by Celia Hayes
Hansi snorted derisively. “Nonetheless, the boys say the hills are crawling with unbranded wild beasts—free for the taking, if they were worth taking anywhere. Do you know what?” he leaned forward, thumping his fist on the pile of merchants’ circulars. “I think that early in the spring, we should run both wagons down to Indianola for goods for this place. Oh, we can pack them full going down of whatever we have to sell, or I can freight anything that someone else wants to take to the coast, just to spare the expense of an empty wagon. Vati and Jacob can run the place for a bit. It’ll be a little slow then, anyway, and you two and Liesel can take the stage down to San Antonio, and then to the coast and meet us there.”
Anna clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Papa, what a splendid idea!”
Magda held Hannah close to her. “Are you sure, Hansi?” she asked, hesitantly. Suddenly the world seemed too large, as if the little room in which she sat had magically expanded around her, become huge, limitless.
“Well, of course,” Hansi answered reasonably. “You two are the ones in the store all day, you know what folk are seeking, especially womenfolk. Besides, we’re almost prosperous folk these days. Prosperous folk can venture on a little holiday, can’t they?” He added warningly over his shoulder to Anna, “As long as it doesn’t get to be too much of a bad habit, of course.”
“Oh, Papa, I should adore it,” she answered exuberantly. “I have longed to go away for a time, and see something else, just for the change of it! I have lived here all this time, and never gone any farther than Live Oak, and Mama is frantic when we go any farther than the Nimitz Hotel!”
“Then so we shall go, and mix business and pleasure.” Hansi’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “And taste ice cream and see the railroad and all these fine goods,” he thumped the pile of circulars with his fist, “and pick and choose amongst them. Lise will like that, won’t she, Magda? And I’ll see about buying her one of those porcelain tea sets, whichever one she likes the best, eh?”
“Go through the circulars and make a list.” Anna pulled up another chair, “Three lists: what we have to have, what we would like to have, and what we will settle for . . .and the prices that we should expect to be asked for them all,”
“That’s my clever little nun,” Hansi said, approvingly. “And one more list; what we’ll take if we can get it for a good price.”
“Oh, Papa, we won’t know until we get there, what might be on offer! What if someone offers us an elephant?”
“If there is a better market for elephants than there is for cattle,” Hansi laughed at his own wit, “we couldn’t go wrong in making an offer, poppet.”
Intermezzo: Magda and Peter
On one particular night in spring, the pain of the wrist and hand that were no longer there kept Peter from sleep. He tossed and turned on his pallet in the loft over the little cottage on Creek Street. He couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to sleep, and there was no one to talk to. His cousin Dolph was away on some mysterious errand of his own, and Jacob and George were off to New Braunfels with one of the wagons. He was wakeful and lonely, his arm pained him unbearably, and sleep was impossible under the roof of the windowless loft, where the sun had been baking the shingles all day long. He drew on his trousers and boots and went down the little staircase at the side of the building, so steep it was more a ladder than a staircase, and sat for a while on the porch. It was cooler in the breeze that rustled the trees along the Baron’s Creek. He had been amused to learn that it was called so after a real baron and it was a man that he knew by sight. That tall gentleman with a faded red beard, plain Mr. Meusebach, they called him in Friedrichsburg, though he had gone and settled on his own place in Mason County, away to the north. That was a man that they all looked to in Friedrichsburg, a man of respect and standing. They looked after him with something of the same awe that Peter recollected folk looking after old General Sam when Peter was a boy. After living here so many months, he could only suppose that they had looked after his Uncle Carl in the same way. Dolph had about said as much, in his own quiet way of not saying.
He sat on the porch, while his arm that was not there ached fiercely, like the pain of a rotten tooth, like a bruise that went all the way to the bone. Only there was no bone—how could it pain him to this degree, when there was nothing there to hurt? He sat and looked at the lights that still glowed from some windows in town, the faint voices from Main Street that floated in on the night breeze. Soon it would be the trail season—the wagons and pack-train parties which would join the regular coaches going too and fro along that road to the west. He remembered that there was a party camped in the meadows on the other side of town, and wondered idly if Captain Nimitz’s taproom might still be open. There was still a faint flush on the western horizon, so he did not think it was too late, not beyond ten of the clock, or so. Windows of the houses along Creek Street glowed saffron, and presently he heard the chiming of the clock-bell in the tower of the Catholic church—the Marienkirche, as they called it. Not so late after all, just past ten thirty. It came to him that he wanted a drink, of whiskey or anything else, and he wanted company also—wanted it badly, anything to dull his senses and distract him from that pain.
The spring evening was mild. He had no need of a coat and hat. Rather than fetch them from the loft, he walked in his shirtsleeves towards Market Square.
The night smelled of earth newly turned in garden plots along the creek, and of water sprinkled on streets in the afternoon to keep down the dust. Closer to Market Square he could faintly smell cooking, of roasted meats and good bread, mixed with the scent of wood smoke and the ever-present odor of horse-dung. It would be a good, long walk down Main to Charley Nimitz’s place—already Peter started to think better of it. It was not so much the walk to, but the walk back. He came up to Market Street, to where the square opened around him, with early moonlight silvering the dome of that odd, octagonal little church in the center, and wagon tops and tents glowing like paper Chinese lanterns. There were lights still glowing in the Steinmetz house, most of them upstairs, but a single lantern could be seen in one of the lower windows in the back.
Peter considered for a moment, and on impulse turned his footsteps that way, onto the graveled path leading around the store-room and into the back garden of that house, with its great double door drawn closed and undoubtedly bolted shut for the night. He walked through the garden, where the children’s swing hung motionless from the limb of one of the great post-oaks, past the little wash-house in its screen of shrubbery. Here, where there were rustic benches and chairs scattered under the trees, on the terrace among the pots of rosemary and other herbs, Dolph’s family—all of them, from the gentle, near-sighted old grandfather, down to the little girls, Lottie and Grete—sat and took their ease here on a Sunday, or on an evening after a hard day of work. No wonder his Uncle Carl had taken so to this place, this family. Why could he not find something of the same contentment, an escape from the gnawing teeth of constant pain in his arm, and the worse pain in his heart? Peter hesitated on the terrace, suddenly reluctant to approach the door. It was late. And tonight, the memory of how he had behaved badly to Uncle Carl, when he and his family departed from his mother’s house, was as clear and as tormenting as the other pain. He had refused to shake hands, or say a word of farewell to Uncle Carl. Peter had always looked up to him, so it must have cut cruel, but Uncle Carl had only bid him take care of himself, for his mother’s sake. Peter had turned his back and gone into the house, hearing the wheels of the brake carry them all away. He never saw his uncle again, never had a chance to put it right.
He had just about decided against going in—he had no right here, after all. But the back door opened quietly and a wedge of saffron lantern-light spilled out onto the terrace.
“I saw you from the workroom window.” Uncle Carl’s wife stood there, a darker presence among the shadows, her face a pale blur like a mask. “I thought you would waken Vati if you knocked on the door. He is in the parlor, pretending t
o read a book. But he is actually sleeping.”
Peter glanced into the parlor as she barred the door—yes, indeed, there he sat, with the light playing over his glasses and a book lying in slackened hands in his lap.
“He looks very peaceful, Ma’am Becker,” he whispered. “I’d be sorry to disturb anyone who can sleep peaceful these days.”
“And you do not?” she asked shrewdly. “Sleep peacefully, that is?”
Peter had not intended to admit as much; he would not have, but that he was weary and his arm still ached like a rotten tooth. And Ma’am Becker, she had the sound of authority in her voice. He could have no more kept a truth from her than he would have kept it from his mother. After some weeks of living in the Sunday House, and taking his meals and leisure here, he had realized that she was another one such as Margaret Williamson, someone not capable of being surprised or shocked by much. And as far as authority went, with the household and business affairs, Uncle Carl’s wife took second to no one as far as he could see. Even Hansi Richter treated her opinions with respect and deferred to them regularly
“It hurts like hell, Ma’am,” he answered. “I can’t sleep nights, when it does. And when I do sleep, finally ….”
“You dream, of vile things,” she nodded briskly. “So. I see. So have I, now and again. So did my husband, often. Come into the workroom, I would rather not disturb Vati. What would you do, when you cannot sleep?”
“A tonic,” Peter replied. “Whiskey helps, sometimes.”
“No,” she shook her head, decidedly. Peter followed her. Brisk and businesslike, she strode through the store stacked high with goods; sealed tins of tea from Japan, boxes of fine soap, crackers, and dried fruit, crocks of pickles and cheese, sacks of beans, and little bottles of bitters and tonics. He cast a longing look towards the shelf where they stood—herb-tasting oblivion in dark glass bottles with labels that promised all kinds of surcease. “No,” said Ma’am Becker sternly, “not those. My sister, she takes too many of these tonics and I do not think they do her good. I have half a bottle of laudanum drops. Should your pain become too much for you, come to me.”
“What about whiskey?” Peter asked, as he followed her into the little office behind the store, where Ma’am Becker had her desk and shelf of ledgers.
She shook her head, decisively, in a mannerism queerly reminiscent of Daddy Hurst. “No, I think not. There is no good to come from pouring whiskey over your pain.”
“What did Uncle Carl do,” Peter asked, “when he could not sleep?”
“He worked,” Ma’am Becker replied, austerely. “He worked. He would say that if he worked until he was—you would say— ragged tired, then he would sleep.” And she smiled, her face soft with fond remembrance, as if Peter and the store had disappeared and only the past could be seen. “And sleep with his hand always touching me, as if to remind him that there was someone always near who cared so for him.”
“I don’t have that, Ma’am,” Peter allowed, “nor am I likely to.”
The thought of that kind of intimacy repelled him. First he would have to reveal his scars, his deformity, and then he would have to suffer the scarcely-veiled pity in the eyes of those who looked at him and then looked swiftly away. It would be so much worse with a woman. He couldn’t bear that kind of sympathy. That would be like someone touching an open, ragged wound still oozing blood.
“You should,” Ma’am Becker answered, with thoughtful dispassion. “And you will soon, I think.” She spoke as if it were self-evident, not merely automatic comforting. “You are a young man, still. And alive, which is something.” Oddly enough, he was reminded of that Union doctor-surgeon, who had visited him almost exactly a year ago. What had he said—You have survived this murderous stupidity with more of your qualities than many another! Now Ma’am Becker continued, “It has been how long?” she touched his truncated arm with a feather-light touch.
“Almost a year,” he answered, and she nodded.
“Always it will take time.” Ma’am Becker’s voice was heavy with compassion and understanding. “Much more than expected. To heal and to live without pain and to become accustomed to being without—is always longer than people will tell you. A poultice I will make for your arm. And a drink of hot milk with laudanum in it, to make you sleep, once the poultice eases the ache. You should sleep here tonight. Upstairs, there is another bed in the boys’ room. You do not mind sharing with Sam and Elias?”
“You are too kind, to take such trouble,” he protested, “I should not impose.”
“It is not kindness,” Ma’am Becker firmly brushed his objections aside. “It is only fitting, to do so. Your mother . . . she was dear to my husband and so were you. So are you now dear to me, to my son Dolph and the other children.” It seemed to Peter that there was a shine of tears unshed in her eyes, and now he felt even worse.
“I am undeserving, Ma’am Becker,” he answered wretchedly. “I did not part with my uncle on good terms and never had a chance to make amends.”
She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You should not torment yourself with such a memory as that! My husband—he was a noble and generous man. He would not have held such a matter to heart but forgiven you at once and thought no more of it. He did indeed speak of you after we departed from your mother’s house . . . when the fighting began, but always with affection. You should think no more of this. Now, go.” She pushed him gently towards the hallway and the stairs. “It is the second room at the top. The other bed in it is made up with clean sheets. Samuel is no doubt still drawing in his sketchbook. You will tell him it is now time to blow out the candle and go to sleep, not so? I will prepare the poultice and hot milk and bring them to you. Go!” she directed him again; nothing for it but to obey. He climbed the stairs slowly. He had never been upstairs in Old Steinmetz’s house, and hesitated at the top of the landing, where two small hallways converged.
The sound of girls’ voices could be heard behind one of the doors, and from a door at the far end of the hallway came the rumble of Hansi Richter’s voice. And one that stood half-open, yes, there was still a candle lit in that room, and young Sam in his nightshirt was bent studiously over a sketchbook. There were two bedsteads in that room. Peter assumed he was to take the unoccupied one. The wall over Sam and Elias’ bed was adorned with a number of drawings, carefully done in pencil, pen or water-colors, vivid things done with considerable skill; horses and dogs, Indians in full war paint, and soldiers in elaborate uniforms.
“Your Ma said that it was bedtime,” Peter remarked and Sam started guiltily. His other cousin appeared to already be asleep with the covers pulled over his head. Jack the dog looked up from where he was curled on the rag rug between the beds, and thumped his tail apologetically on the floor.
“Is it?” Sam asked with a spurious air of innocence, but his eyes widened as Peter walked across the room and sat on the other bed to take off his boots. “Are you spending the night here, Cousin Peter?”
“I guess so,” he answered. “Your ma says I need a hot poultice for my arm and a drink of hot milk to make it feel better.”
That made Sam intensely curious. “Will that truly make it feel better, Cousin Peter?”
Peter sighed, “I hope so.” He set his boots on the floor and hung his trousers over the foot of the bed. Oddly enough, he felt much more ready for sleep than he had an hour ago when he was in the loft of the Sunday cottage. Hearing a step on the stairs, Jack the dog dove swiftly underneath Sam’s bed.
Ma’am Becker appeared in the doorway with a tray in her hands. “Samuel, you know it is bedtime.” She spoke in German, which Peter could now understand fairly well, although he could not participate in the kind of abstract discussions favored by Old Steinmetz. “And is that dog upstairs in this room again?” she added with some suspicion.
“I do not see him, Mama,” Sam answered with an air of conspicuous virtue.
Ma’am Becker clicked her tongue again, murmuring, “That dog, always that dog!” as s
he brought the tray to Peter’s bedside. Peter very carefully avoided meeting Sam’s eye. He was afraid he would laugh.
“This poultice, ” Ma’am Becker handed him an object about the size of a ten-pound sack of cornmeal, wrapped in a towel, “is made of sand and herbs in a heavy bag, and heated on the stove, made to sooth the aches with heat, as hot as one can bear it. Rest it against the place of greatest pain. Now, drink all of this.” She handed him a pottery cup, warm to the touch. Peter gratefully drank it down while she waited. It tasted as if she had added honey to mask the taste of the laudanum. It seemed that by the time he had swallowed the last drops, the warmth of the poultice and the potion were already spreading, dulling the edge of the pain. He lay back with a sigh, and Ma’am Becker twitched the quilt to cover him. Oh, yes, he thought muzzily to himself, it’s working already, I recognize that queer floating feeling . . .just enough to blunt the pain and bring sleep.
“When it pains you again,” Ma’am Becker commanded sternly, “then come to me and tell me. I will make you hot milk and another poultice . . .which will do better than all those tonics. ”
“Yes, ma’am,” Peter answered—or he thought he answered, for he was already yawning, barely aware of her telling Sam to blow out the candle. She closed the door firmly when she went.
As soon as the sound of her footfalls faded on the stairs, there was a faint scuffle as Jack the dog emerged from under the bed. Sam remarked with great satisfaction, “Cousin Peter, are you awake? Is Mama’s poultice doing you any good at all?”
“Yes, I b’lieve it is, Sam,” Peter answered, the warmth and the drowsy feeling spreading irresistibly through him.
“That’s good,” Sam sounded quite satisfied, “that Mama is looking after you, too. She always looked after us. It’s what Papa wanted her to do.”
