The Spare Tenant PROLOGUE My mortality ended Friday, the thirteenth of September, in the year nineteen hundred and forty. Bower House is my home. Six long years I've walked over scratches on floor planks, remembering each tear in the faded wallpaper, and known all nuances of squeaks a step can make. Front and back stairs. I learned to avoid every rusty nail, and which pane rattles most when those odorous sanitation monsters back up to the rear. The walls tend to moan and creak with age when a sou'wester blusters across the lake. This atmosphere comforts me. It suits my specter, my way of being, and my reputation. And yet, this house is like a stately old matron. I read somewhere that it was built in eighteen hundred and fifty five; sixty years before I was born. So, for nearly a century it stood steadfast and regal above the town of Vernon. One day you may visit this lofty sanctuary, want to delve into my past, and learn who shared my space. I'll only say that without them I would have been an empty spirit. As if a play on a stage their sorrows often moved me to shiver and caused me to recall my own. Yet, I also shared their joys. Oh, yes, they'd brought on situations which gladdened my soul. I have been compelled to tell this ancient typewriter to peck out vignettes about the peculiarities of some of my companions. A few of them I became fond of. Only one loved me. You might imagine, quite often their ignorance enticed me to intervene. I assure you, it was difficult to curb my temptation to snip away at the thread of events; to intercede in some way when I could sense their blunders would result in far reaching problems. Only I could see that. I curbed myself not to meddle or to interfere. This was not my mission. The events of the outside world I gladly escaped: the next world war with its tremendous risks and perils to human life in every nation. So far, I escaped the madness of new-fangled inventions, such as high-speed flight, and later the unbelievable stories of space travel and walks on the moon. Although, if I had still been alive when that absurdity started, I may have felt yearnings to follow Apollo. I imagined that I could make my own impression in the moon's dust. I was condemned, however, to stay rooted in this part of the globe, specifically in this place, mainly to preserve my soul and to protect my deepest concerns. Those mortals who had previously inhabited this place either dreaded or enjoyed my presence. You must know that they called me Charlie. My name is Charlotte Farouquette, nee Bower. � � CHAPTER ONE Bower House stood as if anesthetized and not a soul could be found to break the stagnant aura created by my demise. The person responsible for representing Bower House was an old, dour-faced solicitor who dragged his feet in finding any of my relatives. My parents were elderly, conservative in their world-view, lived in comfortable economy, and resided in Paris from where I had moved with my sweetheart. Mon p�re et m�re--we were not on the best of terms--had no compunction "to cross an entire ocean merely to visit America, and we refuse outright to deal with such primitive conditions." You see, they assumed they would have had to dwell among natives of the "Wild West" savage enough to scalp them; they believed pumping water from the ground to be medieval practice, and wasn't it barbaric to use a shed out back to perform a private business? I had no way of convincing them otherwise, before or after my departure. Therefore, they left my maternal uncle to handle the affairs of this place. Two years went by before Terrence McCay was found in the depth of Brazil's jungle. He was also rooted in his habitat. He decreed then, that this house should be called by my maiden name. To honor my memory, "Bower House" should not be sold. It should therefore be let only to "upstanding European stock." That is how the VanDam's came to stay. They lasted only six months. I'm sure, at that time I had still been too distraught, and certainly too naive to make myself apparent. You should be aware that after my personal tragedy and all the sorrow and desperation at being left in this singular existence, I could not help but cry out in sorrow at times. This alone made them despise me. Why do mortals have such loathing for things they don't understand? Recalling that fateful day when Gilliard had gone off to hunt, after we argued about a minor thing of reasons long forgotten, and in anger against myself, I would close the attic door too forcefully. I do so frequently. Elsa VanDam had gathered her brood and fled downstairs, assuming the kitchen would be the safest place. Huddling in there, they claimed the whole house shook--that it is haunted�that the devil had invaded the upper bedrooms. All of this was and still is nonsense. Once I had opened the back door, causing the teardrop crystals of the chandelier to sway and tinkle. It was such a sweet sound. Not to Elsa VanDam's ears. She became hysteric and locked herself in the pantry, (where food was adequate and would console her, no doubt) till her husband, Alva, returned from town. The children took their cue from her. Every strange happening in the normal events of a day turned to fear and was blamed on me. I did all I could to deflect such negatives. I personally placed the children's last-worn garments into the hamper, or put their shoes neatly side by side on the bottom of the stairs. Elsa was such a strict mother. She had no humor at all. Even if a piece of paper fluttered off the table, they would instantly be intimidated, clutch each other in terror and whisper, "It's the witch again!" Mister VanDam was quite delighted by my proximity, although I had never given him the opportunity to lay eyes on me. My presence was a plus for his business as an antiques dealer. He claimed that some of the furniture he sold had originated from a haunted house. This too, was nonsense. The only piece he took from here was my late husband's trunk, stained by the overseas voyage, with nothing in it but a few worthless trinkets. Nevertheless, a nostalgic twinge invaded me when he removed it. I admit, such feelings lie in the past. In the secular world things do change. Rapid change came when Elsa could not live here another day. The previous night, on a sentimental impulse, I felt the need to go down to the nursery. I had done so often, even before Gillard died, thinking about the baby growing in me. It made me feel whole and wanted. I'd walked down to the second floor that night, turning lights on as I went. All was quiet. It pleased me to see the warm beauty of polished wood and delighted in the silken glow of lamps. Yet, I chose to sit by the gentle light of a candle to reminisce. I did this a lot, too. When one of Elsa's children awoke, he wandered down the hall to get to the bath chamber. He found every lamp lit and also in the room at the bottom of the stairs. It made him scream for his mama, who had been asleep adjacent to the child's room. Well, she must have seen the last flicker of my candle, and made such a big fuss. She immediately demanded of her husband to move out. She took her children that night, all five of them. I never saw her again. Mr. VanDam had to put two thousand dollars penalty into the coffer of Bower House for breaking the lease. Once Elsa was established in town, she did all she could to make Bower House notorious. Consequently, weeks became months in total isolation for me. Nobody came near this place. The winter nights were cold and drawn out. Soon I noticed that strong hands were needed to repair loosened shingles, fasten the shutters, to pack putty around window frames, or clear the habitual film of dust. Outside, tangles of brambles invaded the walks. Oh, thorny hazards to be snagged at by the hem. � CHAPTER TWO It was not until March nineteen hundred and forty six, that new life breathed into this house. By then I was already six years gone. Since I'm still here, I haven't really transferred to the beyond. You understand? It is primarily for you to read when you are older. Right now I'm so delighted I've met you. I'm very much afraid that I'll bare too much of my spiritual essence, and would be entirely improper under the circumstance. I've promised myself I'll only record my thoughts on this old typewriter in the depth of night, assuming if covered with a blanket there would be no clatter penetrating the downstairs. Joseph Barnetto, thirty-five years old, a veteran of WWII, moved in with his family with the help of his GI Bill. His blue eyes and dark curly hair, attesting to his Swiss descent, were his most handsome features. I could not help but notice how much his wife, Victoria, whom he called Tori, adored him. Her eyes caressed those broad shoulders and the swell of biceps. He must have acquired those at his welding job, the only one he could carry out after his recent discharge from the army. For the first few months he seemed to be thrilled about this place. He planed changes, added shelves in the children's rooms, fixed the plumbing, replaced wallpaper and light bulbs, hammered down nails and mowed the lawn. During all this, good natured jostling flew between him, his wife and the children. Hella Lorraine, generally called Hella, was twelve years old at the time and of a different cloth than her brother--a bit spoiled to begin with--petite and very pretty and she knew it. My mother would have called her "lazy bones", or something like that. Oh, yes, she did help around the house when the prodding turned to nagging. When she felt unobserved she'd loll about, then find truth-crushing excuses when confronted by her mother. "But, I already have a blister. And there isn't even a bandage around." "You don't get blisters from washing dishes. Now get!" Tori would say. I saw that smile when she turned her back to Hella. If Joe was engaged in a job needing another hand, he'd ask Hella to his aid. Here, too, she soon tired, being shackled to a task, and with savoir faire invented a new ailment. Daddy would let her off and say, "Just sit and watch. It's okay." Robert James, almost three years older than his sister, was rarely privileged to be his father's helper. It escaped my notice at first, but I soon sensed an unseen obstacle between father and son. I don't know when it started. It could have been the day when every hand was recruited to remove soggy twigs and leaves from the eavestrough. Tori, stationed at the pump, filled pails with well water. Robert, or BJ, as I secretly called him, was to carry the water up the ladder, then take a muck-filled pail down, hand it to Hella, who was to dump the slush near the rhubarb patch. The pump was old and slow in response to Tori's efforts. Joe's impatience rose to new heights. He was on the roof and received a good tanning on his backside and his mood turned to a slow burn. Nothing was right. Nobody could do any job efficiently enough. Then BJ had the idea of using the kitchen's tap. It ran faster than the pump and saved his mother the labor. "While I get the water from the kitchen, Mom could take the dirt from you and dump it, and Hella can fill extra water..." "There is nothing wrong the way we�re doing it. You're all too damn slow at it. Hella is doing fine where she is. You just run faster and help your sister carry the heavy load," Joe bellowed from above. "Yeah, Bob. You help me. This arm's bothering me, and I cut my toe on a blade of grass." "Oh, shush, Hella. I don't see no blood." "I sucked it off!" "Yuck, Hella, there are germs on your feet and slugs in the grass. I'd never do a thing like that. Should have taken some mud and ashes to stop the flow." He carried another pail up the ladder, two stories high. "Can we eat something soon, Dad?" "Just twenty feet more, then we're done. Tori, go in the kitchen and make sandwiches, or soup or whatever. Hella can do the pumping. Bob can double up with those pails." Joe could not even suspect I'd heard this exchange from the attic's rosetta window. The father's rebuke, despite the boy's eagerness to be more efficient, saddened me. I could see the hurt in BJ's eyes. Soon after the urgent chores had been satisfied, spring arrived, offering gentle rains and glorious blue skies. Then the garden needed attention. Tori did all she could, and proved to have an eye for color and arrangement. She had begged Joe often enough to do the muscle work. Apparently Joe became somewhat discouraged by the chronic demands of this place. More and more he fled to a bar at night, meeting his "buddies". I must admit, I rarely leave the house, never considered leaving the grounds. I couldn't be sure, but suspected that Joe made "friends" with men from the wrong side of the track. Frequent drinking bouts added further discord to family life. I found Tori simply too naive at age thirty-two. Her romantic notion that marital bliss would last forever, trusting each squabble between them would be their last, seemed sheer utopia to me. Often he came down to the kitchen in yesterday's overalls, then rarely failed to upbraid her. "Can't you have breakfast on time for once? Must you always diddle with your hair, your face, your doilies, or what else comes..." "Oh, gee, honey. I only wanted to finish ironing your white shirt before the coals get too cold. You want to look good when you meet your army buddy tonight, don't you?" She scraped out embers of the ancient iron, returning them to the stove. "Don't burn a hole in this one. Watch what you're doing there. Darn it... You've got ashes on the cuff." "Oh, I'm sorry. Really. I'll wash it again and by tonight it should be ready for you, Joe." I saw how her hands shook as she tried to rub away the smudge with a clean towel. "Better make sure o'that, woman!" "Yes, honey." You can see it too, can't you? For her own peace, she spent energy on adjusting herself to Joe's whims. His constant attacks created palpable dissonance in their marriage. I perched myself on the balustrade at the top of the stairs, and noticed how much BJ wanted to please his father. He'd announced that day, "I'll mow the lawn as soon as I finish my homework, Dad." "Hey good idea, bub. You're not asking for any allowance, are ya?" "No, Dad. Ahm, could you get me to the library now and then? I want some books on the chemical content of the soil, and about old bones, and..." "Old bones? What? You want to be a grave digger?" he said. Hella heard her father and laughed, "Yeah, dig at night so Sheila won't see you fool around with dead people." The boy's cheeks turned fuschia red. "Leave my friends out of this," he demanded. "I should take you along to scare the daylights out of you." He walked toward the door and couldn't see Hella's tongue sticking out at him. He turned, one hand on the door knob. "How about it, Dad?" "All right, Bob. I might even squeeze a dollar from my wallet every now and then." Joe held his smile in check, took two steps toward his son, and at arms-length patted BJ's shoulder. Instantly, a grin brightened the young face. "Thanks Dad!" He made a turnabout. My impulse was to hug him, if only I could. I had seen how hard he worked to gain his father's acceptance, if not his understanding. It was admirable how diligently he studied, and how much he cared about tiny critters. I had occasion to overhear his animated talk when Sheila came to visit while they were in the garden. "You want to be a veterinarian? Is that why you keep all those bugs in your room?" She squinted at him through a curly tangle of wind-blown hair, then picked up a pile of cuttings to put them in the wheelbarrow. "If I can afford it, maybe. My family doesn't have much money. Dad's sick so often, you know." He handled a hedge trimmer with deftness. I must confess, while he was in school, I slipped into his room sometimes. My discovery of so many jars containing cater-pillars, fly larvae, June bugs and silverfish, the latter of which were a lot in this old house, delighted me. Sheila said, "Bob, I heard from one of the guys my Pa employs, that your dad had a slug-fest at the bar. They said he stole money from another guy. Thought you should know." Shyly she touched his elbow. "I'm sorry!" "Don't you be sorry. I heard. They talk in school. I'm upset about it for my mom. She works so hard. Just look what she did with this garden. She deserves better. I want to buy her an electric iron for Mother's Day. What d'you think, Sheila?" "Hey, swell. I don't know what I'll do for my Mom. I think I'll embroider a doily for her. I don't have much money either, but I'll start babysitting next week." "I should find a job, too. Save up for studies...." He stopped there and gave her a long stare. "Sheila. Actually I lied. I really want to be an anthropologist. Don't tell anyone. Promise?" "OK. Only if you tell me ... well, about the ghost in your house. Have you ever seen him?" "Him?" "They say his name is Charly." "No. They don't know nothing." Sheila shook her head. "You said 'know nothing'. It's �I don't know anything,� okay?" "That�s what I mean. There is no him. I really don't want to talk about it, only leads to crazy stories. 'Cause women gossip. Make up stuff, then feel important. They don't know no... anything." "Oh, yeah? I don't gossip, bucko. And you just said there is no ghost. Which is it?" Believe me, hearing this, I held my breath, as mortals say, and hardly dared listen to what he would have to say about me. "That's not what I said. Only know it's a nice ghost. And a she." "How do you know it's a she?" "There is a picture of her upstairs in the hall. We weren't supposed to take it down, or change anything without permission. Not even remove any furniture." "What if you break them? What then?" "Then we tell the landlord's agent. He'll either fix it or, if we deliberately broke it, we have to pay for it. But, hey, I'll tell you something about her, 'cause you're a friend. You better promise not to tell anyone. It's between us, okay? Not even Hella knows what I'm telling you now. Swear?" "Sure." "No. Not just sure. I said swear." "Okay. You're my best friend and if I ever tell anyone, I should turn ugly and get warts all over my face. I swear!" I saw them shake hands in a most peculiar way. It looked like one was twisting the thumb off the other's hand. BJ wiped an arm across his forehead and blinked sweat from his eyes. He looked around and then at the kitchen window. When he saw no one, he said, "One day I noticed some things had been moved in my room. Papers were shuffled, 'specially those with notes about bugs. Like, how long it takes a caterpillar to demolish an entire leaf. Things like that. Guess she's interested in what bugs do, too." He started snipping at the hedge again. "Could have been Hella snooping around..." "Nope. She's not allowed. I'm not going in her room either. We swore we wouldn't." "Guess you trust her, then." Sheila loped a handful of branches into the wheelbarrow. "Maybe one day I'll see her," he said. "So you don't think she'll keep her word, hey?" "I don't know. We'd never talked." He turned away from Sheila, perhaps in the hope she would stop pressing him for answers he himself needed. "You just said..." "Oh, you mean...? Of course Hella will." "You meant the ghost, hum? Would you tell me if you did?" Her sweet face displayed expectation and her eyes reflected the thrill of discovery. At that very moment I saw her as a woman. Does she love him? I mean as a woman loves a man, or were they still at the stage of finding themselves and each other? And when would the day come when liking turns to loving? "Did what?" "Saw her, silly." "Stop calling me 'silly'!" "Aw'right." "Nobody saw her. So far. Mom said she once felt a draft in the hall and right after, the lights flickered and went out for exactly three minutes." "Oh?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Could have been the wind hitting the old power lines. And that draft? Well, your Mom probably really felt it. You told me the house is very old." Goodness me! I realized then I should be more careful. I remembered that first mild evening in April, when I yearned to sit in the library, as we used to do, Gilly and I. I had to turn the light off and hurry up to my attic, lest Tori see me use her chair. And the displacement of papers was a real slip-up. Yet, I would have been delighted to hold a conversation with this young man. BJ's hair and body resembled so much his father's, yet his facial features were similar to his mother's. The slender face, the definition of lips were clearly passed on through her. What really fascinated me was his profile--it resembled Gilly at first glance. He had the same fiery eyes verifying an indestructible spirit. Oh, Gilly, my sweet husband, why had you not been able to stay here with me? "You ever gone up to there?" "Where?" "The attic, silly. Would you take me up there and see if..." He threw up his arms. "Told you not to call me that, Sheila. You want me to call you a silly goose?" "Nope!" "All right. Here, sit down." BJ sat on a patch of grass and took off his gloves. She took a hanky and wiped her face and hands. "What?" "What makes you think she is in the attic? Okay! It's a thought. Tell you something. Don't you know that ghosts can turn nasty when they're disturbed? I read a story once where the ghost of an old sailor was bothered by the new owner of an old house. Everybody knew the house was haunted. So, for weeks the man took the upstairs walls apart and replaced them with new ones. New insulation, new paneling, whatever. He even demolished the chimney. Then he removed everything from the basement. The last thing he did was take an axe to open a heavy lock on an old trunk. He couldn't do it. He managed to smash the axe into his leg, though. He bled to death." "Wow! Awful! The trunk was the sailor's, right?" "Yep," he nodded, looking around the grounds then straight at me without seeing me. "And they didn't find him for a month. I wouldn't want my ghost mad at me. I almost feel she is a beni... what's the word?" "A benefactor. Why did you say my ghost, Bob?" "I didn't say my ghost." "Sure did. You think she's here because of you or for you?" "Nah. I've said my ghost because no one thinks she exists." Oh, my! I was a happy spirit, considering it was not bliss that kept me at this side of existence. It is rather the nearness of my child's soul that I hoped to arrest, and my wish that Gilly would return to take me with him. "Hey, now. I've got to finish this hedge before going to the movies. Com'on." "What's playing?" "Anna and the King of Siam. With Rex Harrison." "Oh, and Irene Dunne. She's a great dancer." "Oh, shucks. You girls�re all alike." CHAPTER THREE Joe fell into depressions which seemed to deepen the more he drank. It was evident that his performance at work suffered. He'd come home early, complain of indigestion, lie on the couch for hours and stare at the ceiling. Once Tori had set an elaborate table to entice his palate, serving meatballs in capered gravy. "Honey, you can come to dinner now. I've made your favorite dish. Open that bottle of wine, will you?" The way she said this made me feel sorry for her. Even though she smiled when he came into the dining room, her shoulders were tightly drawn, her gestures edgy. Accidentally she tipped a candle over. The wax spread like an oil slick on the starched damask, the flame touched a napkin. Hella had the presence of mind to splash water on it. "What is this? Why can't we eat in the kitchen, as always? "Because. As you said, we always eat there. I like this to be special. For once you deserve something nice. Come on, open the bottle and we'll drink to better days." "What's wrong with... Ah, what is it you want now? A new dress? Shoes? No need for a perm, your hair's frizzy enough." He had pulled the cork by now and took a swig from the bottle. "Daddy!" Hella jumped up. "You're not fair. Mommy is so nice to you and you act really nasty these days." "What do you want, princess? Here, I'll pour you a glass..." BJ started to stomp out of the room, "Dad! Leave her alone. Look, if you want to make us feel guilty or something, tell us. You're hitting on us for nothing." Behind him his father took two steps, lifted the bottle to strike him. I just couldn't let this happen. What could I do? I'm sure I was not able to move heavy objects. I could certainly not slap him. But I could will the corner of a carpet to move. That is what I did--just in time. Joe stumbled, dropped to his knees. Wine spilled from the bottle. He looked back at his wife. Then something very peculiar happened. Joe sat on the floor and cried. Tori rushed toward him. "Oh, please, Joe, sweetheart. What is the matter? Bob didn't mean anything. It's just so hard to make things special. We love you and want you to be happy. Please, darling. Don't cry." Tori knelt beside him, rocked on her knees and cradled his head. Joe let her love flood over him. Not for long. He freed himself from her embrace. "Yeah, I haven�t been at my best lately. Promise I'll change. Come, get us that chow." During dinner they engaged in small talk. It was clearly an attempt at wiping away awkwardness, to obscure what was really happening. BJ had not returned to the table. He ran upstairs and locked himself in. I heard his muted sobbing as I sat in the library, directly below his bedroom. Outside cruel clouds echoed the mood within. I moved about in a heavy spirit and accidentally touched a desk drawer. It sprang open. What providence did that, I don't know. On the very top were Joe's discharge papers, along with a medical certificate. I read the words: "shrapnel in the frontal lobe", and "shell-shocked". Another paper recommended that Sergeant Joseph Barnetto undergo therapy for an indeterminate time... * * * Joe did not, or could not keep his word. Often he would disappear for days, then come home disarrayed in body and soul. It pained me to see how the children were deprived of their father's attention. Even Tori could not extend her love to them. She let herself slip into a downward spiral. The more her appearance slipped, the more the house turned to disorder. That in turn seemed to drag her deeper into despair. But not every day was that dreary. Once, Hella was allowed to invite a few girls from her class. The occasion was her birthday. Why it was called "slumber party" escaped logic. It meant staying up all night. Interesting to watch though. They wore daring, frilly things, ate salty corn kernels and guzzled sweet smelling, dark drinks, called Root Beer, which kept the hen-party alert as the midnight visit of a rooster. They told silly ghost stories till way into the night. In Paris we had not been given to such practice. Dressing-up was done in private. Telling ghost stories never even occurred to us. I often withdrew to my room, demurely dressed in a robe. The most daring thing was to read Agatha Christie's mystery stories--a form of literature frowned upon by my parents. This night Hella was the loudest. Perhaps it was to conceal the pain that her father had not remembered her birthday. Yet, it was a plus that Joe wasn't there. They would certainly not have been allowed to be as carefree. Gleefully they spread their sleeping bags near the fireplace. The downstairs has always been a little drafty, cooling down the later the hour. It would make candles flicker, thus adding a cause to shiver deliciously. But their giggles and pillow fights went beyond permissible limits. It was a perfect setting for my appearance. The grandfather clock in the hall struck twelve times and shortly after, I came down the stairs in my white robe. I held a little brass bell tightly between my hands so it would not sound off prematurely. Hah, you can imagine the fun I had with them. I discovered right then that fading in and out of vision would become my specialty. I hummed a song my mother taught me. Next I whimpered like a little baby. The bell was my last act. It belonged to my kitten, "la boules de neige", as the English would say, snowball. I don't need to tell you how urgently the girls begged Tori to let them sleep in her room upstairs. By one o�clock in the morning the piles of girls within heaps of pillows and blankets had been as silent as dunes at sunset. Later I regretted having spoiled Hella�s night. Soon after, however, I learned that my act had served a purpose. It diverted the family's focus from all those miserable times with their father. Even Tori seemed to liven up. For weeks I was the topic. In school the girls talked until a newshound lapped it up with serious delight. The papers sent a noodle-faced reporter to look at Bower House. Pictures of it appeared in the weekend's family section. A chapter of the Paranormal Society wanted an interview with Joe. We all knew he was the last person to want to expose his face to the population of the town. But Hella had no such qualms. She enjoyed the limelight, invented a few stories until she became a celebrity of sorts herself. Next, her tales were carried by the local radio. A day later a photograph of the painting hanging in the hall upstairs was front page news. Next to it was a picture of Hella and her mother. Joe didn't return for a week. I too, stayed hidden, escaping to the gravesite of my loved ones. Here I often lingered, felt close to my child, and asked why fate had let me return to this state of being. Why must I wander this terra alone and without purpose? � � EPILOGUE All the previous events happened over a span of a few years. The Barnetto family "lived" with me from April to December. As I mentioned, being side by side with my tenants had given me both grief and pleasure. Now I know the causes of Gillie's and my death, thanks to BJ and my housekeeper, Betty. I learned from her not only where I had been buried but that she had taken care of the house and safely hidden my personal possessions. To BJ I am grateful for his warm friendship and his invaluable help. Of course, I wonder what will take place from now on. I should fade away and join my husband and little Monique. I will try hard to get to my resting place. But do I have a reason to leave? If I would stay around a little longer, I certainly would find out if these folks have a happy future. Who knows, maybe they need a little help now and then.
Copyright © 2000 H E Gurlitt |