More Than Words

by Judith Miller

  He stared at me as though I’d spoken another language. “I don’t understand.”

  I motioned to Brother Kruger, who had just entered the store. “Could you explain about our telephones to Mr. Finley? He wants to call Chicago from here. I told him that isn’t possible, but I don’t understand well enough to explain.”

  The tall, angular man gave a firm nod. “With these telephones you can call the train depot, the doctor, the pharmacy, or the general store, but not outside the Amana communities. We use a ground telephone system with an overhead wire that runs to each telephone in the villages. The telephones are grounded to the earth, which acts as a conductor.”

  “In other words, there is no telephone that I can use.”

  Brother Kruger’s eyebrows dipped in a frown. “That’s what I just explained. To contact someone in Chicago, you must send a telegraph from the train depot.” He pointed across the store before turning his attention back toward me. “I need a new pair of suspenders. You will deduct them from my account?”

  I hurried to the rack, removed a pair of black suspenders, and handed them to Brother Kruger. After assuring him I would charge his account, I returned to the counter.

  “I don’t think he liked me.”

  “Don’t be foolish. He doesn’t know you. The telephone system confuses most visitors.” I opened the ledger to Brother Kruger’s page. “So you will depart on the late morning train?”

  “Yes. I think that will be best. If my uncle leaves early tomorrow, I’ll need time to discuss business matters, and Aunt Martha may need my help.”

  I tipped my head to one side. “I thought it was your aunt Lucille who was ill.”

  Beads of perspiration formed along Mr. Finley’s forehead. “Of course—Aunt Lucille. My aunt Martha is her sister. I’m always mixing up their names.” He traced his index finger beneath his shirt collar. “It’s terribly warm today, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged. “Not particularly. There seems to be a nice breeze. Does your aunt Martha live in Chicago, too?”

  He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and swiped his forehead. “No. Aunt Martha lives in New York. Otherwise, she could stay with Aunt Lucille.” He leaned his forearms across the counter. “I was wondering if you’d given any more thought to my suggestion.”

  “Suggestion?”

  “About having my friend read one of your poems. And I would be delighted if you would permit me the opportunity to read more of your writing. Perhaps you would allow me to take one of your journals to read on the train?”

  The very thought of Mr. Finley reading my personal entries caused my stomach to rage like a summer storm. I clasped a hand to my midsection. “Never. There are many personal reflections in my journal that I would never wish to share with anyone.”

  “Have you read any of the poetry in the magazines I gave you?”

  “Ja, of course.”

  “Did you notice how those that speak of personal longing and desires of the heart are written with the most eloquence?”

  I tried to remember the poems I’d liked the most. None of them were about desire or longing. “I was impressed with the ones that described beautiful scenery, the rain, and snow: the ones that spoke of God’s creation.”

  “Yes, of course. Those are lovely, as well. But the point I wish to make is that people who read poetry don’t necessarily believe the poem is about the author’s life or inner thoughts. They simply believe it’s an artistic expression. Much like an artist who paints a portrait. Those who view his painting don’t necessarily believe it is a picture of the artist.” His brows arched high on his forehead. “You see what I mean?”

  “I do, but I still won’t give you my journal.”

  He slapped his palm to his forehead. “It’s my hope to help you, Gretchen. Don’t you want to improve your writing?”

  “Ja, but—”

  He held up a hand to silence me. “What if you cut out several pages? Those that have poems you’re willing to let me and my friend read? I’ll purchase a new journal for you in which you can write only the things you are willing to share with others.”

  “I think I could do that, but don’t purchase a journal for me. Accepting a gift from a man would be unsuitable.” I pointed to a stack of tablets similar to the ones used by the schoolchildren. I’ll use one of those.”

  He glanced at the mound of writing pads. “One of those will be acceptable. You’ll be able to easily remove the pages you want to send with me.”

  The sparkle returned to his eyes. I was happy that my suggestion satisfied Mr. Finley, although I wasn’t certain why I wanted to please him. “When will you return?” The question was personal and bold, and I wanted to take it back as soon as I’d spoken, but he didn’t appear to take offense. Instead he gave me a broad smile.

  “Can I assume you will miss me and want me to return?”

  His question caused warmth to rise in my cheeks, and I turned my focus back to the ledgers. “If you desire to make your home among us, you will be most welcome to return. As for missing you, I don’t believe I have known you long enough to miss you.” That wasn’t exactly true, for if he never returned I would always wonder if he could have helped me to improve my writing.

  “I don’t anticipate my uncle will be gone for too long. I promise to write and keep you informed of my aunt’s progress.” He tapped my journal with his finger. “Were you going to give me those pages? I have some packing to finish at the hotel.”

  I fumbled to open the journal and flitted through the pages to find poems that might impress Mr. Finley’s poet friend yet not reveal too much about my personal thoughts. After retrieving a pair of scissors from the shelf, I snipped out one page and then another. “I believe these will do.” I extended the two sheets of paper.

  Mr. Finley grasped my hand with his right hand and removed the pages with his left. Still holding my hand, he raised it to his lips. “Thank you for trusting me, Gretchen. I won’t disappoint you.”

  I twisted my hand and broke from his hold. “We do not indulge in familiar contact, Mr. Finley. I am certain my Vater spoke of such things when you were with him yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry. Please accept my apology. Your father did explain some of the rules pertaining to men and women. I chose to remember only one.”

  “And what was that?”

  He leaned forward. “That men and women can marry so long as they obtain permission from the elders.” The train whistle sounded in the distance, and he folded my pages and tucked them into his pocket. “Promise that you will continue your writing. Try some short stories.”

  “About what?”

  “There is a saying that writers should write what they know. Why don’t you write some stories about the colonies? Tell about visits from the Gypsies or how the wine is made. Perhaps a story about the division of men and women during mealtime and church services or about work in the kitchens and the food that is served.” He hesitated a moment. “Or how you celebrate your holidays. Those are things you can write about with conviction.”

  There was an urgency to his request. Probably because he feared the train would leave without him. Still, his persistence created a sense of discomfort. “If I have time, I may consider a story or two, but they can wait until I hear from your friend. He may say that I should never again set pen to paper.”

  “I’ve seen enough of your talent to know he would never say such a thing. Besides, it would make me feel closer to you if you would send me your stories. I could learn even more about the villages.”

  His explanation made sense. My stories could help him decide whether or not he wanted to make the colonies his home. “Ja, I suppose what you say is true.”

  After pulling my journal forward and flipping the pages to the back, he wrote his name and address and slid the book back to me. “You can mail them to me at this address. Use this to pay for the postage.” He pulled some money from his pocket and placed it on the counter.

  “That is far too m
uch for postage.” I tried to push the money back toward him, but he covered my hand and held it in place.

  “There is no way to know how many wonderful stories you may send to me. If there is money remaining, you can give it to me when I return.”

  I withdrew my hand but didn’t soon forget the warmth of his palm or the look in his eyes when I lifted my gaze. “Please don’t expect much. I keep busy here at the store, and I have all those fine books of yours to read.”

  “I know you’ll find time.” He glanced toward the door. “I really must go. Thank you, Gretchen. I am most grateful. I’ll write very soon, and I hope that you will do the same.”

  The moment he departed, guilt assailed me. A part of me wanted to run after him and demand he return the poems. Yet another part bubbled with excitement over what I might discover about my ability. Besides, if I ran after Mr. Finley, people at the train station would question my unseemly behavior. I couldn’t possibly create such a scene. I remained frozen in place until the train whistled a final shrill blast and chugged away from the station carrying both Mr. Finley and my poems off to Chicago. Regret plagued me. I shouldn’t have done such a brazen thing. Neither my father nor the elders would have approved of my behavior. I was no better at following the rules than Stefan. But who could say—perhaps one day my writing could be used to benefit the colonies. If Mr. Finley’s friend thought I had talent, I’d do my best to think of some way I could use my writing in service to our people and the Lord.

  Early that afternoon I was at the front of the store and had completed orders for some ladies from Oxford when my father came through. The shipment we had received the previous day had been a large one. There were always more visitors in the spring and summer, and the surrounding farmers looked to our store to supply all their goods. Rather than make the journey to Iowa City, they brought their business to us—and for that we were grateful.

  My father glanced over his shoulder. “You have been selling a lot of candy the past week, ja?” He grinned and pointed at the glass jars and baskets that we kept on shelves near the front of the store.

  “Nein. Not many children in the store recently. And not many Mutters buying treats, either.” I stretched across the counter and peered at the shelves. My jaw dropped at the sight, and I met my father’s watchful gaze. “I don’t know where it has gone, but a great deal is missing.”

  My father rubbed his palm across his forehead. “I am thinking it must be the Gypsies.”

  “But they haven’t been in the store, Vater. And if they are coming in here to steal, it seems strange they would take nothing but candy.”

  “Is true it does not make sense, but maybe we need to check the inventory and make sure there are not other things missing.” He trotted down the aisle and lifted a tin of fruit from the shelves. “Until we count, we have no idea how much could be missing. I am expected to keep the records straight and give a correct accounting in my books.” He stared at me, his eyes wide and expectant. “We must check the stock.”

  “Maybe you are right,” I said.

  “Of course I am right. First I must unpack this shipment, but then we must check our stock against the inventory list.”

  The mere thought of counting every item in the store left me breathless, but I could not argue with my father. I could only hope that we would arrive at some other solution before the time arrived to begin the daunting task.

  I’d been back at my work for only a few minutes when I saw Mina frantically waving me to come to the front door.

  After a quick glance over my shoulder, I scurried to meet her. Mina’s cheeks were the shade of ripe tomatoes, and perspiration beaded her forehead and upper lip. “What has happened?”

  She held her midsection and gasped for breath. “Do you know where your grandmother is right now?” She made her way inside to the counter while I dipped her a cup of water.

  “Ja. She is right over there stocking the shelves.” Relief flooded Mina’s eyes as she gulped the water. “Why did you think she wasn’t here?”

  Mina lifted the corner of her apron and wiped the perspiration from her face. “I walked past the south grove taking midmorning refreshments to the garden workers. There were several Gypsy children near the path eating candy. I’m certain one little girl was wearing Oma’s cap—the one she crocheted with fine black thread and wears on Sundays. When I called to her, all of the children ran into the thicket. I was fearful your grandmother was in the woods with them. I went and looked but didn’t see her, and all of the children scattered like mice on a sinking ship. I would have remained, but three of the workers are out sick today.”

  Mina’s breathing returned to a normal rate, and I handed her a damp cloth to cool her face. “I appreciate your concern for Oma, but I’m glad you didn’t use more of your precious time looking for her.”

  “And I am thankful she is safe and sound.” Mina rested against the counter. “I keep saying we need to have an Älterschule for the old people, just like we have the Kinderschule for the little children. If we had the Älterschule, there would be no worry about your grandmother’s wandering off.”

  For at least six months Mina had been talking of a place where the older people who developed physical and mental infirmities could come together each day and enjoy the company of one another, then return to their families in the evening. I had assisted her by writing out a plan for the Älterschule. Although she’d talked to a few of the elders about the possibility, she’d shied away from going before the Grossebruderrat with her idea. Perhaps seeing the increasing difficulty with Oma would spur her on with the idea.

  “Maybe you should talk to the Grossebruderrat about the Älterschule. You know I think it is a wonderful idea.” There wasn’t time to discuss the possibility right now, but tomorrow I would again try to convince Mina to speak to the elders.

  My grandmother approached, her eyes as clear as the summer sky. “You need some help at the kitchen, Mina? I am through stocking the shelves.”

  “We can always use a pair of extra hands, but I don’t want to take you away if Gretchen needs you here.” Mina gave me a can-she-come-along look.

  “I think it would be a nice change for Oma to help in the kitchen for a few hours,” I said. “I’ll come and fetch her when Vater comes in from the warehouse at four o’clock.”

  “Then it is settled.” Mina smiled at my grandmother. “I will be glad to have your help, Sister Helga. There are lots of potatoes to pare.”

  “Ach! There are always lots of potatoes that need a sharp knife.”

  I leaned forward and gave Oma a fleeting hug. How I wished her mind would remain as clear as it was at this moment.

  The comment about my grandmother’s cap nagged at me like a pecking hen. There were no customers in the store, and I wanted to lay the question to rest. Never before had I gone through another’s belongings, but this was different. If Oma had managed to be gone from the store for an extended period of time without my knowledge, she was even more at risk than I had imagined.

  After searching every nook and cranny of Oma’s room, my worst fears were confirmed. Her hand-crocheted cap was missing.

  I returned to the store and tried to quiet the worrisome thoughts tumbling through my mind. After several failed attempts to journal my concerns, I set aside my pen and took up Oma’s job of stocking shelves. I moved through the store, unable to tame my wild imagination and the frightening questions that popped into my mind at every turn. The questions turned to worry, and the worry turned to outright fear. What if Oma had been injured or lost to us forever? How would I have lived with the guilt? She’d protected me throughout my childhood, yet I didn’t seem capable of doing the same for her.

  After arranging bolts of fabric for more than thirty minutes, I realized I had placed them in the wrong section and all my efforts had been an utter waste of time. If I was going to rid myself of this unrelenting fear, I couldn’t depend upon myself. “ ‘For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and
of love, and of a sound mind.’ ” Over and over I repeated the Bible verse from the book of Second Timothy. I took courage in the words and told myself I could protect Oma. I simply needed to take charge.

  “Gretchen! I will be back here working.”

  My father’s voice startled me. I glanced at the clock, pleased to see he’d returned from the warehouse much earlier than expected. If I left now, I could retrace Mina’s steps and possibly discover if Oma had visited the Gypsy children. If she’d been there, I could secure her cap and even discover the truth of how they’d gotten their candy. One more look at the clock convinced me there would be ample time before I was expected at the kitchen. “Oma is at the Küche with Mina. I’m going to join them, and then I’ll walk Oma back home. Will you listen for the bell?”

  “Ja. Go on. I can look after things here. No need to return until after dinner. Mina can use the help.”

  His response surprised me, but I didn’t argue. The extra time would be a help. I grabbed my bonnet and hurried from the store without telling Father I was going in search of Gypsy children before I went to the Küche.

  I cut between the buildings, and once I was out of sight, I hiked my skirt and ran. Mina would question me if I was late arriving at the Küche, and I didn’t want to undergo one of her lengthy inquiries.

  Once I neared the thicket, I slowed my pace, but the children were nowhere in sight. Though I knew I should turn around, I continued until I neared the camp. With careful steps I worked my way among the trees and overgrowth. At the sound of voices I crouched low and took a position where I could see the camp yet maintain a good view of the surrounding area, as well. There was little activity, and I wondered if the Gypsies slept until late in the day. Father said they stayed up until the wee hours of the morning and then lay abed all day. Perhaps he was right.

  With renewed courage I worked my way through the underbrush and inched closer to the camp. I stopped at the sound of a young girl’s laughter. I strained to the side, and that’s when I saw her. A little girl of five or six with unkempt hair was singing and picking wild flowers. I held my breath and prayed she would come in my direction.