“Yes, he’s the one,” Martine answered for him. She took the waitress to one side. “Could you maybe bring us some tap water? And a big bucket of ice?”
“That’s not healthy,” the waitress grumbled.
And Martine agreed with her, just as she’d agreed with old Jack LaDove two minutes ago. She had become a chameleon — American with Americans, Swiss with the Swiss.
“I was asking because we’ve got a Zogg here in town,” said the waitress when she reappeared with a tray bearing several liter bottles of cola; there was no ice. “And you’d never guess — he’s a genealogist too!”
“That’s unbelievable!” Martine realized she’d reacted exaggeratedly, her voice high-pitched, clapping her hands together — American, in other words. She’d have to pull herself together before she caught herself jumping in the air and giving the waitress a high-five.
“Yes, and the interesting thing is, there were these rumors about his great-uncle; they said he drove a girl to kill herself. You know what I mean, Got Her Into Trouble—” her face assumed a meaningful expression and Martine nodded dutifully — “and then dumped her. And the girl drowned, and the man was never seen again. And then naturally you ask yourself: Did she jump in of her own free will, or did he push her under? Anyway, old Zogg, our Zogg, he was sick of these stories, so he started researching his family, and you know what? He was able to prove that this great-uncle never even existed. It was all just talk!” And for emphasis she wiped both hands emphatically on her apron. “There!” she said with finality.
“That’s crazy,” said Zoggan, when Martine told him the story. “I definitely have to look him up. My ancestors were Hungarian gentry — with a touch of, what else? Gypsy, ha ha ha! And boy, that really came out in me!” He reached for Martine again, and once again she was able to avoid his grasp just in time. Zoggan’s movements had become slower and somewhat unsteady. “But you never know; maybe there’s a connection. Get the guy’s telephone number for me, would you, honey?”
Lunch at the Hotel Post consisted of Wiener schnitzel and French fries. The same thing as the evening before at the hotel in Churfirsten. Zoggan had ordered all the meals for the sake of simplicity. Martine asked herself what he was charging the group for their food. But they didn’t complain; they were happy not to be confronted with unfamiliar dishes and menus they couldn’t read.
“Great food,” said Joanna. “A schnitzel’s a lot like chicken nuggets.”
Jack muttered something incomprehensible. LaDove, the dove. But originally his family had had the far less poetic name of Krauter.
He turned to Martine. “Krauter’s not exactly a name that’ll open you a lot of doors in America. At least, not right after World War Two. It wasn’t even the name my ancestors came over with. That was Dütsch. But when they reported to the immigration authorities, the officer says, ‘Dutch? You’re from Holland?’ and my ancestor says, ‘No, Dütsch like Deutsch, like German,’ in his best broken English, and just like that, they wrote down their favorite nickname for Germans — Kraut. Or in our case, Krauter.” Jack told the story as if he’d witnessed the scene. “Of course, we had to change it.”
Martine associated the dove with Picasso. To her it was the symbol of peace of a man tired of war. But maybe Jack had been a mercenary in the Spanish Civil War? Martine would have believed it of him.
Things were utterly different on the way back through the town. People greeted them from both sides of the street, waving cheerfully. Even the construction workers doffed imaginary caps as the group wandered by, Zoggan in the lead sporting his Cat in the Hat top hat again. It was as if the news had spread like wildfire through invisible channels: The Americans are okay. These Americans are our Americans.
Later, Martine took the women shopping. Betty bought a pair of blue metallic health sandals that seemed positively chic compared to the white sneakers she usually wore. Joanna studied the list of ingredients on every nonprescription pain reliever the pharmacy offered and finally decided on the 500-pack of Contra-Schmerz. “I have horrible migraines,” she said, and clasped the little bag possessively to her chest. They wound up the expedition at a café on the town square, ordering coffee and cake. The pieces of cake seemed to the women to be so small that they claimed the calories in them didn’t count.
“I thought I’d find you here,” said a man of indefinite age with uncombed longish brown hair, who sat down uninvited at the table. The women took one look and slid closer to Martine.
“You’re the folks on the trail of your ancestors,” the man announced in English. This remark was greeted with twitters of relief: How good his English was, how pretty this town was, and how friendly all the Swiss were, especially him.
“Why didn’t you come to me? I’m a genealogist and a family researcher by profession,” he said, and laid a business card on the table between the half-eaten pieces of cake. Dr. Martin Zogg, Genealogy and Family Research, it said.
“Isn’t that the same thing?” asked Martine in Schwyzerdütsch. He shot her a dirty look. But it was too late; Betty had already asked him whether he would like a cup of coffee — the coffee was so wonderful here, really strong! — and had used the occasion to order another round of cake.
“Zogg, now that’s interesting. Are you related to our Mr. Zoggan?”
“Didn’t he say his family was from Hungary?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Dr. Zogg, and took a deep breath that clearly heralded a long explanation. “As you know, the names of immigrants were often changed by the immigration authorities to the point of unrecognizability, and...”
“That’s just how it was with my family!” interrupted Betty, leaning forward in her excitement. Hoblitzel was the spelling of Hablützel that had been recorded by a bored and overworked civil servant. Betty had been able to determine that after long months of Internet research. Hablützel as in Dorothea Hablützel from St. Gall, who had fled to America in 1844, seventeen years old and pregnant, after being commanded to appear before the court because of her pregnancy. “Can you believe it?” gasped Betty. On her deathbed, Betty’s grandmother, Dorothy Hoblitzel, had exacted three promises from her grandchild: to let her blond hair grow long again, to go to church, and to take a trip to see the homeland of her great-great-great-grandmother Dorothea.
“It took a long time before I even got from Hoblitzel to Hablützel,” said Betty with a touch of satisfaction in her voice. “But I don’t give up easily!” And she flicked back her shoulder-length blond hair.
“Hey, Mary Alice, come join us!”
Mary Alice Zoggan came toward them across the plaza, her stride energetic. She was carrying a first-aid kit and the ever-present walkie-talkie.
“Here,” said Joanna, pulling over a chair from a neighboring table. “We were just talking about your husband.”
Mary Alice stopped abruptly and half-turned as though she wanted to leave, but changed her mind and dropped into the chair. As she unclipped the walkie-talkie from her belt, a pair of handcuffs fell out of her pocket. Under the shocked gaze of the others, she picked them up matter-of-factly and laid them on the table.
“I could check whether your husband’s family has roots in this area,” offered Dr. Zogg, but Mary Alice waved dismissively. “Spare me!” she said, and ordered a cognac. “Martine, you and the others need to wind things up here and come back. He’s got another excursion on the program.” She never said “my husband” when she talked about him. Just “he.”