by Jody Hedlund
“I understand what you are saying, Miss Pendleton. We may clothe and feed them, but without true repentance and a transformation of the heart, they will only return to their immoral ways.”
She stood silently and pondered his words. She saw the reasoning in them. However . . . “Why can we not meet their spiritual and physical needs at the same time? Why must it be all one or the other?”
“The Spirit brings life and power to accomplish the other. Once people are truly set free from their sins, they will have the motivation and desire to seek a better life apart from sin.”
“In light of your logic, then during Jesus’s ministry on earth, He would have only preached. But did He not heal the sick and feed the five thousand? Doesn’t that indicate His compassion moved Him to meet more than spiritual needs?”
Reverend Bedell rested his elbows on the pulpit and leaned down into them, which lowered him to her level. His eyes were wide and had turned a shade lighter, more blue than green now, as though sunshine had chased away any shadows.
She fiddled with her reticule, but then clasped it behind her back to keep herself from opening and closing it again.
“Miss Pendleton,” the reverend said with a slow smile. She almost thought she caught a glint of admiration in his expression. “You’re astute, and I appreciate your reasoning. But we cannot forget that Jesus was able to meet physical needs and change hearts simultaneously in a way we aren’t capable of doing.”
“But He clearly believed that meeting the physical needs of the lost was important.” She reached for his Bible on the pulpit. “May I?”
“Of course.” He handed it to her.
She flipped open the well-worn pages, noticing the frequent underlining of text and notes in the margins. She found her way to the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, cleared her throat, and began to read. “‘Depart from me, you who are cursed into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink. I was a stranger and you did not invite me in. I needed clothes and you did not clothe me. I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me . . . I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’”
She closed the Bible and returned it to the pulpit.
Ridley was still waiting in the doorway. Etiquette demanded that she go. To stay and deliberate further would be unladylike.
And yet, even as she took a slight step back, the reverend said, “To be honest, every time I visit among them, I come back desolate, wishing and praying I could do more. There have even been times I’ve wondered what I’m doing here. I never see a difference. If I leave to minister somewhere else, perhaps a better man could come here and accomplish what I cannot.” Once the words were out, he rubbed his hand across his mouth as if he wished he could take them back. “I’m sorry, Miss Pendleton.”
“I can only imagine how discouraging this work is day after day.” She was grateful for his honesty and felt the need to reassure him. “I’m sure at times I would want to give up too.”
The muscles in his jaw flexed, and he nodded in response.
“But there are few others like you, Reverend Bedell, who are willing to minister here among the immigrants. Therefore, I doubt God will easily release you from this task.”
His eyes locked with hers. The window of his soul was open, allowing her to see deep into his insecurities and fears.
“Perhaps rather than thinking God wants you to put your efforts into a new congregation,” she continued hesitantly, “what if He’s simply asking you to consider making some changes right where you are?”
His expression told her he was seriously weighing her words. “Just this week I prayed about whether to turn in my resignation. And I do believe God is giving me His answer through you, Miss Pendleton.”
A small measure of satisfaction settled in her chest, and she couldn’t keep from smiling.
His eyes lit and he smiled in return, a happiness radiating from him that hadn’t been there previously. She was struck again as she had been earlier by what a fine-looking man he was, especially with the errant tousle of hair that had slipped down his forehead.
When he combed it back, she turned, embarrassed at having been caught studying him. “I should be on my way, Reverend. I’ve already taken up more of your time than I’d intended.” She started down the center aisle between the benches toward Ridley.
For a moment the reverend didn’t say anything, but she could feel him watching her with each step she took. Although she tried to act calm, her stomach began to flutter under his scrutiny. She’d almost reached the door when his voice broke the silence. “Wait.”
She spun much too quickly.
He’d rounded the pulpit, looking as if he had every intention of chasing after her.
As she waited for him to speak, her breath hitched, although she wasn’t sure why. And she wasn’t sure why her skin felt overheated.
“Do you have any ideas for what I—what we—could do differently here?” he asked.
The satisfaction she’d experienced before came rolling back. Reverend Bedell was a good and humble man to request her advice when she’d already imposed. “I’m afraid I’ve already spoken too much today as it is.”
“Not at all. If God brought you here as an answer to my prayer, then I have a feeling He has much more for you to say.”
Reverend Bedell was giving her more credit than she deserved. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t anyone special. But his expectant eyes stopped her from disappointing him. “Perhaps you should continue to pray. If God has answered your prayers once, I’m sure He’ll do so again.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
She nodded and turned to leave again.
“I’ll see you on Saturday then for the visiting?” The hope in his voice stopped her.
“Will you be ready for more bossing around by then?”
He chuckled. “Absolutely.”
“Then I’ll be here.” Once more she became conscious of her bold interactions with this man and strode forward, anxious now to leave. Her coachman opened the door for her. As she passed by, she tried not to notice that Ridley’s eyebrows were arched high above his questioning gaze.
In light of her behavior with the reverend, her dear faithful friend probably suspected she was addled in the brain. She feared he was right.
Chapter 2
KLEINDEUTSCHLAND, NEW YORK CITY
The stench of death choked Elise Neumann. In the windowless bedroom of the tenement, the air was already dank and humid. The odor of vomit and the rottenness of the chamber pot filled every breath.
Elise clasped the frail hand in hers, not surprised that her mother’s skin was cold in spite of the May heat.
“You won’t die, Mutti.” Marianne’s strangled voice was muffled against their mother’s chest. Marianne had thrown her arms across Mutti, but the dying woman didn’t have the strength to return the embrace.
“I will go soon, Liebchen,” Mutti whispered. “And I will be glad to see your Vater again.”
“No!” Marianne cried. “You can’t leave us.”
Elise’s eyes burned, yet she refused to cry. She hadn’t shed a tear when their father had died two years ago. And she wouldn’t weep now either. As the oldest of her sisters, she had to be strong. The others relied upon her steadfastness and her practical nature. If she allowed herself to fall apart, they would all be lost.
In the corner came Sophie’s persistent sniffling. Even though Sophie was younger than Marianne, she hadn’t resorted to the same weeping and theatrics. Elise suspected Sophie wanted to remain strong for her own charges, the two toddlers who clung to her as though she were their mother.
“Elise,” Mutti said weakly.
“I’m here.” Elise squeezed her mother’s hand.
“Get my box, bitte.”
Elise rose from the floor next to the only bed in the apartment. She suppo
sed she ought to be grateful to Uncle Hermann for allowing Mutti the use of the bed during her dying moments. Normally, Mutti slept with them in the other room, which sufficed as a kitchen and parlor during the day and a bedroom at night.
The apartment wasn’t big enough for Uncle’s family. And it certainly wasn’t large enough for their family in addition to the two children left by the last boarder.
Elise stepped out of the closet-like room that served as the bedroom. Her aunt sat at the table next to the coal-burning stove. Two of her daughters were mending with her, the garments having been patched until the original linen hardly remained.
The three glanced up as Elise sidled past them.
“She will not last long now,” Aunt Gertie said in German without pausing her stitching.
I had no idea. Thank you for letting me know, Elise was tempted to retort. Instead she nodded and crept through the maze of furniture and belongings to the sagging sofa that was no longer green, if it had ever been. Like everything else, it wore a permanent layer of black soot. Without a vent, the smoke from the stove had nowhere to escape except into the apartment, which was already difficult to keep clean without running water. The only source of water for the entire tenement building was a faucet at the bottom of the stairwell that all the families here shared.
Elise knelt next to the sofa and reached for the box stowed underneath. She slid the container out amidst the clutter of blankets, shoes, and clothes that were also stored there. With trembling fingers she dusted the lid. The flat box held all her family’s possessions—the remnants of a past life that had somehow slipped away no matter how hard Elise had tried to grasp it. They’d had to sell everything of value one item at a time, until now all that remained could fit into a single box.
With the container in hand, she retraced her steps to the bedroom, back to Marianne’s weeping and Sophie’s sniffles. The light coming in through the open doorway from the kitchen was scant, and the shadows of the room were deep.
As she knelt again next to Mutti’s still body, Elise couldn’t detect a trace of life, not even the gentle rise and fall of her mother’s chest. Marianne was kissing Mutti’s palm, tears coursing her cheeks, and sobs shaking her shoulders.
“Is she—?” Elise couldn’t make herself say the word.
“I am still here, Liebchen.” Mutti opened her eyes and somehow managed to lift her free hand toward Elise.
Elise grasped Mutti’s fingers and pressed a kiss into her hand the same way that Marianne was doing.
“Would you take off my wedding band?” Mutti asked.
Elise started to shake her head.
“Bitte, Elise.” The plea was soft but threaded with desperation.
Elise quickly did the dirty deed. The ring slid off too easily, even with the bit of scrap material wound around the back of the band to keep it in place. Elise silently berated herself, as she had a thousand times over the past week when Mutti hadn’t been able to rise. She should have noticed Mutti becoming weaker and thinner. Of course, they’d all grown too slim since Vater had died. Even with Mutti, Marianne, and herself working twelve-hour days and boarding with Uncle, they still never had enough to completely fill their bellies.
Once Mutti became ill, her appetite had diminished, until all that remained was a skeleton of the vibrant woman she’d once been. Once upon a time. When they’d lived in Hamburg, when Vater had still operated his bakery, in the days before Count Eberhardt had destroyed Vater’s business with one spiteful and false rumor.
Without customers, Vater had been left with little choice. He could watch his family starve to death, or he could sell his failing business and use the capital to sail to America and attempt to start over in the “land of opportunity.”
Bitterness burned within Elise every time she thought about Count Eberhardt, with his protruding belly girded in place by a wide belt with a gold buckle, his fat fingers decorated with equally fat rings, and his fleshy jowls that were creased with a permanent frown. Like so many aristocrats he’d abused his power and wealth without a care for how he’d ruined others’ lives. Even now he was probably feasting at his lavish estate manor on fresh apple strudel and hot cherry tarts while Mutti lay on a stinking, soiled mattress unable to keep down even the tepid water they’d spooned into her mouth around the clock.
“Elise,” Mutti whispered, “I want you to have my ring.”
Elise closed her fingers tightly around the band. The sharp edges of the cross bit into her hand.
“I want you to keep it as a reminder of the fullness of life found only in God, of the richness of forgiveness, and of the freedom that comes from surrender.”
Elise knew what Mutti was asking her to do. Forgive Count Eberhardt for the pain he’d caused their family. But Elise also knew that she never could, especially now that she was losing Mutti. Mutti was too young, too beautiful, and too sweet to die. It was all the count’s fault. Everything that had happened to them was the count’s fault. And she’d never be able to forgive him for what he’d done. No matter how much her mother pleaded with her. However, she wouldn’t say that to Mutti. She didn’t want to disappoint her mother during her final moments on earth.
“Thank you, Mutti,” she said before bending and placing a kiss on her mother’s gaunt cheek.
Mutti closed her eyes. Even in the darkness of the room, Elise could see the haunted shadows of pain cross her mother’s once-elegant features. Her brown hair that had been lustrous and full and wavy was now thin and greasy and gnarled with gray. Her skin that had been silky and soft and smelling like lavender was cracked and ashen.
At eighteen, Marianne was a reflection of what their mother had once looked like while she at nineteen and Sophie at fifteen had both inherited their father’s fairness, with his hair the shade of buttercream, and eyes like ripened blueberries. Sophie could have been Elise’s twin, except her younger sister had endearing dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, which unfortunately wasn’t often enough in recent years.
“Now I need the music box,” Mutti said.
Elise opened the container of their possessions and lifted out a pale oak pedestal with the wooden figurine of a young girl tending her four geese. The little carvings were hand-painted with detailed design work in bright green, red, and white.
“Turn it on,” Mutti said weakly.
Elise rotated the wooden hand crank, and the geese and a tiny tree began to turn to the German folk song “Alle Meine Entchen,” which translated to “All My Ducklings.”
“Marianne . . .” Mutti fumbled for the young woman.
With swollen eyes and red splotchy cheeks, Marianne lifted herself from Mutti.
“The music box is for you,” Mutti said. “I want you to keep it as a reminder to always sing and never lose sight of the music and joy that is found in living, no matter how difficult or hard your situation.”
“Oh, Mutti!” Marianne burst into fresh sobs. “It’s yours from Vater. I won’t take away something so precious.”
Elise set the box next to Marianne knowing full well that Marianne wouldn’t accept either the gift or Mutti’s death until after the dear woman was buried.
Mutti pressed her lips together, holding in a moan of pain. Mutti hadn’t allowed Elise to send for the physician earlier in the week when she’d taken to bed. At first Elise had assumed that Mutti was in denial of her sickness. But as the week had progressed, Elise realized the opposite was true. Mutti knew how ill she was, likely had known for some time. And because of that, she hadn’t wanted to waste their pitifully inadequate earnings on a doctor’s visit that would be for naught.
Mutti’s face contorted into tight lines. Her chest ceased rising and falling.
Elise held her breath and frantically tried to form a prayer. Not yet, God. Please. Not yet.
Mutti opened her eyes, and for just an instant Elise glimpsed the acute agony her mother was suffering. “Now. For Sophie.”
At her name, the young girl in the corner swiped at her cheeks a
nd crawled forward until she was kneeling next to Marianne. Without Sophie, Olivia and Nicholas huddled together. At two and a half, Olivia was already mothering her baby brother, who was hardly more than a year old. They hadn’t fussed when their own mother had forsaken them weeks ago, if they’d even noticed.
Elise was proud of Sophie for pouring out her love and attention upon the two orphans, much the same way Mutti had always showered her daughters with her affection, smiles, and wisdom. When Olivia and Nicholas had first arrived with their mother and father to board in Uncle’s apartment, the two children rarely spoke or smiled. They’d been scared and bruised. It hadn’t taken long to see why. Mr. Olson, their father, beat them every time they so much as whimpered. He did the same to his wife.
In the already crowded apartment, the conditions had become unbearable. When Mutti had asked her brother to do something about Mr. Olson’s abuse toward his family, Uncle Hermann had only brushed off her concerns. Not only was Mr. Olson one of Uncle’s drinking partners, but having the extra income from the new boarders allowed Uncle to spend more at the beer halls along the Bowery every evening.
Since Sophie had already been appointed to watch the youngest children and babies during the day while everyone else worked, she’d readily gathered Olivia and Nicholas to her small flock of charges. When Mr. Olson had been found dead in an alley only two weeks after their arrival, no one had shed a tear. Without her husband’s income, Mrs. Olson hadn’t been able to afford the rent. At mother’s pleading, Uncle had agreed to allow Mrs. Olson a week to find other arrangements. Apparently she had, except that she’d neglected to take her two children with her. And after four months she hadn’t come back for them.
Mutti had attempted to locate the young mother. But finding one person among the thousands of poor immigrants crammed into lower Manhattan was like locating a grain of yeast already pounded into rising bread dough. Impossible. Useless. Futile.
