about herself.  There was nothing much to tell; they lived on a farm, and she liked music and sports, and she was in eleventh grade.
“Don’t forget to eat,” said Maria, in her atrocious accent.
Christine assured her that she wouldn’t.
They munched companiably for a while, and Maria remarked that it was terrible weather.  Christine said, yes; they couldn’t obviously go out.  We must find something to do, said Maria.  “I have come too early, and causing trouble for you.”
“Oh, not at all!  The weather may improve!”
“I don’t know ...  let’s have a sweet; I am depressed.” She laughed, and they ordered some fancy dessert that Christine had never heard of.  But the restaurant had great ambitions of being the dessert capital of that part of Iowa—which was no great achievement—and Christine tucked into the most delicious dessert she had ever tasted.  Maria was delighted.
They paid, or at least Maria put it on her account, and they went upstairs.  It was just about seven.
“Come in, we can talk for a little,” said Maria.

Christine perked up as soon as they got in.  It was a lovely big suite, and there was even a small piano there.  Maria seated her, and got some coffee brewing in the little coffee machine in the room.
Half an hour later, they were no longer stiff; they were talking about the Oratorio, and how the rehearsals had gone, and how good the orchestra was.  Christine began to feel less self-conscious, and was able to study her companion a little more closely.
She was really a handsome woman.  She was in her early forties, as near as Christine could tell.  She had long, glossy black or dark brown hair, just beginning to turn grey at the temples, lovely grey eyes, large and expressive, magnificent eyebrows, sensuous, sensitive lips, a straight nose, a determined, strong chin, large ears, with soft, pendulous earlobes.  She was swarthy, a rich tan, wide-shoulders, with full breasts, and an upright, straight posture, like a dancer.  Her legs were a little short for her trunk, but in her calf-length skirt she looked perfectly well-proportioned.  Her hair was tied back loosely at the neck, and Christine wondered how she wore her hair at a concert.
“Oh Christine,” she exclaimed, after pacing around the suite, “I am bored, you are bored; what can we do?”
“There’s always TV,” said Christine.
“TV? No, no, no, no, no.  In German, we say, ach, nein, nein!  Ja?”
“Nein, yeah, I know that one,” laughed Christine.
“Christine, do you play the piano?”
“Oh, no, Fraulein Maria!”
They laughed; it seemed like something from the Sound of Music.
“Not at all?”
“I’m afraid not!  I mean, I play chopsticks, if you want to count that!”
“Okay, play!”

Maria was more impressed with the other piece Christine happened to be able to play, namely the Pifa from Messiah.
“Oh, that was nice!  You know, they leave out the middle part, sometimes.  These new conductors always find a way to make you regret.”
“They do?  Why?”
Maria shrugged.  “Who knows?  They say it was an afterthought of Mr. Haendel.  Come, I will play for you.  What can you sing?”

Somehow they found a way to keep each other amused until nine, when it was time to go to bed.  Maria simply lived music, just as Christine lived music.  She knew all about Messiah, and all the recordings Christine loved; she loved Christmas carols, and most miraculously, she loved the very recording that Christine cherished so much.  They talked about movies, Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, the Jane Austen movies; and Christine could hardly believe that someone could think so like her, though Christine was fifteen, and Maria was three times her age.

There was a door between Maria’s suite and Christine’s room.  “They all have it, see? You can lock it, or I can lock it, and over here ...” she walked over to the opposite wall, and there was another door.  “This side, too ...  let’s see ...  as I expected, it is locked.”
“A good thing, too,” said Christine, severely.
“I suppose, yes.  Okay, Christine, or I call you Christina; you go to sleep.  Schlafe, mein Liebster!  I see you in the morning, Christina!”

Christine was exhausted, and slept the sleep of the just.  She woke up around eight, quickly showered and dressed, and knocked on the connecting door.  It was opened by a bleary-eyed Maria.
“Christina, Liebchen, ...  ich bin krank ...  ich ...  I had a little ...  just a sip ...”
“Oh dear!”
“Oh dear ...  sit, Christina ...”
“Shall I get you something?”
“They say ...  just a little sip ...”
Christine had heard of this cure for a hangover, and she brought the bottle over to where Maria sat and suffered.  Apparently she had started drinking soon after Christine had gone to bed.
Unaccustomed to the odd habits of alcoholics, Christine had to learn fast.  After Christine had poured her a little of the liquor she had drunk the night before, she declared she was feeling better.  Christine offered to help her to bed, but she insisted no, the armchair was better.

Once she had drunk enough water, Maria was a lot more lucid.
“Oh ...  what a ...  what a ...  what do you say in this country, Christine?”
“What a disaster?”
“Well ...  no, like bad dream, horror ...”
“Nightmare?”
“That’s the one ...  nightmare for you, little Christina.”
“Oh ...  don’t worry about it.”
They sat in silence for a while, and then Maria came up again.
“Christina, Liebchen ...  if you call the ...”
“Desk?”
“Yes ...  normally the kitchen has ...  some kind of ...”
“Breakfast?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, ...  don’t say that word ...  some ...  medicine ...  some cure, ...  a cure, yes?”
“A cure for a ...  a hangover?”
“Yes?  They will?”
Christine shrugged.  “They might ...  I don’t know, really.”
“Call and ask, dear.”

Christine did call, and they did have something that they were glad to send up.  The man came up and prepared it right in front of them, a concoction of egg-white, Worcester sauce, tomato juice, and sundry other ingredients.  The man smiled all through it, and handed the finished product to Maria, telling her to drink it right down.
Despite Christine’s grave reservations, it worked.  Maria blinked, looked around dazed for a couple of seconds, and said that she felt herself coming back together.  The man bowed, cheerfully accepted the $20 bill Maria gave him, and left.

Maria patiently watched Christine gobble a quick breakfast, and together they headed out to see what was to be seen.  The weather was much improved, and the Christmas frenzy was solidly upon the town.
Maria loved to watch people shop.  She and Christine stood and watched shoppers for hours at department stores, in the mall, in the food courts.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, around eleven.
“You haven’t eaten yet,” said Christine, looking worried.
“Yes, you remembered.  Come.  Let us try ...  Chinese!”
“You really want to?”
“Why not?”
Christine shrugged.  She’d never had any, and she told Maria so.
“Then, of course you must try.  It will be terrible, but it will be new for you!”
“Terrible? Why?”
Maria shrugged, not deigning to explain.  She looked at Christine with pity, as she ate the food with relish.
“In Frankfurt, ach!  There they have the good Chinese food!  This is ...  okay.  Only okay.”

Then Christine dragged her out to the festival hall, and was highly gratified at Maria’s response.
“A beautiful hall,” she agreed.
It was locked up, but there were people inside, Christine could hear, and she got them to open up for them.  A half dozen people were waxing, cleaning and polishing away, and when Christine smiled at them and introduced Fraulein Schreiber, they only smiled politely.
“Cleaning people,” they murmured to themselves, as they walked around to the back, where a man was tuning the harpsichord.  They stood to watch, and he looked up at them and smiled.
“You ladies musicians?”
“Well, I sing ...” began Christine, but Maria interrupted to say, “Yes!”
He laughed.
“We’re going to be using a variety of Meantone!  I hope you’ll be happy!”
“Ach!  Yes, that will be an interesting experience for the young people.”
“You must be German!”
Maria grinned.  “German, Austrian, Polish ...  a kind of mongrel, actually!” she said, with an expressive shrug.  “I live in Germany, so, yes, I’m German, why not?”
Christine looked startled, and Maria laughed.  Maria, still smiling, bowed graciously to the tuner, who smiled back and nodded, and Maria led the way towards the backstage area through which they had come.
“I think you might have insulted him,” Christine whispered.
“No, Liebchen, I insulted only myself.  You must learn to see humor, child.  Now, let’s see what there is back here ...  no music, nothing?”
Christine joined her, to prowl around, and finally they triumphantly pounced on a copy of the Messiah scores that had been left on one of the shelves, as well as a recording of the Bach Oratorio, a complete recording with extensive notes.  Looking cautiously about, Maria took both into protective custody.  “Only borrowing, you see?  That’s allowed!”
“Oh, I’m sure no one will mind!” Christine laughed.
“At least, now we have some music!  Or I would have had to buy something at the bookstore, and I have more copies of Der Messias than I need, Christina.  But I’m forgetting: I can give it to you when I go.  So ...  we buy one anyway, ja?”
“Fraulein Schreiber, you mustn’t ...”
“I think it’s time for just Maria, now, yes?” she said, suddenly stopping to look right at Christine.
Christine blushed.  “I couldn’t!”
“My goodness, it makes every sentence twice as long!  Fräulein Schreiber, Fräulein Schreiber ...  it’s too much!”
“I like to say Fräulein!”
The woman grinned.  “It makes me feel like a teacher!  But ...  that’s not so bad ...” she said, leading the way down into the lower level.
She had to check out everything, just as Christine had done a couple of weeks ago.  Christine imagined, with a smile, that Maria must have been very much like herself at Christine’s age.  That youthfulness was still there, in abundance!

They managed to do a lot of playing that day, going around town, making little remarks to each other.  People were funny, sometimes, and Maria Schreiber was very observant.  Increasingly, she would forget and whisper a remark to Christine in German.  This startled both of them, who burst out laughing.  But as the day wore on, they were even more startled when Christine replied with a word or two in German, at least Ja, ja, or Nein, nein.