He seemed a genuinely nice man, but for me to explain our way of life in a brief conversation would be impossible. “First and foremost, it is our faith that brings us together, Mr. Finley. We work together so that we will have more free time to spend in worship.”
“That sounds like a fine thing.”
I arched a brow. “We gather for prayer meetings every evening. In addition, we have Sunday services, and on religious holidays, we attend even more often. Does it still sound like a fine thing to you, Mr. Finley?”
The veins in his neck tightened for a fleeting moment. “I’m not running for the train station just yet, Miss Kohler. I understand this is a religious community, but there is much more I would need to know than your schedule of church meetings, isn’t there?”
I folded my arms across my waist. “Yes, of course, but one of the elders could better explain to you the ways of our society.”
Several strands of unruly brown hair drooped across Mr. Finley’s forehead, giving him the appearance of a young boy. “Then we’ll let them explain the rules, and you can tell me about everyday life.” His look of expectancy reminded me of my brother on Christmas mornings.
Perching my elbow on the counter, I rested my chin in my palm and leaned forward. “I suppose I could tell you—”
“Gretchen!” My father’s voice rumbled through the room like thunder.
I straightened and jumped away from the counter, suddenly realizing the unsuitable picture my father had observed of my leaning on the counter and staring into the eyes of a strange salesman as though he were an old friend.
“This is Mr. Finley, a salesman,” I said in a strangled voice. “He has some lovely imported lace that I think will interest you. I’m sure the ladies from Iowa City will buy all that we can stock.” My rambling attempt to rectify the situation didn’t seem to help. My father’s jaw twitched as he crossed the room. “He also has an interest in joining the society, but I told him you or one of the other elders could answer his questions in that regard.” My father’s jaw relaxed a bit.
“Thank you for your help, Miss Kohler.” Mr. Finley gave a slight tip of his head and looked toward the floor behind the counter. “Don’t forget the magazines,” he whispered.
I stooped down and gathered the magazines into the dustcloth as my father circled the counter.
“Please go and tell Conrad that if he has time, I could use his help in the warehouse this afternoon.”
I stopped in my room only long enough to tuck the magazines beneath my mattress, where I hoped they would remain undiscovered until I could find a perfect hiding spot.
CHAPTER 3
Unable to believe my eyes, I stopped in my tracks and stared through the window of the barbershop. There stood my grandmother, with the lower half of her face covered in sudsy lather and a straight-edged razor in her hand. Afraid any sound might startle her, I edged closer to the door, hoping I could make it inside before she hurt herself—and before anyone else discovered what was happening. Where was Conrad? And why had he left Oma alone in his shop? Had there not been a razor involved, the sight would have been comical.
Please don’t let the door creak, I silently prayed. Ever so slowly I pulled back on the door handle until I could fit through the narrow opening. Careful not to let the door slam behind me, I sidestepped toward my grandmother.
She looked up and caught sight of me in the mirror. She waved the razor overhead. “Guten Tag, Maria. Sit down in the chair. Do you want a haircut or a shave?”
“I’m Gretchen, Oma.” I took a few steps closer. “Why don’t you put that razor on the counter and let me clean your face.”
“Ach! You stay back, Maria. I can shave my face better than you.”
Any time Oma referred to me by my mother’s name, a searing pain shot through me like a hot poker. I understood my grandmother wasn’t in her right mind, but it didn’t lessen my pain. However, there wasn’t time to dwell on my sorrow. I must make her understand that she had to put the razor down before she hurt herself.
“I think I would like to have you give me a shave,” I said. “Should I sit in the chair?”
“Ja, of course.” Razor in hand, she waved me toward the barber chair. “Come. Sit down.” She leaned forward and patted the leather chair.
I circled around and scooted back in the seat, all the while focusing on the razor. She grabbed hold of the leather strop attached to the chair and brandished the razor back and forth, as if she’d sharpened it a thousand times before. “A dull razor is not a gut thing.” She flicked the edge against her skin and gave a pleased nod. “Lift your chin like this.” She jutted her chin and tightened her lips. How many times had she watched Conrad perform this task?
“Maybe you should wipe the soap from your face before you begin to work on me.” I hoped my suggestion would give me an opportunity to grab hold of the razor.
Surprise flickered in Oma’s eyes when she turned and looked in the mirror. “Ja, you are right.” But instead of laying the razor on the counter, she switched it to her other hand, picked up a towel, and swiped her face. Leaning forward, she once again peered into the mirror. “Gut enough. Now I must shave you. Lift your chin.” Remnants of the soapy lather remained on her face, but I knew that wouldn’t deter her.
Razor in hand, she leaned toward me.
“Wait! First I need the soap to soften my whiskers.”
She stared at me for a moment before recognition dawned. “Ja. The soap we need first.” Turning around, she placed the razor on the counter behind her and picked up the mug and brush. “This we can use for your face.”
Though she no longer held the razor, I couldn’t reach it from my position in the chair. “I think I should have a towel around my neck so you don’t get soap on my dress.”
For a moment confusion shone in her blue eyes, but she quickly recovered and shoved the mug of soap at me. “Hold this.” She grabbed the towel she’d used to wipe the soap from her face and slapped it across the bodice of my dress. “There. That is gut.”
Before I could think of another objection, she yanked the mug from my hand and daubed the soapy lather onto my face. If I didn’t think of something soon, my grandmother was going to slit my throat. As that thought floated through my mind, the door opened, Oma wheeled around, and I turned toward the front of the shop.
“Miss Kohler? Is that you beneath those suds, or could it be Saint Nicholas?”
Oma pointed a bony finger in his direction. “Sit down. You have to wait your turn, pretty boy.”
“Oma, that is Mr. Finley, the salesman who was in our store this morning. Do you remember him?”
“He can have his turn after you.” My grandmother waved him toward the chair, but realization shone in Mr. Finley’s eyes as he stepped closer.
“I have a train to catch, and I’m certain Miss Kohler would be willing to let me take her turn in the chair, wouldn’t you?”
“Ja. Of course I would. Why don’t you shave Mr. Finley first, Oma? That way he won’t be late for the train.”
Shaving mug in one hand and razor in the other, Oma’s eyes shifted back and forth between us. Finally she set the razor on the narrow counter and motioned Mr. Finley toward the chair.
“You must get up, Maria.”
I quickly pushed up from the chair. The towel fluttered down the front of my dress, and I caught it with one hand. “You may sit here, Mr. Finley.”
He tapped his index finger on his cheek. I knew I still had soap on my face, but I was more interested in gaining possession of the razor. Stepping around my grandmother, I reached out and grasped the razor, hid it beneath the towel, and backed away from the chair where Mr. Finley was now perched.
Using her open palm, my grandmother pushed against his chest. “Sit back in the chair, pretty boy.”
Mr. Finley opened his mouth to protest but was met by Oma’s soapy brush. He sputtered and coughed as the mixture entered his mouth. “A towel.” He choked out the words and gestured toward a stack
of folded towels on the far ledge.
“What is going on in here?”
Like a well-oiled machine, the three of us turned toward the front door of the shop. Conrad was staring at us as though we’d all lost our minds. I could only imagine what he was thinking.
Mr. Finley jumped to his feet and retrieved two towels. Using one towel to wipe the soap from his mouth, he strode toward me and reached out to clear the dried lather from my face. In one quick motion Conrad stepped forward, grabbed the towel from Mr. Finley, and placed it in my hand.
“You should not be touching Gretchen in such a manner.” His fiery words flooded my cheeks with a scorching heat.
I took a step forward. “Mr. Finley was trying to help. We have had terrible problems because of what you did.”
He jerked as though I’d slapped him. “What did I do? I went to help Brother Heinrich over at the barns, and I come back to find this.” He spread his arms to encompass the mess Oma had made in his shop.
“You left your razor out where Oma could get it. She was going to shave herself … and me.”
“And me,” Mr. Finley added.
Oma circled around and stood between Conrad and Mr. Finley. She looped one hand into the crook of Conrad’s arm and the other hand into the crook of Mr. Finley’s arm. “Two pretty boys. All for me,” she cooed.
“They aren’t for you, Oma.” I sent a pleading look to both men. “Please don’t say anything about this to anyone.” After prying my grandmother’s grip from Conrad’s arm, I met his gaze. “I promise I’ll give you a full explanation later, but I need to return to the store before my Vater comes looking for me. He asked me to tell you he could use your help at the warehouse this afternoon.”
I promised Oma a piece of candy, but she refused to release Mr. Finley’s arm.
“I’ll escort the two of you back to the store. It will be my pleasure,” Mr. Finley said. “If I hope to make this place my home one day, I can’t start making myself useful any too soon.”
Conrad cocked a brow, but there was no way I could explain at the moment. “Tell your Vater I will do my best to come and help him this afternoon.” He hesitated a moment. “We can talk before I go out to the warehouse.”
I nodded my agreement as Oma yanked Mr. Finley toward the door. As soon as we were outside the barbershop, I wanted to quiz Mr. Finley about his discussion with my father, for it certainly hadn’t lasted long. They couldn’t have talked for more than thirty-five minutes, and I doubted that had been long enough for my father to place an order much less explain life in the Amana Colonies.
“Your time with my Vater was brief, Mr. Finley. Did he answer all your questions about life in Amana?” The two of us positioned ourselves on either side of my grandmother, but her short stature permitted me to meet Mr. Finley’s gaze without interference.
He chuckled and shook his head. “No, but he did place a large order with me.”
I wasn’t surprised that my father hadn’t given Mr. Finley information about the colonies. He didn’t have much time for outsiders, even if they did add money to our ledgers.
“Your father said he had a great deal of work to complete. We planned a meeting for when I return with the order. I’m going to arrange to take several days off work and stay at the hotel. That way I’ll have more time and won’t interfere with his work—or yours.” He tipped his head toward me. “And I’ll see if I can bring you some additional reading material. Is there anything you’d particularly like to read?”
“You shouldn’t bring me anything, Mr. Finley. It is improper for me to accept a gift from you, and we are to concentrate on reading the Bible.”
He grinned. “A very proper answer, Miss Kohler.”
I was a little disappointed that he didn’t insist on a different answer. I would have told him to bring me a book that would teach me how to compose beautiful prose or lyrical poems. Though I loved to read, my true passion would always be writing.
Once we’d walked the short distance to the store, I glanced over my shoulder. Conrad was standing outside the barbershop staring in our direction, and he didn’t appear happy. Perhaps it was just as well Mr. Finley hadn’t insisted.
My father was in the back of the store when I returned home with Oma. I was thankful that she willingly went into her room to take a nap, but I waited until she was asleep before I returned to the store. Brother Heinrich and my father were standing at the front counter talking. I stepped to the end of a display shelf and returned the items that visitors had moved from their proper places.
“He thinks he wants to live here, but I am not so sure. There is something about him I do not trust,” my father said.
There was little doubt they were discussing Mr. Finley and his request to gather information about the colonies.
“What is not to trust? He asks his questions, you answer them, and if he decides he wants to join us, then he can go before the Grossebruderrat, and they can decide. It is not for you or me to decide such matters.”
“Ja. This I know. But these outsiders who want to join us are mostly just curious fellows. Once they discover there is more to living here than free meals and a roof over their heads, they lose interest.”
“You are suspicious of everyone, George. Maybe the young man wants to lead a simple life. And you said yourself that he is a good salesman. If he comes here to live, maybe his talents would benefit us.”
My father turned and removed the mail from Brother –Heinrich’s box and handed it to him. “Or maybe he will cause lots of problems.”
“Ach! Always you think of the bad instead of the good.” Heinrich shuffled through his mail and waved a letter in the air. “From my wife’s brother in Germany. She will be pleased to see this.”
The men returned to talk of the weather and crops, and there wasn’t any further mention of Mr. Finley before Brother Heinrich departed.
“I am going out to the warehouse, Gretchen,” my father said. “The ledgers, they are done?”
I sighed. They would have been done if he and Brother Heinrich hadn’t been in the way. “Only a few entries left. I’ll complete them while you’re gone.”
He gave me a dismissive gesture. “That’s what you always say, but does it happen?”
As the condemning question rang in my ears, my anger began to mount like a threatening storm. Why was he always so unforgiving? Why did he expect so much of me? If he wasn’t complaining about the ledgers, he was complaining about the way I stocked the shelves or arranged the furniture in the parlor. Since Mother’s death, nothing ever suited him.
I finished the entries, shoved the book under the counter, and retrieved my journal from beneath the yarn in my knitting basket. Rather than poetry or some lovely story, I would write about today’s events. I tapped the pencil against my lips while I decided where to begin. Hunching forward, I carefully inscribed the date in the upper right corner. Using my neatest penmanship, I detailed Oma’s latest episode, Mr. Finley’s arrival in Homestead, and my father’s unreasonable temperament.
“So you’re a writer as well as a reader.”
I jerked to attention. “Mr. Finley. I thought you left on the two-o’clock train.” Grabbing the corner of my journal, I slapped it closed. At least, that had been my intent. Instead, I squished two of Mr. Finley’s fingers between the pages. He let out a tiny yelp and resituated his hand around my book. I knew he wasn’t injured, but I practiced proper manners and apologized all the same. However, when he wouldn’t release his hold on my journal and even attempted to open the pages for a closer look, I yanked the book from his grasp, not caring in the least if I injured his hand.
“You’re quite a fighter, Miss Kohler,” he said with a grudging smile. “It wasn’t a contest.”
He was absolutely correct. Attempting to read my journal wasn’t a game: It was more a matter of life and death to me. Along with poetry and meandering prose, my journals were filled with my deepest thoughts. And though I aspired to one day see some of my writings in print
, my personal thoughts weren’t meant to be read by anyone.
“I do a bit of writing myself and was hoping you might share something with me.”
My stomach roiled, and the acidic taste of the sauerkraut I’d eaten at the noonday meal burned in the back of my throat. “I don’t share my writing, Mr. Finley. It is very personal.”
“I understand. My actions were rude, and I apologize. But as someone who enjoys writing, I’m always drawn to those who share my passion.”
“You write?” I couldn’t hide my interest. None of the men I’d ever known enjoyed either reading or writing. Throughout my years in school, it had proved a chore for most of the boys to complete their writing assignments. Nowadays, my brother, Stefan, would rather sweep the floor of the shop three times over than write an essay for English class.
“You appear astonished. Most poets and authors are men, so why does it surprise you when I reveal I find pleasure in writing?”
“Sister Mina says some of those writers are really women who use men’s names so they can be published.”
He chuckled. “And who is this Sister Mina?”
“She is a dear friend. And whether you agree or not, I believe what she says.” I hadn’t meant to sound quite so strident, but his laughter left me somewhat annoyed.
“Once again, my apologies. Though it isn’t my intention, I seem to continually offend you, Miss Kohler. Your friend Sister Mina is correct. There are some ladies who write under a pseudonym in order to have their work accepted. I don’t think that’s fair, but until the world changes a bit, I fear it will be true for some. There are, however, a few publishers willing to set aside the prejudice against women.” He bent forward and leaned on the counter until we were eye-to-eye. “If you should happen to glance through those periodicals I left with you, you’ll discover there are some stories and poems written by women. I’ve read some of them, and they are excellent. Unless you have already destroyed them.”
His tone carried a hint of amusement as a smile played at the corners of his mouth. There was no doubt Mr. Finley knew I would devour every word of those magazines. And they would remain in my possession for years to come. “I will be certain to look for those pieces.”
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