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 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.’