Shifting her legs, my mother eased to a sitting position. She arched and rubbed her palm along the small of her back. “I will be fine.”
Eyebrows knit in concern, my father shook his head. “You remain here. Rest is the best thing for an aching back. Johanna and I will attend without you.”
After gathering his Bible, he motioned me to the parlor. “You can wait for Berta and her mother. I’ll go on ahead. I need to speak to one of the elders.”
I didn’t argue. My parents could avoid my questions for this evening, but eventually they would need to answer. Then again, perhaps it would be easier if I wrote a letter of my own—a letter to Wilhelm asking for the truth and asking if I could come to Chicago for a visit. Yes. That’s exactly what I would do.
The next morning Berta and I walked to the garden with a basket containing thick slices of buttered bread, a small crock of grape jam, and jugs of coffee and water. Although the fare varied, each Küche delivered a midmorning and midafternoon repast to their garden workers every day—a task assigned to Berta and me. Though I normally disliked the chore, today it would fit into my plan.
As we rounded the bend, Sister Nusser waved us toward the shed. We marched past the rows that had been carefully planted with onions, radishes, spinach, salsify, and peas, then on past the cauliflower, beets, cabbage, and carrots. Even some of the pole beans and celeriac were now in the ground, although Sister Nusser wouldn’t be happy until all the plots had received their spring planting. The women who worked for the Gartebaas joked that she would have them planting by moonlight if the elders would grant permission.
My mother swiped her hands on her apron as she and the other women made their way toward the garden shed, where they would gather to enjoy their refreshments. I waved but didn’t linger. She might say something that would deter me from my decision.
Once we’d deposited the basket and jugs in the shed, I hurried Berta toward the road and motioned for her to follow me in a different direction. I was surprised when she didn’t ask questions. Until recently Berta had always been full of questions. But this morning the only sounds were the scuffle of our shoes on the dirt road and the twitter of birds as they constructed nests in the cedar trees.
“Would you tell me your other secret?” Berta’s startled reaction reminded me of a marionette that had been jerked to life with the pull of a few strings. Had she forgotten she’d promised to tell me more if she could look at my other magazines? “You recall, don’t you? You said you heard more about Wilhelm’s letter and my parents’ conversation on the front porch.”
“Oh. I’d forgotten. There was something about Louisa’s baby, but I really didn’t hear anything other than that.”
I yanked her to a halt. “What baby? Louisa doesn’t have any children.”
Berta’s eyes remained as dull as the overcast day. “All I can tell you is what I heard. Maybe Louisa has a child and they didn’t tell you. They weren’t going to tell you about Wilhelm’s letter, so there could be other things you don’t know. I’ve decided that parents keep lots of secrets from their children.”
“What is wrong with you, Berta? You’re not the same girl who arrived here in March.”
“There’s nothing I can tell you right now. Maybe someday, but not now.” She immediately retreated into her own thoughts.
I wouldn’t pry. When she was ready, Berta would come to me. At the moment my mind was still reeling from the news that Louisa had a baby of her own—after all these years. It seemed impossible. But Sister Bader had given birth to a healthy little boy last year, and she must be at least forty years of age—a little older than Louisa, for certain.
I tugged on Berta’s sleeve when we neared the turn that would take us toward town. “I need to stop at the general store and post a letter. You won’t tell, will you?”
Finally something I said ignited a spark of interest. “Who are you writing to?”
I inhaled a deep breath of fresh spring air. “Wilhelm. I do wish I’d known about Louisa’s baby before I penned the letter. I would have asked him about the child, but maybe he’ll tell me when he answers.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “Why are you writing to Wilhelm?”
“To discover the truth. My parents won’t tell me why they’ve delayed his visit.” I didn’t tell her I’d also asked Wilhelm if I could come for a visit. Telling Berta too much would make it even more difficult for her to keep my secret.
She gasped. “You didn’t tell them—”
I shook my head. “They don’t know a thing about your overhearing their conversation.”
“Then how—?”
“I asked if there had been any news from Wilhelm. They don’t suspect that you are involved in any way.” I inched closer. “But I know they aren’t telling me everything. Instead of trying to pry it out of them, I decided I would write and ask Wilhelm.”
“You think he will tell you the truth?”
I gave a confident nod, but Berta didn’t appear particularly convinced. “Why? Do you think he will hide the truth from me, too?”
“Who can say what another person will do. We never really know anyone else. Not deep down.” Her shoulders sagged, as though she were carrying the weight of the world. “I won’t tell that you’ve sent him the letter, but you never know about Brother Kohler.
You should tell him you’re planning a surprise so he doesn’t say something to your father or mother.”
“Oh, that’s a good suggestion. Thank you, Berta.”
“And tell him that if a letter arrives addressed to you, he shouldn’t give it to anyone else. You wouldn’t want your reply to fall into the wrong hands.”
Helping plan my ruse lightened Berta’s mood, and she listened intently while I instructed Brother Kohler.
The storekeeper sucked in a breath. “I always put the mail in the proper slots.”
I’d offended him. Of that there was no doubt. Before I could apologize, Berta took a step forward and placed her palms on the counter. “Not always, Brother Kohler.”
Realization struck, and he slowly bobbed his head. “Ja. You are right, Berta. Sometimes I give the mail to a family member.”
He turned and looked me in the eye. “But I will be sure any letter addressed to you is delivered only to you.”
“Danke. You can deduct the postage from my father’s account.
I am most thankful for your help.”
“No,” Berta said. “You can deduct it from the extra money I paid you when I purchased the book, Brother Kohler.”
“Ja. I can do that.” He glanced back and forth between Berta and me. When I didn’t object, he slapped his hand on the counter.
“Then it is settled. I will mail your letter today.” He lifted a finger to his lips. “And the three of us will keep this our secret.”
His eyes twinkled with anticipation, but I offered no further explanation. I would never consider taking Brother Kohler into my confidence. I’d only included Berta because she’d heard my parents’ conversation, and because I couldn’t have stopped at the store without her. If Berta had returned to the Küche alone, Sister Muhlbach would have questioned my whereabouts.
Like it or not, Berta and I had become partners in deception.
Later that evening during prayer service, it felt as though God’s hand reached down from heaven and opened the Scriptures. Brother Mauer had taken his place before us and announced he would read from chapter four of Second Corinthians. His choice hadn’t bothered me in the least. Mostly because I had no idea what was written there. After clearing his voice and glancing about the room, he read:
“Therefore seeing we have this ministry, as we have received mercy, we faint not; But have renounced the hidden things of dishonesty, not walking in craftiness, nor handling the word of God deceitfully; but by manifestation of the truth commending ourselves to every man’s conscience in the sight of God.”
I didn’t hear the remainder of the chapter. My palms turned damp with perspiration, and
pinpricks marched down my spine. In the past I could have stood before the elders and said that I had renounced hidden things of dishonesty—all except for my Godey’s magazines, which of course could be considered hidden and dishonest. However, I thought the magazines suitable reading material and hadn’t asked for the forgiveness of the elders. Or of God, for that matter. And I certainly hadn’t considered myself to be walking in craftiness or handling the Word of God deceitfully. At least not until today. But the letter to Wilhelm had been all of those things. It had been hidden, dishonest, crafty, and deceitful— indeed it had been very deceitful. On the other hand, if my parents had simply told me the truth, I wouldn’t have been forced to take deceptive measures.
My breath caught, and I clasped a hand to my chest. I sounded just like Berta!
CHAPTER 14
Berta Schumacher
Though I’d done my best to stay at home, Johanna, Carl, and Rudolf had banded together and insisted I join them for their afternoon of fishing. I would have feigned a headache, but Father had made it clear that he planned to spend the afternoon in the parlor with his medical books. Unless he was called out for some sort of emergency, an unlikely event on a Sunday afternoon, there would be no opportunity for private conversation with my mother.
I didn’t plan to mention the letter from my father’s lady friend—that would give rise to questions I didn’t want to answer— but I did want to explore my parents’ true reason for the move to Amana. I was now convinced that my behavior had been a pretense they had used to hide the truth. I didn’t know if I possessed the skill to lead my mother into an honest conversation, but I wanted to make an attempt. The idea offered the first glimmer of hope since I’d read Caroline’s letter. Perhaps if we could have a truthful discussion, there might be hope for our family. Otherwise, I wasn’t so sure.
While I changed out of the black calico I’d worn to church, I considered Caroline’s letter to my father. I wasn’t an authority on romance, but there was little doubt she believed he was going to return to Chicago—and to her. My scalp tingled at the idea. Would my father do such a thing? He’d been distant and aloof toward Mother—even I had noticed their lack of affection, and they seldom spoke to each other. What would Mother do if he made such a choice? And what would the elders and other residents of Amana think? More important, what would God think? Would He deal harshly with my father if he chose Caroline over Mother? The thoughts marched through my mind like an army of ants.
“You’d better hurry or the others will leave without you,” my mother called from the parlor.
A few weeks ago that warning would have caused me to race down the stairs. But not today. If I didn’t go fishing, it would be no great loss. Nothing seemed to matter as much as it had a few weeks ago—nothing except my father’s secret and what it would mean for our family if he left us. What it would mean for me! The thought took my breath away, and I dropped to the side of my bed. If Father left us, would I ever see him again?
Caroline knew Mother and I existed. Still, she’d encouraged him to leave his family. What kind of woman did such a thing? And what kind of man wanted such a woman? There was a time when I thought I knew my father quite well, but now I realized I’d never known him at all. If what Caroline had written in her letter was true, my father had agreed to this ugly plan. And where would I belong? I doubted Caroline would want me to be a part of their new life—and remaining in Amana with Mother would be no life at all. I’d be a reminder of our former life, and she’d turn all of her attention to the children in the Kinderschule, a process she’d already begun. Was Mother already preparing herself for Father’s departure? Did she know?
“Berta! What are you doing in there?”
I forced myself up from the bed and shuffled to the bedroom door.
My mother glanced up when I entered the parlor. “What took you so long?” Her features knotted into a deep-set frown. “That shirtwaist is stained, and the hem has come loose on the right side of your skirt.” Her lips puckered, and she made a tsking sound. “Hurry and change into something more presentable. I’ll ask Johanna to wait on you.”
“We’re going fishing, Mother. People don’t wear good clothes to go out in the woods or to sit on the riverbank.” Apparently I’d spoken with enough authority that she didn’t argue when I continued toward the door.
Rudolf was waiting in the downstairs foyer. A wide grin split his face when I appeared at the top of the steps. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten,” he said. “Carl and Johanna are waiting outside.”
Having the use of a buggy or wagon for Sunday afternoons was one of the privileges afforded us because Johanna’s father managed the livestock and barns. I climbed into the buggy while Carl located a suitable spot for the fishing poles and his tin of worms. Johanna held a food basket on her lap, and there were two jugs of water resting by her feet. I was acutely aware that I’d brought nothing but myself. Then again, I hadn’t planned this expedition. In fact, I hadn’t even wanted to join them. Those thoughts helped assuage my feelings of guilt.
During the ride Johanna and Carl were unusually talkative, while I was unusually quiet. Rudolf attempted to engage me in conversation, but I cared little about the new calves and lambs being born or the laying hens that were disappearing from the coop behind one of the other kitchen houses. What I wanted was peace and quiet, an opportunity to be alone with my thoughts of Caroline’s unwanted intrusion in my life and what the future held for me. I couldn’t help but wonder if my father would sneak off in the night, just as I’d crept out to meet John Underwood when we lived in Chicago. I wanted to believe Father would tell me—that he wouldn’t simply walk out of my life. That I’d have an opportunity to beg him to stay, to promise I’d behave in a proper manner, to convince him he needed us more than he wanted Caroline. If only he would give our family another chance, maybe he would be happy. Maybe.
“Berta and I get the spot by the big rock!” Rudolf nudged me when I didn’t immediately reach for his hand. “Come on, Berta.” He poked Carl’s shoulder and pointed to a grassy slope a short distance away. “That would be a good place for you and Johanna.”
Carl laughed and shook his head. “I can choose my own spot, thank you.”
“Grab the tin of worms, Berta,” Rudolf said as he helped me out of the buggy.
I followed his instruction and trailed behind him. Once he’d settled on the rock, I handed him the tin. “I don’t feel much like fishing. I’m going to go hunt for mushrooms. I’ll be back in a while.”
He made several fervent requests for me to remain and fish with him, but I declined. After my final refusal he dropped his fishing pole to the ground and jumped to his feet. “Then I’ll go hunt mushrooms with you.”
“No. Absolutely not.” I pointed to the rock. “Sit down and fish.” Confusion shone in his eyes. “This has nothing to do with you, Rudolf. I need some time alone to think.” I forced a smile and leaned forward to squeeze his shoulder. “Maybe when I return I’ll feel more like fishing.”
Though he didn’t appear totally convinced, he sat down. “Here. You’d better take this for your mushrooms.” He pulled a burlap bag from beneath him. “I don’t need it. Brought it along in case we wanted to sit in the grass.”
I thanked him and hurried off before he could change his mind. Sister Muhlbach had collected some morel mushrooms last Sunday and cooked them for the kitchen workers as a special treat. Fried in her buttered iron skillet, they had melted in my mouth. While I searched for the golden sponge-topped morels, my thoughts returned to Caroline’s letter and how I could save our family.
I pushed aside an early growth of plants that had begun to take hold in the wooded area and smiled with satisfaction when I spied several of the yellowish mushrooms poking through the weeds. Like vigilant sentinels they appeared to be standing guard over the woodland floor. I dropped them into the burlap bag and continued my search. Sister Muhlbach had told me the mushrooms were difficult to find, but after tasting the
delicacies, I knew they were worth the effort.
I’d located several of the mushrooms’ hiding spots when I heard the rustle of approaching footsteps. I expected to see Rudolf. Instead, I caught a glimpse of Johanna as she pushed aside an overhanging branch.
“Any luck with the mushrooms?”
Strange. When I wanted company no one came around, but when I needed time to think, there wasn’t a quiet place to be found. Holding the bag shoulder high, I gave a nod. “Not nearly as many as Sister Muhlbach picked last week.”
Johanna peeked inside the bag. “But there’s enough that we could have a tasty treat when we do the laundry tomorrow. We can borrow a skillet from the Küche and fry them over the stove in the washhouse. What do you think? That would be a nice reward for doing the laundry.”
I wasn’t certain Johanna’s mother would agree. She seemed far too stern to enjoy frying mushrooms in the washhouse. “Do you think your mother would agree?”
“Of course. She enjoys mushrooms as much as I do.”
“Any luck catching fish?”
Johanna shook her head. “Not for me, but Carl and Rudolf have each caught two. I think they’re in competition.” She stooped down and looked beneath the undergrowth and pulled out a large mushroom. Smiling, she stood and dropped it into the bag. “I keep meaning to ask you what your father said about that letter he received. Did he tell you who had written to him?”
My throat constricted. I gasped for a breath of air and choked out my answer. “He said it was from one of his patients in Chicago.”
“There, you see? No need for concern.”
I hadn’t planned to tell Johanna my secret, but I could no longer hold the ugly story inside. “He lied!”
Her eyes opened wide at my shouted accusation. “That’s a serious statement, Berta. What makes you think he lied?”
“Because I read the letter. The woman wasn’t one of his patients.
Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01] Page 13
