Her Mother's Hope by Francine Rivers

brotherly kiss on each cheek and handed her an envelope. “A gift from all of us.”
    She looked from him to the other men. Pressing her lips together so she wouldn’t cry, she gave a deep, respectful curtsy and left the house. Despair filled her as she walked to the train station. She looked up at the departure times. A dutiful daughter would return to Steffisburg, work in the shop without complaining, and take care of her father in his old age. Honor your father and mother, God commanded, that your days may be long in the land the Lord your God will give you.
    Marta took a coach to Lausanne, where she boarded a train to Paris.

8
    1906
    Bern had invigorated Marta, but Paris overwhelmed her. She found her way to the Swiss Consulate. “I’m afraid no positions are open this week, Fräulein.” The clerk gave her directions to an inexpensive boardinghouse in the crowded streets of the Rive Droite . She paid for a week’s lodgings.
    Early each morning, Marta went back to the consulate and then out to spend the day exploring the city and practicing her French. She asked directions and visited palaces and museums. She walked into evening along the Seine, lost among the crowds out enjoying the city of lights. She went to the Musée du Louvre and wandered through the Jardin des Tuileries . She sat in Notre Dame cathedral and prayed for her sister’s soul.
    Prayers did not ease the grief consuming her.
    Mama whispered in her dreams. “Fly, Marta. Don’t be afraid, mein kleiner Adler . . . .” And Marta would awaken, weeping. She dreamed of Elise, too, disturbing dreams of her sister lost and trying to find her way home. Marta could hear the echo of her voice. “Marta, where are you? Marta, help me!” she cried out, as the swirling snow enfolded her.
    After seven days, Marta gave up on finding a position in Paris and bought a coach ticket to Calais. She boarded a boat across the English Channel and spent most of the trip leaning over the side.
    * * *
    Rain came down in sheets over Dover. Weary, Marta continued by coach to Canterbury, part of her wishing she had traveled southeast to the warmth of Italy rather than come to England. She consoled herself that learning English would bring her closer to her goal. After one night in cheap lodgings, Marta took another coach to London.
    By the time she arrived, her wool coat smelled like a wet sheep, her boots and the hem of her serviceable skirt felt like they were caked with ten pounds of mud, and she had a head cold. Stomping her feet, she tried to loosen the mud from her boots before going inside the Swiss Consulate to look for lodgings and work.
    “Add your name to the list and fill out this form.” The harried clerk slid a paper across his desk and went back to another pile of papers.
    Ten girls had already written their names on the list. Marta added hers to the bottom and filled out the form carefully. The clerk looked it over. “You have a good hand, Fräulein. Do you speak English?”
    “I’ve come to learn.”
    “Do you plan to return to Switzerland?”
    She didn’t know. “Eventually.”
    “Too many of our young people are going to America. The land of opportunity, they call it.”
    “I miss the snow. I miss the mountains.”
    “ Ja. The air is not so clean here.” He continued reading her form. “Ah! You worked with Warner Brennholtz at the Hotel Germania !” He smiled and nodded as he pulled his wire-rimmed glasses down. “I spent a week in Interlaken three years ago. Best food I’ve ever eaten.”
    “Chef Brennholtz trained me.”
    “Why did you leave?”
    “To learn French. I’m here to learn English. There are more opportunities for employment for those who can speak multiple languages.”
    “Very true. Do you speak French?”
    She gave a prim nod. “Assez de servir.” Enough to serve, but little more.
    “You’ve accomplished much for one so young, Fräulein Schneider.” He glanced over her form again. “Dressmaking, graduate of