Marta turned away from the window. “No one is going to drop anything down my bodice.”
“They will if you’re friendly.” The gleam in Hedda’s eyes told Marta the girl valued money more than reputation.
By the end of the first week, Marta saw ways to improve the eatery. When she overheard Frau Gunnel complaining about poor business, Marta shared her thoughts.
“With a few changes, your business would improve.”
Frau Gunnel turned. “Changes? What changes?”
“It wouldn’t cost much if you repainted the front window boxes with bright colors and filled them with flowers that would attract the eye. The menus you have now are greasy. You could reprint them and put them in sturdy folders. Vary your menu occasionally.”
Plump face reddening, Frau Gunnel put her hands on her ample hips. She looked Marta up and down in contempt. “You’re sixteen and you think you know so much with your fancy certificate and recommendations. You know nothing!” She jerked her head. “Go back to the kitchen!”
Marta went. She hadn’t meant to insult the woman.
Frau Gunnel came in a few minutes later and went back to work on a hunk of beef, using a mallet as though attempting to kill a live animal. “I know why customers don’t come. I have one pretty waitress who used to attract customers before she decided to marry one of them. And I have little Fräulein Marta as plain as bread and as friendly as Sauerkraut!”
No one in the kitchen looked up. Marta felt the heat rush into her face. “No one wants to eat in a dirty restaurant.” Marta barely managed to dodge the flying mallet. Stripping off her apron, she tossed it like a shroud over the embattled beef and headed for the stairs. She threw her few things into a bag, marched downstairs and out onto the street. People up and down the block turned when Frau Gunnel stood in the doorway cursing her.
By the time the woman slammed the door, Marta’s body felt so hot, she was sure steam came off her. She walked uphill rather than down. She pounded on one door after another, making inquiries. The first few opened the door, took one look out, and ducked back inside their houses, closing the door quickly in her face. Still fuming, Marta realized what a sight she must be and tried to calm down.
Now what? No job. No place to live. Her prospects were dimmer than when she had arrived in Montreux a month ago. She didn’t want to go back to Luisa von Olman’s and be a burden. She didn’t want to go home and admit defeat. Bending over, she covered her face with her hands. “God, I know I’m impossible, but I work hard!” She fought back tears. “What do I do now?”
Someone spoke to her. “Mademoiselle?”
She burst into frustrated tears. “I came here to learn French!”
The man switched to German as easily as someone might strip off a glove and toss it aside. “Are you unwell, Fräulein?”
“No. I’m unemployed. I’m looking for work.” She apologized and wiped her face. The man standing in front of her looked to be in his eighties. He wore an expensive suit and leaned heavily on a cane.
“I’ve been out walking. Do you mind if I sit, Fräulein?”
“No, of course not.” She moved to give him room, wondering if he expected her to leave.
“I passed a house with a sign in the window in German, French, and Italian.” He sank gratefully onto the bench. Lifting his cane, he pointed. “If you go up that way three or four streets, I think you will find the house.”
Thanking him, she began a search that took her the rest of the afternoon. Just as she was about to give up, she saw the sign in the window of a three-story house. No chipped paint here, and the eaves had been painted red. She heard muted laughter when she approached the front door. Brushing down her skirt and pushing the straggling damp tendrils of hair back from her face, she said a quick and desperate prayer before rapping the doorknocker. Clasping her hands in front of her, she forced a smile as she waited, hoping she looked presentable and not like some worn-down, bedraggled waif who had been walking up and down the mountain all afternoon.
Someone spoke French behind her. Marta jumped as a man reached past her and opened the door. “Excuse me?”
He spoke German this time. “Just go in. They won’t hear you out here. They’re already serving.”
Marta entered behind him. “Would you please tell the proprietor I’m here to answer the sign in the window?”
He walked quickly down the hall and disappeared into another room.
Smells inside the house made Marta’s stomach growl with hunger. She hadn’t eaten since early morning, and then, only a small bowl of Müsli. Men’s laughter swelled, startling her. She heard mumbled conversation and more laughter, less loud this time.
A young and attractive dark-haired woman came into the hallway. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved blue dress covered with a white apron that accentuated her advanced pregnancy. Cheeks flushed, she dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand as she came toward Marta. “Mademoiselle?”
“Fräulein Marta Schneider, madame.” She dipped in a curtsy. “I’ve come to apply for a position.” She scrambled for her documents.
“I’m serving dinner now.” She spoke fluent German, glancing back over her shoulder as someone called out.
“I can help you now, if you’ll allow. I worked in the kitchen of Hotel Germania in Interlaken. We can talk about the position later.”
“Merci! Just leave your things there by the door. We have a room full of hungry lions to feed.”
The dining room had a long table, its straight-backed chairs filled with men on both sides, most young and professional by the look of their clothing. The room reverberated with loud talk, laughter, the clink of wineglasses, and the call for bread being passed in a large basket. Pitchers of wine moved from hand to hand.
“Solange!” the handsome man at the head of the table called out. Solange went to him and put her arm around his shoulder, whispering in his ear. He looked at Marta and nodded.
Solange clapped her hands. The men around the table fell silent. She waved her hand toward Marta while speaking rapid French. The men gave Marta a cursory glance before returning to their conversations. Solange pointed to a large tureen at the end of the table; Marta hastened to it and tried to pick up the heavy bowl. “No, mademoiselle,” Solange protested quickly. “Too heavy. Let them pass their bowls to you.”
Marta filled each with thick, delicious-smelling stew, her stomach cramping with hunger. The tureen held just enough for each man to receive one full bowl. She followed Solange into the kitchen and set the empty bowl on the worktable. Solange sank onto a stool. “You did well, mademoiselle! Not a drop spilled.” Lifting her apron, she dabbed beads of sweat from her forehead. “God be praised you came when you did. Those men…” She laughed and shook her head. “They eat like horses.”
Marta’s stomach growled loudly. Solange raised her brows. Murmuring in French, she crossed the room, opened a cupboard, and took out a soup bowl. “Eat now. We have a few minutes before they start shouting for more.” She rubbed her back as she sat on the stool again.
“This is wonderful, Madame…?”
“Fournier. Solange Fournier. My husband, Herve, was the one sitting at the head of the table.”
Marta quickly finished her stew, mopping up the last bit of juice with a piece of bread. Setting the bowl in the washbasin, she took the pitcher on the stove. “Shall I refill the tureen?”
Solange nodded. “I need someone to help me clean house, change the linens, do laundry, and work in the kitchen.”
Marta poured thick stew. “I need room, board, and sixty francs a month.” As soon as the words came out, Marta held her breath. Perhaps she had spoken too quickly and asked too much.