I was twenty-five when I met her during a European tour of my family roots. I had traced a branch of my family to the Von Senftenbergs, a minor aristocratic family with an ancestral home near Frankfurt am Main. My parents died when I was young and what little information I had about my lineage was contained in yellowed documents and second-hand stories. I felt like an anchorless boat drifting in the seas. I desperately wanted some...any connection to my past.

It happened that there was a party on the day of my arrival at the manor house, a birthday celebration for the family governess. She was ninety-five.

People seemed scared of her and she sat alone beneath a finely embroidered shawl in a far corner of the impressive ballroom where the festivities were playing out. I went over to pay my respects and when I did, her eyes widened; they were sharp eyes, like those of a bird of prey. Her hands were soft and warm, but with a grip that belied her age.

Her name was Sylvie O'Hara. She pulled me close and pushed me to a seated position on the divan at her side. Sylvie cackled and shook her head. She addressed me in a odd accent with a surprisingly youthful voice. "You poor boy," she chirped, "You look exactly like him."

"Like who?" I asked.

"My poor Frances... my poor foolish, stupid... stupid Frances." She reached into her massive purse and pulled out a worn leather book, "This tells it all. God is very funny and very cruel. He loves irony most of all. Do you know when German Father's Day is, young man?"

She answered her own question before I had time to respond.
"May the 8th, the same day as the Feast of the Ascension, when Christ ascended into heaven," she pressed the book into my hand, "take this...if the family finds it, they'll burn it. Bring it back in a few days...I always take tea at noon in the gardens." A group of well-wishers came over and Sylvie shooed me off.

I returned to my hotel confused and intrigued. After a much needed glass of cognac, I opened the well-worn tome and began to read. It was part diary, part family history. There were some clippings and some letters. The woman that emerged from those pages was unlike anyone I had ever known.

The Sylvie I was introduced to in those pages was exceptionally bright, exceptionally poor, and exceptionally attractive. She was a mulatto, born of an Irish father and a Senegalese mother, both of whom died before she was ten.

The only good fortune of her birth was that she was born on Martinique, a French Caribbean island where non-whites were treated fairly well. And while the dark-skinned citizens were treated with at least moderate respect, the poor there, like the poor anywhere were treated miserably and Sylvie's circumstances were as impoverished as all but the most destitute of citizens.

The Frances Von Senftenberg she had mistaken me for was a man marked by destiny, but marked while the gods were drunk and bored.

Born to a well- to-do Prussian family in 1875, he was doomed to a career in either law or war, both of which were family traditions dating back further into the misty European past than anyone cared to admit.

War, of course, has always been the primary Germanic hobby, and anyone unlucky enough to be born into a family of even remotely aristocratic roots was bound to find himself wielding a saber at some point in his life, pursuing some poor fleeing Frenchman in the hopes of cutting him in half.

Frances, for his part, wanted none of it. He chose law. Only one problem stood in his way. Frances was hopelessly stupid, and aside from his fervent desire not to be killed in the national pastime of French-fighting, he had never committed an intelligent act in his life.

Baron Frederick Von Senftenberg, Frances' father, in an attempt to salvage some family pride from the debacle of his son's school years, paid a healthy bribe to insure that his son would be a lawyer.

Upon graduation, the Baron did what any self-respecting Prussian torn between family pride and nationalistic loyalty would do. He sent his lawyer son away, in this case to the tropical Caribbean island of Martinique, nestled in the heart of the Lesser Antilles. There his idiot son could practice far enough from the homeland to avoid any embarrassment. It was not without a sinister glee that the Baron noted that Martinique belonged to France. In the end, the Baron thought, my son will sabotage the French in his own way.

So it was that on April Fool's day in the year 1902, Frances Von Senftenberg arrived at St. Pierre, the commercial center of Martinique. It was an exciting, vibrant town, with a population of over 25,000. Paris of the West Indies, it was called, and Frances knew he would like it there.

His father had given him a letter of introduction to Louis Mouttet, the governor of the island and enough money to buy a home and set up a business. Mouttet, upon meeting the younger Senftenberg realized he was a person of value; a total incompetent who could lose every case without trying. The Governor appointed Frances as public defender, secure in the knowledge that all criminals would now be found guilty and hanged.

Frances was delighted at his good fortune. The first thing he did was to fall in love. Her name was Sylvie O'Hara, and she was as bright as Frances was stupid.

By April 15, public counsel Senftenberg was defending his first client, Auguste Ciparis. Ciparis was a black stevedore accused of accidentally killing a local fisherman in a fight. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense. Ciparis was convicted of murder and sentenced to hang. Frances shrugged it off as a typical case of French racism, and Sylvie counted his fee and comforted him as best she could.   

One thing that Frances did not like about the island, or at least St. Pierre, was its persistent odor of sulfur. At times it was so bad that horses would simply lay down on the street and die. He was the only person on the entire island who didn't know where the smell came from.

Another name for the Lesser Antilles which served as Milky Way to Martinique's solar system is the Volcanic Caribees. Several islands including St. Vincent, St. Lucia, and Guadeloupe, had active, but peaceful volcanoes. On Martinique the volcano was named Mt. Pelée, and the day after Frances Senftenberg arrived, it began to show it's disgust. Quietly at first, a vent here, some steam there. Then on April 22nd, some small eruptions began on the south side of the mountain and volcanic ash began to rain on the city.

Frances deduced that the explosions were people building roads through the jungle with dynamite. The warm snow fascinated him and he put some in a letter to his father. As for the increasingly repulsive odor of sulfur, he took to wearing a scarf to work, very clever for Frances, until one realizes that is was Sylvie who made him wear it.

For anyone else, it would border on miraculous to live at the base of an active volcano, subject to the noise, smell and ash, and remain totally unconcerned. Not for Frances. He simply didn't care about volcanoes. Pelée was an annoyance, nothing more.

The general population of St. Pierre, on the other hand, was extremely concerned that Mt. Pelée might decide to do more than just sputter and spit. They approached Governor Mouttet and expressed a desire to be moved away from the mountain.

He might have evacuated the population under ordinary circumstances, but the elections were only a few weeks away and with all his supporters (far more supported the governor in St. Pierre than in the capital, Fort de France) scattered on the other Caribbean islands, it was just not good politics.

His next decision was a stroke of genius. He appointed a commission to assess the problem. That commission was Frances Von Senftenberg. This choice was no doubt made easier by the fact that Mouttet lived in Fort de France and nowhere near the mountain.

Frances declared that there was no danger, thinking the concern simply a French over-reaction. When he made this dogmatic assertion to the editor of Les Colonies, the local paper, it took more than a little pressure from the governor to have the newspaper translate the declaration of safety into something the populace would believe.

The events of the May 5th would have swayed a lesser man than Frances. Large quantities of rain had collected in what was formerly a dry crater named L'Etang Sec'. Mixed with the ash and heat, it soon became a sea of boiling mud. As ominous as that may be of itself, it was far worse when the seething ocean of slime burst its banks and cascaded down the side of the mountain burying a plantation to the north of St. Pierre and killing over a hundred unfortunate workers. This tragedy scared the remainder of St. Pierre's suburban population into the city which swelled to 30,000 by early the next morning.

Frances remained unaffected. He wondered what carnival was in town and why they hadn't brought tents. Sylvie, on the other hand, knew exactly what was going on and what would likely happen. She tried to convince him of the danger, but couldn't, so she did what she felt was her only rational move.

On Tuesday morning, May 6th, she stole every bit of money Frances had in the house (quite a substantial sum, since none of the Senftenbergs ever trusted French bankers) and arranged for passage out of Martinique aboard the barque Orsalina to the nearby island of Barbados.

The increasing unrest of the local population forced the governor to surround St. Pierre with troops, lest any of his precious voters escape. This time the governor appointed Frances as Professor Emeritus, quoting him profusely in the paper, assuring everyone that Mt. Pelée was no more dangerous than Vesuvius was to Naples. He ignored the occasional reference the locals made to Pompeii.

Wednesday came and went, with ash continually falling to the streets of the city. By now the whole town was covered in a sticky bread dough that sucked at the feet of those walking through it. Frances was confused. He knew that the concern over the volcano was overblown, but if that were true, then what was that pillar of smoke coming out of the side of Mt. Pelée? He was determined to find out. Later that evening, he climbed up toward the spewing geyser of ash and smoke.

Sylvie spent that day trying to convince Captain LeBoffe of the barque Orsalina to leave the harbor. He was not scheduled to depart for France until his ship was filled with sugar cane. It was only the promise of unimaginable sexual pleasure that swayed the good captain.

She made the same promise to the Sailing Agent who attempted to prevent the Orsalina from departing before her cargo was fully loaded. Finally, after a busy afternoon of fulfilling her obligations to Agent and Captain alike, Sylvie rested as the Orsalina set sail and slipped out of St. Pierre harbor.

Looking back toward the churning lightning-filled clouds engulfing St Pierre and seeing all the other ships still stubbornly anchored in the harbor, Sylvie shook her head. Perhaps, she thought, Frances was not the dumbest man alive after all, but in truth, she knew he was.

Council/Commissioner/Professor Von Senftenberg had, by dawn, reached the summit of Pelée. The temperature was hellish. He was transfixed by the column of flame and the smoke that rose from the mountain's mouth.

At ten minutes to eight on Thursday morning, May 8th, 1902, Holy Thursday, Ascension Day, Frances Von Senftenberg came to a shocking realization. It suddenly dawned on him that perhaps Pelée might in fact pose a threat and perhaps the acre of Hades above him was the proof. It irked him and angered him that he could have been mistaken. It did not irk or anger him too long, however. At seven-fifty two, the mountain exploded. Twice.

The first explosion shot straight up from the summit, pulverizing the mountain top and Frances into a black cloud of statically charged dust which cracked and thundered with blue lightning. It was the herald of the second explosion which blew the side of the mountain outward, directly into St. Pierre. The town and its population were simply melted. The temperatures instantly reached 1000 degrees C°, effectively putting an end to any life within the city.

The vessels at anchorage were not spared. The explosion sent thousands of cannonball-sized rocks hurling toward the harbor. Combined with the superheated sulfurous gas and steam traveling toward them at several hundred miles per hour, the ships were no better off than the poor souls ashore who had been evaporated into the sidewalk.

Governor Mouttet, ignorant of the principles of karma, had decided to visit St. Pierre to reassure its citizens of their safety. He was on his official launch in the harbor when Pelée unleashed its fury. One can only assume his last word was "Merde!" as the whirling dervish of fire and volcanic gas sent him to meet his maker.

Of the thirty thousand or so people in St. Pierre, only two survived. One was a poor shoemaker who remained alive simply by the will of god, the other was Auguste Ciparis, convicted murderer.

Ciparis had been in his underground cell when the explosion occurred. He was found, badly burned, three days later. When told of his luck (he was reprieved as well) he turned to the policeman and said, "I owe my life to Counsel Senftenberg. If he had not let me be convicted, I'd be dead today!"

Ciparis spent his remaining years as a sideshow attraction for P.T. Barnum, living in a reconstruction of the cell that saved his life.

The apocalyptic eruption could be seen by the entire stunned and grateful crew of the Orsalina. Sylvie cried thinking about poor Frances and again when she remembered she was pregnant. She cried even harder praying that idiocy was not inherited.

Sylvie's flight to safety was not without its impediments. The Orsalina stopped in St. Lucia for all the supplies it needed, but had not had time to load prior to its hasty retreat from Martinique.

While in port, the governor of St. Lucia compelled Captain LeBoffe to return to the exploded hell of St. Pierre. The reason the captain was obliged to return was a man by the name of Enrico Carteson. Carteson was a landowner and attaché to the governor. He wished to survey the damage and be in the spotlight when the world press converged.

Captain LeBoffe was not thrilled at the prospect of returning to Martinique after the eruption of Mt. Pelée and neither was Sylvie O'Hara. In her mind, there was no reason to return. It was obvious that no one could possibly have survived the incredible catastrophe that those aboard the Orsalina had witnessed.

Sylvie wanted nothing more than to reach Europe. She was going to confront the old Baron Von Senftenberg with her swollen belly and squeeze every penny possible out of the recently bereaved old man. Captain LeBoffe confided in Sylvie that to return to Martinique would obligate them to stay until Carteson decided to leave. Days, weeks, perhaps even months. She decided to take matters into her own hands.

Enrico was an ambitious man, though not rich (much to the chagrin of Sylvie, who momentarily considered shifting her loyalties to the attaché, thus avoiding a long sea voyage). He had plans of becoming a powerful force in the Caribbean. Although he allowed himself to be seduced by Sylvie, he would not even consider her requests that they avoid Martinique at all costs. Sylvie sighed and Enrico disappeared. It was presumed that he fell overboard during the night.

Without the politician on board, Captain LeBoffe had no reason to return to St. Pierre. He set sail for France and there Sylvie O'Hara, relieved and more than a bit guilty, caught the first available passage to Germany.

When the Baron heard of the circumstances surrounding his son's death, he felt a twinge of fatherly pride. His son had managed through deed and inaction to be directly responsible for more French corpses than the entire Von Senftenberg line before him. It was with great pride and more than a little relief that he conveyed the news of his son's death to his wife and family. He, of course, had no idea that he was about to become a grandfather.   

The news of Frances' heroic death had reached the Baron only days before Sylvie did. The old man scarcely had time to celebrate and make up lies about his son's bravery, than he was confronted by a haggard though attractive Irish-Senegalese serving-girl claiming to be carrying his son's baby. Naturally, the Baron was inclined not to believe her, but Sylvie had been clever enough to steal several documents from Frances' personal papers to ensure the Baron that this woman was in fact carrying his grandchild.

Having this second blessing of an heir changed the Baron's demeanor completely. He was incredibly generous to Sylvie, though he insisted that she forgo any maternal claim to the child. A mixed-race Von Senftenberg was just not possible within his narrow world. He did, however, make Sylvie the baby girl's nanny and assured her a substantial salary for the remainder of her life. To any who asked, he simply said that Frances and his wife had perished on Martinique and that Sylvie had bravely saved the child. This is where the journal ended.

My flight wasn't leaving Frankfurt Airport till later that evening, so I made my way to the Von Senftenberg estate to return the journal to Sylvie. I was delighted to find her just where she said she would be, having tea in the gardens, unattended and highly amused with herself.

When she saw me, she smiled broadly, poured me a cup of tea and patted the chair next to her with her ancient hands to have me sit. I made myself comfortable and handed her the book which she pressed lovingly to her bosom. Sylvie let out a girl-like giggle and looked me in the eye. "Quite the tale, isn't it?" she asked.

"You were certainly no angel." I said smiling.

"Angels don't survive, they live tragic lives. I renounce tragedy," she paused and her eyes twinkled, "In any case, I suspect you might not exist if I were a better person. It's up to you to make amends for my life."

I couldn't help laughing. "I hope I am related to you, but I'm not going to search any deeper...I want it to be true and don't want to find out otherwise."

Suddenly a tear cascaded down her cheek and I could tell by her stare that she was a million miles and a hundred years away. She took hold of my hands, "Oh Frances, I should have made you leave with me, I've missed you for so long. I've never wanted forgiveness from anyone but you."

She seemed suddenly all of her nearly hundred years. I leaned across and kissed her gently on top of her bowed head. "Of course I forgive you," I paused and smiled, "I'm too stupid not to."

Sylvie looked up at me and suddenly returned to the present. She let out a boisterous laugh, then quieted and squeezed my hand. "Thank you," she said sincerely. We spent the remaining time I had drinking tea and telling tales and when I left the sun was setting. It was the last time I saw her, yet she is the person I think about most.

For any creature, there is a nobility in survival and the act of survival itself can be all the justification needed for a life of worth. Sylvie was not a particularly decent person, nor was she a particularly bad one. Under different circumstances, at a different time, in a different place, she might even have been a good one, but we are all pawns to our destiny and Sylvie was no different.

I do not know what I would have done in her position. The one thing of which I'm sure is that, despite her flaws, she was far more of an angel than she would ever admit and that her life was far from forlorn. Sylvie had renounced tragedy in her own life after seeing it in so many others. She had lost her lover, but retained her love and a life with love can never be a tragedy.