An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler

by Jennier Chiaverini

  They reached Sarah’s truck. “I’ll see you all tomorrow at the celebration,” she called, unlocking the truck and climbing inside. They waved good-bye, and she drove home.

  Twenty

  When Matt and Sarah pulled up behind the manor the next morning, Mrs. Compson was waiting on the back steps wearing a red-and-white-striped dress, white tennis shoes, and a wide-brimmed blue hat decorated with red and white flowers. Sarah opened the passenger door and slid over to the middle of the seat.

  “Good morning, you two. Are you ready for some fun?” Mrs. Compson said.

  “We’re always ready,” Matt assured her.

  Since the parade route had been closed to traffic, they parked in a municipal lot near the edge of campus and joined the hundreds of people already milling through the streets. Dixieland music floated through the warm and hazy air. “What should we do first?” Sarah asked. “Do you want to go to the quilt show?”

  “Let’s see what there is to see downtown first,” Mrs. Compson replied, smiling as a juggler in clown makeup passed unsteadily on a unicycle, an impromptu parade of delighted children close behind.

  The next few hours passed quickly as they strolled around the downtown enjoying the street performers. Musicians entertained the crowds from small stages in the intersections. A magician’s bewildering display of sleight-of-hand sparked a hot debate between Mrs. Compson and Matt regarding who was and who wasn’t watching carefully enough to figure out how the tricks worked. Children seemed to be everywhere, shouting and laughing, darting in and out of the crowd, balloons tethered to their wrists. Parents gathered in friendly groups wherever a storefront window or a tree offered shade, laughing and chatting as they kept one eye on their friends and the other on their rambunctious offspring. The delicious fragrance of popcorn and broiling chicken and spicy beef drifted through the streets.

  Matt must have noticed it, too, for he glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon.”

  “Already? I can’t believe it,” Mrs. Compson exclaimed. “Is anyone else ready for lunch?”

  They all were, so they approached the closest food vendor and ordered three Cajun-style blackened chicken sandwiches with curly fries and lemonade. Mrs. Compson insisted on treating them. Matt carried Mrs. Compson’s lunch for her as they made their way through the ever-increasing crowd to the square, where a ten-piece band was belting out dance tunes from the forties. They managed to find a seat on a tree-shaded bench for Mrs. Compson, and Sarah and Matt sprawled out on the grass nearby. Mrs. Compson tapped her foot in time with the music as they ate and talked.

  Sarah noticed that people were starting to gather along the sidewalks, some sitting in folding chairs facing the street. “The parade must be about to start,” she guessed, just as the band wrapped up its final set.

  “I’ll grab us a spot,” Matt called over his shoulder as he dashed into the crowd, his curly head bobbing above those surrounding him. Sarah and Mrs. Compson disposed of their trash and followed more slowly, joining him in a clear space right next to the street, the perfect spot to view the parade as it approached the judges.

  Several parade officials wearing red, white, and blue sashes passed, motioning the last stragglers off the street and onto the curbs. A cheerful woman in colonial dress handed them each a small flag. In the distance they heard a marching band and cheers from spectators lining earlier stages of the parade route. Soon the first float came into view, and the crowd responded with appreciative cheers and flag-waving. Sarah told the others what Summer had told her the night before, that each Waterford College fraternity and sorority entered a float into the competition. Between the floats came marching bands from each of the local junior and senior high schools. The mayor, the police chief, and the Dairy Princess, all clad in eighteenth-century costume, were driven by in an old Model T. Behind them marched Betsy Ross, George Washington, and Ben Franklin, waving and throwing candy to the audience.

  Betsy Ross passed within a yard of their spot. “Hi, Sarah,” she called, beaming.

  Sarah stared at her. “Diane?” But by then she was gone.

  Then a murmuring chorus of adoring parents signaled the highlight of the event: the Children’s Bike Parade. First came cautious five-year-olds on tricycles, followed by older children on two-wheelers with training wheels, and lastly by sixth graders on fifteen-speeds and off-road bikes. Each bike was festooned with red, white, and blue crepe paper streamers and balloons. There would be prizes, Sarah overheard, for the best decorated bike in each age group.

  As the last child passed and the next float drove slowly by, Sarah turned to Mrs. Compson with a grin. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, it’s delightful. The children are so charming.”

  A group of sequin-clad teenage girls whirled by, batons flashing in the sunlight. After the next float the crowd suddenly quieted, and then there began a sprinkling of applause that grew louder each moment. Sarah heard a lone snare drum beating out a measured march. Mrs. Compson placed a hand over her heart and gave Matt a quick elbow in the ribs. He hastily snatched off his baseball cap.

  A color guard marched slowly past, holding the flag high. Behind them in two open convertibles sat seven elderly men, their lined faces stern and proud. “World War One,” Matt said, nodding to their uniforms. Behind them twenty other men clad in uniforms from the Second World War stiffly marched in four rows. Some wore medals; some also wore empty jacket sleeves rolled up and pinned at the shoulder. Other veterans, men and women who had fought in later wars, followed, some smiling and waving to the crowd, others staring straight ahead, faces grim. One long-haired man in his forties held his flag clenched in his teeth because his hands were occupied with propelling his wheelchair along.

  Mrs. Compson sighed. “I think I’d like to sit down now.”

  Sarah nodded and took her elbow. Matt cleared a path for them through the crowd, and they made their way back to the square and the shady bench. The lawn was now empty except for discarded sandwich wrappers and cups. Mrs. Compson eased herself onto the seat. They heard the Waterford College marching band approaching, playing a stirring Sousa march that soon had the spectators clapping along.

  “Quite a patriotic town you have here,” Matt remarked, stretching out on his back on the grass and resting his head in his hands.

  “Patriotic? Hmph. I suppose they would call it that.”

  Matt’s brow furrowed slightly. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Mrs. Compson shrugged and looked away. “This might sound petty, but it’s hard for me to see their frenetic flag-waving in an entirely positive light.”

  “Frenetic?” Sarah laughed. “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”

  “I’m entitled to my point of view. This town wasn’t very friendly to the Bergstroms when I was a young woman because of their so-called patriotism.”

  “I don’t understand. Your family immigrated to America a long time ago, right? I thought you said they’ve been here since your great-grandfather’s time.”

  “I did.”

  Matt and Sarah exchanged bewildered looks.

  Mrs. Compson noted them, and gave a wry smile. “I’ll tell you what happened. Maybe then you’ll see why I have mixed feelings about this town.”

  Matthew, I assume that Sarah has told you most of what I have already said about my family and Elm Creek Manor, but if you get lost, stop me and I’ll explain.

  It was March of 1944, and I was twenty-four years old. Father’s declining health had put me and James all but entirely in charge of Bergstrom Thoroughbreds by this time, and Richard was still away at school in Philadelphia. Our family business, which had grown so much since my great-grandfather’s time and had survived the Depression and the Great War, was now struggling. It seemed selfish then to worry about our own fortunes when so many were suffering, so we did what we could to maintain the business until the war ended and we could properly invest in it again.

  In Waterford, everyone’s thoughts were on the war effort. Claudia’s young
man, Harold, was the assistant air raid warden for our area. Although James assured me we were safe, the whole town picked up the habit of nervously scanning the skies for German bombers who might mistake us for Pittsburgh or Ambridge, to the west. It was a difficult time, but we made the best of it.

  Richard’s letters did little to put me at ease. He wrote about his friends who were going off to war and how he envied them the grand adventures they would have. Oh, and remember his childhood friend Andrew, from the playhouse? Richard had looked him up in Philadelphia and they were two peas in a pod again. When Richard wrote and reminded me that both he and Andrew were seventeen and men now, I felt my heart quake, but I tried to put it out of my mind.

  For Claudia and me, our weekly quilting guild meeting was our escape. Every member saved scraps of fabric to make raffle quilts to raise money for the war effort, like that Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt in the picture you saw, Sarah. That was our first Victory Quilt. We’d made it the previous summer, when I was guild president, when I thought the war couldn’t possibly last much longer.

  But the following March it seemed that we had always been at war, and hanging blackout curtains, and rationing everything. We worked on new Victory Quilts and talked in hushed tones about husbands, brothers, and sons overseas. When one of us experienced the worst sort of loss, the others would do what we could to comfort and console her.

  One evening our meeting was held in the high school cafeteria, and I was sitting at a quilt frame with Claudia and four other women as the other quilters worked in smaller groups on other projects. I mentioned that in two weeks Richard would be coming home for spring break.

  “The rich little German schoolboy’s coming home. Not like my boy,” a voice muttered behind me.

  I spun around. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” I demanded, only to be met by stony silence.

  I looked around the quilt frame. Only Claudia’s eyes, wide with shock, met mine.

  “Better not to have those Krauts fighting with our boys, anyway,” a different voice hissed.

  “Not unless you want to wake up with a knife in your back,” said a third.

  “Must be nice to have enough money to buy your way out of the service.”

  Claudia flushed, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then scrambled to her feet, snatched her sewing basket, and fled.

  “If any one of you has anything to say to me or my family, say it now.” Inside I felt as if I were trembling to pieces, but my voice sounded like stone.

  No one said a word.

  “Very well, then,” I said, turning an icy gaze on each of them in turn. “You can apologize to my sister next week.” I spun on my heel, grabbed my sewing basket, and marched out the same door Claudia had taken.

  Even though it was early March, it was still bitter cold. I found Claudia walking toward home, her shoulders shaking. I ran to catch up with her. “Claudia?”

  She was crying into her handkerchief. “For months it’s been like this, at the grocery store, the library, everywhere, but this is too much. How could they? How could my own friends be so hateful?”

  I put my arm around her. “Don’t mind them, Claudia. They’re just upset. Everyone is. It’s the war, that’s all. They don’t mean it. Everything will be fine next week.”

  “I have to wonder.” She sniffled. We walked the rest of the way home in silence.

  Claudia had always been so popular with the local girls, and so their comments wounded her much more than they did me. Their behavior confused her. There were so many German families in Waterford, and some who taunted us were of even more recent German origin than we. Remember, too, that our name and a significant portion of our heritage were Swedish. We were hardly just off the boat from Berlin. Why had we been singled out?

  I understood well enough.

  Although Father and our uncles had fought in the Great War, we were one of the few families in town who did not have someone currently in the military. James was already twenty-six, though there were plenty of men even older who had enlisted. Richard was still too young, and the only cousins of suitable age were girls. What’s more, our wealth had always made us the target of envious remarks. They weren’t shunning us because we were German but because we were fortunate.

  I tried to explain this to Claudia, but I don’t think she ever really understood. You’d think that of all people Claudia would recognize jealousy when she saw it, but in this matter that wasn’t so.

  The next week’s guild meeting was even worse. I could feel their accusing glares boring into the back of my head, their hateful whispers burning in my ears. Claudia and I sat close together and looked at no one, trying to pretend we didn’t notice.

  At the end of the evening, the guild president, Gloria Schaeffer, drew us aside. She didn’t even apologize as she politely suggested that we leave the guild for the duration. Can you imagine? For the duration. Honestly. And from Gloria Schaeffer, of all people.

  I clamped my mouth shut before I let loose with exactly what I thought of her and her petty little friends. I gathered up our things, took Claudia by the elbow, and steered her out of there before she could burst into tears. If we had to leave, best to leave with as much dignity as we could muster.

  Sarah, you’ve wondered why I won’t join the Waterford guild, and now you know. Yes, I realize most of the people there that night aren’t around anymore, but it’s the principle of the thing. They didn’t want us then, fine. I don’t want them now.

  We tried to forget the guild and how our so-called friends had treated us by throwing ourselves into preparing for Richard’s homecoming. How wonderful it would be to see him again.

  His first dinner home, he talked endlessly about Andrew, his friends away in Europe, and of course, the Puzzle. Father beamed at him adoringly. I suppose we all did, though I could have done without all that talk about the war.

  “No one at school is cruel to you because of your ancestry, are they, Richard?” Claudia asked suddenly.

  James gave her a sharp look, and I kicked her, none too gently, under the table. She let out a squeak and glared at me.

  Richard set down his fork. “No, of course not. Everyone who knows me knows how I feel about Hitler. Why do you ask?” Claudia swallowed and glanced at me. I gave her a warning stare, which Richard immediately recognized. “Come on, Claud, don’t let Sylvia shut you up. What’s going on?”

  Hesitantly, Claudia told him how the residents of Waterford had been treating us lately. As she continued, Richard’s jaw clenched ever tighter and his eyes narrowed into icy blue slits.

  Father looked around the table in bewilderment. “Sylvia, James? You’ve been keeping all this from me? Why?” His voice was troubled and hurt, and we couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. “I cannot understand their behavior, when we Bergstroms have done so much for this town. No one has ever questioned our family’s patriotism. I fought in the Great War and lost two brothers to it. What further proof do they require?”

  Grimly, Richard resumed eating, his white-knuckled fists trembling with rage. His expression filled me with fear.

  When everyone else had gone to bed, Richard drew me and James aside. “Whatever happens, I want you to promise me you’ll look after Agnes.”

  My eyes widened. “What do you mean, whatever happens?”

  “You explain it to her,” Richard said to James over my head.

  “I’m standing right here. Talk to me.” My voice broke, and I clutched at Richard’s sleeve. My baby brother was now taller than I by several inches, but he was still only a boy of seventeen. “What are you planning? You need to finish school, and then you’re needed here.”

  James placed an arm around me and pulled me away. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. In the morning, Richard,” he emphasized. “I’ll expect you to be here.”

  Richard nodded. He watched us climb the stairs and disappear around the corner.

  Somehow I managed to sleep that night, but I w
oke the next morning with an uneasy knot in the pit of my stomach. I shook James awake. “Something’s wrong,” I whispered, my voice an anxious hiss between my teeth.

  We hurried into our clothes and downstairs, where Claudia was bustling about the kitchen, humming cheerfully as she helped Cook prepare breakfast. Richard was an early riser, and by all rights he should have been there before us, charming Cook out of a scarce pastry made with carefully conserved sugar rations. Claudia’s bright smile faded when she saw our faces.

  A quick search of the manor and the grounds established that Richard and his suitcase were gone. He wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye, I was certain, or at least without leaving a note. The house was in an uproar, with James at the center trying to calm the storm. My thoughts were in a whirl, when suddenly I remembered the playhouse.

  I ran as fast as I could to the dilapidated old structure near the stables. The door had long since fallen from its hinges, and I ducked past it, my eyes searching the musty room.

  Then I spotted it—a folded edge of paper sticking out from beneath a rusted coffee tin in the middle of the floor, where Richard had known I would find it right away. I unfolded the paper with shaking hands.

  “Dear Sylvia,” he had written. “I’m sorry to go off like this, but I know you’ll forgive me. I figured you’d find this note soon, but not soon enough to stop me. Andrew and I have been thinking, and what Claudia said tonight clinches it. We’re going to enlist, and whip those Germans until they know they’re licked. No one is going to say Bergstroms are chicken, or question our loyalties, not as long as I can do something to prove otherwise. Remember what I asked you to promise me. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  I fled back to the manor clutching the note to my heart. The others had not even noticed my absence, and they broke off their argument when I rushed in. I held out the paper and sank into a chair. James hurried over and held my hand as he read the note, grimfaced.

  He crumpled it in a fist. “I’ll get Harold and we’ll catch the next train to Philadelphia.”