Marta's Legacy Collection

by Francine Rivers

  Hildemara always slowed when walking by the Johnsons’ place, drinking in the rose scent. Mrs. Johnson was as fussy about deadheading her flowers as Papa was about getting rid of every weed on their property.

  “Hello, Hildemara.” Mrs. Johnson stood from where she had been thinning marigolds and brushed off her skirt. “Your mama already came by this morning. I was just putting on the coffee when she went by.”

  “Yes, ma’am. She goes in early Tuesdays and Thursdays to make the beignets and Torten.”

  “They’ll all be gone by noon. She brought me cardamom bread last week. Your mama is a good baker. Is she teaching you?”

  “I’ll never be the baker Mama is.”

  “Mama’s teaching me to sew.” Clotilde leaned over the fence and pointed. “What are those, Mrs. Johnson? They’re so pretty.”

  “Sweet Williams.” She plucked a stem of bright pink and white flowers and handed them to Cloe. “Wait just a minute and I’ll bring you some seed packets. You can start a nice flower garden for your mama, ja? If you plant the seeds now, you will have a nice summer garden. In fall, I will give you bulbs.”

  Mama had Bernie turn the soil around the front porch and prepare it for planting. “Not too much manure. It’ll burn the seedlings.” She and Clotilde planted lady asters, pink and white carnations, marigolds, hollyhocks, coneflower, and bachelor’s buttons all around the farmhouse on Hopper Road.

  Rikka liked to follow Mama around the house, holding the flowers Mama snipped. Mama would fill a mason jar with water and let Rikka arrange the flowers. Mama said it had symmetry, whatever that was. “I think Rikka could be an artist,” Mama told everyone. She came home one day with a box of color crayons and let Rikka draw on old newspapers.

  Bernie wanted to be a farmer like Papa. Clotilde wanted to be a dressmaker. At three, Rikka could already draw pictures that actually looked like cows and horses and houses and flowers.

  Everyone assumed Hildemara would grow up to be someone’s quiet, hardworking wife. No one thought she had any ambition to do more than that, especially Mama.

  Days passed in a blur of chores, school, study, and more chores, but every Sunday, Papa hitched up the horse and wagon and they all went into town to attend services at the Methodist church. Most of the parishioners had known each other all their lives. Some didn’t like Mama because she worked for the Herkners, who had taken business from the Smiths, bakers who had been in Murietta for years.

  “I wouldn’t work in the Smiths’ bakery if they paid me twice what Hedda and Wilhelm do. I went in there once and never went back again. The place is filthy, flies buzzing everywhere. Who’d want pastries from that place?”

  Many of the men didn’t like Papa either. Some called him a Hun behind his back. Those who had hired him the first year as a day laborer thought better of him, though. A quiet man, Papa didn’t try to press his way in among people who viewed him with suspicion. Mama, on the other hand, lingered after services, talking to as many members of the congregation as she could.

  Papa wasn’t as easy with people as Mama. He didn’t like answering personal questions, or mingling with people who liked to ask them. After a few months of trying to break into the tight circles, Papa gave up. “I won’t stop you, but I’m not going back to church, Marta. I’ve got too much to do to stand around talking to people. And I can spend time with the Lord out in the orchard or vineyard.” Papa flicked the reins.

  “Even God took one day off a week, Niclas. Why can’t you?”

  “I’ll rest on Sundays. But not there. I don’t like the way people look at me.”

  “Not everyone thinks of you as a Hun, and those that do would change their minds if you’d make an effort to talk to them. You know more about the Bible than the pastor.”

  “You’re better at making friends, Marta.”

  “We need to get to know people. They need to know us. If only you’d—”

  “I’ll stay home with you, Papa,” Bernie volunteered a little too brightly.

  “No, you won’t. You’ll go to church with your mother.”

  During lunch that day, Clotilde frowned. “What’s a Hun, Papa?”

  Mama put more pancakes on the table. “It’s an insulting name for a German.”

  Bernie stabbed two pancakes before anyone else could get to them. “Who would want to insult Papa? He helps everybody who needs it.”

  “Fools and hypocrites, that’s who.” Mama leaned over and forked one of Bernie’s pancakes onto Hildemara’s plate. “Try sharing once in a while, Bernhard. You’re not king of the roost. And put your napkin on your lap. I don’t want people thinking my son is a complete barbarian.”

  Bernie did what Mama told him. “How long has the war been over, Papa?”

  “It ended in 1918. You tell me.”

  “Six years.” Hildemara answered with scarcely a thought. “I wonder whatever happened to Mrs. Ransom.”

  Mama gave her an impatient look. “Why would you care what happened to that woman?”

  Hearing the anger in Mama’s voice, Hildemara shrugged and said no more. But Mrs. Ransom stayed on her mind for the rest of the day. Hildie prayed her teacher’s grief had eased by now. Every time Mrs. Ransom came to mind, she prayed again.

  21

  1927

  After three years of working the farm, Papa made enough money from the harvest to build a long, enclosed sleeping porch on the back of the house. He put in screened windows and a partition with a closet on each side. He built bunk beds for ten-year-old Hildemara and eight-year-old Clotilde, and a fold-down platform bed for Rikki—at five, still the family baby. On the other side of the partition, Bernie had a room to himself with a real bed and a catalog dresser. Mama ordered mattresses.

  Hildemara loved the new bedroom until cold weather came. Even winter screens couldn’t keep the chill out. Papa hung canvas on the outside and hooked it down through December and January, which made the room dark and cold. Mama came out the back door each morning after the potbelly stove had been stoked. The girls piled out of bed, grabbed their clothes, and made a mad dash into the house, crowding around the potbelly stove to get warm. Hildemara slept on the top bunk and always ended up being last and therefore outside the ring of warmth. While Clotilde and Rikka pushed at one another, Hildemara wormed in as close as she could, shivering until the heat penetrated her thin arms and legs.

  “I’m going over to the Musashis’ this afternoon,” Mama announced one morning.

  “Give it up, Marta. They like to stay to themselves.”

  “It won’t hurt to try again.”

  The Musashi family owned sixty acres across the road, twenty in almonds, ten in grapes, and the rest in vegetables that changed by season, and not a weed anywhere. The barn, sheds, and outbuildings were sturdy and painted, as was the wooden post-and-beam house with sliding doors. Hildemara wondered where they slept seven children until Bernie said Andrew told him his father had built a dormitory for the boys and another for the girls, each with sliding doors into the living area and kitchen.

  Bernie, Hildemara, and Clotilde saw the Musashi children every day at school. They had American names: Andrew Jackson, Patrick Henry, Ulysess Grant, George Washington, Betsy Ross, Dolly Madison, and Abigail Adams. Every one of them was a good student, and the boys impressed Bernie with their skill on the field. He had to work hard to be the best whenever the Musashi boys joined a game. The girls were quiet, studious, and polite, but they never had a lot to say, which made Hildemara uncomfortable. She preferred to be the one who listened rather than having to think of things to say. Hildemara preferred Elizabeth’s company. Elizabeth always had things to talk about—the latest movie she saw at the theater, visiting her cousins in Merced, riding in her father’s new automobile all the way to Fresno.

  Papa had finally made the first inroad when Mr. Musashi’s truck broke down on the way back from Murietta. Papa slowed the wagon when he saw him tinkering with the engine and looking perplexed. He had a wagon loaded with lumber and a
water tank for the shower house he planned to build, but didn’t see any reason not to stop and see if he could help. Papa got the truck running enough to choke its way back up Hopper and pull into the Musashis’ yard, where it died again. Papa called Bernie to tend the horse and put supplies away while he went across the street to the Musashis’ place to finish the repair job. It took the rest of the day, but Papa fixed it. Mr. Musashi wanted to pay him, but Papa refused.

  The next time Papa pruned the trees, Mr. Musashi showed up with his boys and equipment.

  Determined to break down the rest of the barriers, Mama made apple Streusel and crossed the street for a visit. She came home resigned. “I give up. She can’t speak English and I haven’t time to learn Japanese. And I think she’s too afraid of me to say much of anything anyway.”

  Only the “town kids” had time to play during the week, and when Saturday rolled around, the Musashi children had to spend all day at Japanese school. “I learn to read and write Japanese,” Betsy told Hildemara on the way to school. “I learn old country customs, courtesies, and games.”

  “May I go with you sometime?”

  “Oh no.” Betsy looked embarrassed. “So sorry. Just for Japanese.”

  Bernie had no better luck getting the Musashi boys to teach him Japanese fencing.

  Mr. Musashi struggled to sell his vegetables in the valley. One morning, he loaded his truck with crates of broccoli, squash, beans, and onions and drove away. He didn’t return that evening. Mama told Hildemara to ask Betsy if the family needed any help. “No, thank you. My father is taking the produce to the Monterey markets. He won’t be back for two more days. My brothers will manage.” Mr. Musashi left Andrew in charge over Patrick, Ulysses, and George. Problems cropped up like fast-growing weeds. A grass fire started down the road, threatening their orchard. Papa and Bernie ran with shovels to help put it out. When the water pump broke the next day, Andrew asked Papa for help. While Papa worked on the pump, Bernie asked if Patrick would show him how Mr. Musashi grafted the fruit trees.

  “You should see them, Papa. They have three types of apples on the same tree! I’ll bet we could do the same thing with the orange tree; graft in lemon and have lemonade!”

  On the way to school, Hildemara saw Mama coming up the road from Murietta. She never came home this early. She always worked until two. “Is something wrong, Mama?” Face like stone, Mama walked right past Hildemara and the other children without saying a word. Hildemara ran after her. “Mama? Are you all right?”

  “If I wanted to talk about it, I would have answered you. Go to school, Hildemara! You’ll see what’s wrong with me when you walk through town!”

  She was right. “Holy cow!” Bernie uttered and half whispered to Hildemara, “You think Mama did it?” The Herkners’ bakery had burned to the ground.

  “Why would she? Mrs. Herkner is her friend.” The children stood staring at the pile of blackened boards, broken windows, and ash.

  Not even the town children knew what happened other than there had been a fire the night before. Hildemara spent the day wondering. Hurrying home, she found Mama in the washhouse.

  “What happened to the Herkners’ bakery, Mama?”

  “You saw what happened. Someone burned it down!”

  “Who?”

  “Go feed the chickens.”

  “Mama!”

  “Put feed in for the horses. And if you ask me one more question, Hildemara, you’ll be cleaning the stalls.”

  Mama was finally ready to talk when everyone sat down to dinner that evening. “Hedda said someone threw something through the front window, and the next thing they knew, the place was going up in flames. They were lucky to get down the back stairs alive. Wilhelm thinks he knows who did it, but the sheriff needs proof.”

  Papa didn’t say any names, but he looked as though he knew as well as Mama who would want to put the Herkners out of business.

  “Hedda says they’ve had enough. They’re leaving.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “About as all right as they can be after seeing everything they’ve worked for go up in flames.” Mama scooped beef stew into bowls. She served Papa first, then Bernie, Hildemara, Clotilde, and finally Rikka. She served herself last and sat at the foot of the table.

  Papa said grace and then glanced at Mama. “There’s a blessing even in the hardest things, Marta. Last harvest put us ahead. We have enough set by that you don’t have to work anymore. We have enough to make payments and pay taxes.” He forked a piece of juicy beef into his mouth. “Hmmmm . . .” He smiled. “I can tell when you’ve had more time to cook.”

  “That’s all a man thinks about, his stomach.”

  Papa chuckled, but didn’t add anything to Mama’s comment.

  Mama dipped her spoon in the stew. “Hedda and Wilhelm are going to San Francisco. They have friends there who can help them get started again. She’s worried about Fritz missing more school.” Hildie knew Mrs. Ransom had given Fritz a hard time, too. Unlike Mama, Mrs. Herkner had allowed her son to stay home from school whenever he felt sick.

  Papa stopped chewing and lifted his head, sensing something in the wind. Hildie went on eating, pretending she wasn’t all ears as Mama went on talking casually. “He was out of school for over a month with pneumonia. He’s just catching up. If they take him out now, he’ll lose the whole year. I told her we’d keep him.”

  Papa swallowed. “Keep him?”

  “Bernhard has a big bedroom.”

  “Mama! He’s not moving in with me, is he?”

  Mama ignored Bernie’s protest and spoke to Papa. “You’ll have to build bunk beds like in the girls’ room. We have enough wood left over, haven’t we? I already ordered a mattress. It’ll be delivered in a few days. He can sleep on the couch until then.” She took a piece of bread and buttered it lightly.

  Papa glowered. “I don’t remember saying yes to this idea.”

  “You take care of the orchard and vineyard. I take care of the children, the house, and the animals, except the horse.”

  Hildemara felt the storm threatening family harmony. “It would be a good deed, wouldn’t it, Papa? It would help the Herkners.”

  Bernie’s face flushed in anger. “It’s my room! Shouldn’t I have a say if someone lives in it?”

  Hildemara gaped at him. “His home just burned down, Bernie.”

  “I didn’t burn it down!”

  “They just lost everything!”

  “Fritz Herkner can’t even make a base hit! Last time he played basketball, he sprained an ankle. He has less coordination than you do! He’s going to be about as much help around the farm as Clotilde and Rikka!”

  “That’s enough, Bernhard!” Mama slammed a fist on the table, making everyone except Papa jump. “Who do you think you are? If you don’t make Fritz Herkner welcome in my house, he’ll be sleeping alone in your room and you’ll be living in the barn!”

  Bernie stuck out his chin. “It’s Papa’s house, too.”

  “That’s enough, Sohn.” Papa spoke quietly.

  Bernie looked suitably cowed, but Hildemara’s stomach sank at the look on Papa’s face. She knew Mama’s money had bought the farm, but Papa worked hard and brought in the crops that made it all a success. Mama talked as though he hadn’t contributed anything. She could feel tears welling at the hurt look in his eyes. She looked at Mama and saw the shame she tried to hide.

  “Our house.” Mama amended, but it was too late. The damage had been done. When Papa pushed his plate away, her eyes glistened. “She wasn’t just my employer, Niclas.”

  Papa said something in German and pain flickered across her face. Tears slipped down Hildemara’s cheeks. She hated it when her parents fought. She hated to see the hurt in Papa’s eyes and the stubborn tilt of Mama’s chin.

  “When is he coming?” Papa asked.

  “Tomorrow.” Mama seemed to prepare herself before saying more. “Hedda is paying us. He’ll stay with us through summer.”

  P
apa’s eyes flashed. “Is everything always about money, Marta? Is that all that’s important to you?”

  “I didn’t ask for anything! Hedda insisted! I lost my job when the bakery burned down, and she didn’t think I should be paying to take care of her son. She wouldn’t leave Fritz otherwise!”

  Bernie stabbed a hunk of beef. “Five months.” He grumbled, slumping in his seat as he poked the meat in his mouth and chewed with a sullen scowl.

  Mama turned on him. “They won’t lower themselves to living in a tent and then slaving for some lazy widow. You watch, Bernhard. The Herkners will have a city apartment and successful business going before the end of the summer!”

  Papa shoved his chair back and left the table.

  Mama paled. “Niclas . . .”

  Hildemara watched Papa go out the front door. She knew how hard he worked, how hard he tried to make Mama happy. And then Mama said some thoughtless thing to crush him. Hildie’s sorrow burned away in white-hot anger. She glared at Mama through her tears, wondering why she couldn’t be thankful instead of resentful. Hildie knew what it was like to try to please Mama, never measuring up to expectations. For once, she didn’t care. “Why do you have to be so mean to him?”

  Mama slapped her across the face. Jolted back, Hildemara put a shaking hand to her burning cheek, too shocked to utter a sound. Mama had never hit her before; her face went white. When she reached out, Hildemara drew back from her and Bernie shot out of his seat. “Don’t hit her again! She didn’t do anything wrong!”

  Mama stood, too. “Get out of this house right now, Bernhard Waltert!”

  He slammed out the front door and pounded down the steps.

  Clotilde stared at Mama, openmouthed. Rikka cried softly, her napkin covering her face. Blinking back tears, Hildemara hung her head. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “Don’t apologize, Hildemara! Why do you always apologize, no matter what people do to you?” Her voice sounded ragged. “You clear up. You can wash the dishes and put everything away, too. You might as well get used to people walking all over you for the rest of your life!” Mama uttered a choking sound and went into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.