“I have told you what you need to know about the young man. He is the choice of the elders, and I will trust their decision.” My father opened the door. “You should do the same.”
“Ja, Vater. I will do my best.” I said the words, but during our brief walk to prayer meeting at the Wentlers’ house, I wasn’t so sure I’d be happy with the elders’ decision, especially if this new shepherd was a farm laborer or basket weaver who had no experience with sheep. How could he possibly be considered a good choice?
While the neighbors who attended our nightly meetings offered prayers of thanks for the help that would be arriving in the morning, I questioned God’s decision and adopted a wait-and-see attitude.
When Anton Becker arrived at the barn the following morning, I greeted him with as much excitement as I could muster. He glanced around the barn as though he’d arrived in a strange land. And to him, it likely was.
I took pity upon him when his weak attempt at a smile fell short. “We are pleased you were selected to come and help us, Brother Anton.” I stepped forward. “I am Karlina Richter; my father is the overseer of the sheep here in East.”
He yanked his cap from his head and a shock of dark hair fell across his forehead. “Pleased to meet you,” he murmured as he continued his examination of the enclosure. “I was told to come straight to the barn and that Brother George Richter would give me my instructions.”
“Where are your belongings? Did you take them to the house?”
“Nein. Brother Kortig, one of our elders from High, brought me. He said he would take my trunk to the house and then return and talk to your Vater. Is he here?”
I shook my head. “His health is not gut this morning, and he returned home for a short time. I’m sure Brother Kortig will have no trouble finding him.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. Clearly, he was uncomfortable.
“Have you worked with sheep before, Brother Anton?”
“Nein, but this was the elders’ decision.”
“Ja. So my Vater told me.”
He leaned his tall frame against one of the support beams, careful to avoid contact with any of the sheep. “What else did he tell you?”
“Only your name and that you live in High.”
“Lived in High. For now I live in East.” The wariness in his eyes diminished. “So that is all you know about me?”
“Was there something more my Vater should have told me?”
“Nein.” He pushed away from the beam and straightened his shoulders. “I think I should go up to the house and meet your Vater. Brother Kortig would not like it if he knew I was alone with a girl in the barn.” He turned up his collar and donned his cap. “Probably your Vater would not like it so much, either.”
I grinned. “You will like my Vater. He is a kind man and a gut teacher.” When he continued toward the door without a response, I followed him for a few steps. “You should take the path up to the road and turn left. Ours is the kitchen house on the corner.”
He strode out of the barn and followed the path without a backward glance. Shivering, I hurried after him and closed the door. It was good my father was a patient man, for Anton Becker would need much instruction.
And the instructions could begin with how to close the barn door.
While I entered the amounts of feed usage into the record book, my thoughts remained on Anton and why he had been the elders’ choice. They hadn’t based their decision upon his ability. And what had he meant when he’d said, “For now I live in East”? Was he planning to be here for only a short time? It made no sense to teach him how to work with the sheep if he would be leaving in the near future. Without warning, the answer came to me. He’s in East for his year of separation. The reason was as clear as an Iowa sky on a starry night. The elders had chosen Anton because he had recently become engaged to a girl in High. He would spend his year of separation in East and then return to High and marry the girl.
There could be no other reasonable answer. And yet the thought annoyed me. Not because I cared if Anton Becker married—though I pitied the girl who would marry a man who did not know how to close a door behind him. Instead, I was irritated because we would spend the next year teaching him to care for sheep and then he would depart as quickly as he’d arrived. Strictly speaking, he’d be of little use at all during his time in East. Didn’t the elders realize my father needed someone who would learn to love shepherding, someone who had a desire to spend their life caring for sheep, and someone who enjoyed the peacefulness of a rolling pasture on a spring day?
Someone like me.
Except the “someone” had to be a man.
I had finished my entries when the barn door opened and a gust of cold wind rushed in ahead of my father and Anton. If my father had misgivings about the elders’ decision, they remained well hidden. “Anton tells me the two of you have met.” My father didn’t wait for an answer. “Brother Kortig has departed for High, so I thought it would be gut to bring Anton down to the barn and tell him a little about our sheep and what will be expected of him each day.” He turned his attention to the young man. “My daughter knows as much about these sheep as I do, and they respond to her more quickly than anyone else. There’s much you can learn from her.”
I wanted to tell Anton his first lesson would be about closing doors, but I didn’t want to cause him embarrassment on his first day in our village. “I am here much of the time, so if you have questions, you can always ask me.”
My father pulled his coat tight around his neck. “The most important thing you must learn is this: No flock will be quiet and pleasant without the frequent attention of a kind, quiet shepherd. They are, by nature, easily handled by a shepherd who will give them gut care, and the only way you will learn proper management is to handle the stock. In other words, the best way to learn is by doing.”
I wasn’t certain if Anton was bored or frightened, but his interest appeared to be elsewhere as my father continued to explain what would be expected of him. When my father hesitated for a moment, Anton interrupted. “I probably won’t remember everything you’re telling me, so why don’t I begin learning by doing. Didn’t you say that was the best way to learn?”
I didn’t miss the twinkle in my father’s eye as he pointed to the floor. “Since you’re in a hurry to begin, you can start with mucking out the barn. We also have several sheds that provide shelter for the animals. Once you’ve finished in here, you can work on those. I’m going to return to the house, but Karlina can point them out to you once you’ve finished in here.”
Once my father departed, Anton picked up a shovel. “I am thinking I should not have been in such a hurry.”
“Ja. Sometimes it pays to remain silent and listen. But with your early start, you will have plenty of time to finish before the evening meal.” I tried to withhold a chuckle, but to no avail. Anton’s knuckles turned white as he grasped the shovel, and the flash of anger in his eyes both surprised and frightened me. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed.”
He didn’t accept my apology. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he clamped his jaw so tight that the tendons in his neck stood out like garter snakes. I set to work scooping the corn and oats in equal measure. I thought it easier to prepare the mixture in advance, and had planned to explain the process to Anton. But after observing him for a few moments I decided to wait for a time when he was in better humor.
I had neared the barn door, prepared to return home, when Anton called my name. I turned and he stood leaning on the shovel. “I’m sorry for the way I acted. I am told I have a problem with my temper.”
“And do you?”
This time he chuckled. “I think you already know the answer to that question, but I am hoping to improve.”
“Then I shall pray that you do so. And thank you for your apology.”
CHAPTER 4
Dovie
I peered out the window, my heartbeat matching the chugging rhythm of the train. Since our departure, I’d noted each chang
e in the passing landscape. From the bustle of cities to the rolling plains, the ride had provided glorious panoramic views. Now, as we approached our destination, fear overshadowed my earlier excitement. A lump the size of a summer melon rested in the pit of my stomach.
“What if they haven’t received my second letter?”
“What?” My father turned and looked at me, his eyebrows arched high on his forehead.
“Cousin Louise. What if she hasn’t received my letter? If they aren’t expecting me, what do you think will happen?”
My father raised one shoulder and let it drop in an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know. They might tell you that you can stay, or they may tell you that they are unable to accommodate you right now. In that case, you’ll get on the train with me tomorrow and come to Dallas.” He withdrew his pocket watch and checked the time. “You’ll have your answer in an hour or so.” He lifted my chin with the tip of his index finger. “There’s no reason to worry, Dovie. It’s not as if you’d be stranded with no place to go. Besides, I’d rather you were going to Texas with me than going to an unfamiliar place and visiting strangers.”
His words bore a sting that disturbed me. Throughout my childhood, he’d been gone for weeks at a time, due to his work, so his desire to now keep me close at hand seemed odd and out of character for the man I knew. Perhaps the finality of my mother’s death had seeped into his bones and he feared being alone. No matter the reason, his reaction pained me.
“But you said I could visit them.” I disliked the fact that he continued to refer to my mother’s relatives as strangers, but I didn’t mention that again.
“I did, but that doesn’t mean it’s my choice. We have only each other, Dovie, and I had hoped . . .”
His voice faded, but I didn’t miss the tiny glint of expectation in his eyes. He wanted me to change my mind and go with him. But I couldn’t. Not when we’d come this far. I needed this time with Mother’s family—if they would have me.
We fell into a lingering silence as my thoughts returned to Cousin Louise’s recent letter. I’d been touched by her words of condolence and her kind invitation to visit. All except her final notation suggesting spring as the best time for my arrival.
Delaying my visit until spring was impossible. And I doubted my response would be delivered to her before we departed Cincinnati. I should have mentioned that Father was expected in Texas before Christmas, but I hadn’t, and I couldn’t change a letter that had already been mailed.
A conductor passed through the aisle. “Amana! Main Amana!” He continued to announce the next stop in a clear, crisp voice. As the train slowed and then came to a jarring halt, I knotted my hands together and prayed I’d be greeted by welcoming hearts.
My father held out his hand and helped me down the final step from the train. Smoke curled from the depot chimney as a cold, brisk wind cut across the flat expanse of farmland. “Not much warmer than the weather we left in Cincinnati.”
A tall, raw-boned man wearing work pants and a long-sleeved shirt motioned to a corner where coals glowed red in a wood-burning stove. “Best seat in the house is that bench right over there in front of the stove. Waiting for the next train?”
My father shook his head. “No. We need transportation to East Amana. Do you know who can help me with those arrangements?” He posed the question in perfect German.
The man grinned and pointed toward the door on the opposite side of the station. “My wagon is outside. That’s why I am here.”
My excitement mounted. If Cousin Louise sent someone to pick us up, she must have received my reply. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. “Are you Louise Richter’s husband?”
He momentarily appeared pleased that I, too, spoke German, but then his brows drew close together as if he hadn’t understood. “Nein. I am Brother Joseph Ackermann. You were expecting Brother George?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
My father stepped between us and briefly explained the circumstances of our arrival. “I suppose we could stop at the hotel before going to the Richters’ home, and I could register and leave my bags.”
“Ja, whatever pleases you is fine with me. The two of you can decide while I put your belongings in the wagon.” Without waiting for an answer, he lifted a bag under each arm and held one in each hand. Tall and lanky, Brother Ackermann was certainly strong.
He stepped around my father and met my gaze. “So you are going to stay and visit with Brother George and Sister Louise. I think you will like them, and their daughter, Karlina, too. I am guessing you are about the same age. That girl is gut with the sheep. I never saw anything like it. Girls are usually in the Küche, but not Karlina.” He chuckled. “That one has a mind of her own. Is gut she lives in East.”
I didn’t know what he’d meant by that final remark, but I didn’t ask. I was certain I’d soon learn why it was good to live in East. Besides, I was more surprised to learn about Karlina. And curious why Cousin Louise hadn’t mentioned her daughter. Had it been an oversight, or had she decided that piece of news would further encourage my visit? Perhaps she hoped I wouldn’t come.
“Come along, Dovie.”
As my father grasped my elbow, I pushed aside my troubled thoughts of Cousin Louise and the contents of her letter. After all, she’d said I could come for a visit. Perhaps not at this time, but once she heard the circumstances, surely she would understand. I climbed into the wagon and pulled my collar tight around my neck, thankful for both my scarf and gloves.
The driver released the wagon brake and slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps. The pair of horses lumbered away from the depot and soon traversed a wooden bridge that crossed a canal. My father gestured to a large redbrick building to our right. “What’s produced at the mill?”
“That’s our woolen mill.” Brother Ackermann nodded to the left. “And that’s the brewery over there.”
My gaze shifted from one side of the street to the other as we passed through the village that, in some respects, reminded me of Over-the-Rhine. Perhaps it was the tidiness of the brick and wooden houses. Or perhaps it was the dormant flower gardens and fruit trees that would bloom in the spring. Yet I thought the naked grapevines clinging to trellises on the sides of their homes and the unpainted wood houses weathering in the changing climate quite strange. And there weren’t any women carrying their shopping baskets to market, children playing in the streets and yards, or vendors hawking wares from their wagons or at corner stands. I realized the weather likely would keep some inside, but it seemed odd to see so few people. In fact, most of the well-maintained houses with their gable roofs and nine-over-six windows appeared empty of inhabitants.
“Where is everyone?” I’d done my best to withhold my questions, as the driver didn’t appear eager to converse. Yet I wasn’t accustomed to the lack of activity, and my curiosity got the best of me.
The driver glanced in my direction. “Like me, they are at work.” He pointed to the smoke rising from the woolen mill. “We are mostly self-reliant in our villages, with little need of anything from the outside world. All of the people who live here contribute their skills and work for the good of all.”
My father didn’t appear surprised by the driver’s comments, so I wondered if my mother had told him more about her former life than he’d shared with me. Then again, perhaps he was tired, cold, and more concerned about his trip to Texas than life in Amana. Without direction from the driver, or so it appeared to me, the horses slowed their pace and came to a halt outside a wooden structure that was considerably larger than the other houses we had passed.
In one fluid motion, the lanky driver set the brake and jumped down. “This is the hotel. What bags do I take inside?”
Had it been warmer, I would have remained in the wagon, but the cold dictated otherwise. My father grabbed one of his cases and pointed to the other one he would take to Texas. He had forwarded his large trunks on to Dallas, and I wondered if they would be waiting when he arrived or if the few
personal items from our house would be lost for all time. I didn’t want to believe that the delicate glass bowl or the fluted vase that had come with my relatives from Germany would end up in the hands of some stranger who couldn’t appreciate their beauty or significance.
Once inside, I held my gloved hands in front of the wood-burning stove in the lobby while my father signed his name in the guest book and received a key to his room. He spoke to the man behind the desk for a few moments and then motioned to me. “Come along, Dovie.”
“Don’t you want to take your suitcases to your room? I can wait.”
“No need,” he said. “They’ll be delivered upstairs for me. Besides, it’s better we get over to East before it becomes too busy.”
Busy? My father was making no sense. He pointed to the door, and I frowned. “I see no reason to rush. Nothing seems very busy around here,” I whispered.
“I am told your cousin Louise is in charge of a kitchen where these people eat their meals. As suppertime draws closer, she will have little time to talk to us.” He took hold of my arm and helped me into the wagon. “At least that’s what the man inside told me.”
My father’s response left me with more questions than answers. How could everyone eat at Cousin Louise’s house? That didn’t seem possible. Once Brother Ackermann had taken his seat beside my father, I leaned forward. “Do you take your meals at the home of my cousin Louise?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Nein. I live in this village—Main Amana—not in East.”
I nudged my father’s arm. “There, you see? I am thinking the clerk misunderstood your question.”
“Your cousin will explain our eating arrangements, but the clerk in the hotel wanted you to understand that when mealtime approaches, all of the kitchen houses are very busy. The Richter Küche is no different.”
I didn’t exactly understand, but he’d clamped his lips tight, as though he didn’t intend to elaborate any further.
Brother Ackermann urged the horses along the hard-packed dirt road that wound past several large unpainted barns and then directed the animals eastward until all signs of the village disappeared behind us. The three of us traveled in silence while I continued to observe the passing terrain. Instead of the level farmland I’d seen on our approach by train, the wagon carried us toward an undulating landscape with rocky outcroppings. And though I knew little of farming, this land didn’t appear suitable for producing crops.
A Hidden Truth Page 3
