Somewhere to Belong

by Judith Miller

  I thought applesauce on top of the potato pancakes ruined the flavor, but I kept that thought to myself. Right now I didn’t need another disagreement with Johanna. For the next hour I scuttled about the kitchen and performed my duties as best I could and received a favorable nod from Sister Muhlbach when the meal had been delivered to the tables. Good job or not, I was the one who remained late to clean the kitchen.

  “It’s the right thing,” Sister Muhlbach said. “While the others worked, you were sitting at home. Now they will rest while you work.”

  There was no need to argue. I wouldn’t win. Besides, I’d come to a decision. Once the others were out of the kitchen, I would steam open the envelope and read the letter. I’d never before tried such a thing, but when we lived in Chicago, John Underwood had told me of steaming open letters his sister had received from a beau. From what he’d told me, it didn’t sound all that difficult.

  The letter proved an incentive to perform my tasks with haste. Sister Muhlbach would have been stunned to see how quickly I could scrub pots and pans and set the kitchen aright. I placed a kettle of water atop the stove while I scrubbed the wooden floor—an effort in futility as far as I was concerned. It would only get dirty again. But I knew Sister Muhlbach would return and examine my work before morning, so I scrubbed—except for the far corners of the dining room. Nobody walked there anyway.

  By the time the floor was cleaned, steam was rising from the kettle in a swirling pattern that twisted toward the ceiling. I removed the letter from my pocket and reexamined the lovely script. My palms turned damp, and I swiped them down the front of my apron. I dared not wait too long or Sister Muhlbach would return and interrupt me. Any attempt to explain would surely fall upon deaf ears.

  Keeping my fingers free of the steam, I held the envelope above the boiling water, but my first attempt to open the missive failed. Undeterred, I returned the envelope to the warm mist and slowly moved it back and forth. This time, using the tip of a knife to aid in my effort, the glue released and the envelope popped open. My fingers trembled as I removed the pages and dropped to a chair near the kitchen door. From this vantage point I would gain the most daylight and could also hear if someone approached.

  My stomach clenched into a knot as I scanned the rows of neat script.

  My darling Herman,

  How I have missed you, my love. My heart aches for you, and I don’t know how I shall survive until you return to me. For more than a week I have been expecting to hear your familiar knock on my door but have been sorely disappointed. When you departed, you promised you would return once Helen and Berta were settled in Iowa.

  If you truly love me—as you so often have said—then why do you linger? Know that I love you, but I will not wait forever.

  My stomach roiled, and I swallowed hard. I couldn’t bear to read any more of this painful entreaty. I turned to the last page and looked at the signature. Lovingly yours, Caroline. I rubbed my forehead, hoping to relieve the pressure that pounded behind my eyes. So many questions, but who would answer them? Not my father. And I couldn’t ask my mother. Anger mixed with fear as I considered the letter’s contents. I wanted to believe the woman didn’t exist, but memories of arguments between my parents and the many nights my father had been absent from our home in Chicago paraded through my mind. And then I remembered the leather pouch.

  Was that why he had the money hidden away? So he could return to her? Did he care so little for Mother and me? I folded the letter, returned it to the envelope, and dipped my finger in a pitcher of water. With a light touch, I daubed the water onto the seal and pressed it back in place. Once I was certain it held fast, I tucked the letter into my pocket and walked out the kitchen door, down the street to our house, and up the stairs to our rooms.

  My father was sitting on the upholstered chair thumbing through one of his medical books. He glanced up when I entered the room. “I wondered if you would return in time for prayer service.”

  “Where is Mother?”

  “She went back to the Kinderschule and said she would join us at prayer service.”

  I couldn’t imagine why she’d go back there, but I was pleased. Without further conversation, I removed the letter from my pocket and stretched it forward. “This letter came for you in the mail.”

  His complexion turned ashen. “How do you happen to have this?”

  There was a noticeable tremor in his voice that confirmed my worst fears—and probably his, as well. “I was at the general store, and Brother Kohler gave it to me.”

  “I see.” He shoved the envelope into his pocket.

  “Who is it from, Father? I don’t recognize the address.”

  “Nobody you know, Berta. Just one of my patients from Chicago.”

  My heart turned cold when I heard my father’s calculated lie.

  CHAPTER 13

  Johanna Ilg

  There was little doubt I had offended Berta with my recriminations, but I hadn’t expected the silence and isolation she’d exhibited for the remainder of the week. Never before had she held a grudge. In fact, she’d always been rather indifferent when chastised—except for her attempts to blame others.

  For the past several days I’d done my best to cheer her, but her responses had been no more than one or two words. The girl’s silence had become as frustrating as her earlier penchant for chatter. I’d never been inclined to delve into the business of others, but I’d been assigned to train Berta, and it somehow seemed right to pursue the matter.

  When she’d continued her unresponsive nature on our walk to work this morning, I decided that after work I would ask her to go fishing with Carl and me on Sunday. I hoped the invitation would break down the invisible barrier she’d placed between herself and the rest of the world. Even Sister Muhlbach had expressed confusion over the girl’s quiet demeanor.

  The morning passed without incident, but I expected to observe a hint of excitement when Sister Muhlbach sent Berta outdoors to meet the milk wagon. But when Rudolf arrived, she remained subdued. The fact that the handsome young man couldn’t bring a glint to her eyes created even more worry.

  At day’s end Berta hurried out the door and started home without me. I waved a hasty good-bye to Sister Muhlbach and trotted around the side of the house, calling to her. “Wait for me, Berta! I need to speak to you.” With a brief glance over her shoulder, she slowed her pace, but she didn’t stop.

  Panting when I finally reached her side, I looped my hand into the crook of her arm. Part of me feared she might bolt, yet I knew it was a silly thought. Where would she run to? “Berta, I want to invite you to go fishing with Carl and me on Sunday. We can go as soon as we complete the noonday meal.”

  Silence.

  I squeezed her arm. “Berta? Would you like to go fishing with us? We can invite Rudolf to come along if you’d like.” I hoped she would hear the genuine enthusiasm in my voice, for I truly wanted her to join us.

  Her gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. “No.”

  I waited, certain she’d explain her refusal. But she didn’t. That was the sum total of her response. No. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or shout. I tugged her to a halt and took a firm hold on her upper arms. “Look at me, Berta.” When she raised her chin, I said, “I want you to come with us.” I bobbed my head. “I really do want you to, Berta.”

  A single tear escaped one eye and rolled down her cheek. She dabbed at it with the corner of her apron. “If you’re worried I’m angry, you can set aside your concern. This has nothing to do with you, Johanna.”

  “Then will you come with us? If you say you’ll come along, I promise I won’t ply you with questions.”

  “Why would you want me to? I’m nothing but a nuisance to everyone I’ve ever known. Except maybe John Underwood.”

  I grinned. “And Rudolf. And your parents. And—”

  Her eyes turned dark. “No. Only John. Rudolf finds me a nuisance at times. My mother prefers the children at the Kinderschule, and my father
has no use for either my mother or me.”

  The dramatic commentary slipped from her lips with far too much ease. “You don’t believe that, Berta. Your parents love you very much. I’m not a doctor, but it seems you’re suffering from a bout of melancholy. I’d guess you’ve been remembering springtime in Chicago and you’re missing your friends and the many festivities you enjoyed at this time of year. Come fishing with us, and we’ll make some memories of our own. What do you say?”

  She shrugged one shoulder.

  I couldn’t tell if it was an agreement or if she simply wanted me to remove my hold on her. I bent down until we were eye to eye. “So you’ll come?”

  “Maybe.”

  I released her arms and matched her stride. We were nearing home when I was struck by a fresh idea. Why hadn’t I thought of it earlier? I clasped her hand. “If you want to stop by my room before prayer service, you can look at another magazine.”

  She shook her head. “I’m going to rest for a while.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. She wanted to rest rather than look at the Godey’s magazine. I reached to touch her forehead. “Are you ill?”

  “In a way,” she murmured.

  “Then we should stop by your father’s office.”

  “No.” She turned to face me, her eyes as cold as a winter day. “He’s the last person I want to see.”

  I didn’t understand, but it was obvious she wouldn’t welcome any questions. At least not now. Eventually I would uncover the cause of this mysterious change. I opened the front door, and Berta climbed the stairs, each movement slow and plodding. She had turned into an old woman before my eyes. Had Berta’s mother noticed this difference in her daughter, or was she as detached as Berta alleged?

  Pushing down on the latch, I entered the parlor and greeted my mother with a kiss on the cheek. “I’m surprised to see you at home before me.”

  She pressed her palm against her lower back. “And glad I am to be here. Each year I forget about the aching muscles I suffer when we transfer plants from the hotbeds. Sister Rosina sent me home to rest.”

  “I’m astounded she was so compassionate.” Neither Sister Muhlbach nor Sister Nusser was known to possess a sympathetic disposition.

  “I told her if I remained at work and strained my back overmuch, I might miss several days work instead of an hour or two. She sent me home and said she’d see me in the morning.”

  I bent forward and removed the mending from her hands. “Then you should go in and rest before prayer meeting. It would be better for your back.”

  “If you will come and visit with me,” she said. “Otherwise, I will fall asleep, and then I will be wide awake all night long.”

  Sewing basket in hand, I followed her into the room and settled into a chair beside my parents’ bed. Holding the fabric taut, I drew the needle through the material and formed tiny stitches as I worked to repair the frayed seam. “Have you visited with Berta’s mother recently?”

  “Only a little. Why do you ask?”

  “I think Berta misses having her mother’s attention. She says Sister Schumacher is at the Kinderschule a great deal.”

  My mother pursed her lips. “She told me she likes to be around the little children. After Berta was born, they hoped for a son, but it didn’t happen. I think that’s why she enjoys the little children so much.”

  “But Berta needs her, too. She’s been sad these last few days, and she won’t tell me what’s bothering her. I thought maybe Sister Schumacher might have said something.”

  “No. She hasn’t mentioned Berta at all.” My mother shifted her head on the pillow. “I am pleased you and Carl are going fishing on Sunday. He is a fine young man.”

  A glint shone in her eyes. Perhaps Berta had been telling the truth. “Aren’t all of the men in our village fine men?”

  “Ja, that is true. But Carl is special. Your Vater says he is a good worker and eager to please.” Her eyelids fluttered. “And nice to look at, as well, ja?”

  “Mutter!” My cheeks felt as though they’d been touched by a hot poker. “I cannot believe you said such a thing.”

  “Come now, Johanna. I am not blind, and neither are you.” She lifted her head from the pillow. “He would make a fine husband for you.”

  My mother had now erased all doubt. Berta had spoken the truth. She and Father had been discussing marriage. My marriage. To Carl Froehlich. To tell her that Carl’s glance made my heart race and his touch caused my hands to tremble would only reinforce her determination. Why this sudden plan that I should wed? I could understand my father wanting Carl’s help in the barns. I could even understand his desire to embrace Carl as a son. He missed Wilhelm. Of that there was no doubt. But why would my mother support this idea of marriage? There had to be something more involved. Although the elders usually approved marriages, Amana parents didn’t encourage or arrange them. At least that’s what I’d been taught since I was a little girl.

  While I had a modicum of courage, I asked the questions searing my mind. “Why are you suddenly pushing me toward marriage? Is it because Vater hopes to replace Wilhelm and make Carl his son, or is it because you know I want to go to Chicago and visit Wilhelm?”

  Once again I saw the glimmer of fear that shone in her eyes whenever I mentioned Chicago. She clutched her handkerchief tight in her fist. “No person ever replaces another. Nobody will ever replace Pieter or Wilhelm. And Vater and I have told you over and over there is nothing gut for you in Chicago.” She placed her palm across her forehead.

  No doubt my questions had caused her a headache to go along with her backache. I patted her hand, but I didn’t want her to think I’d given up on a visit with Wilhelm. “I thought we would hear from Wilhelm now that spring has arrived. Each day I hope there will be a letter from him saying he will arrive for a visit.”

  The fear returned and shadowed my mother’s dark eyes. Her brows dipped low as she studied me for a brief moment. “Did your Vater mention a visit from Wilhelm?”

  A prickling sensation coursed across my shoulders. Either she’d heard from Wilhelm or she hadn’t, but from her guarded response, I now was certain my brother had written. I wanted to shout a resounding yes, but the response stuck in my throat. I couldn’t lie to my mother. “No,” I mumbled.

  She covered her eyes with her forearm. “We received a letter from Wilhelm saying he would visit tomorrow.”

  I dropped my mending and clapped my hands together. “Why didn’t you tell me? I must let Carl know I won’t be going fishing with him after all.”

  Strands of hair fanned across the pillow as she shook her head. Slowly, she lowered her arm. “You can still go fishing. Wilhelm will not be arriving tomorrow. I wrote to him and told him he should wait awhile longer before he comes.”

  “But why would you ask him to wait?” My voice bore the shrill tone that frequently emerged when I was overcome by fear or distress.

  “There are some things that are private, Johanna. This is one of them.”

  “Private? We are a family. When I was a little girl, you told me that families shared and always helped one another. I want to know why you would discourage a visit from Wilhelm.”

  Astonishment and anger combined to pinch my mother’s features into a surprised frown. My parents were unaccustomed to confrontation, especially from me. When Wilhelm left home, he hadn’t confronted my parents. He’d simply stated his intentions, packed his bags, and departed. There had been no argument, no discussion, no pleading. Just a slamming door and then silence. That heavy silence had returned. Like a bolted door, it separated my mother and me. But I remained steadfast. I wanted an answer.

  “Emilie? Johanna? Where are you?”

  At the sound of my father’s voice, relief flooded my mother’s eyes. She pushed the hair from her forehead and peered toward the doorway. “We’re in the bedroom, Frank.”

  My father’s hurried footsteps were muffled by the carpet, but he now stood framed in the doorway staring at my mother. “Yo
u are ill, Emilie?”

  “My back is aching, as it does every spring.”

  “Ach! Sister Rosina should have the younger women bending and stooping. Every year she does this, and every year you suffer.”

  “Not every year, Frank. You may remember there was a time when I was young.”

  My mother shifted to her hip and pointed in my direction. She attempted to hide the gesture, but I recognized the signal—an indicator to my father that trouble was brewing.

  Well, if she wanted to alert my father, then I’d just as well speak up. “Mutter tells me Wilhelm wrote that he was coming for a visit. She also tells me she asked him not to come.”

  My mother lifted on one elbow. “That is not what I said, Johanna! I said I wrote and told him to wait and come later.”

  “The same thing.” I sounded more like Berta than myself.

  My father shook his head. “You know it isn’t the same, Johanna. You are angry because you want to see your brother. If you want to cast blame, you should direct it at me rather than your Mutter. I am the one who thought we could better enjoy Wilhelm’s visit a little later in the season. After spring planting is completed and we aren’t so busy.”

  “And weary,” my mother added.

  They were telling me half-truths. Granted, we would have more time with Wilhelm after spring planting was completed, but there had been much more to their decision. Berta had seen my mother crying, and Louisa’s name had been mentioned. Strange, but at the moment I believed more of what Berta had told me than what I’d just heard from my parents.

  The descending sun cast shadows across the room, and my father nodded toward the door. “We should leave for prayer meeting in a few minutes.” He leaned down to touch my mother’s arm. “Do you feel well enough to attend?”

  Both his concern for my mother and the mention of prayer service combined to annoy me. His behavior didn’t fool me in the least. My father wanted to close the door to further discussion of Wilhelm’s visit.