She loves my father. Even worse, I fear that he loves her.” Without warning my tears spilled over and plopped onto my stained shirtwaist. I sniffled and wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand.
Unless tears were being used for the purpose of manipulation in a difficult situation, I detested them. Long ago I’d learned that women who cried were considered frail and defenseless. I never wanted to be considered either of those things.
“Oh, Berta.” Johanna pulled me close and wrapped me in a warm embrace. “I’m very sorry. This is why you’ve been so quiet and withdrawn, isn’t it.”
Her soft cotton dress rubbed against my cheek. “Yes. I wish I had followed your advice. It would be better if I didn’t know.”
“Have you spoken to your mother?”
I took a backward step. “Not yet, but I think she may know.”
“You should be very careful, Berta. You don’t want to hurt your mother. You should seek God’s direction. A mistake could create problems that might never be resolved.”
Johanna was right. This was more serious than peeking at presents before Christmas morning arrived. Saying or doing the wrong thing could ruin the rest of our lives. “If I tell my mother and there is an argument, I fear Father will leave Amana for good. And I’m certain he won’t take Mother or me with him. What would you do?”
“I don’t know, Berta. That’s why you must pray for God to give you the direction you need.”
Later that afternoon, I listened to my father’s footsteps as he descended the stairs. Once I heard the front door close, I glanced toward my mother. We were seldom alone nowadays. If we weren’t at work, we were at church. And when we were at home, Father generally sat in the parlor reading his medical journals while Mother stitched on her needlepoint. Even now she held her handwork, though she did appear distracted. She hadn’t taken a stitch since I’d looked in her direction. With Father off to check on a patient, I decided this would be the perfect time to ask some questions.
I crossed the room and settled into the chair beside her. “That’s a lovely piece you’re working on.”
“What?” Her focus darted to the needlepoint. “Oh, this?” She dangled the fabric in the air. “It’s a canvas I started before our move to Amana.”
Her response gave me the perfect opening. “How well are you enjoying our new life in Iowa, Mother?”
She measured and snipped a length of yarn. “I believe we’re adjusting quite well. Don’t you?”
I lifted my weight and pulled the chair closer. “When we first arrived, I thought Father was the one who wanted to move here, especially since he has a distant cousin living in Middle Amana.” I was going to ask her if we would ever meet the unknown relative, but immediately pushed the idea aside. I didn’t want to veer from the important questions. I couldn’t be sure when Father would return. “Now I’m wondering if you’re the one who made the choice to move here.”
She stared at me for a moment. “It was a joint decision. We both knew it would be best for all of us to move away from Chicago.”
“So you admit we didn’t move here because you feared I’d run off with John Underwood.”
“Not entirely. We were very worried about your behavior prior to our departure. You are easily influenced by others—especially young men. And that’s not a good thing. Amana is a safe haven for all of us.”
“But why is this place good for you and Father? You were happy in Chicago, and Father had a good medical practice with lots of patients. This move makes little sense, and Father doesn’t appear particularly happy here. What if he should decide to leave?
Would you go with him? Would you permit me to go if he wanted to move back to Chicago?”
My mother shifted in her chair. I could see my questions made her uncomfortable.
“None of us is going to leave Amana. We are a happy and content family. Besides, we have sold all of our possessions, and the money was turned over to the society when we moved here. Even if your father wanted to return, he has no way to rebuild his life in Chicago. It would be far too difficult.”
I swallowed hard as I remembered the contents of the leather pouch in my father’s dresser. Had Mother never seen it when she placed clean laundry in his dresser? Then I remembered that she’d assigned each of us the task of putting away our own laundry when she started working at the Kinderschule. Still, I wondered if she knew about the leather pouch and had chosen to ignore my father’s dishonesty.
“Were you unhappy in Chicago, Mother?”
Her fingers trembled as she attempted to thread her needle. “Why all this talk of Chicago? I thought we’d settled this discussion long ago.” She narrowed her eyes and pinned me with a hard look. “Is there something you need to tell me, Berta?”
I wagged my head back and forth, but my mother’s gaze remained steadfast. If I turned away, she’d know I was lying. “No, nothing I can think of at the moment.”
She placed the needlework in her lap. “I realize you still find life here in Amana difficult. But if you will open your heart to God and listen to His Word at Sunday meetings and during our prayer services, you will feel His presence and the blessing He can bring to your life.”
Who was this woman? She didn’t sound like my mother. In all the years we’d lived in Chicago, I’d never heard her speak of God’s presence. Her conversations had consisted of fashion, artwork, and her friends’ latest acquisitions. There had been no talk of blessings— other than a bargain she’d discovered when purchasing fabric for a new gown.
Disbelief assailed me. Did she truly think this had been a good choice? “You enjoy attending all the church services and sitting with me and the other women rather than beside your husband? You like going to the Kinderschule every day and teaching children how to knit mittens and scarves? You like wiping their runny noses and buttoning their jackets? You enjoy taking your meals in a room full of strangers rather than eating in the privacy of your own dining room? You enjoy washing our dirty clothes every Monday, and you enjoy the routine we must follow each day? You like living in these rooms, and you’re pleased we moved here?” With dramatic flair, I created a sweeping motion that embraced the cramped living quarters.
She looked at me as though I were the slow child in her Kinderschule class. “Yes. I think it was a wise decision—for all of us. However, I could do without eating the doughnuts, waffles, and cream puffs every Tuesday. It isn’t good for my waistline.”
Leaning toward me, she clasped my hand. “If you remain unhappy and want to move away when you are older, I won’t object. Of course, such a move would prove difficult, since your father and I couldn’t provide any financial assistance.” She released my hand and offered a bright smile. “But I have a feeling you’ll steal some young man’s heart, get married, and remain in Amana. You’ll have a good life here, Berta. No worries about other women coveting what is yours.”
“What’s coveting?”
“That’s when you want something that belongs to someone else. Like a nice home or pretty jewelry, or—”
“Your husband?”
“Ouch!” Mother lifted her finger to her mouth and held it there for a moment. “I pricked my finger.”
Had she intentionally poked herself in order to avoid my question? I remained silent and waited to see if she would answer me.
She yanked her handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around the finger. Moments later she arched her brows and glanced up at me. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“A woman coveting your husband,” I said.
She sputtered and coughed. “I didn’t mean that in the literal sense, my dear.”
We locked gazes, and I knew that she was lying.
On Tuesday, while I tipped the bowl of doughy Spätzle mixture over boiling beef stock and cut the batter into noodle-sized portions with a sharp knife, I came to a decision. I was going to follow Johanna’s lead and write a letter of my own. I didn’t know Caroline’s last name, but the return address on the envelope remained emblazon
ed in my mind. Though I hadn’t prayed for direction, I was certain Johanna had done so before she penned her letter. If God’s answer to her had been to write a letter, He would surely tell me the same thing. At least that’s what I told myself, because that’s what I wanted to believe.
For the remainder of the day I considered the contents of the letter. My first idea was to send a threatening missive; the second, a heartfelt plea. The third concept was more businesslike—a statement of the facts. I settled on the third idea. If the woman knew my father was without money to provide for a wonderful life, she’d surely leave him alone. If all went well, I would write the letter that evening and post it in the morning.
On the way home I stopped along the way and picked up a few small rocks and pebbles. I bundled them in a handkerchief and tucked it into my pocket. I would need the pebbles when the time was right.
When my parents decided to visit with the Ilgs after prayer service that evening, I was certain God was on my side. With a quick wave I hurried upstairs and slipped into my parents’ bedroom. My heart pounded beneath my dark calico. If I looked in a mirror, I’d likely see my bodice ripple with each resounding thud. I opened the dresser drawer and slipped my hand to the back of the drawer. Suddenly afraid the pouch wouldn’t be there, I held my breath until the familiar leather bag was in my hand. I shoved it into my skirt pocket, pushed the socks back in place, closed the drawer, and escaped the room. I rushed to my bedroom as if the devil were on my heels.
I leaned against the closed door and forced myself to breathe normally. Then I extracted the leather bag from my pocket. The lumps inside indicated my father hadn’t removed the contents, but I wanted firsthand knowledge. How I wished my bedroom door had a lock; I’d feel so much safer. I tiptoed across the room, listening for any sound in the outside hallway. I had learned long ago that you could never be too careful. Especially when any form of subterfuge was involved. All remained quiet. God truly wanted me to succeed!
After emptying the contents of the bag onto my bed, I sighed with relief. It didn’t appear that my father had removed anything. I retrieved the bundle of pebbles and stones from my dresser and unknotted the handkerchief. While uttering a fleeting prayer that my parents wouldn’t return within the next few minutes, I dumped the stones into the bag and returned the pouch to my father’s dresser drawer. The entire exchange was conducted without a snag.
My temples pounded as blood raced through my veins, but I couldn’t relax just yet. With a swoop of my hand, I gathered up the jewels and money from my bed, the remains of my father’s inheritance from my grandmother, tied them into the handkerchief, and tucked them into the bottom of my trunk for safekeeping. The deed completed, I dropped to the side of the bed. My father wasn’t going to leave this place—at least not without me.
Now I would write to Caroline.
I retrieved my small writing desk, propped it on my lap, and leaned against my pillows while I considered exactly how I should address such a woman. I didn’t know her last name, and I certainly wouldn’t greet her by her first name. I tapped my fingers on the sheet of stationery and considered a greeting of Dear Coveting Woman, but that wouldn’t do. After several more minutes I decided against any salutation at all—a woman such as Caroline didn’t deserve a formal greeting!
In a careful script I wrote the date at the top of the page, but formulating my thoughts took longer than I’d expected. Finally I put pen to paper.
My name is Berta Schumacher. I am the daughter of Herman and Helen Schumacher. We have never been introduced, but I know who you are. You are the woman who hopes to steal my father away from my mother and me. My reason for writing to you is simple. You should leave my father alone. He belongs with his family, not with you. Though you may think otherwise, my father no longer has any money. Nor does he have any gold or jewels. All that he inherited from his mother is now gone. I have determined you are a woman of social position. I’m sure you want to continue your life of comfort. Unless you plan to use your personal funds, my father would come to you without status or position and in need of financial support. I suggest you find a wealthy man, one without a wife!
Tipping my head, I looked up at the ceiling. What else could I say to convince this woman? In a flash it came to me.
One thing more: If my father would leave my mother and come to you, could you ever trust that he would not do the same to you? In addition, please know that your secret is not safe with me.
Berta Schumacher
I hadn’t given Caroline the courtesy of a salutation, and I wouldn’t give her the courtesy of a formal closing to the letter, either. I folded the piece of paper and tucked it into an envelope. Now I had to trust that my words would be enough to terminate her plans for a future with my father.
CHAPTER 15
Johanna Ilg
Alone in the backyard, I counted how many days had passed since I’d written to Wilhelm. Two and a half weeks. During that time, my mother had turned increasingly detached. Recent attempts at conversation had proved stilted and forced, and I worried she knew I’d written to Wilhelm. Yet how could she? I’d been clear in the letter to my brother that he wasn’t to tell our parents that I’d written. And when I’d checked to see if any mail had arrived at the general store, Brother Kohler assured me he hadn’t told anyone I’d mailed a letter. My conscience nagged like a pecking hen. Perhaps I shouldn’t have written to Wilhelm.
“Here you are,” my father called. “We wondered where you could be.”
Both of my parents rounded the side of the house and approached with determined steps. Their serious demeanor was enough to tell me something was amiss. I braced myself for accusations that I had betrayed them by writing to Wilhelm without their knowledge.
Forcing a smile, I said, “I decided to remain outdoors after I returned from the Küche. I hope I didn’t worry you.”
My father surveyed the yard. “No, but we wanted to speak with you privately. Are you alone?”
Such a silly question. He’d just scanned the entire yard. Did he think someone was hiding in the washhouse? “I’m alone.” Curiosity on the alert, I scooted out of the sun’s glare. I wanted a good view of my parents’ expressions when they spoke to me.
Hunching his shoulders, my father bent down to walk beneath the drooping clotheslines. My mother followed close on his heels, slipping beneath the sagging ropes with only a tip of her head.
I patted the grassy spot beside me, but my parents declined. Both of them stared down at me with somber faces. “We have some good news,” my father said.
Good news? He looked like he had come to tell me there’d been a death in the family. “And what is that?”
He rubbed his large callused hands together. “Carl has asked permission to court you. We told him we would be very pleased to welcome him into our family.” He cleared his throat and forced a smile. “I believe he hopes to marry you, but I don’t think he will rush you to a decision.”
“M-m-marry? M-m-me?” The sputtered words caught between my lips. “But we barely know each other. And you both know about my desire to travel, to see other places. The whole country is outside the borders of our villages. I want to see part of it before I settle here in Amana for the rest of my life. More than anything, I want to visit Wilhelm and Larissa in Chicago.”
My mother gasped, and my father’s smile disappeared. His weathered features settled into a frown. “We have all heard enough about Chicago from Wilhelm. A visit isn’t necessary to know it isn’t the place for us.”
“But that’s not the same as—”
My father lifted his hand to silence me. “Since you were a little girl, you have asked questions about other places, but that doesn’t mean we would ever give our approval. And who would you travel with, daughter? Even if we gave our permission, you couldn’t travel by yourself. It’s improper.”
“And dangerous,” my mother added. The fear in her eyes matched the warning in her tone.
“Wilhelm could accompany me
to Chicago, and I would stay at his home. There would be no danger in that. It is my wish that you would give me permission to go and visit with him. Then we can speak of my future.” I clasped my hands together and squeezed until my fingers ached. “You know I will return, Mutter. I don’t want to live in the big city. I just want to go and see it for myself.”
Grief replaced the fear that had shone in my mother’s eyes only a short time ago. “Ja. That is what Wilhelm said, too. First Pieter, then Wilhelm, now you. Am I to lose all of my children?”
“You haven’t lost Wilhelm. He is—”
My mother flapped her handkerchief. “Pieter didn’t choose to leave us, but Wilhelm—” She bobbed her head. “Ja. He wanted to go. And now you.”
Tears rimmed Mother’s eyes, and my father pinned me with an accusatory stare. My insides wrapped into a tight knot, but I didn’t change my mind. I wanted to see Chicago. “So this is why you have given Carl permission to court me. You fear I’ll leave here. But if I marry Carl, you will no longer have to worry. That’s it, isn’t it?”
My father leaned his back against the tree with his shoulders hunched forward like an old man. “Carl has become like a member of the family—visiting with us in the evenings after prayer meetings and on Sunday afternoons. You have gone fishing with him, and he tells us the two of you have become gut friends.” The frown deepened. “He hasn’t spoken lies to me, has he?”
Everything my father had said was true. Carl and I had gone fishing on Sundays, we’d visited in my parents’ parlor each evening after prayer meetings, we’d enjoyed Sunday afternoon walks with Rudolf and Berta, and we had formed a friendship. I enjoyed Carl’s company and found his easy laughter and gentle nature agreeable. I didn’t doubt he could be a good husband. But I wasn’t looking for a husband. And Carl had never mentioned marriage. He hadn’t even mentioned love. “We are friends, and I enjoy his company. Carl knows I want to see Chicago and maybe even New York City—I’ve told him so. And what of our church doctrine that says to remain single is best?”
Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01] Page 14
