by Lynn Austin
My house was quiet inside. The jumble of dishes and dirty pans in my kitchen told me that Maarten had fed the children and sent the boys off to school. I found Christina with him in the print shop. She wore the pink ribbon tied around her tousled hair, and I smiled at the thought of Maarten struggling to tie it in a bow with his large, thick fingers while our daughter bounced and wiggled on his lap. God forgive me, but when I’d wallowed in self-pity last night I had called him “second-best.” He wasn’t. Maarten was a loving husband to me, a wonderful father to our children.
Christina ran to me when she saw me and hugged my legs. The overwhelming love I felt for her, for all my children, was one of the convincing proofs God had offered me when I’d challenged Him to show that He loved me. I would lay down my own life for them, which was exactly what He had done for me.
The pink hair ribbon also reminded me of Hendrik. Today I would begin the difficult task of forgetting him all over again. But I still couldn’t bring myself to burn all of his letters in the fireplace. I simply couldn’t. They remained in the little tin box, hidden away in my steamer trunk.
Chapter 27
Anna
Hotel Ottawa
1897
It seems as though my hike up Mt. Pisgah with Derk happened weeks ago instead of just this morning. I’ve been mulling over the advice he gave me ever since, pushing it around in my mind the way I pushed my scrambled eggs around on my plate at breakfast. Derk said I shouldn’t marry William, and he gave me two reasons why. The first was that I didn’t love him. Derk had insisted that love was all-important, and I’d insisted that it didn’t matter to me, justifying my opinion with a lengthy discourse about how love wasn’t expected in my social circle. But as I sit here on the veranda watching young couples walk past arm-in arm, gazing into each other’s eyes and talking animatedly, I long to feel that same breathless passion for William. I used to secretly read romance novels at school—all the girls did—and we would dream of the mysterious excitement of falling in love, the unbounded joy of knowing we were loved in return. I’ve brought my diary downstairs with me, and I spend a few minutes rereading the passages where William kissed me, trying to remember what I had felt for him then and wondering what he had felt for me.
I also reread several diary entries about the castle church and how I had found a missing piece of myself there. They remind me of the second reason Derk gave for not marrying William. He said I should be free to attend any church I chose, and that William had no right to take away that religious freedom. Even if William did allow me to attend the castle church, I can well imagine what all the other ladies I know would say about it. I would be ostracized if I dared to talk about the Bible or bring up Jesus’ teachings as a topic of conversation over tea. All mention of religion is taboo in my circle. It’s considered fanatical, to use Mother’s word.
I open my Bible to the place I left off and read the story of Jesus’ arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane. All His disciples scattered and deserted Him. Peter adamantly denied knowing Him—not once, but three times. I suddenly wish I had never met Derk Vander Veen or talked with him about Jesus. I feel as though I, too, will be denying Christ when I return to Chicago and my old way of life.
I hear brisk footsteps and look up to see Mother approaching, armed with a stack of fashion magazines. She sits down in the empty chair beside mine. “You promised we would look through these together, remember? We need to give our seamstress plenty of time to sew your wedding gown and trousseau.” She lays one of the magazines on top of the open Bible in my lap as if she hasn’t noticed it and begins leafing through another magazine on her own. “Oh my, just look at these gorgeous dresses! And the new hats they’re wearing! Honoria Stevens told me this magazine was the best one with the very latest fashions, and she was right.”
I lean over to peer at the page she is studying. “What’s the purpose of those huge, puffy sleeves?” I ask.
“They don’t need a purpose. They’re in fashion this season.”
“They look hideous. Who would want arms that looked like that?”
Mother calmly turns to the next page and then the next. “One might say that the look you’ve chosen during your stay here is equally unsatisfactory.” Her voice is tight with barely controlled restraint. “You don’t wear gloves or petticoats, you stopped fixing your hair. . . . I see now that it was a mistake to leave our lady’s maid at home. You’ve developed some very bad habits while we’ve been away.”
I gaze into the distance at the rippling blue water, the emerald trees, the cotton-puff clouds that float above the grand hotels on the opposite shore of Black Lake. “Don’t you ever get tired of having to look pretty and wear the latest clothes?” I ask. “And having to listen to boring conversations as we sip tea and nibble cucumber sandwiches?”
“The conversation isn’t at all boring to me. The other women are my friends. We enjoy each other’s company. And don’t reduce our life in Chicago to something trivial, Anna. The women in our social circle accomplish a great deal of good for the community.”
“I don’t have a close friend.” That’s the problem, I realize. None of the girls I knew back home would ever engage in frank discussions like the one Derk and I had as we’d climbed the dune. My time with Derk had ended unsatisfactorily, but at least we had been honest with each other.
“If you want friends, Anna, you need to stop being so bashful and talk to people. Invite them to go places with you. I’m sure you would find that you have a great deal in common with other girls your age if you simply tried harder.”
I’m not so sure. I can’t think of a single girl I know who would be willing to visit the castle church with me or read the Bible.
“What about William’s sister?” Mother asks. “Jane is nearly your age, isn’t she? You’ll have plenty of time to become friends while your new home is being built and you’re living with William’s family.”
“I suppose,” I reply. But how can I talk frankly about love and marriage with my husband’s sister? And Jane has never shown any interest at all in religion, much less in discussing the Bible. I sigh without realizing it, and Mother slaps her fashion magazine closed.
“Anna, listen to me. You simply must shake off this gloomy attitude of yours. Moroseness is not an endearing quality for anyone to have. I understand why you felt sad when we first arrived and your engagement to William had ended so abruptly. I thought if you spent a week at the lake it would improve your disposition and you would be able to move forward again, but it seems your time here has only made things worse. Now that you’ve reconciled with William and all is forgiven, you have everything in the world to look forward to—a future that is the envy of all the young ladies your age. Yet you continue to mope around as if you want something more. I simply don’t understand it.”
“I don’t understand it either!” I reply in exasperation. “I know I should be happy, and I want to be—I truly do. But . . . but coming here has raised even more questions in my mind.”
“What questions?” She seems truly baffled, even though she has read my diary and knows all my private thoughts. We are worlds apart, Mother and I. She doesn’t understand me and I don’t understand her. I don’t understand how she can blithely sail through life without ever questioning the things that happen to her. Or how she can be content to leave every decision to my father. Why is she satisfied with shallow, superficial friendships, and stiff, formal religious services that keep God at a distance? I am nothing like my mother. I want answers to my many doubts and questions. I want to feel God’s love when I worship Him. I want to know what my purpose is in life. I glance at the serene façade Mother presents and wonder if the rebellion I feel is in my blood, something I’ve inherited from my real mother along with my blond hair.
“I have a lot of questions, Mother—such as where did you find me? Was I left on your doorstep? In an orphans’ home? You told me I was abandoned as a newborn, but where and how did it happen? What were the circumstances?”
If I keep bringing up the subject, maybe she’ll finally weaken and give in and tell me what I want to know.
Instead she says, “Why are you asking this now, Anna? Why all of a sudden after all these years as our beloved daughter?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe because I’m getting married soon, and I’ll have children of my own someday. . . . I guess I’ve always wondered about my real parents, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings by asking about them. And I’ve been a little afraid to learn the answers before. But now I need to know.”
I can see that Mother is losing patience with me. Perhaps she feels rejected because I’m asking about my “real” mother. When she finally replies, her tone is cold and clipped. “Your father was traveling on a business trip when you were found. I wasn’t with him. You need to ask him the details.”
“But where was he traveling to? Where did he find me?”
She shakes her head, her chin lifted, her mouth pinched in a firm line. “Don’t ask me again, Anna. You need to hear the story from him.”
“But I must have had a real mother and father—”
“Of course you did. And we tried very hard to locate them. Your father contacted the proper authorities, put announcements in all the newspapers . . . I don’t know why your family never came forward to claim you, but they didn’t. In the meantime, we both grew to love you very much, so we began making arrangements to adopt you.”
“No one wanted me.”
“You’re wrong.” Mother is close to losing her temper, but proper ladies don’t indulge in tantrums, especially in public places. “Your father and I wanted you very badly. If you only knew how much we worried that your family would be located and that we would lose you. . . . When the adoption was finalized and you became ours, we were overjoyed.”
“But where—?”
“Let your father tell you the story, Anna. You owe him that much.”
I was sorry I hadn’t asked him while he was here. Now I would have to wait until I returned to Chicago. I had reached a dead end once again. But I still had questions for Mother. Derk had made such a fuss this morning about marrying for love that I found myself asking, “Were you in love with Father when you married him?”
“Where did that question come from?”
“I know you met Father through Uncle Robert. You told me they had been friends in college and that they both worked for your father for a while.”
“Yes, my father gave Arthur a start in business. He gave him his first loan and helped his business become a success.”
Had my father used his marriage to Mother to get ahead, the same way he now wanted to use my marriage to William? I adored my father, but this new thought made me see him in a different, less flattering light. “Were you madly in love with each other when you decided to marry?”
“Listen, Anna—”
“I’m getting married soon, and I don’t want to talk about trivial things like puffy-sleeved dresses and hideous hats for my trousseau. I want to talk about marriage, and how I’ll know whether or not I’m in love with William, and if love is really important for a successful marriage or not!”
“Anna, hush!” She glances all around after my outburst, horrified that I’ve raised my voice. She lowers her own voice to a calm murmur. “First of all, you must understand that I’m very uncomfortable discussing such personal matters. One must avoid letting one’s emotions spill out for everyone to see. Part of growing up and becoming a mature woman is learning to control your feelings rather than allowing them to control you. Women who indulge in histrionics and have to take laudanum pills are from an entirely different class than we are.”
“I can’t help how I feel, can I?”
“Of course you can. You must learn to take control of yourself, Anna. You have always been a very emotional child, what people refer to as high-strung. I feel partly responsible for indulging your moodiness for as long as I have, and I’m sorry if it sounds cruel, but it’s time for you to stop.”
She opens her magazine and erects a barrier of dignity like a brick wall. “Now, about these gowns. If you don’t like the sleeves on that one, perhaps you’d prefer this one, instead.”
She is avoiding my question. It can only mean that she wasn’t madly in love with Father when they married—and still isn’t. A woman in love wants to talk about the details endlessly, the way one of the girls at my school did after she fell in love. Yet my parents seem content with each other. Perhaps I will learn to be content, too.
I do what Mother asks and dutifully page through the fashion magazines, choosing several gowns for my trousseau. Mother complains that they’re much too plain, but the ones she prefers look fussy and confining and purposeless to me. They remind me of my life. When we finish leafing through the last magazine, I lean back in my chair and watch the activity on the lake. There is a brisk breeze today, which evidently makes it perfect for sailing, because Black Lake is dotted with white triangular sails. I wonder if Derk is sailing one of them. They skim the surface of the sparkling water so freely and effortlessly that it almost looks inviting—but a sickening feeling writhes in the pit of my stomach at the thought of venturing out on the deep, cold water.
I have another strange dream that night. Mama and I are on a train that is stuffed full of working-class people. Their simple clothing is well-worn and patched—no puffy sleeves or voluminous petticoats for them. They carry baskets with homemade lunches that smell of sausage and garlic and raw onions. I hear shouts and loud laughter as two rough drunks begin fighting. Mama holds me close, whispering, “Shh, shh. It won’t be much longer and we’ll finally be far away from all this. We’ll be safe. We’ll live in a place with beautiful trees where it’s peaceful and quiet.”
When we finally get off the train, we’re near the waterfront where dozens of ships are moored, their sails rolled up, their empty masts poking into the darkening sky. We walk until I grow tired and ask to be carried, but Mama has her hands full as she struggles with our bags. We stop several times to rest before reaching the steamship office. Mama asks for two tickets and dumps out a purse full of coins to pay for them. The clerk points toward a ship docked at the pier. The sun is setting behind our backs, and the water stretches out in front of us as far as I can see, all the way to the gently curved horizon. Panic floods through me at the thought of boarding that ship. I can’t breathe. I begin to scream. “No . . . !”
I wake up sweating, tangled in the bedsheets, relieved that it was only a dream. I rise and open the window, gulping in the moist, clean air. The waves are shushing in the distance like Mama’s soft shushing in my dream. Lights from the other hotels across the lake sparkle and twinkle.
Am I so terrified of marriage that it’s giving me nightmares? Is it truly a fear of the deep, unknown water—or of surrendering my life to a future that has already been mapped out for me?
Chapter 28
Geesje
Holland, Michigan
1897
Something compels me to keep writing my story. I know the committee only asked me to write about the early years of our kolonie, which I’m well past now, but if I want to tell my story properly I need to write about the War Between the States and how it changed all of our lives. I drag a wooden chair to the attic trapdoor and teeter on tiptoes to climb up. Beneath the eaves, the cramped attic is hot, filled with cobwebs and discarded possessions. Dust motes shift and float in the dead air, making me sneeze as I move things around in my search. I’m looking for the box of letters Arie sent home to us when he was away at war.
I move aside a broken rocking chair, an old bureau with a missing drawer, a crumbling box of books. Why do I keep so many useless things when I obviously no longer need them? My family left nearly everything behind when we emigrated from the Netherlands, so I know I can live just as well without all these things.
Success at last! I find the old tea tin with Arie’s letters and carefully lower myself down from the attic again, praying that the chair doesn’t topple ove
r and take me with it. The front of my apron is smudged with dust, and I have to shake the cobwebs out of my kerchief before tying it over my hair again. I’ll read the letters outside in my chair on the front porch, where I can listen to the birds chirping and the bees buzzing in my flower garden.
As I page through these precious, ink-stained pages, I remember the fear that filled me during those suspenseful years and my many, many prayers, not only for Arie but for all of the young men from our community. Arie’s letters are relentlessly cheerful at first as he describes his many adventures—a deliberate ruse, I suspect, to disguise his own fear and to attempt to minimize ours. I hear Christina’s voice in my mind as I read them, not Arie’s. She loved to read his letters aloud to us, over and over again, as we sat around the fireplace.
“Arie is so lucky,” she would sigh when she finished. “He gets to go so many places and do so many things!”
Later that afternoon when I’ve finished reading through all the letters, I finally sit down with my pencil and notebook to continue writing my story. I decide to begin with the day that Arie raced home from the print shop with the news . . .
Geesje’s Story
Holland, Michigan
36 years earlier
“Our nation is at war, Mama!” Arie burst into my kitchen one April morning in 1861, breathless with the news. “They asked Papa to print a special edition of the newspaper. The Confederates opened fire on our Union soldiers at Fort Sumter near Charleston, South Carolina. They’re demanding that we surrender the fort.”
I had to sit down to take in the news. Ever since Abraham Lincoln was elected president last November, the southern states had been seceding from the Union, one by one. Now this deliberate act of war, only a month after his inauguration.
“Papa will bring a copy of the paper home later, but he thought you’d want to know, Mama.”
