She had forced each word through tight lips. Clearly, I’d offended her. “Merely a suggestion,” I said, hoping to make amends. I didn’t want her running upstairs and telling Father I was creating more problems.
“I’ll wait for you by the front door in the morning.” Johanna motioned for me to wait. “Before you go upstairs, let me give you your clothes.” I waited while she scuttled off to the other room and returned with a stack of folded dark calico. “You’ll receive several additional dresses, but tomorrow you can wear this one.” She offered quick instructions on how I should tuck the cotton shawl into the wide waistband of the skirt. “There are work aprons at the kitchen to protect our clothing.”
I wasn’t at all sure the dress needed protection. I didn’t think a few splashes of food would do it any harm. To my way of thinking, the plain garb could use a little color, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I asked what work I would be expected to perform the next day. “I’ve had no experience working in a kitchen.”
Sister Ilg tipped her head to the side. “I would guess you’ve had little work experience of any kind.”
“I’ve become fairly accomplished at climbing trees, but I don’t think you’d count that as work.”
“Not unless you were picking apples while you were up there,” the older woman replied. She reached down and retrieved her thread and crochet hook from the basket.
“I don’t think I ever gathered enough for a pie. Then again, I don’t know how many apples it takes to make a pie.” There’d been a few occasions when I’d picked an overripe apple or pear to toss down on unsuspecting schoolmates passing below, but I didn’t think that was what Sister Ilg had in mind.
“Well, you’ll soon learn how much fruit it takes to make nine or ten pies. That’s how many are needed so that each person receives a nice slice at the Muhlbach Küche.”
Johanna took note of my confusion and quickly explained that the Muhlbach Küche was the kitchen in our neighborhood. The one where I would work. “Each kitchen house bears the name of the Küchebaas, the kitchen boss. We serve forty or fifty people three meals each day as well as a light midmorning and midafternoon lunch of bread and cheese, or sometimes leftover pastry.”
Sister Ilg pointed the crochet hook in my direction. “You suit yourself, but if you are as smart as I think you are, you’ll behave yourself in Thekla Muhlbach’s kitchen.”
“I’ll try my best.” I still hadn’t learned what would be expected of me the following morning, but I decided it might be best if I didn’t know in advance. I sidestepped toward the door. I couldn’t imagine cooking for myself, much less for forty or fifty other people. What did that many people eat for breakfast? One thing was certain. If I prepared their breakfast, they would all become ill. Then again, such an event would permit Father to earn his keep by caring for them.
Clothes in hand, I returned up the stairs and into the parlor, where my parents sat waiting. My father scooted to the edge of his chair.
“Well, how did it go? Did you learn about your new duties?”
“I learned I am to meet Johanna by the front door shortly before five o’clock tomorrow morning. She promised to bang the broom handle on the ceiling to waken me.”
My mother gasped and covered her mouth with her palm. “Oh, Berta, I didn’t realize you would be required to rise so early in the morning.”
“If you’re truly concerned, we could still go home.”
My mother’s look of regret immediately disappeared. She might pity my circumstance, but she wasn’t willing to change it.
CHAPTER 3
Johanna Ilg
Where was Berta? As promised, I had tapped on the ceiling with the broom handle and waited until I’d heard footsteps overhead. Now I wondered if she’d gone back to bed. Or maybe the footsteps had been those of Dr. or Mrs. Schumacher. Resting my hand on the latch, I leaned my shoulder against the door. I’d give Berta two more minutes. After that, she’d need to find her own way. Never before had I been late for work, and I wouldn’t begin this morning. Even now, we would have to run in order to arrive at the kitchen on time.
At the sound of a slamming door, I stared up the flight of stairs. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I watched for Berta’s appearance. I didn’t have to wait long. Within seconds she skidded down the steps, clutching the stair rail. Skirt and shawl askew, she landed at my feet with a resounding thud.
“I missed the first step,” she hissed.
Leaning forward, I grasped her arm and pulled her up. “No need to whisper. I’m certain you’ve awakened the entire household.
Are you all right?”
She gyrated into positions I’d never before witnessed and then gave a firm nod. “Nothing broken, but I’d be glad to remain at home until my father declares me fit for duty.”
Ignoring her suggestion, I pointed to her head covering. “Straighten your cap and tie the strings so it doesn’t blow away. We’re going to be at least five minutes late now.” I hurried her out the door, and though it was difficult, I refrained from breaking into a fast run. If we arrived at the kitchen completely exhausted, we’d never complete our chores on time.
The moon glistened overhead, not yet prepared to give way to dawn. Even though my pace remained even, my heart thrummed at breakneck speed, and I wondered if my chest might explode from the pressure. Like all of the other kitchen bosses, Sister Muhlbach and her family lived in the rooms that adjoined the communal kitchen. There was no doubt she would be out of bed and more than a little concerned when she discovered we hadn’t arrived. Yet Berta dallied, obviously in no particular hurry to begin her work. “Can you walk a little faster? The fire should already be started in the stove.”
“Who will know if we’re a few minutes late? Tell the Küchebaas the wood was damp and it took longer than usual to start the fire.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. She was encouraging me to tell a falsehood! “It isn’t our way to tell lies, Berta. I’m sure you’ve read admonitions against such behavior in the Bible.”
With a giggle, she looped her arm through mine. “I know what the Bible says, but I don’t believe for a minute that the people who live here don’t tell lies. Everyone tells lies—even you, Sister Johanna.”
If I had denied her remark, it would be a falsehood, for during my lifetime I had told lies. Still, I didn’t want to agree with her. I feared she would use such a statement against me in the future. “I do my very best to tell the truth. And those times when I have failed, I have asked forgiveness.”
“Well, there’s your answer. Just tell the Baas the firewood was wet and ask God to forgive you for lying. Seems simple enough to me.”
I shook my head. “I’m sure it does.” I didn’t take time to explain we had a woodbox in the kitchen to prevent such a happenstance. Berta would simply think up some other untruth.
Besides, we had arrived at the kitchen, and I didn’t have time to argue about her flawed thinking. There was work to be done, and I would need Berta’s assistance if I was to have my tasks completed before the others arrived. I motioned her to follow me as I lit one of the oil lamps mounted on the kitchen wall and then instructed her to complete the task while I lit the fires in the large brick hearth stove and the wood-fired oven. The polished tin sheeting above the hearth glimmered and winked at me as the fire sparked to life.
The well wasn’t far from the back door of the kitchen, but Berta would be hard-pressed to locate it in the dark. It would take longer to explain its whereabouts than to fetch the water myself. But then I reminded myself that she needed to learn.
Certain the fires had a good start, I called to Berta. “Come along. We need to fetch water for the coffee. I’ll show you where the well is located, and you can finish lighting the lamps in the dining room later.” I’d never seen anyone take so much time to light the lamp wicks. I pointed to the row of wooden pegs near the door. “You can hang your woolen shawl here in winter and leave your apron on the hook when you depart in the evening.�
�� I lifted an apron from the hook and handed it to her. “We don’t do laundry until Monday, so you best put this on and then grab one of the buckets.”
“Who does the laundry?” She slipped the apron over her head and tied the strings around her waist.
“Each family does their own. There’s a washhouse behind most of the houses. Either you or your mother will be responsible for your family’s. The kitchen workers are responsible for the laundry of the single men who eat in their kitchens.” I bent down, picked up another bucket, and headed out the door with Berta on my heels.
“My mother and I don’t do laundry. We’ll have to send it out to someone else,” she said.
Though I doubted she could see me in the predawn light, I smiled at her solution. “There is no one to send it to, Berta. You’ll need to learn by doing.”
She grabbed hold of the pump handle, and with each downward stroke, a surge of water gushed into the bucket. To my amazement, she filled both of our containers in no time. When Sister Muhlbach entered the kitchen a short time later, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, the potatoes had been peeled for frying, and Berta was making her first attempt at slicing bread.
“So you are Berta Schumacher, the new helper, ja?” Before Berta could respond, Sister Muhlbach slapped her palm to her forehead. “Ach! Not like that!” She reached around Berta and clasped her thick fingers overtop Berta’s hand. “There—you see? You must slice, not hack. And try to make the slices even.” She held up one of Berta’s uneven slices and waved it back and forth. “Not thick on one side and thin on the other. This is not gut work. We cannot serve those uneven slices.” She slapped the bread onto the table. Strands of unruly graying hair had already escaped the knot of hair hidden beneath her black cap.
“They still taste the same, don’t they?”
Sister Muhlbach bent forward until she and Berta were nose to nose. “We do not serve undercooked food, we do not serve burned food, we do not serve spoiled food, and we do not serve uneven slices of bread. We serve only the best we can prepare. Think of your work as an offering to God.”
Berta shrugged. “I’m not sure God cares if the slices are uneven, but if you don’t want me to serve the bread, I won’t serve the bread.”
I was surprised the Küchebaas didn’t reprimand Berta for her offensive response. Instead, she sent her to pour milk into the pitchers and prepare the butter dishes. All of the remaining kitchen workers had arrived by five thirty, and the room now hummed like a well-oiled machine. Metal utensils rang against pots and pans while sausage sizzled in cast-iron skillets. The thinly sliced potatoes would soon be tender and fried to perfection.
By the time the village bell rang at six o’clock, we were exactly on schedule. Well-scrubbed benches lined each side of the long oilcloth-covered tables that had been properly set with plates and utensils. Once the dining room doors opened, I heard the clatter of feet. The men migrated toward their tables, and the women and children took their places at separate tables.
While the morning prayer was being recited around the dining tables, I heaped fried potatoes into large serving bowls and set them on trays.
Most of the tables had been served when Sister Muhlbach signaled for Berta. “Take this platter to the far table.”
I noted the glint in Berta’s eyes as she looked toward the men seated at the distant table. One or two were attired in business suits, others in unfashionable work clothes that didn’t resemble those worn by the men who lived in our community. She turned toward Sister Muhlbach. “Who are they?”
Sister Muhlbach discreetly nodded toward the well-dressed men. “Those two are here to conduct business. They come to buy woolen goods from the mills.” Her chest swelled. “They prefer to eat in my kitchen rather than at the hotel.”
The pride in Sister Muhlbach’s voice surprised me. It was good that members of the Bruderrat hadn’t been within earshot. Any appearance of pride among the members was frowned upon.
“The others are hired men. Some work out on the farms to help with the livestock. The two at the far end are assigned to assist with heavy chores in our kitchen and garden. Unless it concerns their breakfast, there’s no need for you to talk to them.”
While Berta sashayed off with a tray bearing a bowl of fried potatoes and a platter of sausage, I returned to the stove. I was refilling another bowl with potatoes when I heard Sister Muhlbach gasp and stomp across the room. I turned to see Berta sitting at the far table. She had filled a plate and was eating breakfast with the men. My voice caught in my throat, and I slapped my palm over my lips. Not only was she eating with them, she was engaged in conversation. During a meal!
I stared in disbelief, my brain unable to register what my eyes beheld. Then, to my utter horror and dismay, I spied Berta’s bright pink gown sticking out from beneath her dark calico skirt. From the workers’ chuckles and stares, I knew they, too, had discovered the offending piece of clothing.
I wanted to race across the room and ask her what she was thinking, but I’d already concluded that Berta didn’t think, at least not about the proper way to behave. Eyes agog, everyone focused upon the unfolding scene. Except for a few muffled giggles from the children, no one said a word. I glanced around the room, seeking my parents. My father was seated at the east side of the room with a group of the men. Mother was at one of the women’s tables and offered me a sympathetic look.
Where were Berta’s parents? I hoped one of them would step forward, but I couldn’t locate either of them. I didn’t know whether to go and inquire about the Schumachers’ whereabouts or remain near the stove. I didn’t wonder for long.
Moments later, Berta was dancing on tiptoe as the Küchebaas held her by one ear and escorted her across the dining room. The two of them came to a halt in front of me. “This one is your responsibility, Johanna. Take her out back and explain the way of things in the Muhlbach Küche. Make certain she knows that I do not intend to become the laughingstock of the village. Understand?”
I bobbed my head at the older woman and then glared at Berta. “Follow me!”
She grasped my arm as I stormed from the room. “Don’t be angry, Hanna.”
I tugged her along until we were away from the sisters who were cleaning and paring the vegetables for our next meal. For years, the women assigned to the job had been designated “paring-knife sisters.” When weather permitted, they sat on the back porch with their wooden trays on their laps and talked or sang hymns while they worked.
This was one time I didn’t want them to hear what I had to say. When we’d neared the garden shed, I swirled around. “My name is Johanna, not Hanna.” My tightly clenched jaw ached.
Berta shrugged and grinned at me. “Then I’ll call you Johanna. I don’t understand why you and Sister Muhlbach are so angry. I was eating breakfast. Don’t I get to eat?”
“Yes, you get to eat, but you do not eat with the men. Didn’t you see the men were seated at tables separate from the women and children? Wasn’t it clear to you that we do not eat at the same tables? And didn’t Sister Muhlbach tell you to refrain from conversing with the men?” I pointed to my ear. “Do you have a hearing problem?”
Berta rubbed her ear. “I didn’t used to, but who can tell by now. Did you see the way that woman pulled me up from the bench? I think my ear stretched at least two inches. Does it look any longer than the other one?”
As she turned her ear toward me, I could see she genuinely expected me to check it. “You aren’t hurt. And that’s not the least of what will happen to you if you continue this behavior. Perhaps you’re better suited for some other work.” I pointed at the hem of her skirt. “Why are you wearing that silk gown beneath your calico?”
“Those clothes you gave me are too large, so I put them overtop of my own gown. It makes for a better fit. Besides, a bit of color is a good thing, don’t you think?”
“That’s exactly the problem, Berta. You’re not thinking. We do not wear bright colors; we don’t feel the n
eed to be different.” Though I spoke with authority, my conscience gnawed at me. Sometimes I wanted to be different, too, but I dared not tell Berta about my deep longing to visit other places and experience life beyond the boundaries of Amana.
“Well, I do. And I want to wear beautiful things. I look around the room and every woman looks the same. The calico is either black or brown or dark blue with tiny little white designs. Is that little indistinguishable design supposed to be a nod to prettiness? If so, it misses the mark.”
She plopped down on a bench near the shed and tightened her lips into a firm knot. I sat beside her, uncertain how I could win her to my side. I needed to convince her that she would be happier if she would conform to our ways. Still, she hadn’t been reared among our people. She knew what existed beyond the perimeter of our villages, and I didn’t think I could convince her that this life was better. Like my brother Wilhelm, she wanted more than Amana could offer.
“Before you pass judgment, perhaps you should do your best to follow instructions and learn how we live.” When Berta didn’t respond, I leaned closer. “Your parents appear determined to remain in Amana. Wouldn’t it be easier on all of you if you’d at least make an effort to be happy?”
“We were happy in Chicago. At least I thought we were.” Her brows furrowed. “I got in trouble from time to time, but I’m beginning to wonder if there was some other reason they decided to come here. Besides me, I mean.”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea.”
With a stubborn glint in her eyes, she thrust her arms around her waist. “You wouldn’t tell me if you knew.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you. The truth is, such matters are discussed and decided by the elders and trustee. Private information isn’t shared.”
I couldn’t tell if Berta believed me, but I’d spoken the truth and could do no more to convince her. Right now I needed to get her back into the kitchen before Sister Muhlbach came looking for us. That thought had barely skittered through my mind when the back door slammed and the older woman tromped toward us.
Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01] Page 3
