Julia, page 29
Julia pursed her lips. “There’s some back-and-forth.”
“At least, thank heavens, the sauces are done.”
“For the most part,” Julia hedged.
“How long is the sauces chapter?” he asked, even though he knew—because he’d actually counted one time. “Have you added?”
“You would know if I added,” Julia said. “I’m committed to keeping it to only two hundred pages.”
Paul stared at her, and she stared right back. Then he grinned. “I think two hundred pages is the perfect number.”
“I don’t know if you’re teasing or serious, dearie, but you can never have too many sauce recipes.”
Paul pulled her close and kissed her in the middle of a fish market in Marseille, but Julia could truthfully say that she didn’t mind in the least.
The next months brought more of the same: Paul working long, fourteen-hour days and Julia working up to her elbows, quite literally, in cooking and testing and typing and shopping and asking questions. The first third of her advance from Houghton Mifflin arrived close to the time when Paul had to travel to Paris for a government conference. So Julia decided to take a few days off in celebration of not only receiving two hundred fifty dollars that she’d split with Simca and Louisette but also that she’d finished a chapter on eggs that she’d been writing on the side.
Avis DeVoto had responded that the egg chapter had swept her off her feet, adding that the growing cookbook was “Masterly. Calm, collected, completely basic, and as exciting as a novel to read.”
It was on this high note that Julia and Paul returned to Paris for the conference. Julia felt like she was walking through a dreamland as she visited old haunts, saw her cat, Minette, and reunited with Simca and Louisette. They worked together for a couple of sessions in Louisette’s kitchen, and it was as if no time had passed between them at all. Louisette threw a dinner party, which included Julia’s former Le Cordon Bleu instructors Max Bugnard and Claude Thilmont.
“Julie,” Paul said the moment he walked into their hotel room one of the evenings in Paris. “I’ve spoken to Charlie Moffly about taking a summer leave to the States next year.”
Julia and Paul had talked about making a request to the USIS since it had been nearly three years since their last visit to the States, and they both wanted to see family. Julia especially wanted to visit her father, who was getting older. And she hadn’t met Dort’s children yet—Phila, who was a toddler, and Sam, a newborn. Oh, and she was dying to meet her best pen pal Avis DeVoto in person.
“You sound like something’s wrong,” Julia said, alerted by his urgent tone. “What’s happened?”
Paul dragged a hand over his face and blew out a frustrated breath. “Moffly approved our leave to the States, but he also said we wouldn’t be returning to Marseille after.”
Julia’s heart nearly stopped. Had Paul been fired?
“Apparently, the department policy is now that we can’t serve longer than four years in a country,” he continued. “By the time our summer leave starts, it will be nearly six years in France.”
Julia could only stare at her husband. Leave France? No . . . That wasn’t possible. She swallowed against the painful lump clogging her throat. “Did Moffly have any idea of where . . . ?” She couldn’t finish her question.
“Germany.” He paused. “Germany is most likely, but there’s also the possibility of something in the Middle East.”
Julia moved to the closest chair and practically collapsed onto it, her hand over her heart. “Germany? I don’t think I could live where Hitler did.” She closed her eyes for a moment. It hadn’t even been ten years since the Nazis had surrendered.
Paul moved to her side and took her hand. “I’m not ready to move yet either, especially to Germany, yet I don’t know if I’ll have any say in the matter.”
Julia squeezed his hand and looked up at him. “The very thought of being in the same place where all those concentration camps were and all those gas chambers and where all those Jews were killed . . . The heaviness is unfathomable.”
Paul crouched before her and ran a thumb over her cheek. “I know. I feel the same way. But the war is over, and we all need to focus on rebuilding.”
Julia knew he wasn’t trying to placate her. She could see the real concern in his eyes. But she also knew that this was her husband’s job—his career. And despite the number of times her father had offered to financially bail them out, all of which Paul had declined, she had to take pride in that her husband was determined to support them.
“If we’re given Germany, then we’ll make the best of it,” she said, trying to stay upbeat despite the overwhelming feeling of wanting to cry. “Maybe I’ll fall in love with German food. Who knows?”
Paul cracked a smile. “I’m sure some German food will be wonderful, but it won’t replace your love for French food.”
“You’re right.” She leaned forward and embraced him. Come what may, they’d be together, and they’d manage. Somehow.
Chapter 28
Bad Godesberg, Germany
October 1954–April 1955
“Have been experimenting on Quenelles again, and have about gotten it down pat, using the electric blender and the egg beater. Had some quenelles in Lyon on the way up to Paris, just to see how they were, and I really and honestly did not think they were as good as mine. . . . They were more floury. Do I dare say that? Made them last Tuesday, and they didn’t hold their shape enough for rolling, so I poached them in little ramekins and then un-molded them. Delicious and light.”
—Letter from Julia to Avis DeVoto
Julia did not fall in love with German food, but she did learn to appreciate it. They’d arrived in Bad Godesberg, Germany, on October 24, 1954, after only a month’s worth of studying German. They’d been assigned military housing in the suburb of Plittersdorf. The housing was exactly how it sounded, stark, sterile, and formal. Apartment 5 at 3 Steubenring had none of the character or beauty of German architecture. Instead, it was part of a housing project with boxy white stucco buildings and brown-tiled roofs.
They’d hoped to immerse themselves in the charming small town of half-timbered houses, but instead, they were surrounded by Marshall Plan money that had built American-style pizza parlors, five-and-dime stores, and movie theaters. Julia determined to make the best of things. She took her walks along the western bank of the beautiful Rhine River, she signed up for German classes at the local university, and she dove deep into testing poultry recipes for the cookbook.
Paul’s new assignment brought greater responsibility since he was the director of all the exhibits in the country, but he also had to wade through bureaucratic red-tape frustrations. Their home sat outside Bonn, which hadn’t seen as much war damage as the rest of Germany. Yet the signs were all around them: damaged buildings, blown-out bridges, crumbling infrastructure. The Marshall Plan dollars had been hard at work, but there was still a long way to go in rebuilding Germany.
Julia had been apprehensive to interact with the German people, a people who had existed under Hitler less than a decade before, but she was surprised to find that she wasn’t surrounded by Germans who revered Hitler. No, they reviled him.
She also enjoyed practicing her German at the markets when shopping and was met with friendly and helpful people. She took her English-German dictionary everywhere she went, referring to it constantly. In general, the Germans were happy to help with her translation, and it seemed that everyone was in rebuilding mode, improving their surroundings, and dusting off the past.
Most evenings, after completing her recipe notes and all their carbon copies, she dashed off letters to Avis and Dort. While in the States that summer, Julia and Paul had spent their first week in Washington, DC, then they’d headed to 8 Berkeley Street in Cambridge to meet Avis and Bernard DeVoto in person. The meeting had been surreal because Julia had felt like she knew the DeVotos intimately.
She even got along with Bernard, though Avis had warned her about her husband’s eccentricities and strong opinions, which had earned him the nicknames of DeVoto the Magnificent and DeVoto the Impaler. Julia had happily discovered he was a westerner, too, originally from Utah. Julia and Avis couldn’t get enough of each other’s time, but they had eventually been forced to part ways. Julia and Paul had then reunited with John and Josephine. Then they’d headed out on the train to San Francisco, where they’d stayed with Dort and Ivan and had finally met their adorable children, Phila and Sam.
“You’ve got to see the supermarkets for yourself,” Dort told Julia soon after they’d arrived. “So many changes and differences compared to France.”
It was definitely a research trip, if nothing else.
As they strolled the bright linoleum aisles, Julia said, “You’re right. So much has changed.” She marveled at new kitchen gadgets, toothpaste with chlorophyll, the advertisements for television programs. Julia wrote down notes about the variations of butter and cream. She also checked out the meat thermometers.
“The chicken is different in California than back east,” Julia commented one evening at dinner—something she’d prepared for everyone. “And I can’t believe the frozen-food offerings. It seems that everything is prepackaged and frozen. Will a French cookbook stand a chance in a fast-paced world of convenience?”
“Nothing compares to fresh ingredients,” Dort said. “Don’t you dare give up.”
“Oh, I’m not giving up,” Julia said with a sigh. “The mountain to climb feels a little steeper though. Are you still keeping the recipes I’m sending you top secret?”
“Of course.” Dort smiled. “Not that I know any other chefs, but if I did, they would never find out what my sister is doing from me.”
It was so lovely to spend time with her sister and to delight in Dort’s small children that Julia’s heart felt heavy when it was time to leave for Pasadena. Dort sent them off with a warning. “Pop will never change his political viewpoints, so don’t take them seriously.”
Julia nodded. “I know. I hate how he treats Paul though—neither of us is aiding the Communist agenda.”
Dort winced. They’d discussed one of Pop’s previous letters, in which he’d made that accusation. Julia hadn’t responded.
As she’d expected, the week they spent with Pop and Phila in Pasadena was like walking on eggshells. Pop had been so well-mannered during his Paris trip, but in his own home, apparently, he felt comfortable enough to engage in tirades about “fascists and Reds, and nasty foreigners, and intellectuals” . . . It became a relief to have their eight days in Pasadena come to an end. They headed back across the country and spent a blissful two weeks in Maine with Charlie and Freddie and their grown children. Julia celebrated her forty-second birthday there and ate all the lobster she could ever want.
Another highlight came during their final stop in Cambridge when Avis took Julia to meet the Houghton Mifflin editor, Dorothy de Santillana. From all accounts during their meeting, everyone was on the same page. Julia had finished the sauces, soups, and eggs chapters. She told Dorothy that she’d work on the poultry chapter next—Germany seemed like a good place to do that.
The final weeks of their leave had been spent back in Washington, DC, as they’d studied German and caught up with old friends, mostly from their OSS days. Gossip had been strident about McCarthy. Since his reelection in 1952, he’d been investigating government departments for Communist connections. His accusations had created a ripple effect among former OSS as they were scrutinized and brought in for interviews.
Frankly, Julia was grateful to be out of American politics for a while. And now, having lived in Germany for several weeks, she returned to her organized system to get through her recipes. She cooked a new recipe each day, and often, they’d have guests over to help them eat what she’d prepared. In January, she focused on chicken casserole, creating variation after variation. Finally, the agreement between Simca, Louisette, and Julia was that they’d include a chicken stuffed with mushrooms for the casserole offering. Then, in February, Julia focused on broiled chicken, landing on poulet grillé à la diabolique. She decided to create a table of American poultry names along with the French equivalent.
All of her cooking pen pals thought the poultry table was a brilliant idea.
“Germany has top-notch cooking equipment,” Julia wrote to everyone. “I’ve bought mixers and grinders galore. You’d be impressed with the potato ricer I now own. Paul isn’t surprised in the least that I’ve added to my kitchen equipment arsenal.”
In the letters she received in reply, no one was surprised at her cooking equipment purchases.
“I don’t know what to do about Louisette,” Julia told Paul on a rare weekend where he didn’t have to travel.
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s the usual lack of participation, but the further we get into the cookbook, the more it’s bothering me.” Julia sat next to him on the porch in the cooling evening, where he’d just finished a cigarette, a book propped on his knee. “Simca and I know that we have about another year more of work to do. We’re putting in forty hours a week, and Louisette is spending about six hours a week.”
“Very lopsided,” Paul murmured. “What are you thinking?”
“Well, I’ve drafted a letter to Louisette that I’ll send to Simca for approval first.” She handed over a typed-up letter. “I’m proposing that Simca and I be listed as coauthors and Louisette be listed as a consultant. The official title of the book would be French Cooking in the American Kitchen by Simone Beck and Julia Child, with Louisette Bertholle. We’d suggest that the royalty split be 45 percent for myself and Simca and 10 percent for Louisette.”
Paul nodded but didn’t say anything. He lit another cigarette. “Do you want one?”
“I’m fine.” She paused. “Well, what do you think?”
“It’s reasonable and fair,” he said, “but it might backfire on you.”
Julia sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t even know if Louisette wants to be part of our magnum opus—this cookbook is way beyond what any of us first envisioned.”
“I can attest to that,” Paul said with a half smile.
Julia closed her eyes for a moment.
“Maybe you should write to our nephew Paul and get his feedback.”
She opened her eyes. “I’ll do that.” Their nephew Paul Sheeline had given her sound advice before. She was happy to have a plan of action.
She waited weeks for his reply, and when it finally came, she admitted she wasn’t exactly surprised. The moment Paul came home from the office, Julia told him about the letter.
“Our nephew says we’ll have to keep her listed as a coauthor since she’s been part of the project from inception.” Julia handed over the letter so he could see for himself.
“But he agrees on a lower royalty for Louisette,” Paul read, then nodded. “That seems fair, for all parties.”
“He’s suggesting 41 percent for me and Simca, and 18 percent for Louisette,” Julia mused. “And for us to keep the royalty arrangements private. As far as the world will be concerned, we are all equal coauthors.”
“I agree with that,” Paul said. “It will keep questions and speculation out of the marketing side of things.”
He wrapped his arms about her. “Just think, next year at this time, you’ll have a completed cookbook on its way to press.” He kissed the top of her head.
“That’s what I’m counting on.” Julia knew she had some time, though, before stirring everyone up about the contract terms. Another year, at least, but she wanted to prepare Louisette for the future. So after receiving approval from Simca, Julia sent her letter to Louisette, keeping them all named as coauthors but restructuring the royalty. Thankfully, Louisette agreed to the terms, and everything would be official once the final book was turned in.
Then, in April, everything changed. Paul was ordered back to Washington, DC, and at first, Julia rejoiced—thinking that maybe her husband was getting a promotion to head of the department. He was finally getting recognized for his tireless work.
While he was gone, Julia dashed off to Paris and spent time with Simca. She had started packing when she received a telegram from Paul that read, Situation confused.
Julia stood in her entryway for a long moment. What did Paul mean? Why had he been so cryptic? What was going on? Was there no promotion?
She paused in her packing and headed to the Deutsche Bundespost to send a telegram asking for more information.
Hours later, Paul replied. No one knew why he’d been called back. He’d been told to wait until he was contacted. His next telegram informed her, The situation here like Kafka story. I believe I am to be in same situation as Leonard.
This was not good news at all. If Paul was referring to Franz Kafka and Rennie Leonard, that meant Paul was being investigated. Rennie had been hauled before McCarthy’s Un-American Activities Committee. And now it seemed that the McCarthyism witch hunt had come to their front door. In France and in Germany, they’d felt several steps removed from the names that dominated the American newspaper headlines—those of teachers, intellectuals, liberals, writers, former OSS, and artists being questioned about Communism by the House Un-American Activities Committee.
It was all horrifying to read about, but it hadn’t been personal . . . until now.
Julia’s stomach bottomed out. She wanted more than anything to be at her husband’s side to help him navigate the unknown. Not that she had any answers or solutions, but at least Paul wouldn’t be pacing a hotel room alone, his thoughts growing more and more panicked.
