But the three elders, in unison, pointed to the bench.
Rikkert added, “Until you are properly voted upon and ordained by the congregation, it is only right that you take your seat and allow us to perform our duties.”
Adolphe’s face paled. He turned to the congregation for help, but the men were nodding their agreement with Rikkert. Slowly Adolphe sank onto the bench.
By then, the elders had each scanned the short document. “I did not know that!” Gunnar was astounded. “Did you know?” he asked Rikkert and Klaus. They both shook their heads.
“Read the will!” a man in the congregation shouted. Others agreed and said so.
Gunnar slowly read from the sheet. “I, Tomas Veicht, do bequeath the sum of one hundred dollars to my son Adolphe and, as is our custom, bequeath the remainder of my property to my younger son Dieter Veicht.”
“Dieter? He has a son named Dieter?” the words flew through the congregation.
Adolphe jumped to his feet. “My brother Dieter died many years ago! Almost twenty years ago! As the surviving son, the property is mine!”
“I am not finished!” Rikkert’s stern voice quieted the church again. “No one will speak until I have finished reading, ja?” He stared around the room, asserting his authority.
“The will continues, If my son Dieter dies before me, I bequeath my property equally to his two sons, Ernst and Frank Veicht, with the stipulation that my wife, Heidi Veicht, be allowed to live out her days in peace in the house we built together. It is signed Tomas Veicht and witnessed by two men.”
In the stunned silence that followed, Ernst Veicht slowly stood. He stared at Adolphe, who was shaking his head back and forth.
“You are not my father?” he said incredulously. “My father is this Dieter Veicht? Why have I never heard of him?”
His gaze turned to the elders, to Norvald and Jan. “Is this so? Herr Thoresen? My grandmother affirms this?”
Norvald translated and Jan nodded. “Ja, she does. Dieter was born to Tomas and Heidi three years after they adopted Adolphe. Your father and your mother died when you were less than two years old and Frank was but a baby.”
As Norvald translated Jan’s words, the hush over the congregation melted away. Voices, both men’s and women’s, whispered, “Adopted? Adolphe was adopted?” and “I never knew Tomas and Heidi had another son!”
All said this except one wizened, elderly woman. Slowly she stood to her feet, leaning on her daughter. “Elders, I am a witness to these events. May I speak?”
Rikkert and Gunnar looked at each other and then Klaus. “Ja, Frau Tokker.”
“I am ten years older than Heidi Veicht. My husband and I came here from Ohio when Tomas and Heidi did. I remember when Adolphe’s parents died and Tomas and Heidi took him in. I remember well when Dieter was born, when he married, and when Ernst and Frank were born,” her papery voice shook with age and emotion.
“Not many farmers lived in this community back then, but my husband and I did, God rest his soul. He is one of the witnesses to this will. I remember when Adolphe and Rakel took Ernst and Frank into their home and made them their own. But they required Tomas and Heidi never to speak of Dieter again. This was wrong.”
Frau Tokker pointed at Adolphe. “You threatened to take Ernst and Frank far away if Tomas and Heidi did not agree to keep quiet about Dieter. I remember, you see, because Heidi wept on my shoulder when Dieter and Gretchen died—when you took their boys and would not allow their grandparents to see them until they promised that you and Rakel could raise them as your own.”
She shook her finger at Adolphe. “Now at last the truth comes out! Ernst and Frank are Dieter and Gretchen’s kinder and Tomas’ heirs. It is they who own this house and land, even this room our church has worshipped in all these years!”
With that, the elderly Frau Tokker, assisted by her daughter, sat down.
A sad silence settled on the room. Then Ernst faced Adolphe and raised an unsteady voice. “You have lied to us all of our lives. All of our lives!”
Adolphe stood up. “You will not speak to me with disrespect! I raised you; I am your father!”
Ernst shook his head. “No. You are not my father.” He trembled with long-suppressed hurt and rage. “Have you ever treated us as a father should treat his sons? No!”
Rakel was also on her feet, pleading with Ernst. “Ernst! You do not know what you are saying! You must obey your father!”
Ernst looked at her sadly. “I am grown now. I will never obey this man again. And you and your husband will leave this house today. You, you . . . you are not welcome here.”
He grabbed Frank and yanked him to his feet. “This is our home now, Frank.”
He strode to the elders and took the Bible and Tomas’ will from their hands. “These are our grandmother’s, ja? We will return them to her.” He pointed at Adolphe. “Please help this man to pack his belongings and leave our property. He has his own farm to go to.”
Ernst paused and added, “Take the church’s things, too—the benches and tables. There will be no church here again. When we return, I expect them—he pointed at Adolphe and Rakel—and all these things to be gone.” With a confused Frank trailing behind him, Ernst stormed from the room.
Consternation and confusion reigned. Jan shook his head in anguish. Lord! Confusion is not from you! This is now worse than before!
But a still, small voice rumbled in his heart: I cannot heal until what has been covered is uncovered and brought into the Light. I must do a deep work. Trust me.
Sighing, Jan muttered, Ja, Lord, you know I will.
~~**~~
Chapter 29
1874
Jan and Søren stood on the knoll above their old soddy and wiped the sweat and dust from their necks and faces. With grim faces they studied their fields to the east: acres of corn, shriveled and stunted, their stalks and tassels barely stirring in the dry breeze.
To the north, parched by the glaring sun, were their wheat fields. The Thoresen men, aided by Sigrün and to a lesser degree by Little Karl and Arnie, had already harvested the meager early wheat and oat crops. This second crop of wheat, when sent to Omaha, was to have meant dearly needed cash in the bank.
But they would send no crops this year.
On Thoresen land and all neighboring farms, the usually lush prairie browse was burned to dry stubble. What corn the Thoresens salvaged would have to feed their cattle, horses, goats, and sizable herd of pigs—not only through the cold winter months, but even now.
The drought that had broken briefly a year ago had reasserted itself; little rain had fallen this spring to water their fields. The few newspapers circulating through their community reported that the drought was widespread and severe, threatening the very survival of America’s plains and prairie farmers.
And so, as distressing as this crop was, they would need every bit of it—the ears, the stalks, and the leaves—if they were to keep their stock alive another year.
Jan clapped Søren on the back and sighed. “Praise to God! We will at least have enough to get by another year.”
Jan and Søren, now sixteen years old, strode between rows of corn and randomly selected a few ears to sample. They each stripped the husk from an ear and examined the corn within. Søren bit into his ear and uttered a grunt. “The kernels are not big, Pappa, but they are sweet.”
“Ja,” Jan replied, “but the ears will get no bigger. We should start the harvest tomorrow, eh?”
Søren agreed. Corn was the most labor-intensive and time consuming of their crops to harvest. Every Thoresen would work the harvest, from dawn to dusk, until the crop they so desperately needed was safe within their barn.
In the distance they heard the clanging of the bell signaling the midday meal. They walked in silence back to the farmhouse, both of them planning their afternoon tasks in preparation for tomorrow’s start of the corn harvest.
As they strode into the farmyard, Little Karl, Arnie, and Kjell ran towa
rd them, jumping with abandon into Jan and Søren’s arms or grappling them around their legs.
“Onkel! Onkel! Is it time?” Little Karl shouted.
Arnie hollered, “Søren! Is it time?”
“Is it time to harvest the corn?” Little Karl yelled louder.
Kjell, only three and a half, raced around Jan and Søren, screaming, “Is it time? Is it time?” again and again, part of the general chaos that greeted Jan each day.
Heidi, smiling with happy abandon, waved from inside the screened door. She held tiny Uli by the hand. Uli, too, jumped up and down, shrieking her delight that Onkel and Søren were home for dinner.
“All right, all right,” Jan said, pulling one little boy from his legs only to have another clamp on. “Let us all go to the pump and wash up, ja? Your mamma will not let any dirty hands or faces at her table, is that not so?”
Jan and Søren made their way to the pump, dragging the tribe of wild boys who protested against getting their hands and faces washed in the cold water, even on the sweltering August day.
During the large dinner served by the women, Jan and Søren made plans to sharpen the farm’s scythes and look over the other tools they would use for the harvest. When Uli began to fuss for her nap, Jan took her on his knee. He gently bounced her until she leaned against his broad chest, yawned, and her eyes drooped.
Jan looked about the table, satisfied with what he saw. Heidi had cemented her place in their home with her love and care. To Amalie she was mother and confidante, one who understood Amalie’s loss and grief. To the children she was their bestemor, the only grandmother they would know. To Jan, Heidi was strength of spirit. Her stability and joy comforted and encouraged him.
Her grandsons, Ernst and Frank, had, in the last year, retreated from the community and had little to do with anyone, including their grandmother. “God will heal their wounds someday,” Heidi declared bravely. “I will pray for them until the Lord undertakes!”
Adolphe and Rakel had moved back to their own homestead, and the German church had not voted Adolphe as their lay minister. Instead they had called an older man whose gentleness was reminiscent of Tomas’. The church met in his barn, quite a distance from the Thoresen and Bruntrüllsen farms.
Soon after, Adolphe and Rakel sold their homestead and departed. No one knew where they had gone.
Norvald continued holding services in his barn for those who lived too far from where the German church met. The Thoresens, Andersons, and others gathered with them on Sundays.
“Takk-takk.” Amalie gestured for Jan to pass Uli to her. “She will go to her nap now that she has had a moment of her Onkel Jan’s attention. Then Heidi and Sigrün and I can get back to our canning.”
At least the green garden is doing well, Jan observed. As long as the well held out, they could pump and haul water to the garden, ensuring that their family would eat through the long winter months.
Jan gave Uli up reluctantly but acknowledged that he and Søren needed to get back to work. He pushed back from the table and frowned as the light from the kitchen window dimmed a bit.
“Are those rain clouds to the north and west?” Søren remarked. “I did not see rain on the almanac, did you?”
Jan went out the door and stood on the porch followed by Søren, Little Karl, and Arnie. The sun shone nearly straight overhead but the northwestern horizon was covered by a cloud that stretched from the heavens to the ground. Jan’s heart thudded, and he did not understand why.
“It looks like . . . snow . . .” Søren said, puzzled. “Like a blizzard? How could that be?” True, they had suffered summer hailstorms many times, but a hail-producing thunderstorm came from dark, even black, thunderheads.
The cloud was miles wide and miles high. It covered every aspect to the northwest, blotting out their view of the distant prairie and all on it. And the cloud was advancing. Quickly.
Something landed on the porch. Jan glanced down just as something smacked him on his chest. Instinctively he swept it off, but something else struck his trousers. This time he grabbed it and looked closely.
A grasshopper of some kind. It was small and black, no larger than a penny, but . . .
Arnie shrieked and swatted at an insect on his shirt. Søren brushed another out of Arnie’s hair.
The cloud was near, closing on them. And then the locusts were falling from the sky, millions upon millions of them, falling like living hail.
“Pappa!” Søren’s shout conveyed terror.
“Get inside!” Jan bellowed. He and Søren grabbed up the boys and threw them into the house, following them and slamming the door.
“Close every window,” Jan commanded, swatting the bugs that had fallen on them and been carried indoors. “Pull the shutters closed!”
A great sound beat the air, growing louder and louder. The children were crying and screaming. Amalie and Sigrün rushed about the house sliding up the windows so that they could reach the shutters and pull them in. Jan and Søren ran to help them, swatting at the insects that were hurtling through every crack.
The day darkened unnaturally but the noise of insect wings increased until it was a deafening pounding upon the house, drowning out all other sound.
They huddled in the kitchen, the little boys crowded onto Jan’s lap sobbing in terror. No one spoke—no one could be heard!
They could do nothing but wait.
In the near dark Søren studied his father. Jan’s face was set in sorrowful lines. Søren knew, without being told, that nothing would remain of their meager crops.
Hours later the din faded and the late afternoon sun came out. Jan’s small nephews had cried themselves to sleep in his arms and began to stir. Jan set them down and gestured with his chin to Søren.
His sønn opened the kitchen door with caution. Then he opened the screened door. It swept a swath of insects from the porch. They were everywhere, all moving, all chewing. Jan and Søren walked toward the barn, by way of the green garden, their sturdy boots crunching insects with each step.
The garden was covered in inches of locusts. Where bush beans and tomatoes had stood several feet high, only a mound of insects remained.
Jan shuddered. The collective din of the insects’ mandibles chewing and grinding away was all they could hear until they drew near the barn. Then the sounds of distressed animals reached their ears.
Jan and Søren ran the rest of the distance. The locusts had found their way inside the barn and sheds and were consuming grain, hay, and straw wherever they found it—in the stalls, in the feed boxes, in the pens, even beneath the animals now crazed by the insects climbing on them, clustering in their ears and eyes.
Under the hay shelter, Jan and Søren’s meager stacks of baled grasses and hay crawled with grasshoppers. Jan grabbed heavy canvas tarpaulins. “Let us cover the bales as tightly as possible!” he shouted.
“But the locusts are already on them!” Søren yelled.
“Sweep off what you can,” Jan replied, “But covering the bales might keep more locusts from getting to them—perhaps we will save some!”
Even as they worked, Jan’s mind was trying to grasp the enormity of the swarm and calculate the damage to their farm.
If nothing is left, we will have nothing to feed the animals, his mind clamored. Nothing! He began to pray—not just for his family, but for every friend and neighbor. The Andersons! Norvald and Inge! The McKennies! He knew that for some of his neighbors, this would be the final straw.
O God, how will we survive this?
The insects ate their fill for two days, devouring anything containing moisture. They beat upon the windows, fought their way inside whenever a door was opened, and crept through cracks into the house.
When Jan and Søren ran to the well to fetch water or to tend the stock, the insects fell on them, chewing at their clothes. When they returned to the house Amalie and Heidi would pick the insects from them. By the second day even the children picked up the locusts and threw them into the fire w
ithout flinching.
On the third day, to the thrumming of millions of wings, the locusts took slowly to the air. Jan and Søren watched from a kitchen window as the swarm rose, again darkening the skies. Gradually the shadow of the swarm disappeared to the south and east.
“Where will they go, Pappa?” Søren asked, his voice low. “Will they be back?”
Jan shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Jan and Søren surveyed the damage: It was utter and complete.
The locusts had eaten every living plant to the ground. Jan could only compare the destruction to that of a fire—and yet, he had seen fires leave more behind.
The garden was bare dirt defiled with the husks of many dead locusts. On the slope where his apple trees had helped shade the graves, two sticks remained, their trunks and branches stripped and gnawed bare.
In the hay shelter, the canvases they had strapped over the hay bales lay flat on the ground—all but one. Søren lifted it and found three or four bales still intact. Dead locusts littered the ground as he picked up and folded the tarps.
“Look at this,” Jan called. Søren followed his father’s voice to the barn wall where the tools hung.
“See, they have chewed on the leather tack. They have even gnawed on the wooden handles of our tools,” Jan pointed out.
They went about the business of filling the watering troughs of the livestock and removing the carcasses of those animals that, in their crazed states, had injured themselves.
“The chickens are glutted, Pappa,” Søren noted. The chickens were the only animals that had fed well. The locusts had attacked the straw in the pens, but the chickens had seen them as bounty. They were the only animals not clamoring to be fed.
Jan thought for a moment. “We have no feed left for the chickens,” he reported. “It is gone, too. The locusts chewed through the bags and ate it all.”
He pointed to the dead grasshoppers on the hay shelter floor. “Let us get the children to sweep up as many grasshoppers as they can. We can feed the chickens on them for a few days.”
Wild Heart on the Prairie (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) Page 22
