The Prodigal Daughter Read online

  “I should have kept a straighter arm on the first shot and then we would never have met.”

  Florentyna assumed Miss Tredgold was admonishing herself yet again and remained behind the tree.

  “Come here, child.” Florentyna obediently ran out but said nothing.

  Miss Tredgold took another ball from the side pocket of her bag and placed it on the ground in front of her. She selected a club and handed it to her charge.

  “Try to hit the ball in that direction,” she said pointing toward a flag about a hundred yards away.

  Florentyna held the club awkwardly before taking several swings at the ball, on each occasion digging up what Miss Tredgold called a “divot.” At last she managed to push it twenty yards toward the fairway. She beamed with pleasure.

  “I see we are in for a long afternoon,” declared Miss Tredgold resignedly.

  “I am sorry,” said Florentyna. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “For following me, yes. But for the state of your golf, no. We shall have to start with the basics, as it seems in the future I am no longer to have Thursday afternoons to myself, now you have discovered my father’s only sin.”

  Miss Tredgold taught Florentyna how to play golf with the same energy and application as if it were Latin or Greek. By the end of the summer holiday Florentyna’s favorite afternoon was Thursday.

  Upper School was very different from Middle School. There was a new teacher for every subject rather than one teacher for everything but gym and art. The pupils moved from room to room for their classes, and for many of the activities the girls joined forces with the boys’ school. Florentyna’s favorite subjects were current affairs, Latin, French and English, although she couldn’t wait for her twice-weekly biology classes, because they gave her the chance to use a microscope and admire the school’s collection of bugs.

  “Insects, dear child. You must refer to the little creatures as insects,” Miss Tredgold insisted.

  “Actually, Miss Tredgold, they’re nematodes.”

  Florentyna continued to take an interest in clothes and noticed that the mode for short dresses caused by the enforced economies of war was fast becoming outdated and that once again skirts were returning toward the ground. She was unable to do much about experimenting with fashion, as the school uniform was the same year in and year out; the children’s department of Marshall Field’s, it seemed, was not influenced by Vogue. However, she studied all the relevant magazines in the library and pestered her mother to take her to more shows. For Miss Tredgold, on the other hand, who had never allowed any man to see her knees, even in the self-denying days of Lend-Lease, the new fashion only proved she had been right all along.

  At the end of Florentyna’s first year in Upper School the modern-languages mistress decided to put on a performance of Shaw’s Saint Joan in French. As Florentyna was the one pupil who could think in the language, she was chosen to play the Maid of Orleans, and she rehearsed for hours in the old nursery, with Miss Tredgold playing every other part as well as being prompter and cue reader. Even when Florentyna was word-perfect, Miss Tredgold sat loyally through the daily one-woman shows.

  “Only the Pope and I give audiences for one,” she told Florentyna as the phone rang.

  “It’s for you,” said Miss Tredgold.

  Florentyna always enjoyed receiving phone calls, although it was not a practice that Miss Tredgold encouraged.

  “Hello, it’s Edward. I need your help.”

  “Why? Don’t tell me you’ve opened a schoolbook…”

  “No hope of that, silly. But I’ve been given the part of the Dauphin and I can’t pronounce all the words.”

  Florentyna tried not to laugh. “Come around at five-thirty and you can join the daily rehearsals. Although I must warn you, Miss Tredgold has been making a very good Dauphin up to now.”

  Edward came around every night at five-thirty and although Miss Tredgold occasionally frowned when “the boy” lapsed back into an American accent, he was “just about ready” by the day of the dress rehearsal.

  When the night of the performance itself came, Miss Tredgold instructed Florentyna and Edward that under no circumstances must they look out into the audience hoping to spot their parents; otherwise those watching the performance would not believe the character they were portraying. Most unprofessional, Miss Tredgold considered, and reminded Florentyna that Mr. Noël Coward had once left a performance of Romeo and Juliet because Mr. John Gielgud looked straight at him during a soliloquy. Florentyna was convinced, although in truth she had no idea who John Gielgud and Noël Coward were.

  When the curtain went up, Florentyna did not once look beyond the footlights. Miss Tredgold considered her efforts “most commendable” and during the intermission particularly commented to Florentyna’s mother on the scene in which the Maid is alone in the center of the stage and talks to her voices. “Moving,” was Miss Tredgold’s description. “Unquestionably moving.” When the last curtain finally fell, Florentyna received an ovation, even from those who had not been able to follow every word in French. Edward stood a pace behind her, relieved to have come through the ordeal without too many mistakes. Glowing with excitement, Florentyna removed her makeup, her first experience of lipstick and powder, changed back into her school uniform and joined her mother and Miss Tredgold with the other parents who were having coffee in the dining hall. Several people came over to congratulate her on her performance including the headmaster of the Boys Latin School.

  “A remarkable achievement for a girl of her age,” he told Mrs. Rosnovski. “Though when you think about it, she is only a couple of years younger than Saint Joan was when she challenged the entire might of the French establishment.”

  “Saint Joan didn’t have to learn someone else’s lines in a foreign language,” said Zaphia, feeling pleased with herself.

  Florentyna did not take in her mother’s words; her eyes were searching the crowded hall for her father.

  “Where’s Papa?” she asked.

  “He couldn’t make it tonight.”

  “But he promised,” said Florentyna. “He promised.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she suddenly realized why Miss Tredgold had told her not to look beyond the footlights.

  “You must remember, child, that your father is a very busy man. He has a small empire to run.”

  “So did Saint Joan,” said Florentyna.

  When Florentyna went to bed that night, Miss Tredgold came to turn out her light.

  “Papa doesn’t love Mama any more, does he?”

  The bluntness of the question took Miss Tredgold by surprise and it was a few moments before she recovered.

  “Of only one thing I am certain, child, and that is that they both love you.”

  “Then why has Papa stopped coming home?”

  “That I cannot explain, but whatever his reasons, we must be very understanding and grown-up,” said Miss Tredgold, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over Florentyna’s forehead.

  Florentyna felt very un-grown-up and wondered if Saint Joan had been so unhappy when she lost her beloved France. When Miss Tredgold closed the door quietly, Florentyna put her hand under the bed to feel the reassuring wet nose of Eleanor. “At least I’ll always have you,” she whispered. Eleanor clambered from her hiding place onto the bed and settled down next to Florentyna, facing the door: a quick retreat to her basket in the kitchen might prove necessary if Miss Tredgold reappeared.

  Florentyna did not see her father during the summer vacation and had long stopped believing the stories that the growing hotel empire was keeping him away from Chicago. When she mentioned him to her mother, Zaphia’s replies were often bitter. Florentyna also found out from overheard telephone conversations that she was consulting lawyers.

  Each day, Florentyna would take Eleanor for a walk down Michigan Avenue in the hope that she might see her father’s car drive by. One Wednesday, she decided to make a break in her routine and walk on the west side of the avenue to study the
stores that set the fashions for the Windy City. Eleanor was delighted to be reunited with the magnificent gas lamps that had recently been placed for her at twenty-yard intervals. Florentyna had already purchased a wedding dress and a ball gown with her five-dollars-a-week pocket money and was coveting an elegant five-hundred-dollar evening dress in the window of Martha Weathered on the corner of Oak Street when she saw her father’s reflection in the glass. She turned, overjoyed, to see him coming out of the Bank of Chicago on the opposite side of the street. Without a thought she dashed out into the road, not looking either way as she called her father’s name. A yellow cab jammed on its brakes and swerved violently, the driver aware of a flash of blue skirt, then a heavy thud as the cab made contact with the body. The rest of the traffic came to a screeching halt as the cab driver saw a stout, well-dressed man, followed by a policeman, run out into the middle of the street. A moment later Abel and the taxi driver stood numbly staring down at the lifeless body. “She’s dead,” said the policeman, shaking his head as he took his notebook from his top pocket.

  Abel fell on his knees, trembling. He looked up at the policeman. “And the worst thing about it is I am to blame.”

  “No, Papa, it was my fault,” wept Florentyna. “I should never have rushed out into the street. I killed Eleanor by not thinking.”

  The driver of the cab that had hit the Labrador explained that he had had no choice; he had to hit the dog to avoid colliding with the girl.

  Abel nodded, picked up his daughter and carried her to the curb, not letting her look back at Eleanor’s mangled body. He put Florentyna into the back of his car and returned to the policeman.

  “My name is Abel Rosnov—”

  “I know who you are, sir.”

  “Can I leave everything to you, Officer?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the policeman, not looking up from his notebook.

  Abel returned to his chauffeur and told him to drive them to the Baron. Abel held his daughter’s hand as they walked through the crowded hotel corridor to the private elevator that whisked them to the forty-second floor. George met them when the gates sprung open. He was about to greet his goddaughter with a Polish quip when he saw the look on her face.

  “Ask Miss Tredgold to come over immediately, George.”

  “Of course,” said George, and disappeared into his own office.

  Abel sat and listened to several stories about Eleanor without interrupting before tea and sandwiches arrived, but Florentyna managed only a sip of milk. Then, without any prelude, she changed the subject.

  “Why don’t you ever come home, Papa?” she asked.

  Abel poured himself another cup of tea, a little spilling into the saucer. “I’ve wanted to come home many times and I hated missing Saint Joan, but your mother and I are going to be divorced.”

  “Oh, no, it can’t be true. Papa—”

  “It’s my fault, little one. I have not been a good husband and—”

  Florentyna threw her arms around her father. “Does that mean I will never see you again?”

  “No. I have made an agreement with your mother that you shall remain in Chicago while you are at school, but you will spend the holidays with me in New York. Of course you can always talk to me on the telephone whenever you want to.”

  Florentyna remained silent as Abel gently stroked her hair.

  Some time passed before there was a gentle knock on the door and Miss Tredgold entered, her long dress swishing as she came quickly to Florentyna’s side.

  “Can you take her home please, Miss Tredgold?”

  “Of course, Mr. Rosnovski.” Florentyna was still tearful. “Come with me, child,” she said and bent down and whispered, “try not to show your feelings.”

  The twelve-year-old girl kissed her father on the forehead, took Miss Tredgold’s hand and left.

  When the door closed, Abel, not having been brought up by Miss Tredgold, sat alone and wept.

  Chapter

  Seven

  It was at the beginning of her second year in Upper School that Florentyna first became aware of Pete Welling. He was sitting in a corner of the music room, playing the latest hit, “Almost Like Being in Love,” on the piano. He was slightly out of tune, but Florentyna assumed it must be the piano. Pete didn’t seem to notice her as she passed him, so she turned around and walked back again, but to no avail. He put a hand nonchalantly through his fair, wavy hair and continued playing the piano, so she marched off pretending she hadn’t seen him. By lunchtime the next day she knew that he was one grade above her, where he lived, that he was cocaptain of the football team, president of his class and nearly seventeen. Her friend Susie Jacobson warned her that others had trod the same path without a great deal of success.

  “But I assure you,” replied Florentyna, “I have something to offer that will prove irresistible.”

  That afternoon she sat down and composed what she imagined to be her first love letter. After much deliberation she chose purple ink and wrote in a bold, slanting hand:

  My dear Pete,

  I knew you were something special the first time I saw you. I think you play the piano beautifully. Would you like to come and listen to some records at my place?

  Very sincerely,

  Florentyna (Rosnovski)

  Florentyna waited for the break before she crept down the corridor, imagining every eye to be on her as she searched for Pete Welling’s hall locker. When she found it, she checked his name against the number on the top of the locker. Forty-two—she felt that was a good omen, and opened his locker door, left her letter on top of a math book, where he couldn’t miss it, and returned to her classroom, palms sweating. She checked her own locker, on the hour every hour, expecting his reply, but none was forthcoming. After a week passed, she began to despair until she saw Pete sitting on the steps of the chapel combing his hair. How daring to break two school rules at once, she thought. Florentyna decided this was her chance to find out if he had ever received her invitation.

  She walked boldly toward him, but with only a yard to go she wished he would disappear in a cloud of dust because she couldn’t think of anything to say. She stood still like a lamb in the stare of a python, but he saved her by saying, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she managed. “Did you ever find my letter?”

  “Your letter?”

  “Yes, I wrote to you last Monday about coming over to play some records at my place. I’ve got ‘Silent Night,’ and most of Bing Crosby’s latest hits. Have you heard him singing ‘White Christmas’?” she asked, playing her trump card.

  “Oh, it was you who wrote that letter,” he said.

  “Yes, I saw you play against Parker last week. You were fantastic. Who are you playing next?”

  “It’s in the school calendar,” he said, putting his comb into an inside pocket and looking over her shoulder.

  “I’ll be in the stands.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he said as a tall blonde from the senior class wearing little white socks that Florentyna felt sure were not official school uniform ran over to Pete and asked if he had been waiting long.

  “No, only a couple of minutes,” said Pete, and put his arm around her waist before turning back to Florentyna. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get in line,” he said, laughing, “but perhaps your time will come. Anyway, I think Crosby’s square. I’m into Bix Beiderbecke.”

  As they walked away, Florentyna could hear him telling the blonde, “That was the girl who sent me the note.” The blonde looked back over her shoulder and started laughing. “She’s probably still a virgin,” Pete added.

  Florentyna went to the girls’ locker room and hid until everyone else had gone home, dreading that they would all laugh at her once the story had gone the rounds. She didn’t sleep that night, and the next morning she studied the other girls’ faces but couldn’t see any signs of sniggers or stares and decided to confide in Susie Jacobson to discover if the story had gotten around. When Florentyna had finished her story, S
usie burst out laughing.

  “Not you as well,” Susie said.

  Florentyna felt a lot better after Susie told her how far down the line she actually was. It gave her the courage to ask Susie if she knew what a virgin was.

  “I’m not certain,” said Susie. “Why?”

  “Because Pete said I probably was one.”

  “Then I think I must be one as well. I once overheard Mary Alice Beckman saying it was when a boy made love to you and nine months later you had a baby. Like Miss Horton told us about elephants, but they take two years.”

  “I wonder what it feels like.”

  “According to all the magazines Mary Alice keeps in her locker, it’s dreamy.”

  “Do you know anyone who’s tried?”

  “Margie McCormick claims she has.”

  “She would claim anything, and if she has, why hasn’t she had a baby?”

  “She said she took ‘precautions,’ whatever they are.”

  “If it’s anything like having a period, I can’t believe it’s worth all the trouble,” said Florentyna.

  “Agreed,” said Susie. “I got mine yesterday. Do you think men have the same problem?”

  “Not a chance,” said Florentyna. “They always end up with the best of every deal. Obviously we get the periods and the babies and they get shaving and the draft, but I shall have to ask Miss Tredgold about that.”

  “I’m not sure she’ll know,” said Susie.

  “Miss Tredgold,” said Florentyna with confidence, “knows everything.”

  That evening when Miss Tredgold was approached by a puzzled Florentyna, she did not hesitate to sit the child down and explain the birth process to her in the fullest detail, warning her of the consequences of a rash desire to experiment. Florentyna sat and listened to Miss Tredgold in silence. When she had finished, Florentyna asked, “Then why is so much fuss made about the whole thing?”

  “Modern society and loose morals make a lot of demands on girls, but always remember that each of us makes our own decision as to what others think of us and, more importantly, what we think of ourselves.”