Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  A pained expression crossed the woman’s face. He smiled to reassure her. “But here in America, no one comes and says you cannot study—you cannot learn. Still I listen. I feel glad that I can listen.”

  To Peter’s amazement, tears appeared in her eyes. Then she blinked rapidly, and the tears disappeared. She rose. “I believe I’m ready to turn in.”

  He stood, too. “Then I will walk you to shariah.” He reached for her coat, and a sudden whistling blast shook the windows in the house. “Hear the wind! Winter is upon us when we hear the howl.”

  He held her coat for her, then put on his own coat, buttoning it to the collar before opening the door. The sharp wind nearly took his breath away, and worry struck. “A storm must be brewing. We go quickly.”

  Neither spoke as he guided her with a hand on her back to the shariah and helped her inside. It felt good to close the door on the wind, but the tiny abode was far from warm. He lit her stove. “You get another blanket from the chest tonight. This shelter is not airtight. I—” He scratched his beard. He wished he had more to offer her than this flimsy shelter.

  “I’ll pile the blankets on my bed. I’ll be fine.” She stood, her fingers woven together and pressed to her stomach. “You go ahead and return to your home before the wind gets any stronger.”

  Summer nearly wilted with relief when he finally stepped out of the shanty. For days, his offhanded wording, calling her “our Frau Steadman,” had niggled in the back of her mind, teasing her dreams and worrying her heart. Did he truly see her as “their” Frau Steadman? It was much too early for her to become involved with someone. Rodney had only been gone four months. The convention of mourning dictated at least a year must pass.

  Summer had heard that on the prairie, convention was often replaced with practicality, survival dependent upon having a partner with whom to share the work load. But Mr. Ollenburger had already proven he was capable of caring for himself and his son with the help of the grandmother. He obviously didn’t need a wife.

  But did she need a husband? She nibbled her lower lip and contemplated that question. The town might view her more favorably if she became Mrs. Peter Ollenburger, and it would certainly solve her problem of not having a permanent home. It would ensure her placement in Gaeddert, near her children’s graves. Yet she had no desire to engage herself in a marriage of convenience.

  Her marriage to Rodney, she admitted with a deep regret, had not been the result of steadfast love. She had married him for security, and she suspected he chose her to spite his father, who had wanted him to marry into a family equal to theirs in wealth and social status. How Summer had longed for Rodney to cherish her. But when he seemed to care about other things more than he cared about her, she had shut him away—sealed her emotions tight to protect herself. And, she knew, had not allowed herself to truly love him.

  Mr. Ollenburger’s words, spoken at the gravesite, came back: “My Elsa …” The tenderness in his voice and his eyes as he’d spoken those words had brought tears to Summer’s eyes. Would anyone ever look at her and say with such tender feeling, “My Summer …”? Would she ever care for someone else in that same way?

  Another gust of wind shook the entire shack, and small particles of grit blew between the planks of the north wall. She hurried to the blanket chest and retrieved the last two blankets. She spread the blankets on the bed and, fully dressed, slipped beneath them. But sleep eluded her.

  While shadows danced on the beamed ceiling, the wind howled, and bits of grit sifted onto her blanket, she thought about the passage she and Mr. Ollenburger had studied this evening. Throwing back the covers, she reached for the Bible she had placed on top of the little crate. Perched on the edge of the bed, she turned the pages toward the stove for light, searching the Scriptures until she located the fourth chapter of Philippians again.

  In verses six and seven she found the reference she wanted: “Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” She read the verses twice, leaning over the Bible with great concentration. She underlined a few words with her finger: “… let your requests be made known unto God…. The peace of God … shall keep your hearts and minds …”

  Straightening, she remembered something Mr. Ollenburger had said when at the graves of her family. “God is a God who knows.” She shivered as the wind took up a howl that threatened to pierce her eardrums. She hugged herself, the words of her host echoing like a chorus with the wind.

  Did God know her secret longing? Did He recognize the coldness of her heart? Did He know how to melt the icy exterior and bring warmth to her soul? She set the Bible aside and leaped to her feet, walking to the center of the floor. There she stopped, her arms held tight across her middle, her heart pounding with the desire for God to make Himself known to her in a way she couldn’t misunderstand. How she needed peace for her heart! She strained, listening, waiting for a voice from above to allay her fears and insecurities and give her the peace she’d seen in Mr. Ollenburger’s eyes.

  Wind. Only wind.

  Her head dropped, disappointment sagging her shoulders. What did she think would happen? Love would strike like a bolt of lightning from the sky? The only people who had truly loved her were her children, and they were dead. Summer’s heart had died with them. Her ability to love had died with them. Her heart was surely a shriveled thing, incapable of offering anything of value to anyone.

  Which must make her valueless to anyone else, as well.

  She raised her chin, determination straightening her spine. Valueless, perhaps, to all but one: Thomas. He needed her—at least until winter’s end. And if she were to be her best for him, she needed rest. She set the Bible on the crate and climbed back into her bed.

  With a deep sigh, she pulled the blankets to her chin, hugging herself for warmth. The wind continued to howl. Her thoughts continued to tumble. But eventually, despite the noise of the wind, she fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.

  A fierce, relentless howl pushed aside the curtain of sleep, forcing Summer’s eyes open. She squinted into the dark, scowling. Would the wind never cease? She closed her eyes again, determined to ignore the wind, but a mighty gust yanked her into full wakefulness. Only a feeble orange glow of coals showed in the belly of the stove.

  Perhaps the wind waking her was a blessing. The stove needed wood. She crept from beneath the covers, shivering from the cold. She crossed her arms over her chest as she moved stiffly to the woodbox. As she turned toward the stove, two logs in her arms, she heard a creaking noise.

  Her heart pounded as an unnamed fear took hold. She stared in horror as the frame of the shariah seemed to lean, the shuddering sound increasing as boards groaned in protest against the force of the wind. Realization struck, and she broke out in a sweat despite the frigid room.

  With a gasp, she threw the logs aside, snatched up her Bible, and dove under the bed. She had barely pulled her feet under when the shack gave way, pressed beyond its limits by the wind. Summer hugged the Bible, her eyes squinted tight, as the roof folded in on itself and fell across the pit with a resounding crash. Dust filled the air. She choked, her nose burning. She curled tighter, pressing her face into the crook of her elbow. Would she be buried alive?

  At least, came the fleeting thought, I will once more be with my children.

  15

  PETER JOLTED AWAKE. He rolled out of the bed, shivering as his feet touched the icy floor, and hurried to the main room.

  Grossmutter stood in her doorway, rubbing her eyes in confusion. She spoke to him, and Peter nodded. A sound had awakened him, too.

  Thomas appeared in his doorway, his eyes wide with fright. “Pa, I heard a crash.”

  The whistle of wind told Peter the storm still raged. Had it been the voice of the wind that had awakened them? Peter pressed his memory, trying to determine what had roused
him from a sound sleep.

  Another strong gust slammed against the house. The window panes rattled. “Did you hear the wind, do you think, son?”

  “It wasn’t wind. It was a crash. Like something broke.”

  These strong winds could do much damage. Peter did not like the idea of having to go out in a storm, yet he must find out what his son had heard. He returned to his bedroom and pulled on his shirt and pants over his long johns. As he tugged on his boots, Thomas appeared in his doorway with Grossmutter behind him.

  “Pa, should I get dressed, too?”

  “Nein, you and Grossmutter stay here in the warmth. I will go find out if something broke.” He moved through the doorway and went to the woodbox. “Do not worry. Go get back under your covers.”

  Both Thomas and Grossmutter returned to their rooms. Peter made sure the fire was well stoked and then lit a lantern. He put on his coat, gloves, and hat before lifting the lantern and heading outside.

  The wind slapped Peter hard, stealing his breath. It had even put out the stars, he noted—the night was very black. He shrugged deeper into his coat as he held the lantern well in front of him and moved across the yard, the clump of his boots against the hard ground matching the thump of his heartbeat.

  “Ach, Lord, unpleasant it is out here.” The wind blew the lantern back and forth, creating shadows that turned trees and bushes into wild things that leaped and danced in the feeble moonlight. He wished to return to the warmth and security of the house.

  A sweep of the grounds closest to the house told Peter the barn and chicken coop were unharmed, the animals restless but safe. He started toward the mill, but something turned his feet in the opposite direction.

  He squinted, his eyes burning from the force of the wind, as he moved toward the little spot of ground where the shariah stood. The meager lantern glow only allowed Peter to see a few feet in front of him, so when his foot encountered the crumbled roof, he gasped in surprise.

  He stared, disbelieving, at the spot of ground where a wooden A-frame had once stood. Now it lay on the ground, folded like a great ragged wooden sheet, covering the pit. His heart pounded in his ears, louder even than the blowing wind, and he lurched forward. Thrusting the lantern over the flattened roof, he searched for an opening. At the north end, he noticed a narrow slice, not more than twelve inches wide, where the pit was exposed.

  He stumbled to the opening and knelt, peering into the black cavity. “Frau Steadman! Frau Steadman! Wo sind sie?” He shook his head, forcing his tongue to form English words. “Where are you, Frau Steadman?”

  He strained, his heart in his throat, listening for the reply. Finally, nearly masked by the wailing wind, he heard a weak voice.

  “I’m trapped. Under the bed.”

  “You are hurt?”

  It seemed a long time before her answer came. “No. But I’m afraid the roof might fall in. And I don’t want to bump the stove.”

  The stove! Peter’s limbs quivered with fear. If the roof had collapsed on top of the stove, a fire could start. He must get her out—there was no time to waste.

  “You stay still, Frau Steadman! I will get you. Do not worry.” Still on his knees next to the tumbled building, he prayed aloud, “Lieber Lord, help me!” He considered ways to remove the roof. Miraculously, it seemed to lie on top of the pit. Should he yoke Gaert and Roth and use them to slide the roof from the pit?

  The wind tore the hat from his head. He let it roll away into the darkness, his thoughts fixed on freeing Frau Steadman. Sliding the roof could knock the stove sideways. His chest constricted. No, he would not use the oxen to slide it. Somehow he must lift the roof without making it fall into the pit. He prayed for enough strength to do the task alone.

  He pushed his face next to the opening. “Frau Steadman, I must go to get wood and a stump for a lever. You will be all right for little longer?”

  Gusts of wind tried to cover her voice, but he heard her reply. “Yes … hurry, please. It’s hard to breathe.”

  The cough that followed her words spurred Peter into action.

  Summer kept her eyes tightly closed. The wind whipped through an opening somewhere and drove more dust into the pit. Fear made her want to take gasping breaths, but she forced herself to remain calm. Swallowing more dust wouldn’t benefit her. Mr. Ollenburger was coming. He had said he would free her, and he was a man who kept his word.

  It seemed as though hours had passed since she’d heard his voice, yet it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. The Bible pressed against her chest. What had possessed her to grab it before seeking refuge beneath the bed? She had done it without conscious thought, but now, cradling it in her arms, she felt a comfort from its presence.

  She shivered. Her dress had shifted up around her thighs, exposing her lower legs. Her stockings didn’t provide much protection from the biting cold. Could she pull a blanket from the bed? She considered trying, but fear of accidentally bumping the stove kept her from reaching for it. If the roof caught fire, it would mean certain death. She swallowed the panic that rose from her belly. Surely Mr. Ollenburger would return soon. She could hold on.

  “Frau Steadman?”

  The voice came as if from a great distance. She opened her eyes, blinking against the sting of dust. She could see nothing.

  “Frau Steadman, you can hear me?”

  She took a great gulp of air, battling not to cough against the grit that filled her throat. “Yes!”

  “You listen to me now careful.” He pronounced the words slowly, precisely, the sound of his voice competing with the furious howl of the wind. “I will lift the roof. When you hear me say it is safe, you must come out to the north end. Come quickly—I do not know how long I can hold up the roof.”

  Hold up the roof? He was planning to lift it on his own? Her heart pounded. Even a strong man like Peter Ollenburger would be incapable of such a feat.

  “You hear me, Frau Steadman?”

  “I hear you!” she choked out.

  “Stay under the bed until I say it is safe!” The stern tone made her coil into a tighter ball. “If the roof drops …” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  The wail of wind, the sound of splintering wood, the groans of her benefactor—all blended into a nightmare of fearsome sound. Fresh air whooshed into the pit—cold and clean. Summer gulped the air. It stung her lungs, but she didn’t care.

  “Now, Frau Steadman!”

  Mr. Ollenburger’s voice sounded strained. Summer rolled from beneath the bed and blinked rapidly, clearing her vision. A pale band of yellow beckoned her. She held the Bible to her chest with one arm and crawled awkwardly toward the source of light. The crack and moan of the roof made her wish to hurry, but her trembling limbs and tangled skirt refused to cooperate. The journey might have been miles in length for the time it took for her to struggle across the short expanse of floor on knees and elbows. Finally she reached the edge of the pit.

  Mr. Ollenburger had created an opening nearly two feet high. She scrambled up the side of the pit to freedom, falling face first onto the ground. The moment she was free, a mighty crash sounded behind her. She released a shudder with the fall of the roof. Then Mr. Ollenburger knelt beside her on the dried grass, his hands touching her head, her shoulder, her back.

  “You are unhurt, Frau Steadman?”

  The genuine concern in his voice brought tears to her eyes. “I’m unhurt. Thank you, Mr. Ollenburger.” A sob of relief broke the last word in half.

  “You get up now.” In the dim glow of a single lantern, she watched him remove his coat. He wrapped it around her as he helped her to her feet. “We get you to the house.”

  “Your shariah … The chair, my teacup …” She muttered nonsensically as he guided her across the ground. Her teeth chattered despite the comforting warmth of his coat and his heavy arm around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You have no need for sorry.” His calm voice was incongruous to the storm that continued to rage. Snowflakes
danced on the wind, stinging her cheeks. “You are safe now. That is all that matters.”

  They reached the house, and he guided her over the stoop. The wind slammed the door into its frame, the sound bringing Grossmutter and Thomas from their bedrooms.

  Thomas, his eyes wide, crossed to his father. “Pa, what—?”

  Mr. Ollenburger’s large hand cupped the boy’s head. “You did hear something break, son. The shariah no longer stands.”

  The child’s wild eyes spun to Summer. “You’re all right?”

  Blinking back tears, she took his hand. “I’m fine, Thomas. Please, you go on back to bed. It’s late—you need your sleep.”

  “Ja.” Mr. Ollenburger gave his son a pat. “We talk more in the morning. To bed with you.”

  Thomas hesitated, but at his father’s firm nod, he returned to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  The grandmother clucked at Summer, her gnarled hands reaching to pluck bits of grit and dried grass from Summer’s hair.

  Mr. Ollenburger murmured something to the old woman in German, and she scuttled to the stove to pour a cup of coffee. Mr. Ollenburger pressed Summer into a chair, leaving his coat wrapped around her shoulders. “You sit, Frau Steadman. An ordeal you have been through.”

  The grandmother held the cup of steaming brew out to Summer, and she took it, gulping eagerly. She felt the warmth fill her middle, and she sighed. Here, in the cozy house, with the big man and his grandmother seeing to her needs, the last frightening hour seemed to fade into the distance. It took on a dreamlike quality. If she pinched herself, would she awaken to find herself lying on the rope bed in the shack?

  “I’m so grateful for the sturdy bed you built,” she told Mr. Ollenburger. “And your strength in raising that roof.”