Letter from Dagmar Ralston to Irene Wallenberg

December 28, 1932

My sweet friend, my love,

So many times we have said to each other that we have no secrets between us. I have said it with honesty—to a point. There is something I have not told you. Do not think I wanted to hold something back from you, who are so dear to me. The reasons for my silence are justified; there are some things that weigh so heavy that we cannot force the ones we love to carry them. Even as I write this now, the pen moves slowly. It does not want to tell the story. But the snow is falling and the day grows short, and I must move with some haste.

You are well aware that my brother is infected with that spiritual disease running rampant across the country called eugenics. You know that he admires the fascists in Europe, and that he holds the most abhorrent views on race. He first became interested in these things while in medical school. My brother has always been easily led. The blight quickly took hold of him. For this reason, I maintained distance from him. It was during this period that you and I were able to spend so much time together, something I look back on with such joy.

Our mother died when we were young, and with the passing of our father, the Ralston fortune went mainly to Phillip, with some provisions for me. However, all moneys passed through Phillip and were dispensed at his discretion. I was at the mercy of my younger brother. Unlike him, I had not been able to attend university. (This despite the fact that I was clearly more gifted in academics. I have never recovered from the unfairness of it, but I have no time to digress. You know about this.) Phillip went to England right before the Great War and remained there once it began. I approved of this, as it seemed that he was doing valuable work, helping the sick and wounded and setting up clinics. And as you also well know, he called for me in the spring of 1915. You and I were separated when I went to England. I am the sister—I have no control over my own fortune. I go when I am called.

He had let a house in the Cotswolds. I remember arriving and seeing this wonderful place on a warm day in early June, the gardens shaggy with flowers and herbs, with an overwhelming drone of bees. And there in this golden house of Cotswold stone, I heard the unmistakable wail of a baby from the top of the stairs. Babies , rather.

Six cradles. Six babies; three slightly larger, and three still quite new.

He had delivered them all and adopted them from their mothers, who were unable to care for them. He had seen so much suffering, he said. He was compelled to help. And I would help as well. I would serve as mother to these children, wouldn't I?

It was not what I had planned to do, my dear. You know that. But when I held Clara, when I felt her tiny fist grabbing my finger, I knew—I knew I would do exactly as he asked. I was overwhelmed with such an unexpected joy. My life changed in that moment.

We sailed home from Southampton with six babies and four hired nannies supplementing our staff.

Over the years, I became quite a competent nurse, with six children to care for in various respects, while working at my brother's side. I took a strong interest, and soon I was helping dispense medications and could give basic treatments. My brother was an organized man who kept meticulous notes in dark blue leather-bound diaries. I sometimes helped with the administration of his office and his affairs. One day, while going through his notes from the year the children were born, I noticed short entries. I recorded them. They read as follows:

7 January 1915, Bristol, Elizabeth

15 February 1915, Stroud, Mildred

23 February 1915, Cheltenham, Pamela

6 April 1915, London, Georgina

19 April 1915, London, Mary

21 April 1915, London, Alice C.

These were obviously records of the birth of the children and the names of the mothers. I don't know what made me think of it—just one of those times that thoughts coalesce in your mind. A suspicion, some lingering idea. Maybe the fact that just the first names were given, except for an initial with the last one. Something I'd seen. Something I already knew...

I turned back to the notes, going back nine months from each of these dates. In April and May my brother had been doing work in a hospital in Bristol, England. Stroud and Cheltenham are easily reachable from Bristol. From June to September he was in London, doing work at St. Bartholomew's. All during that time, he was adding single letters to many of his daily entries. In Bristol: E, E, H, A, E, E, Mi, H, T, T, M, P, H, E, A, A, T, M, E, P... In London: G, G, Ma, S, S, GS, M, Ac, G, Ac, Ac, S, S, G...

There were ten in all. On a few occasions in the London entries there were two letters for each day, frequently G and S appearing together. On one spring day in London he noted: G, S, M.

A code, but not a particularly difficult one to crack. And quite proud of himself as well. My brother had been a very busy man. All these women had been his lovers. He had been trying to impregnate them. He tracked it, like a good scientist. Like a good eugenicist. I could envision him hurrying across town each night for his assignations. Or afternoon, perhaps, considering that sometimes he had several per day.

I can only assume that his contacts with A, S, H, and T produced no result.

I sat with this knowledge for several weeks. When the children came home from school for the holiday, I observed them more closely than usual. Once seen, it could not be unseen—the tip of the chin, the angle of the nose.

"It is strange," I said to him one night, "how the children take after you so. And each other, in some respects."

He did not look up from his book.

"I should imagine they do," he replied. "They eat the same good diet, live under the same roof, complete the same exercises."

"Please tell me," I said as nonchalantly as possible, "what exercise changes the shape of the nose?"

"Are you happy here, sister?" he asked.

"I am."

"I'm glad to hear it."

He didn't need to say any more. I had been warned.

Then, of course, Faye came. What a sight she was! The first time I saw her she was wearing a gold lamé gown that clung to her figure. I'd never seen a woman so tall. Though she was glamorous, she was also unaffected. I gathered that her time on the stage and screen had not always been pleasant, and she was happy to leave it behind.

Once she arrived, Phillip and the children didn't need me in quite the same way—but I got along well with Faye, and she truly did love the children like her own. I credit her for this. I did not like sharing them, but I came to terms with it. She is a good mother to all the children. And we all came to an unspoken but solid understanding—while she would support the children in any way she could, I had been their mother figure, and I should remain in the role. Phillip and Faye both allowed me my place and respected my presence. I was extremely grateful.

Then came Max. This was when everything changed completely. I tried to explain it to you at the time, my love, the shift in the tone of the household, this new air. The world spun around Max. Faye was besotted, as is to be expected. Phillip loved his son as well, but he also regarded him with a fascination that unnerved me. Like he had done with the other children, Phillip was always measuring Max. His height. His limbs. How fast he learned to walk, to speak. Everything was charted. He was a regular little boy, prone to outbursts and tantrums. Phillip was determined he must be something more. Faye attempted to counterbalance this in her own way, blanketing him with affection.

It was then I realized what effect I must have had on the other children. I had always encouraged them to play along with their father's games. And there were six of them, which helped defuse their father's influence. The chemistry did not work as well with Max. He was alone with two strong-willed adults, spoiled, with no other children or outside influence to set him to rights. He needed to socialize with other children, to be allowed to play but curbed when necessary. Completely ordinary things you would do with any child. But Max was not ordinary in Phillip's eyes. Nothing could be wrong with Max, so Max's weaknesses were treated as strengths. His tempers were considered healthy bursts of energy. His destructive nature was a desire to make his own way. Max began harming the staff. I found out about this in whispers, though noticing how they all avoided Max, the bandages on their hands. He bit. He threw things. He pinched and cut them. Nurses never stayed very long. I would have offered help, but this would have broken our understanding—the older children were mine, and I was not to interfere with Max.

Then Edna Danforth fell down the stairs. I do not think this was malicious on Max's part. I think he had a tantrum and struck out. I do not think he was trying to make her fall. The situation was serious indeed. She suffered a broken skull and bleeding of the brain and was in a hospital for months. Phillip paid for her care and Faye visited regularly, but neither wanted to speak of the incident. I did something I normally would not—I confronted both Phillip and Faye. Something had to be done. Max needed rules, and he needed to be with other children, to learn how to behave and respect others. Faye agreed with me to a point and spoke of bringing in other doctors to examine him. Phillip would not consider it. He would treat the boy himself through diet and exercise.

I was thankful the other children were away at school much of the time. I missed them terribly, but it was better for them to be away from the house. During the summer, I kept a close eye on all of them. I watched. I knew something was going to happen in Morning House.

Clara knew this as well. Such a strong, perceptive girl, my Clara. Nothing escaped her attention. One night, I saw her steal a knife from the table. She did it quickly, knocking it into her lap and secreting it away. I followed her and kept watch. It happened that this night, Max's new nurse was ill (I had suspicions) and he was sleeping alone. I watched her door. Just after eleven, she emerged, carrying a bundle under her arm. The knife was certainly inside. I followed her silently to Max's room. I was about to spring out as she got to the door, but she stopped there. She was not there to hurt Max. She stood in front of his door for hours, guarding it like a sentry. That night, I knew my fears were founded. Whatever I was afraid of, Clara was afraid of it as well.

Soon after that, the three girls took Max out for a boat ride. Clara pushed him into the water, trying to make him swim. I understood what she was doing—the obsession with swimming—she was trying to force him into learning, into surviving. My fears grew, and my uncertainties. What was it we were both so frightened of?

We would know it soon enough.

The day it happened it was extraordinarily hot. This is my predominant memory. I had breakfast on a tray in bed. I could just about stand the food served at breakfast downstairs and I could not abide the lack of tea and coffee. Phillip forbade it, so I was happy enough to have my meal in private, with a pot of tea and some scrambled eggs and bacon. After that, I would normally bathe and go downstairs. When I got into the tub, I found that I had trouble staying awake. I came close to falling asleep and slipping into the water, so I got out and rested on the bed for a moment. At least, I meant to be there for a moment.

I woke hours later. Morning House was still—and that set me on edge. Something felt off. By the time I was out of my room, it had already happened. Clara came through the front door carrying Max's body. I had failed. The boy was dead.

I had to get the children out of the house.

Their playhouse was their haven. Safe and small and entirely theirs.

Phillip shut the breakfast room door while he examined his son. Faye's screams echoed throughout the grand hall, bouncing from the marble of the floor where I stood up to the glass dome above us. I know now why screams are described as "piercing." I could feel them, plosive, cutting into my skin. The police arrived—two officers from town. They went into the breakfast room to see the body and speak to Phillip. One came out and asked for Clara. I sent someone to fetch her, but she was not in the playhouse. Clara was missing. And through this time, I kept hearing people mentioning that they had been sleeping. The children, sleeping. The servants, sleeping.

I realized I needed a moment to sit and process what was happening. I went to my room and splashed water on my face, forced myself to think. I realized that the unnatural quietness of the house was probably not an accident.

Clara was missing. It had been Clara I'd been watching, and Clara had told me with her eyes, with her long, sideways glances. Her eye always turned in the same, strange direction at the table. To Unity. Good, sweet Unity, dutifully eating her mushy peas and nut loaf, conjugating her German verbs, putting in extra practice on the piano, on her swimming, on her needlework. Unity, slavishly devoted to her father and her father's vision of the world. It was to Unity's room I went. I looked around, opening drawers, pushing books aside from the shelves, lifting cushions.

Phillip had gifted Unity an ornate writing desk for her last birthday. He'd had it made in Vienna by a firm that made furniture for the Hapsburgs. He'd been so pleased with it that he had shown it off to me before presenting it to her, and I had liked it enough to write to the makers and have one made for myself, with compartments in different locations. (I wanted a place to keep our correspondence, something less conspicuous than the small, locked box I had always used.) Because of this, I knew how to spring the various small drawers and holes, though it took me a moment to remember all the various hidden buttons. I pushed on a bit of scrollwork and out popped a tall and narrow drawer. Inside, there was a small piece of paper with Unity's writing on it. It was full of calculations, specifically ones that measured things in grains. A few more attempts with the desk revealed another tiny drawer. This one contained a glass Veronal bottle, almost entirely empty, just a few tablets rattling at the bottom. I examined the small page of calculations again.

Everything became clear in a terrible instant.

Veronal is a powerful and common sleeping drug. It is easy to acquire. Any druggist would have it, and I knew that Faye kept some for her personal use. Phillip certainly had it in his cabinet. If I understood the numbers I was looking at, we had all been dosed to a high degree, one that danced around, but did not cross, a lethal level. Certainly, it was enough to keep everyone fast asleep for hours and dazed for hours more. I could still feel its effects on my mind, though the adrenaline cut through.

She had put us all to sleep while she killed Max.

I picked up the house phone and called down to the kitchen, where the cook—her voice thick from crying—answered. I told her to make me a pot of strong coffee and bring it to my room, and that she should also prepare some food for the children. Good food. Things they were not allowed. Fill a tray and take it to the playhouse. They needed sustenance and comfort. I needed to wake up and to figure out what to do next, how to counteract the evil that had taken over the house.

Once I had consumed the coffee, I felt some of my faculties returning. My telephone rang. It was a message from Phillip, asking me to gather the children and arrange for their dinner. He wanted it served in the dining room and for things to be kept as normal as possible. I directed Unity, Victory, and Benjamin back to the house, to their rooms to wash up. William declined. He barely acknowledged my presence as he sat at the piano. I did not push him. It was Unity I was watching. She carried herself with quiet dignity. I saw it so clearly now. The lift of her chin. The stride in her step. She had killed Max a few hours before, and she was calm. Proud.

We were not free of danger. I set about looking for Clara. She had always been good at secreting herself away. The staff were looking for her, the police, everyone. She was nowhere to be found. I became feverish with fear, calling her name. I waded into the water. It was almost nine in the evening now and growing dark. Where was she?

I heard William and Benjamin saying her name and something about her being at the house. I don't exercise every day like the children do—I do not run. That night, however, I moved with shocking speed across the lawn, catching up to Benjamin and William. We all saw her, moving so strangely against the parapet. She leaned against the edge, as if she was about to call down to us so far below, and then...

I cannot describe it except to say I saw her clutching at air as she came down, as if there was an invisible rope she might catch. A gardener—his name was Anthony—held the children back. I was given something to drink from a flask.

Someone took me inside, I think. Perhaps I went myself. I do not know. Annie, the downstairs maid, ran to me and walked me to one of the low sofas on the side of the great hall. She helped me lie down, putting my head flat and pillows under my feet. She covered me with a blanket. Victory came down the stairs screaming and ran outside to her brothers. I didn't have the energy to move. There was a buzzing in my ears. I was in my cocoon of Veronal and shock, trying to find my way out, but the world was shrinking around me. Annie tried to nurse me, but I told her to go to the children. I would be all right. I would regain my strength in a moment.

I don't know how long I was there. Fifteen minutes? An hour? I am Aunt Dagmar. I am invisible at the best of times, and these were the worst. I was off to the side under my blanket, staring into the starry depths of the glass dome and listening to my heartbeat. Aside from the occasional examination by Annie, I was left alone and blended into the woodwork.

This is where I was when Unity came down the stairs—those magnificent stairs, with the great glass dome overhead. Morning House felt like it was quaking, like the thousand tiny pieces of glass that made up that dome would fall on us like snow and delicately slice us to ribbons.

She moved a bit more slowly than usual, but with that same youthful spring, taking the steps in two-step beats, her canvas tennis shoes silent on the treads. The look on her face was eternal. It was not a smile, not precisely. It was a look of utter conviction, of a terrible peace. If she noticed me, she did not acknowledge it. I don't think she did. I watched her go to Phillip's office and shut the door. I pushed the blanket back and forced myself to my feet, taking slow steps across the cavernous hall to the office door. I turned the knob gingerly and pushed my finger through the opening to crack it just wide enough so that I could hear what was being said.

It was everything I feared, everything I described, with one addition. Clara had gone to the roof when she came inside, perhaps for air, perhaps to make the world make sense and realign herself by navigating the stars. Unity met her there.

It was, in Unity's words, an accident. A fight. She had sent her sister off the roof.

Max. Clara.

Unity.

The thunderous bleakness that followed—I have described this to you many times.

We left the house within days. The only things taken from the house were my brother's personal papers, the jewelry, and some clothing. Everything else was left behind—all the children's projects, our books, and all personal items. We went to New York first, back to the house on Fifth Avenue. Faye could not leave her room and had to be nursed constantly. Her crisis was almost a welcome distraction from the pain. She was someone we could try to help.

I watched Unity there for the next few weeks. She behaved in all the ways that were appropriate—she looked somber. She was entirely helpful to her father, supporting him as Faye began to break apart. Unity sat with her and brushed her hair, read to her, painted her nails with varnish.

Every once in a while, I would catch her looking at me. Was that a challenge in her eyes?

The children were sent back to school in September. Though I worried for them emotionally, I was glad they were no longer under a Ralston roof together. I think I had been holding my breath for their safety. School seemed safer to me, a place with rules and many watchful eyes. School would hold Unity while I worked out what to do next.

The night they left, the house was quiet. Faye had been put to bed for the night and her nurse was sitting with her. Phillip and I sat in his study with the radio playing.

"Faye is not improving," he finally said. "I have spoken to some of my colleagues about her case. They recommend treatment beyond what I can provide. There is a private hospital in Beacon, just north of here, run by a very good man named Slocum. It's the most modern facility with views over the Hudson—there's swimming and golf, all sorts of healthy things. A few months..."

"That seems a sensible course of action," I replied.

A window was open between the two of us that had not been for a long time. Phillip needed me once again. I could talk to him.

"I know," I said to him. "About Unity."

When Phillip looked up at me, I saw many feelings on his face at once. Relief. Pain.

Fear.

"How?" was his only question.

"Does it matter?"

"No," he replied. "I suppose not. Do any of the children know?"

"I don't believe so."

He nodded once while continuing to look at the fire.

"You need to do something about Unity," I said.

"There is nothing that can be done."

"You refused to do anything about Max, and now Max is dead. Unity needs help. She killed two of her siblings, Phillip. She needs to be kept away from others... treated in some way. This facility you're sending Faye to..."

He shook his head.

"She thought what she was doing was the right thing to do," he said quietly. "Sending her there would reveal the truth. We have to say it was an accident. They were accidents. Accidents..."

I listened to the fade in his voice, his attempts to convince himself of a lie, despite the fact that he had just spoken the truth. His house had spawned a monster. My younger brother, so much of his hair gone suddenly white, was a weak man. Tyrants and those who ascribe to tyrannical beliefs are always weak at heart because they build their world on fear.

I knew then what I had to do. I had failed Max and Clara. I would not fail again. I didn't know how or when, but the opportunity has presented itself today.

He has gotten a house here in Beacon where we all have spent Christmas as close to Faye as we can be. It's snowing—a lovely, fluffy snow. It's been cold, and the pond in the woods behind the house is frozen, but the ice is not very thick. I went out after breakfast and tested it with a rock. It will crack.

After lunch I will invite Unity to take a walk with me. I have used her own technique. I have prepared a thermos of hot cider and morphine—plenty for both of us. She will be sleepy, my child, and I will lead her. I cannot abide a monster to live, and a mother cannot kill her child and survive. I am her mother, after all. I love her, despite what she has done. I should have protected her. We must go together. She will not be alone. I will take her there.

I will leave this now to be posted. By the time you receive it, the act will be done. I am at peace, my dear friend. Know that I love you.

Yours eternally,

Dagmar