It was a very unusual occurrence for a young Amish person to leave. One could not live in the community or follow the rules by half-measures. There was no bending of the rules for anyone. Henryk was an elder in the Old Order, and one of the sternest members of the board of elders. Lillibet’s mother Rebekah had softened him somewhat while she was alive, or tried to, but in the seven years since her death, he had grown more rigid in his beliefs. And more and more lately, he preferred to speak Pennsylvania Dutch, a derivative of German, rather than English. It was a symbol of his preference for the old ways. He spoke to his children most often in German.
Lillibet brushed the flies away as she emptied the pails of milk into the large metal containers they used to take the milk to the dairy. They were heavy as she carried them to the cold room, a job usually performed by her brother Willy, or Josiah and Markus when she could get them to help. But with all three of them sick with chicken pox, she had to manage on her own. When she went back to check on the boys at lunchtime, they were miserable and itching, and she made cold compresses for them for their fevers, and all three boys were suffering in the heat. Lillibet had been mother, daughter, cook, housekeeper, farmhand, and slave to the men in her family since her mother’s death. She knew it was her duty, and never complained.
Her mother had died at the time when Lillibet should have been taking a husband. Several men approached her father shortly after, but Lillibet had had no interest in the men in their community and, since her mother’s death, no time to spend with them. She was too busy cooking, cleaning, doing chores, and bringing up her three brothers, who had been so young when their mother died. And now at twenty-four, she felt as though she had had all the responsibilities and disadvantages of a married woman, and she had no desire to do it again, for any man. And no man they knew had even remotely touched her heart. Several older widowers, like her father when he married her mother, widowed with four grown boys, had approached Henryk, anxious to win her hand, and she had rebuffed them all.
Now, when they broached the subject with him, he told them honestly that she was beautiful, unquestionably, and capable, and a serious, intelligent girl, but she was not a friendly young woman and had no interest in men. He had come to believe that she preferred to stay with him, bring up her brothers, and remain unmarried for the rest of her days. Her only passion was reading and studying, both the Bible and the box of books her mother had left her, which Lillibet had read many times over the years, by candlelight, late at night, more even than her father suspected. She devoured everything she could read. And she begged the schoolteacher to lend her any books they had. Reading was the greatest pleasure in her life.
Her only male friend was a boy she had gone to school with, Friedrich, Freddie. Her mother had been hopeful she would fall in love with him, but they had been childhood friends forever, he was too young, and he had since married a sweet and docile young woman whom Lillibet had never really liked, and they had four children. Freddie’s life was light-years from Lilli’s now, although they still chatted from time to time after church meetings on Sundays, and he still worshipped Lillibet. They had had so much fun when they were young. His wife said Lilli had all the makings of a spinster now, but he felt sorry for her—he knew how hard she worked taking care of her father and brothers, and working on their farm. She had had too serious an existence for such a young girl, catapulted into her mother’s shoes by tragedy at seventeen. And he knew what a dreamer she was, lost in the books she kept hidden from her father. Freddie was sorry her life had turned out the way it had. And her little brothers were hellions, always into mischief and keeping her busy. And her father was a robust man, who could live another twenty years. The only time Freddie saw Lillibet was at church meetings on Sundays, which rotated between houses every week and lasted three hours, with the men in one room and the women in another.
After tending to her brothers at lunchtime, Lillibet carried the heavy cans of milk out of the cold room. She shooed the chickens out of her way and had already fed them. She had left chicken broth on the stove for the boys to eat at dinner, with vegetables from their garden. And she had to bring the milk to Lattimer’s Dairy, with no one else to do it. Her brother Willy had graduated from school the year before at thirteen and usually helped her with the heavy chores, but he was no use to her today.
She and her younger brothers spoke to one another in the modern form, using you instead of thee and thou, but with her father, and the elders in the community, they had to be more formal and follow tradition. She loved reading books where people spoke normally, and she could discover exotic places like Europe, Asia, Africa, New York, Paris, and London, all the worlds that she dreamed of and knew she would never see. Her mother had opened her mind and had given her everything she could lay hands on for Lillibet to read, after she read them herself. She had passed her passion for knowledge and literature on to Lillibet and no one else. The boys were content with the boundaries of their life in Nickel Mines, as was their father and everyone else she knew.
When Lillibet went back to the house to tell the boys she was leaving, Willy looked concerned about her. “They’ll help you with the milk cans at the dairy,” he said, showing rare solicitousness for his older sister. Most of the time he teased her mercilessly or gave her a hard time, arguing with her. The twins were easier to manage and were still in school, unlike Willy.
“I can carry them myself,” Lillibet said firmly. She was tiny but strong and used to years of hard work on the farm, with no one to help her. She was expected to hold her own, and she did. Willy rolled over and went back to sleep then. She had set out lunch for her father when he came back from the fields. His four older sons worked the farm with him, and the younger boys were learning to do so. Having lost her younger sister, nine years before, and then her mother, there were no female companions in Lillibet’s life. All her close friends were the characters in books.
Her favorites were the works of Jane Austen, she had read them all and had loved them since her childhood. They had just the sensitivity, frankness, and romantic style she loved and tried to use as inspiration in her own writing, without copying her directly. Lillibet wanted to develop her own style, and she had been working on it for years, in silence in the dark. She had begged stacks of books from the schoolteacher, who was a girl Lillibet had gone to school with, and who sneaked her a few empty notebooks whenever she could. She once asked what Lilli did with them, and she said she kept a journal, of her brothers’ growing-up years, or memories of her mother, none of which was true. For three years Lillibet had been struggling to write a book, about a girl on a farm in the Midwest, not an Amish girl, and her adventures in New York, and then Europe, once she grew up and moved away. She had used everything she’d learned about New York and foreign cities from the books she’d read, and she had no idea if it was accurate, but she had studied it carefully. And the young woman’s emotions in the book were her own, venturing into a brave new world, discovering new people, new places, and new feelings. In her writing, she tried to achieve the tenderness and depth of Jane Austen with a flavor all her own.
She had just finished the book only weeks before. There were twelve notebooks, carefully handwritten, which contained the manuscript of the story she’d written. And now she had no idea what to do with it, where to send it, who would read it. There was no one she could ask, no publisher she knew of. And if it had been discovered that she’d written a book, she would have been severely ostracized, so the notebooks were hidden under her mattress where no one would ever find them. She lived in a cell-like room with nothing more than a chest of drawers and a bed, and a candle to light the room at night. One of her younger brothers had discovered her writing in a notebook late one night, and she told him she was checking the farm accounts for her father, and he thought nothing of it. The book she had been writing was a dark secret.
If her mother had still been alive, she would have told her, and she knew her mother would have understood and maybe have been prou
d of her. But even her mother wouldn’t have been able to help her get it published. And that was what Lillibet wanted now. She wanted her book to go out into the world, despite the fact that she herself couldn’t. Her family could dominate her life and how she lived it, but they could not silence her voice. And she had a voice she wanted to be heard. But she had no idea how to do it, or if her book was any good. She had shown it to no one and would not be able to among the Amish. Hers was a lone voice in the darkness, a single bird fluttering its wings and singing softly. She had called her book When the Swallow Sings. And she wondered now if it would remain under her mattress forever. The thought of that filled her with despair and made her sad. She already had an idea for another book and could hardly wait to get started. The characters in her books populated her otherwise lonely life, with no one to confide in.
Her mother had had a dear friend, who had been like an aunt to Lillibet as she grew up and after her mother died. Margarethe wasn’t as adventuresome as Lilli’s mother, nor as creative, but she was a kind woman who had deep affection for Lilli and her brothers. She was a widow with ten children, the same age as Lillibet’s mother would be now, at forty-one, although Margarethe seemed much older and looked it. Rebekah had been much like Lillibet, a tiny, slight woman who looked younger than she was. Until one looked more closely, or spoke to her, Lillibet seemed more like sixteen than twenty-four. She had the face of a child, until she became animated, and then one saw the beautiful young woman she was and the light in her eyes. Lillibet came alive when she became excited by her ideas, or had a chance to talk to someone about them, which was almost never. In the old days, she and Freddie had spoken of many things, and he had been curious about life. Now he only talked about his wife, his farm, and his children, and Lillibet would never have dared tell him about her book. Nor did she confide in Margarethe, who was a warm, cozy, affectionate woman. But she didn’t have an inquiring mind, and she respected all the old ways, and followed all the traditions without question, and encouraged Lillibet to do the same, to avoid arguments with her father. Lillibet no longer challenged him, as she had tried to when she was younger. Now she put all her heart and soul and thoughts into what she wrote. It was all in her book, in the notebooks under her mattress.
She had told her father that morning that she would take the milk to the dairy and would use the buggy to do so. He gave her permission and told her to stay off the main road, although there were no tourists in the area during the week. But he didn’t want his children photographed or ridiculed by the English. She promised to take the back roads, and she was excited to go to the dairy. She had only been there once before, when she was much younger. Henryk didn’t worry about her going to the dairy. She was old enough to handle it and a very capable girl. He had reminded her to bring back the cheese they processed for them, and she promised she would.
She set out half an hour later in the buggy, with the horse they used for errands. They had a finer one for their best buggy on Sundays, but the horse she harnessed to the buggy for the trip to the dairy was a serviceable one, who traveled on the roads frequented by cars and wasn’t skittish. Lillibet had never been in a car in her entire life, only a horse and buggy. And her father had one of the finest carriages in the county, which he used only for church meetings and special days. It was a treat to ride in it with him on Sundays.
The milk cans she had put in the work buggy were heavy, but she managed to get them in herself, without help. She was stronger than she looked, even though she was tiny, and she was used to doing heavy jobs on her own. Her younger brothers didn’t help her as often as they were supposed to.
As she rode along, on her way to the dairy, she thought about her book, wondering again what to do with it. She knew she had to rely on her own ingenuity and judgment, if there was any hope of publishing it at all.
It was a beautiful, hot day as she rode to the dairy. She wished she could take off her bonnet but didn’t dare. She pushed it back on her head and loosened the ribbons she normally tied beneath her chin, and it fell gently backward, exposing her lovely face, green eyes, and pale blond hair, which she wore in a long braid down her back. Her father would have gotten angry if he could have seen her nearly without her bonnet. She was warm in her heavy black cotton dress to her ankles, which covered her arms to her wrists. She was wearing a gray apron, her high shoes that laced up her legs, and heavy black cotton stockings. She had never worn makeup in her life and had no idea what it would feel like or look like on her face. She had seen photographs of made-up women in books, and women with nail polish. There was no frivolity in Lillibet’s life, only in her imagination, which was rich and her ideas abundant. Her family had no concept of the fertility of her mind, which was just as well. She kept it concealed, like brilliant plumage under a dark cloak.
She reached the dairy, half an hour after she left the farm, going at a slow pace, letting the horse dawdle so she could enjoy the ride, and as they approached, she pulled her bonnet back up on her head and tied the black ribbons under the chin. The bonnet concealed most of her face, and the sun had felt warm on it before that. Her eyes were bright as they got to the dairy farm. It was an adventure for her.
Two boys approached her, as she pulled the buggy up in front of Lattimer’s Dairy.
“Would thee help me?” she asked, smiling at them, and they both nodded, happy to serve her. They weren’t sure who she was, but they recognized the buggy. “It’s from Petersens’,” she explained. “My brothers are sick and couldn’t come. And I’m meant to pick up our cheese.” They looked blank as she said it. They were only there to help lift the heavy cans, which they did with greater ease than she had and took them inside.
Lillibet wandered into the barn then, to inquire about their cheese. She saw the cows and the milking machines in the huge barn, the milking parlor, and the enormous refrigeration units. It was the biggest dairy in the area, and her father had been doing business with them for thirty years. They were a solid, reliable account. Joe Lattimer liked doing business with the Amish, they were good people.
She was standing in the barn, looking around, appearing almost like a child, or a very young girl, and Joe Lattimer noticed her from his office window and came out, wondering who she was. She turned to him with a smile as he approached her. She had an open, interested face and intelligent eyes, and he saw instantly that the face somewhat concealed by the restrictive bonnet was lovely. He was aware as soon as he spoke to her that she was more grown up than she looked. He guessed her to be somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, which was close enough. And a chord of memory woke in him immediately, at the familiar Amish clothes.
She reminded him of a girl he hadn’t seen in forty years, since he was eighteen. He had seen her a few times when she came to the dairy with her father and fallen in love with her. She had been forbidden to see him or speak to him, and he had heard that she’d gotten married six months later, and he never saw her again. But he had never forgotten her. She was like a dream he had cherished ever since, a symbol of his lost boyhood, the girl he had wanted desperately and couldn’t have. He hadn’t pursued her, out of respect for her. But he remembered her still, as though it were yesterday.
“Can I help you?” he asked kindly. He was in his late fifties and had inherited the dairy from his grandfather and father, both of whom Henryk had known and liked. Joe Lattimer was staring at her as though he’d seen her before. And his eyes were gentle as he spoke to Lillibet.
“I brought the milk from Petersens’,” she said, looking shy, but only for an instant. “My brothers are all sick, so I brought it in for my father. I’ll bring the goat’s milk tomorrow, and they told me to bring back the cheese,” she explained. He nodded and then realized who she was. She looked like her brothers, but she was so pretty that it had distracted him for a moment. And she looked so much like the girl he had seen as a boy.
“Of course,” he said, smiling at her. “You’re Henryk’s daughter?”
“Yes, his o
nly one,” she laughed, and it was a sound like bells in the wind. “Lillibet.” He knew about the tragedy that had happened to her mother and the others and vaguely remembered that there had been a daughter. “My brothers have caught chicken pox, and they look quite awful,” she said, laughing again, and then she cocked her head to one side, and smiled at him. “May I look around? I’ve only been here once before.”
“Of course.” He knew that the women rarely left the farms, and in all the years he had known Henryk, he had never seen her, she had had no reason to come there until now. And he had never met her mother either, although he had heard that she was beautiful, and had been only thirty-five when she died, a young woman. He noticed that Lillibet appeared to be filled with curiosity and spirit, and with his permission, she left the barn to explore the farm. It was an enormous dairy, and smiling at the encounter, he went back to his office. She was a lovely girl. He very seldom met Amish women, and she was an exceptionally nice one and seemed very bright.
Lillibet took her time looking around and wandered toward the main building half an hour later. She noticed a bench under a tree, where people sat while waiting for deliveries, or to take a break during the workday, and she noticed a book sitting on the bench. She walked toward the bench, sat down, and picked up the book, wondering if it was one she had read, but it wasn’t. She flipped through it, reading passages that she liked. She was tempted to take it but didn’t want to steal someone’s book that they might return for—she saw that it was dog-eared and a page was marked, so perhaps someone loved it and would be unhappy to lose it. Instead, she looked at who the publisher was and saw a name she didn’t recognize in New York.
Until the End of Time: A Novel Page 16
