by Erica Vetsch
The little girl hugged the bowl against her middle, her hands barely reaching around the circumference. “Daddy says I can’t have a baby. He says that’s not how families work.” She sighed, shaking her head. “He says just because we pray for something, doesn’t mean we will get it. Sometimes Jesus has to say no.”
Tears pricked Kate’s eyes. Thus far, Jesus had said no to her wish to stay in Minnesota. It was so hard to trust that He knew best, that He only had what was best for her in mind. But she knew He was faithful. His Word promised that His love never changed, and He had never broken a promise.
She wished that what she knew and what she felt were reconciled more often. Though reminding herself of the truth often went a long way toward aligning her feelings.
Oscar carried her supper tray up to her that evening.
Kate scooched herself up against the pillows, thoroughly tired of being in bed. The oftener Liesl had bounced up the stairs to tell her of some new development for the party, the harder it had become to stay in her room. Everyone would be having such a lovely time, and she’d be all alone. Inside, she wanted to fuss about Oscar’s and Dr. Horlock’s restrictions. She felt fine, and she should be able to be downstairs with friends and family celebrating the season.
But when party time rolled around, she wasn’t forgotten. Sounds of wagons and horses, laughter and singing came from the farmyard and porch, and the front door opened again and again. Somewhere Rolf barked, greeting each new arrival, and the smells of cinnamon and bread and Kinderpunsch drifted up the staircase.
And then footfalls on the steps. Mrs. Tipford tapped on the doorframe. “Kate, dear?”
“Come in.” Kate smiled, so grateful for company. “Season’s greetings.”
“And to you. What’s this I hear about you falling today?” The tiny woman tugged off her gloves, her cheeks and nose red with cold. She hadn’t even waited to remove her wraps downstairs. “Are you all right?” Her brows nearly met over her nose, and she sat on the bedside, taking one of Kate’s hands in hers, studying Kate’s face.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. It wasn’t much of a spill, and I landed in the snow.” Kate shrugged. “It’s a lot of fuss over nothing. You’d think I’d taken a fall off the henhouse roof the way Oscar reacted. He even went for the doctor. It’s rather embarrassing.”
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Tipford put her hand to her chest. “Of course he was concerned. After what happened to Gaelle.” She shook her head, lowering her chin. “Surely he’s told you.”
“Oscar rarely speaks of her. I know she died, and a child, also.”
“It was so sad. She was expecting, and a few weeks before she was due, she fell on the stairs. The fall caused her to go into labor early, and in spite of everything the doctor could do, she lost the baby. And later that night, she passed away, too.” Mrs. Tipford touched her little finger to the corner of her eye to catch a tear. “It was so very sad, and Oscar was beside himself with grief. He blamed himself. He was outside in the barn when she fell, and she couldn’t get up, and Liesl was so young... It was quite a while before he found her.” She sat quietly for a moment, then shook herself, as if scattering the bad thoughts. “It’s no wonder he was concerned for you.”
Kate bit the inside of her bottom lip, her heart aching for Oscar. Here she’d been chafing over what she considered his bossiness, when he’d only been trying to protect her from the same tragedy that had befallen his wife.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Tipford said, too brightly. “Everything looks lovely downstairs, and I don’t know who is more pleased, Inge or Liesl.”
“I’ll get to see it all tomorrow. The doctor said I only have to stay in bed today and tonight. Tomorrow, I can go downstairs, though I suspect I’ll only be allowed to sit in the rocker or rest on the settee.” And she’d do it, too, so as not to cause Oscar more worry. He’d been through enough. Kate considered all the times she’d brushed aside his concerns, or thought she was just humoring him...like going into Mantorville to be checked out by the doctor, or promising not to use the stairs without his assistance, or not walking outside alone...and all the while, he’d been trying not to relive the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
* * *
Oscar stood on the porch, watching the last sleigh leave the yard. Light spilled from his front parlor window out onto the snow until Martin lowered the sash and drew the drapes. Inge must’ve passed a hundred cookies through the open window to their guests over the last hour.
He had wondered how many of their friends and neighbors would make the trip clear out to the farm, but the townsfolk had surprised him. They’d arrived with lanterns and treats and holiday cheer. The men and children had joined together to make a huge snowman in the yard. The snow sculpture now wore one of his old hats and a scarf, and cast a long shadow in the clear, moonlit night.
Stamping the snow off his boots, he returned inside. Warmth hit him in the face—the warmth of the stove as Inge lifted one of the lids to stir the coals, warmth from the fireplace in the parlor and warmth of...well, almost of family. He’d entertained in his house for the first time in more than two years. Never one to seek out group events, the ease with which the evening had passed surprised him.
Though there was one thing he’d noticed all night.
He missed Kate. Several times he’d mounted the stairs to check on her, only to hear laughter and chatting as various women took turns keeping her company. Oscar hadn’t intruded, but it had reassured him to hear her voice.
When she’d fallen that afternoon, everything had stopped. His mind. His heart. His ability to breathe. He wasn’t even sure what he did or said, he was so frantic to get her to safety, to get the doctor to her.
And though Horlock said she would be fine, Oscar still wasn’t at ease. Until that baby was safely delivered and deemed healthy, and Kate was back on her feet, he wouldn’t be able to relax. Just thinking of everything that could go wrong made his muscles clench and his stomach resemble a ball of knotted twine.
But he’d missed being with her tonight. Over the past few days, every evening after Liesl went to sleep, they’d gone into the workshop to craft the dollhouse. Kate liked to talk while she worked, reminding him of Liesl, who was never quiet for long. But unlike Liesl, who could chatter on without input from him for long stretches, Kate asked him questions and for his opinion.
She was surprisingly well-read and up on state and national politics. And she seemed to remember in great detail everything Liesl had said or done during the day, and to relate it to him so vividly that he felt as if he had been there, too.
Martin sat in a chair before the fire, Liesl on his lap, her head on his shoulder. He was telling her a story. “And we would walk through the middle of town, holding up the stars we had made, singing all the Christmas songs we knew. The march always started at the low end of town and we worked our way up the hillside all the way to the church door. Then everyone went inside for the Christmas Eve service. I remember being so excited I could hardly sit still, because Christmas Day was only one more sleep away.”
“Mrs. Tipford says we are going to have Star Singing this year, and I can make a star and sing and march through town with the other kids.” Liesl’s eyelids drooped.
The old man hugged her. “I look forward to hearing you sing. It will remind me of when I was a boy in Switzerland with all my brothers and sisters.”
“Did you have lots?”
“It seemed like it once, but now there is only my brother Victor.”
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters.” Liesl yawned. “I wish I did. I would be the big sister, and I would have someone to play with every day.”
Oscar barely refrained from wincing as a shaft of regret shot through him. If everything had gone according to his plans, Liesl would have an almost two-year-old sister by this time, and who knew? Maybe another sibling on the way.<
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“Time for bed, Poppet. You’ve had a big day.” Oscar lifted his daughter into his arms. “Thanks, Martin.”
Martin levered himself up, working a kink out of his back. “She is a treasure. Good night, little one.” He caressed Liesl’s head with his work-worn hand.
Inge wiped the kitchen table with slow strokes. She must be exhausted, too. The house had been cleaned and decorated, food prepared and every guest welcomed eagerly. “Will you want coffee?”
“If I do, I can make it. You should rest.” Oscar paused in the stairway door. “Thank you for making the party so nice tonight. Everyone I spoke to seemed to be enjoying themselves.”
Even him. If anyone had asked him six weeks ago if he would ever host a party at his house, and if he did, would he have a good time, he would’ve answered both those questions with a resounding “no.”
At the top of the stairs, he whispered to Liesl, “Do you want to see if Miss Kate is still awake so you can say good night to her?”
She nodded against his shoulder.
Tapping on Kate’s half-open door, he considered again how things had changed. Where at first he was resentful at the intrusion into his home, defensive and uneasy about having strangers at his table, digging in his cupboards, sleeping under his roof, now it seemed natural.
And he would miss them when they were gone.
“Come in?”
He peeked around the door. She sat up against the pillows, a scrap of cloth in her hands, her needle poking in and out. When she looked up, the blue of her eyes was like a blow to the chest. Would he ever get used to that? Her hair lay in a thick braid over her shoulder, and she had the red shawl wrapped around herself.
When she spied Liesl, she tucked her sewing away into the basket. “Aw, are you tuckered out, sweetling?”
Liesl leaned away from him, and he set her onto the bed where she crawled up to snuggle against Kate’s side. Kate held her close. “Thank you for helping Grossmutter with the party. I knew I could count on you to take my place. Tomorrow, after you’ve had a nice sleep, you can tell me all about it, all right?”
“Can you come downstairs tomorrow?” Liesl yawned again.
Kate glanced up at Oscar. “Yes, but I have to take things easy. The doctor says that would be best for the baby and me. You go get your rest now, and have sweet dreams.” She didn’t seem as reluctant to follow the doctor’s orders as she had been earlier in the day. Did that mean something had happened as a result of her fall? Or did she finally realize what could have happened? The look she gave him was soft and kind without a trace of the frustration she’d shown before.
Oscar bent to pick Liesl up once more. “You should get your rest now, too. Is there anything you need before bedtime?”
“No, I’m working on a few little sewing projects.” She inclined her head toward Liesl, which he took to mean she was working on the dollhouse project.
“I’ll say good night, then. Leave your door open a bit, and I’ll do the same down the hall. That way I’ll hear you if you need anything in the night.” He’d toyed with the idea of putting an old cowbell on the table beside her bed so she could ring it if she went into labor at night, but he had hesitated, not knowing how she would take that. But now he promised to bring a bell up from the barn tomorrow.
He wished the baby was safely here. He wouldn’t sleep well until it was over.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’m sure sitting at the kitchen table won’t tax my strength any more than sitting in the rocker in the parlor.” Kate pressed a drinking glass top into a sheet of cookie dough, cutting out a perfect circle. Oscar stood in the workshop doorway, frowning at her. “All the interesting things are going on here in the kitchen, and I want to be a part of them.”
Liesl stood on a chair beside the sideboard, playing with her Advent Nativity blocks. The collection had grown to twenty-three pieces now. With only two more days until Christmas, the sideboard was full of wooden pieces. The child continued to amaze Kate with her imagination. Was that because she was an only child, and there was no one else to come up with ideas for what to play?
“What are you making?” Oscar closed the workshop door. He’d been spending a lot of time in there the past week, though he’d said he was finished with all the Christmas orders. That dollhouse must be taking him longer than he thought. He’d told Liesl that the room was off-limits for the time being, and he hooked the latch up high as insurance against her forgetting.
“Mairlanderli. Lemon cookies. Grossmutter made up this batch of dough right before she left, but she didn’t have time to roll them out and bake them. She said she would bring back more candied lemon peel from town. These are Grossvater’s favorite cookies, so she makes a lot of them this time of year. If we still had all our cookie cutters, we would have diamonds and crescents and trees. But this glass works well.” It still surprised Kate the extent of their losses in the fire. Things she had always taken for granted, things she didn’t miss until she needed them, kept cropping up in her memory.
“I expect Martin and Inge will be late? Where is the Advent celebration tonight?”
“It’s at the Hales’. Mrs. Hale will be singing a couple of selections from the Messiah. She has such a beautiful soprano. I’m sure it will be lovely.”
“And tomorrow is the Star Singing.” Liesl jumped off the chair, her braids bouncing. “I have my star all ready. Grossmutter helped me make it.” She ran to the living room and brought back a paper star the size of a dinner plate. “Grossvater bent this wire into a star shape, and Grossmutter helped me cut out a paper star and paste it on the wire.” She held the star over her head by the wire handle. “Stille Nacht! Heil’ge Nacht! Alles schläft, einsam wacht.”
Kate grinned. Grossmutter had been hard at work here. “You won’t sing ‘Silent Night’ in German tomorrow, will you?”
“No. Grossmutter says we’ll sing it in American.”
Kate’s glance connected with Oscar’s, and she almost laughed aloud. Oscar’s moustache twitched, and he coughed.
“But I like the way it sounds in German. That’s the way Grossmutter sings it when she’s cooking or cleaning.” Liesl waved her paper star. “When I grow up, I want to be like Grossmutter.”
Kate cut out the last cookie. “So do I.” She placed the cookies on the sheet. “Oscar, would you put these in the oven for me?”
He slid the tray into the hot oven, and Kate checked the clock on the wall. “Those will only take a few minutes. My trouble with baking is that I get distracted and forget something’s in the oven. Liesl, you’ll have to remind me. It’s easier if I’m making Tirggel. Those bake up in about ninety seconds, so there’s no time to forget.”
“Will you make Tirggel this year? And what is Tirggel?” Oscar folded the kitchen towel he’d used to protect his hand from getting burned.
Kate shook her head. “No. We don’t have the wooden mold you need. Tirggel is a honey and flour cookie. The dough is pressed very thin with a wooden mold that has a picture carved into it, sometimes with a Christmas theme, but sometimes, like ours, it’s a landscape scene. Grossmutter’s was a carving of her childhood home, the town and the mountains and, very tiny in the distance, the chalet where she grew up.”
“You lost it in the fire?” Oscar asked.
“Yes. Grossmutter brought it out every year to make Tirggel. She would make them early in the month, because according to her, the harder they get, the better they taste. But I liked them warm out of the oven, too.” Though she’d only been an Amaker for not quite two years, she felt as if she had adopted their family history. After all, her baby would be an Amaker and their history would be his or hers. Her father had passed away when she was fourteen, and her mother six months later, so the Amakers were the only family she had left.
The sound of horses and a wagon turning into the drive
caught their attention. Rolf rose from the rug in front of the fireplace with a low woof. Oscar went to the window and drew aside the curtain. “Looks like Martin and Inge got home sooner than we thought. I’ll go help with the horses.” He shrugged into his big, black coat and grabbed his hat.
Liesl put her star back in the parlor as Kate pushed herself up from her chair and began dipping water into the coffeepot. They would be cold from their trip. Grossmutter came inside, tugging her kerchief from her hair and shaking snowflakes from her sleeves.
“Ah.” She sniffed. “You are baking the Mairlanderli. They are done, I think.”
“Oh, mercy.” Kate grabbed the kitchen towel and opened the oven door. “See, Liesl. I told you I would forget.” She pulled the baking sheet from the oven and set it on a trivet on the table. The cookies were nicely browned around the edges, and as she slipped a knife under the edge and peeked, she blew out a sigh. They weren’t burned. “How was the party tonight? You’re home earlier than I expected.”
Grossmutter hung her coat on the hook by the door and came to stand by the stove. “It was very nice, but we decided that with the snow, we should not stay long. Mrs. Hale loved the cake you helped me make, Liesl.”
Liesl beamed.
Kate reached for the coffeepot once more, but Grossmutter took it from her hands. “You want to be sitting down when Oscar comes back.”
Shaking her head at the conspiracy to coddle her, she resumed her seat at the table. “I feel restless. It was nice at first, loafing, sleeping during the day, keeping my feet up and letting you all wait on me, but all day I’ve had the urge to work.” She leaned back, trying to draw a good, deep breath, something that was more and more difficult to do these days. “I find myself wanting to scrub a floor or wash the windows. Which is silly, because I don’t even like washing windows.”
