by Lynn Austin
“That’s why we left the State Church and started a separate one,” I said. “We think Christians should do more than just agree with what the Bible says. We should obey it and do things like loving our enemies.”
Hendrik still stood in the doorway, and I was afraid he would leave now that I had answered his question. I didn’t want him to. “May I ask you a question?” I said. I waited for him to nod. “Why did you become a soldier?”
He leaned against the doorframe, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “My parents died in the cholera epidemic nine years ago.” His gaze never left my face. “I was eleven. I lived with my aunt and uncle for a while, but they had too many children of their own and couldn’t afford to keep feeding me. I couldn’t find regular farmwork after the potato blight, so joining the army seemed like my only choice.”
“Do you regret your decision?”
“No. . . .” He hesitated before saying, “It brought me here.”
I felt a growing excitement that I couldn’t explain. I wanted Hendrik to stay here in the kitchen and keep talking with me, so I asked him another question. “Where did you grow up?”
“In a little farming village in the province of Groningen. You’ve probably never heard of it. May I?” he asked, gesturing to a kitchen chair. “I don’t want to keep you from your work. . . .”
“Ya, please. Sit down.”
“My family was very poor,” he continued. “I loved them very much, but I don’t recall us ever being as happy as your family seems to be.”
I realized how lonely Hendrik must be, living far from home, his parents gone, and I was glad I had been kind to him. “We are happy,” I said. “And the church is like a family to us. We don’t have much, but we help each other out.”
“I’ve noticed that. You Separatists aren’t at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” I smiled, and when Hendrik smiled back, I felt like I was floating above the floor.
“We were told that the Separatists were crude, ignorant people. And that you had radical beliefs. I imagined I would see all kinds of strange rites and rituals.”
I laughed out loud and sat down at the table across from him. We lost all track of time as we talked about our lives and our families, our hopes and our dreams. I told him about growing up on De Rijn in Leiden and how much I had enjoyed the excitement of city life. He told me how he used to play in the fields and along the dikes with his three brothers as a boy. They had died in the cholera epidemic, too, along with his parents and grandparents. “I have only one sister left,” he said. “She still lives in our village in Groningen.”
“Are you able to travel there to visit her?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since she married three years ago.”
“Will you stay in the army all your life?”
Hendrik shook his head. “I don’t want to. I would love to have a patch of land of my own to farm someday. I want to work with my hands and have a family—like yours.” He paused, then asked, “What about your future, Geesje? What do you wish for?”
I realized that I didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know . . . I haven’t thought much about it. I imagine I’ll have a husband and children one day. But for now, God hasn’t told me what His future plans for me are.”
“Does God always speak to you in such a . . . a direct way?”
“Not with a voice I can hear,” I said, laughing. “But I believe that if we pray and ask for guidance, He’ll help us decide what to do.”
We were still sitting at the table talking, the dishes unfinished, when Mama returned from her errand. I had learned a lot about Hendrik, and he fascinated me. After that first night, he often lingered in the kitchen after supper to talk with Mama and me instead of going out on the town with his three friends. I looked forward to those evenings more and more, and I often caught Hendrik watching me while I worked. Was I imagining it, or did he seem to want to be near me as much as I wanted to be near him? I stole glances at him whenever I could and decided he was the handsomest man I’d ever met. Everything about him was attractive, from his tall, lean frame, his tousled blond hair and warm gray eyes, to his easy smile and friendly personality. Each time we talked, he never failed to make me laugh.
I didn’t know what I was feeling, at first—this breathless giddiness whenever I was near him and the hollow emptiness whenever he was gone. I didn’t know why I felt a surge of happiness whenever I heard him and the others returning home, their feet tromping up the wooden steps, their deep voices laughing in the distance. Then one day as Papa sat at the kitchen table, weary after a long day in the print shop, Mama came up behind him and began kneading the tension from his shoulders. He sighed and reached back to cover her hand. I had witnessed these simple gestures dozens of times, but that day they spoke to me of how much my parents loved each other. I longed to massage the ache from Hendrik’s shoulders at the end of the day and feel his tender touch in return. Was I falling in love with him?
Throughout the next few months I tried to deny my growing feelings for him. I didn’t understand them. And I knew for certain that my family would never allow me to marry a man who didn’t share our faith. Maarten also took a liking to Hendrik and they became good friends. Hendrik would often sit and talk with Maarten while he tidied the print shop at the end of the workday. One evening, Maarten stopped me on my way upstairs, his voice hushed with excitement.
“Geesje, do you have a minute? There’s something I want to tell you.”
“Ya . . . what is it?” Maarten had made no move to court me even though Papa had given him permission, yet I feared he was about to declare his love or offer a marriage proposal. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt Maarten, but how could I accept his advances? As it turned out, that wasn’t at all what he wanted to discuss.
“I have such wonderful news, Geesje. You know how I’ve been talking with Hendrik, the tall soldier with the sandy hair? He has been asking many, many questions these past weeks, and tonight he said he wants to become a believer!”
Hope and joy bubbled up inside me. “Really? That’s wonderful news!” My excitement wasn’t for the same reason as Maarten’s. I wouldn’t have to deny my feelings for Hendrik if he became one of us. It seemed like a miracle to me.
“Ya, it’s really true,” Maarten continued. “Just think! The king put Hendrik here in our home to punish us, but God brought good from it. Will you pray for him, Geesje? And pray that I’ll know the right words to say to him?”
“Ya, of course I’ll pray.” Poor Maarten couldn’t know that his kindness to Hendrik might mean sacrificing his hopes of marrying me.
I lay on my pallet that night, wide awake with excitement, listening to the low rumble of the soldiers’ voices through the thin wall, punctuated by occasional laughter. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Hendrik’s voice, the deepest of the four, sent shivers through me. Love your enemies, Jesus taught. And I had obeyed. Now His command had transformed into something I never imagined or intended. For the first time in my life, I was in love.
Chapter 6
Anna
Hotel Ottawa
1897
I rise early, before breakfast, so I can take a walk outside before the sun grows too hot. I love this time of day when the air is fresh and clean and the dew still twinkles on the grass. Today the sky is dotted with high, gauzy clouds and the waters of Black Lake are a lovely silvery blue. I sit on my favorite bench, near the water where Derk mistook me for his friend Elizabeth the first day, and watch the family of ducks swimming near shore. I have seen Derk only from a distance since then, when he is taking care of the rowboats or toting trunks and suitcases for hotel guests. Today I watch him load a picnic basket onto the hotel’s small sailboat as he prepares to take passengers on an excursion. Advertisements and flyers in the hotel’s lobby advise guests that we can sign up to go sailing at the concierge’s desk. I watch until Derk’s passengers—a young couple who can’t seem to take their eyes
off each other—are seated in the boat and Derk sets sail out onto the lake. Their laughter carries across the clear water. I can think of nothing I would hate more than stepping onto another boat.
Mother has news for me later as we sit across from each other at breakfast. “A letter from your father arrived in this morning’s post,” she says. She pulls it from the envelope and reads part of it aloud to me. “‘Tell my dear Anna that I saw William at the club the other night, and we spoke briefly about their broken engagement. He told me he would be open to further conversation regarding a reconciliation but perhaps at a later time.’”
I could easily imagine William sitting in an overstuffed club chair in his starched white shirt, holding a fragrant cigar between his fingers and frowning at the very mention of my name. But Father is an important client of the bank that William’s grandfather founded, so William wouldn’t dare shout at him the way he shouted at me, especially in the hushed tranquility of their private men’s club, where the servants whisper and walk on tiptoe.
“What do you think, Anna? That’s good news, isn’t it?” Mother asks.
“I don’t know . . . can we talk about something else? I still need more time to think.”
Mother honors my wishes, although I can tell she is biting her tongue. When we finish eating, she runs into a guest from Chicago she has befriended named Honoria Stevens. They decide to sit on the hotel’s wide veranda and leaf through the latest copies of Vogue fashion magazine, planning the gowns their seamstresses will create for the fall social season. I’m sure they’ll also spend a good deal of time complaining about their servants back home and the hotel’s untutored staff. “You’re welcome to join us, Anna,” Mother says.
Nothing would bore me more. “Maybe later,” I tell her. “I want to walk to the beachfront on Lake Michigan this morning.”
“In that case, why not invite one of the nice young ladies we met at the piano recital last night to go with you?”
I give a vague nod in reply, but I have no intention of asking anyone to join me, least of all those giddy girls. I already know that their conversation will be superficial and boring, like the idle conversations I’m forced to endure when paying social calls and receiving visitors back home. Such visits rarely ease my loneliness or fill the longing I have for a close friend. I haven’t had a real friend to laugh with and confide in since my school days. The girls I knew at school are all married now, and I’m practically an old maid at my advanced age of twenty-three. But it took me longer than the other girls to overcome my shyness and to grow up enough to begin courting and become engaged. Father sheltered me as his little girl, and no suitor was ever good enough in his eyes until William came along.
“Well, be sure to wear a hat when you’re on the beach,” Mother cautions. “And long sleeves so the sun doesn’t darken your skin.”
I do as I’m told and return to my room for my sun hat. I still haven’t worn the new bathing costume I purchased before leaving home, nor do I want to wear it now. I have no desire to dip so much as a toe into either lake. As I’m leaving my room again, I decide to bring my diary along—not to write in but to read. Perhaps I can discover where things went wrong between William and me. And maybe I can decide if I still love him.
The short walk to the beach takes me along the channel that connects Black Lake to Lake Michigan. Several small boats are sailing through it this morning, taking advantage of the calm water to venture out onto the big lake. A handful of fishermen try their luck along the edge of the channel, casting their lines into the glittering water. I stand and watch the activity for a while before pulling off my shoes to walk barefoot in the warm, sugarlike sand. A group of children play in the water nearby, squealing with delight as the waves wash over them and destroy the sand castles they’re building at the water’s edge. Another young family has brought along a picnic lunch, and as they spread it out on a blanket, a trio of bold seagulls inches closer.
At last I sink down in the sand and open my diary to the first entry:
January 1, 1897
I attended a New Year’s Eve party with William last night in the ballroom of his family’s mansion. Everything was dazzling—the decorations, the food, the ladies’ gowns, the orchestral music. William stole my breath away in his tailored black evening suit and tailcoat. We danced until my feet ached and the champagne I sipped made the room begin to whirl. William was by far the handsomest man in the room with his wavy dark hair and neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes are the same rich mahogany color as the woodwork that decorates his mansion. I saw the jealous looks in the other girls’ eyes, knowing that I was the lucky one who had won William’s heart. After midnight we snuck down to the servants’ hallway, and I let William kiss me when no one was looking. His kisses made me even dizzier than the champagne. Oh, how I long for the day when we are married and we can be together all the time, holding each other much closer than we are allowed to now.
Tears fill my eyes at the memory of that evening and the stolen kisses we shared. We had gazed at each other the same way the young couple had when I watched them this morning, climbing into Derk’s sailboat.
I skim a few more diary entries, remembering the wedding preparations Mother and I had begun to discuss—the guest list, the wedding dinner, the gowns and other clothes for my wedding trip to Europe. William and I hadn’t chosen a date yet, but he did decide to hold the reception in his family’s ballroom since his home is larger and more opulent than ours. We would live with his parents at first, until our own home could be built. William knew exactly what he wanted our mansion to look like and how every room would be furnished. The thought of planning and furnishing an enormous home on my own seemed overwhelming to me at the time, so I was quite happy to leave everything in his capable hands. William is very decisive, while I’m terrible at making up my mind. Little did I know that he would take over all of the other important decisions in my life as well, including which church I should attend.
My stomach rolls like the nearby waves as I turn back to my diary.
January 7
It finally stopped snowing this morning, and by the afternoon I longed to get out of the house. I summoned our driver and asked him to take me for a carriage ride, wishing I had a friend to join me—someone who would enjoy a brisk winter ride as much as I do. The city looked like a fairyland with a new coating of snow sparkling on all the trees. The frigid air blowing off Lake Michigan made my nose hurt when I breathed it in, but I felt so alive!
On my way home the driver came upon a carriage accident that blocked the way, so he turned down a side street, then another and another until we ended up outside a church on the corner of Chicago Avenue and LaSalle Street. I have been to that church before, I am sure of it, but I can’t remember when or why. The entrance, which faces the corner, is through a round, brick tower that resembles a castle turret. Parked in front of the door was the Gospel Wagon that I’d often seen around Chicago during the World’s Columbian Exposition three years ago. The music and singing were so festive that I asked my driver to stop for a moment. When we did, a woman ran right up to my carriage and handed me an advertisement inviting me to come inside and hear a world-famous evangelist. I instructed my driver to wait, and I stepped out of the carriage.
The moment I walked through the doors, I knew I had been inside before. Everything was so familiar! I lingered in the rear of the church and listened for a moment. The minister talked about Jesus as if He was his best friend. Then he described the loneliness and emptiness we all feel, and said that Jesus could fill that empty place. “God loves you,” the minister said. “He has a plan and a purpose for your life.”
The sermon wasn’t finished, but I knew my driver was waiting for me, so I slipped outside again. But the minister’s words remained with me all the way home, warming my heart like a tiny candle in the snow.
I asked Mother if we’d ever gone to the church at that address when I returned home. “Certainly not!” she replied. I questioned
if I might have gone there with Father, but Mother simply stated that our family has attended the same church our entire life.
It’s late now, and I need to turn out the gaslight and go to sleep. But I still can’t shake the eerie feeling that I’ve been to the castle church before. Nor can I forget the minister’s words. Does God really have a plan and a purpose for my life?
January 9
I dreamed about the castle church last night. Mama and I were there together, listening to a sermon. Then I awoke to a dreary, gray day with nothing to do. Mother is in bed with a cold, so I bundled up in my warmest coat and boots, intending to walk down our street and back again. But on a whim, I hailed a passing cab and asked the driver to take me to the castle church. I had no idea if there would be a service there in the middle of the afternoon, but it turned out that there was. The same preacher from a few days ago was speaking, and this time I stayed for the entire sermon.
I look up again, gazing out at the thin line on the horizon where water and sky meet, remembering what happened the following evening. William and I had been on our way to the theater together, and I was excited to tell him about the sermon I’d heard. I had barely begun speaking when he interrupted me. “What were you doing in a place like that, Anna?” His voice was as cold as the January night.
“What do you mean? It’s a church, William. A Christian church.”
“Places like that attract the very lowest sort of people. The ministers are often charlatans who like to bilk innocent people out of their money.”
“No one asked me for money—”
“Even so, stay away from there.” It was an order. He spoke to me the way he might speak to a servant or one of his employees at the bank. I tried to explain how something seemed to be missing from my life, and he grew angrier still, saying I was insulting him and my parents when I spoke that way. Then he smiled and said, “Let’s talk about something else.” He was very sweet to me for the rest of the evening, holding my hand and stealing kisses and telling me how beautiful I am. “Your hair is the color of spun gold,” he said. “I can’t wait to see it hanging loose around your beautiful face.”
