Unexpected resentment crept into my reply, followed by a sharp sense of shame. I shouldn’t rail against performing my duties. After all, we all worked for the good of the community. It wasn’t as though I was expected to do any more than the other members of our village. But I had been required to leave my position in the kitchen to help with the store. And I had much preferred working alongside the other women over stocking the store shelves and managing the ledgers.
And then there was Oma. Always there was the worry over Oma.
CHAPTER 20
The hot days of August seemed to fly by, and before I knew it the month was drawing to a close. We’d dug the onion sets the previous week, and as expected, I’d been assigned to work in the fields. I wrote in my journal that it was probably a good thing, because I’d been happy to return to work at the store when harvest was over. Conrad surprised me from time to time when he asked me to read one of my stories or poems to him. His comments were always kind. He laughed in the proper places and nodded with agreement at others. When I’d finish reading, he would tell me my writing was perfect without any help from an outsider. Then he would grin and add, “But if it makes you feel better to send them, I will not disagree with your decision.”
I was thankful for his praise and that he’d understood my ongoing desire to have my work reviewed by someone considered an expert. My only dissatisfaction arose when I’d receive each day’s bag of mail and there would be nothing from Mr. Finley. I had expected to receive comments from his friend by now, but nothing had arrived, not even a message from Mr. Finley regarding his anticipated return to Homestead.
Even my father had mentioned Mr. Finley. The laces and trims he’d sold us had been well received by our customers, and Father wanted to place another order while there were still tourists arriving each day. “What kind of company does business like this? If Mr. Finley can’t return, they should send another salesman.” Father resorted to filling empty spaces on the shelf with some older trims that hadn’t sold well in the past.
My father’s annoyed comment provided the perfect opening for me. “Could you write to his company or send a telegram and ask for him to contact you?”
He looked up and his eyes shone with delight. “Ja! That is an excellent idea you have, Gretchen. I will send a telegram right now.” He copied the company name and address from one of the boxes of trim. Grasping the scrap of paper between his thumb and forefinger, he waved it overhead and strode toward the door. “I will be back soon.”
I hummed while I dusted the shelves, pleased that I’d found a way to resolve my father’s problem and even more pleased that his action would help me, as well. Surely a telegram would bring a response from Mr. Finley within the week. I was lost in thought, anticipating what message Mr. Finley might send, when there was a tap on my shoulder. I stifled a scream and spun on my heel.
“Lalah!” I slapped my palm across my chest. “You frightened me. I didn’t hear you come into the store.”
She pointed to her bare feet. “No shoes.”
“What can I do for you? Have you heard from your father?” At Stefan’s insistence, I’d gone to meet with the girl and had listened to her fears and concerns, but I’d been unable to provide any genuine help. I had no idea why Loyco had left the band of Gypsies or where he might have gone. There truly was nothing I could tell her.
Her hair brushed across her shoulders as she shook her head. “No, not yet.”
She was the first of the Gypsies to enter the store since Loyco’s departure, and her appearance surprised me. Her father had given strict orders that they were to stay out of the town, and all of them had. At least as far as I knew. There had been no reports of missing chickens or eggs from Mina or the other kitchen workers, so I assumed all was safe within our borders.
After a wary glance toward the front door, she stepped to my left side, where she’d be shielded from view. “I came to warn you that Alija is going to put a curse on you.”
Though I certainly didn’t believe in Gypsy curses, the idea of the old woman stirring up a brew and chanting my name caused a momentary ripple of fear to wash over me. It also explained why Lalah was watching the front of the store.
“Do you think Alija followed you?”
“Maybe. She’s quiet as a prowling cat, so I can never be sure.”
“Why would she do such a thing?”
“She thinks you have made Loyco crazy and he has left us here to die.”
“To die? Is there illness in your camp?”
“No. That’s just the way Alija talks when she wants to scare us. That way everyone will agree with her and do what she wants.”
I didn’t doubt the old woman could scare most anybody. “And what is it she wants the rest of you to do?”
“She says we should make Zurca our leader, and then we can leave here. She wants to move on to another camp. She says that ever since you talked to Loyco about my mother, he has been acting strange in the head. Now the others are angry with me because I am his daughter.” Tears pooled in her large brown eyes.
How could I do anything to help? Alija wouldn’t believe anything I said. “I wish I could do something to make this better for you, Lalah. I’m sorry if any of my actions caused these problems for you.”
“Maybe it would help if you tell her Loyco sent word to you that he’s going to return in a week or two.”
I shook my head. “I think telling a lie would only make matters worse. Just think what would happen if I did that and Loyco didn’t return by the end of two weeks? Alija would put a double curse on me.” Hoping to lighten the girl’s spirits, I forced a chuckle, but she didn’t smile.
She clasped her thin fingers around my hand. “If they decide to leave before Loyco returns, can I come and stay with you?” Fear shone in her dark eyes as she searched my face. “He won’t know where to find me if he comes back and we’re gone.”
Loyco was a resourceful man, and I was certain he could track his band of Gypsies, but such a response wouldn’t quell Lalah’s fears. I swallowed hard, not knowing what my father would think of such an idea, but I couldn’t deny the girl. And in spite of Alija’s threats and curses, I thought the Gypsies would remain loyal to Loyco. “Yes, Lalah. If they decide to leave, you can come here, and we will give you shelter until Loyco returns. You have my word.”
She wrapped me in a fleeting embrace. “Thank you. I won’t come unless it is necessary. And I will do my best to keep Alija from placing a curse on you.”
I thanked her and suggested she go out the back door in case Alija or one of the other Gypsies had followed her. If they thought she’d befriended me, they would make her life even more miserable. I could only hope that Loyco would return before his band of followers decided to move on without him.
In the afternoon I greeted the latest group of visitors that had arrived on the train. “If you’re interested in hearing about our people and how they came to America seeking religious freedom, you may gather near the counter.”
It was then that one of the women called out, “You going to tell us about how you attend church every evening and three times on Sunday?”
Her question surprised me. “In truth, we attend only twice on Sundays, though on special holidays we sometimes attend more than twice.”
One of the men grinned. “How about making the wine? Do we get to see those upstanding churchgoers who get drunk on the church wine?”
What was wrong with these people? I’d never encountered such a group before. They snickered and laughed throughout my entire speech. On several occasions I wanted to stop and tell them they were behaving worse than undisciplined schoolchildren, but I held my tongue. They were our guests, and I would treat them with hospitality—even if they didn’t have any manners.
While I helped one of the ladies with a choice of fabric from the calico factory, her husband drew near. “I’d rather come back and help with the grape harvest. Maybe we could get some of that good wine.” He chuckled and nudged his wi
fe before he strolled down the aisle.
“Don’t mind him.” A pink hue tinged her cheeks. Whether from embarrassment or the heat, I couldn’t be sure, but she immediately returned her attention to the fabric.
By the time they boarded a wagon to begin their ride to Main Amana, I was pleased to see them leave. There were few visitors who’d ever caused me such discomfort. Their comments and attitudes had been most puzzling.
My father was at the rear of the store when Brother William bounded across the threshold, panting for air. He bent forward, holding a palm to each side of his oversized belly. After two giant breaths, he waved a piece of paper in my father’s direction. “Got your reply, Brother George!” He continued his labored breathing while my father hurried forward. “Not gut news.” Brother William shook his bald head back and forth.
Father snatched the telegram from the man’s thick fingers and scanned the response. “But this is nonsense. Of course he is employed by their company. He sold us their products. This is a mistake. Confusion of some sort.”
I tried to peer at the telegram, but my father wouldn’t hold still long enough for me to read it. “What does it say, Vater?”
He handed me the telegram, then raked his fingers through his thick hair. The telegram said the company did not have an employee by the name of Allen Finley. My breath turned shallow, and for a moment I thought I might faint. I agreed with my father: This had to be a mistake. I forced myself to inhale deeply before trying to speak.
“I think you are correct, Vater. This has to be a mistake. Perhaps Mr. Finley is no longer an employee. Maybe he had to quit because of his aunt’s illness, and this Mr. Hiram Medlow is new to the company and doesn’t know Mr. Finley had been an employee.”
“And how do you explain the last part?” My father tapped his finger on the final lines of the telegram. “This says their company has never sent salesmen to Iowa.”
I gasped. For sure, something was wrong. “There must be an explanation. Maybe you should send a telegram to Mr. Finley and tell him you have urgent questions.”
My father scratched his head. “How can I do such a thing? I have only the address for his company.”
Brother William stood between us, his head swinging back and forth like a door on a well-oiled hinge. How I wished he would return to his duties, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. He was enjoying the unfolding drama far too much.
Turning away from the men, I scurried behind the counter. “I believe he left his home address with his other account information. Let me see if I can find it, Vater.”
“That Gretchen is a godsend, for sure, Brother George. Who could ask for someone to keep better records for you, ja?”
While I searched, I kept a watchful eye on the two men and hoped Brother William would keep my father busy while I retrieved the address from my journal. As they continued to talk, I copied the address onto Mr. Finley’s paper work, then called to my father. “Here it is. I’ve located Mr. Finley’s home address.”
My father stepped to the counter and turned the ledger for a better look. He squinted and leaned close to the page. “Strange, but I don’t remember seeing this address on here when I looked at this earlier today.”
Brother William clasped my father’s shoulder and chuckled. “You are not getting any younger, my friend.” He pointed to his own eyes. “You should think about wearing spectacles.”
My father grunted. “Quit talking about my old age and write down this address so you can send the telegram and have it delivered to Mr. Finley.”
Brother William made another remark about my father’s advancing age before he took up the pen and copied the information. He pushed the paper toward my father. “You should write what the telegram should say.” My father jotted his message and handed the paper to the stationmaster. Urgent. Contact immediately. George Kohler, General Store, Homestead, Amana Colonies.
The stationmaster hooked a thumb behind one of his stretched-too-thin suspenders and gave the elastic a tug. I took a backward step. If one of those suspenders snapped, I didn’t want to be within hitting distance. “That is all you want to say?”
“That is enough.” My father’s firm tone was enough to discourage further questions from Brother William.
He folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “Then I will get back to the station and send your message.”
Once the stationmaster was out of sight, my father narrowed his eyes. “I cannot understand Mr. Finley. I thought he was a truthful man with a gut heart, but I may have been wrong. Worried I am that he has deceived me.”
Though I didn’t say so, I was worried Mr. Finley had deceived more than my father, but I wanted to be wrong. I wanted Mr. Finley to appear in the doorway and announce he’d been detained because of his aunt’s illness. I wanted him to say there had been a misunderstanding about his employment with the lace and trim company. I wanted him to tell us he’d returned to become one of us. Instead, I feared I might never see him again. Even worse, I feared I would never again see the stories or poems I’d sent to him.
There had been no response to the telegram, but two days later a young man appeared with a group of visitors from Chicago. Like the past several groups that had visited the store, this group chuckled and made unpleasant remarks while I gave my talk about the colonies. Each time this occurred, I became more perplexed. Until the past week, I’d never before experienced such unseemly behavior. Now they took great pleasure in making a joke of everything I told them, and I was relieved each time a new group departed the store.
The lad remained at a distance from the others and didn’t exit with them. “May I assist you in locating a special item?”
In one hand he held a package wrapped in brown paper. “Miss Gretchen Kohler?”
I tipped my head to gain a better view of him. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him before. “Yes. I am Gretchen Kohler. How may I help you?”
He extended his arm and thrust the package toward me. “I was asked to deliver this to you. It is from a Mr. Allen Finley.”
As soon as I accepted the package, he turned to leave. “Wait! I have questions about Mr. Finley.”
The young man glanced over his shoulder and made a slow turn. “I don’t have any answers for you, miss. I work for a messenger service. I was told you worked in the general store and that I was to personally deliver the package to you. That’s all I know.”
Not for a second did I believe him. I stepped near and grasped his sleeve. “Please tell me what has happened to Mr. Finley.”
He looked down at his arm, and I begrudgingly released my hold. “I have never seen or met Mr. Finley. This package was delivered to our office yesterday by a courier from the Modern Ladies’ Journal, who provided the delivery instructions. Maybe if you open the package, your questions will be answered.” He took a backward step. “If you’ll excuse me. I’m going to the train station.”
He kept a watchful eye on me, as though I would once again attempt to detain him. Thankful my father wasn’t in the store to question me about the delivery, I set the package on the front counter. After the young man left, I untied the cord. My fingers trembled as I peeled back the brown paper. I blinked at the glossy cover of the Modern Ladies’ Journal. The likeness of a young woman wearing a gauzy white dress embroidered with pink rosebuds adorned the cover. Confused, I lifted the magazine from its brown paper cocoon. It was then I saw an envelope bearing my name.
I ripped open the seal and withdrew the contents. When I unfolded the pages, a bank draft fluttered in the air and landed on the counter. The draft was payable to me, and I had to look twice before I could believe my eyes. Why was Mr. Finley sending me a bank draft for so much money? I’d sent him only two more poems, and even if he’d been successful in having them published, this was far too much money for two poems. And where were the stories I’d sent him? Those were what I’d been waiting to receive from him.
His bold script covered the cream-colored writing paper in firm, even lines.<
br />
Dear Miss Kohler,
Please know that it is difficult for me to write this letter. I am not proud of my behavior, but I live in a different world than you. In order to advance in my position with Modern Ladies’ Journal, it was necessary for me to provide the editor with a unique story for our anniversary edition of the magazine.
Inside the pages of the recently released copy, you’ll find the stories you penned about life in the Amana Colonies. Most writers would be pleased to receive such news, but I doubt you will take pleasure in seeing the finished project. Please know that I strongly discouraged use of the cartoons that accompany the stories, but my suggestion was ignored. Your stories have been received with great enthusiasm by our readers, and the magazine is selling in record numbers. Few changes were made to your writings. Unfortunately, my editor insisted upon using your real name.
A knot formed in my stomach. I dropped the letter onto the counter and flipped through the pages of the periodical. Near the center of the magazine, my eyes locked upon a title in large, bold print. Visit the Amana Colonies: Where Spirits Are Mixed With Religion. In the columns below and to the right of the glaring title was my story about growing and harvesting grapes and making wine. To the left was a cartoon of two men and a woman sitting in the meetinghouse basement drinking wine. The woman was perched atop one of the barrels with her cap askew and her skirt hiked above her ankles. The men were portrayed with bulbous noses and eyes at half-mast while they sprawled across the floor. All three were holding wine-filled glasses high in the air.
“How could he!” Fury raged within as I turned the magazine pages and saw more horrid drawings. Mr. Finley had made a mockery of the stories—even more, he’d made a mockery of our people and our faith. Every story I’d written had been published in this special section they had titled “Treat for Travelers.” He’d been so eager to gain his promotion that he hadn’t even insisted the editor protect my identity. My stomach clenched, and I pressed a fist to my mouth to silence the sobs that threatened to rack my body.
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