Beneath the Apple Leaves

by Harmony Verna

  Andrew led the way to the sty where two enormous sows rolled in the mud and sunned scaly pink skin. “Look fine,” Pieter acknowledged, impressed. “Never can tell what you’re getting when you bring them in. Even at auction, can’t hardly tell if they’re switching out stock right before they load them up.”

  A deep draw of air left Pieter’s mouth. “One of our gilts birthed early. Not able to feed the lot of them. Only enough milk to feed about two. Big birth, too. Nearly twelve in the litter. Two full ones, the rest runts.”

  Andrew splashed freshwater from the rain barrel into the trough. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Nothing to do. Little ones won’t last more than a few days.”

  “You bottle-feeding?”

  “Piglets won’t make it. No use.”

  Andrew thought of this, looked over at the two large pigs. “Would you be open to me taking the runts?”

  “What for?” Pieter scrunched his face as if Andrew had made a sick joke, like he worried Andrew might do something cruel.

  “Might be able to save a few.”

  Relief flooded the man’s face. “Be pleased to. Nobody likes to see the runts die slow like that; don’t want to drown them, either. Squealing too much for the heart.”

  Andrew threw the empty bucket next to the barrel. “Nursed calves before, can’t imagine piglets are too different.”

  “Bit flat chested, I think,” Pieter crooned, and smacked him in the ribs. “Tell you what, come over and grab the runts and if they live they’re yours. Course, your nips might never be the same again.”

  “Very funny.” Andrew laughed. Pieter reminded him of his friends at the mine, good-natured and quick, easygoing.

  “Between you and me, we’ve been mighty relieved knowing Germans moving into this place.” Pieter looked around. “War making people itch like they got fleas. Looking for someone to blame for all that itching. Guess it’s us getting the brunt.”

  Pieter scanned the fields. “Jesus Christ, you don’t got more than a heap of weeds and crabgrass trying to grow out there. Frank Morton swindle you into this place?”

  “Far as I can see, my uncle went in with eyes wide open.”

  “He needs glasses then,” cackled Pieter. He slapped Andrew on the back. “You come for dinner tomorrow night, all right? Ma make you the best goddamn sausage you ever ate. I’ll get those piglets ready, too.” He suddenly dropped his tone and pointed his chin at Andrew. “How’d you lose your arm?” The question fell out as easily as if he inquired about the rain.

  “Fell off a train.”

  “Ouch!” Pieter gritted his teeth. “Well, we all got something to live with, don’t we?” His eyes took on a hint of remorse as he looked at his brother playing hide-and-seek near the chicken coop. “Let Fritz clean out the coop for you. Take that ox an hour with those muscles. Teach him a lesson to not throw rocks at little kids.” He started to walk backwards. “Just send him home when he’s done.”

  Pieter walked forward and then swiveled, hollered back, “Kiser, huh?” He gave a robust laugh. “Thought we had it bad. One hell of a name, my friend. One hell of a name for sure!”

  CHAPTER 23

  The residents of the Kiser farm made the long walk to the Muellers’ and each ached at the sight of the newly painted farmhouse with wide porch and perfect fence. Edgar jumped from the road into the wide front lawn. “They have grass!” And in those simple three words, the young child summed up the vast lack of their own homestead.

  With the sound of guests walking the even lane, two men appeared from the high red barn. One a reflection of the other, a future aged imprint. Pieter Mueller approached from the gate and Wilhelm stuck out his hand. “Pieter and Heinrich Mueller, I’m guessing.”

  The older shook hands greedily. “Ja! Good t’meet you. Velcome!”

  Andrew and Pieter nodded to each other in the casual way of young men.

  “Come, come!” The man hurried and waved them to the house where they were greeted by an enormous Gerda Mueller, who hugged them with arms as large as thighs. She had yellow-and-white-streaked hair piled high into a bun on the back of her head and a spirit and voice to match the body. The difference between the figures of the married Muellers could not have been more extreme.

  Gerda grabbed the twins from Eveline and rocked them gently, whispered German words into their ears. A pounding on the stairs above gave way to Fritz and soon, behind him, a little girl. Gerda explained that their older children were spread out in Indiana and Jefferson Counties, while Pieter, his younger brother, Fritz, and eight-year-old Anna still remained at home.

  Minutes after arriving, the groups branched off into tributaries of commonality. The younger children and Fritz ran off to the outdoors, sharing that secret laughter of searching for an adventure that an adult would never understand. Pieter took Andrew to the barns to show him the piglets and the other animals. Eveline took back the twins and followed Gerda into a kitchen that smelled of hot bread, potatoes and peppercorns.

  Gerda Mueller placed a spread of cheeses and hard sausage, pickled cucumbers and onions at the table. Then added loaves of brown bread with a bowl of butter. She brought steins, three in each enormous hand, each nearly big enough for a quart, and set them next to the worn cask on the side table. Heinrich poured the liquid, dark as molasses, into two steins and handed one to Wilhelm. “I brew myself,” he said proudly. “Grow the grains. Everyt’ing by hand. Made here by me.”

  The beer was rich and strong and cold. With that first taste Wilhelm relaxed, couldn’t remember the last time he had a real drink, hadn’t realized how stiff he had been. His muscles melted like warm butter under the sun.

  Mr. Mueller watched him expectantly. “You like?”

  Wilhelm smiled and wiped the froth from his lips. “I like.”

  Heinrich Mueller wrestled a hand to Wilhelm’s shoulder. “Course you like!” He opened his arms wide and then thumped his chest. “Everyt’ing I make here. Beer. Sausage. I don’t need not’in’ from out there no more. Got twelve children an’ six grandchildren.” He thumped his chest again. “More Muellers in Pennsylvania than veevils!” He guffawed richly and it took a minute for Wilhelm to understand the accent. Weevils. More Muellers than weevils. Wilhelm laughed hard, a good, deep laugh of a man, and it felt good. He took another deep gulp of beer. It was good to be a man, feel like a man again.

  Heinrich turned serious eyes on his neighbor. “Vhy you come this time, Vilhelm? To the land, I mean. Spring much better, no?”

  Wilhelm didn’t answer at first. Chewed the question along with the blue-veined cheese. “You find trouble in Pittsburgh?” Heinrich asked. “Vith the German var?”

  The man’s thick accent was getting easier to understand or maybe the stout helped translate. “No, had nothing to do with the war.” He didn’t want to share the details and glanced at the kitchen. “My wife. Been wanting to move from the city since we married. But you’re right about poor timing. Spending a small fortune bringing in supplies.”

  “Ja, ja,” he agreed. “Land is poor, too. But few years of thick manure in the fields, the soil be good again. Plant corn in the high fields and hay where ground is clay. Will break it up over time. Plus, hay sells. Good hay, poor hay. It sells.” He nodded knowingly. “Sweet potatoes, too. Can grow through rocks.”

  Wilhelm didn’t want to talk about the land that mocked him, told him he was a fool. He wanted to drink beer and eat smoked sausage. He didn’t want to think about the outpouring of money that had outpaced even his most inflated planning. Didn’t want to think about the animals and the human mouths that had to be fed or the house that he should have inspected before buying but was too ill in spirit to do so.

  Heinrich observed him, read his thoughts. “Hard times, no?” The man smacked him on the knee.

  Wilhelm stared at the dark liquid and nodded.

  “I know this. I know this vell, my friend.” He winked like a wise sage. “Vhen Gerda and I come here, ve don’t have nothin�
��. Less than nothin’.” His hands opened widely with an empty expanse. “Then the babies come. I vas like a lost man. I did any job to find work. Plowing, seeding, thrashing, milking. It vas a very hard time for me. For us. But ve vorked hard. I vork very, very hard.” He waved out his hand and displayed the comfort of the sitting room proudly. “I vork hard to provide fer my family, and I did.” He winked again and drank a large swig of beer. “You’ll get there, too. Long as you can vork, you can get there.”

  The alcohol and sentiment warmed, thickened his bones and muscles again, pushed the gray out. The farm would be there tomorrow. Today, he would drink and listen to an old German’s stories; he’d debate about the state of the war and listen to the hooting and yelling of children playing outside. He would not think of the winter that loomed or the emaciated figures of his accounts. Wilhelm found the dry bottom of the stein and held it out. “May I?” Heinrich laughed happily and refilled each of their mugs.

  Next to the kitchen stove, Gerda checked on the roast, ladled the juices over the giant slab of meat. Eveline’s mouth watered with the smell. Gerda peeked at the men in the other room and made a light-sounding click with her tongue. “Your husband a drinker?”

  The question surprised her. “No. Hardly at all.”

  Gerda chuckled and raised her eyebrows. “Vell, he might be sleepin’ late tomorrow. Heinrich’s beer stronger than it looks.” She fluttered suddenly and went to the cupboard and took out a tall glass bottle without a label, the syrupy liquid holding a tint of yellow. She poured two small glasses and handed one to Eveline.

  “Oh, I don’t drink,” she said, and pushed the glass away.

  “No, you’ll like this one,” Gerda insisted, and pushed it back toward her. “Pear schnapps. Ever try?”

  “No.”

  Gerda watched her with widening eyes as she gave the daintiest taste to the liquid. It smelled like a dream and tasted like sweet sugar fire. She touched her lips, giggled. “It’s quite good.”

  “Ja!” Gerda put the glass rim to her lips and drank it clean, poured another. “Men don’t need to have all the fun, no?” She smiled, sisterly, and Eveline saw the beauty of the woman beyond the large features. There was a strength to her, a beauty that came from confidence and sureness of something akin to power and she was envious.

  Gerda sipped this one slowly, tilted her head to the other room again. “Men talkin’ about vork and var. Men always think the world rests on their shoulders, that they run it. But ve vomen know, don’t ve, Eveline? Ve know that vithout the vomen, there are no men. Vithout the vomen, the men be sittin’ in the outhouse sucking their thumbs and cryin’ into their dirty undershirts.”

  A sudden burst of laughter escaped from Eveline and she covered her mouth.

  “The men be sitting on that privy sucking thumbs and starving,” Gerda managed between bouts of laughter. “Eating raw onions from the fields and shitting themselves because they don’t know how to butter their own bread.”

  Eveline rocked and held her belly, giggled until tears sprung to her eyes.

  “Vhat you hens cackling about?” Heinrich called with amusement from the next room.

  Gerda put her finger to her lips secretly and calmed her tittering. “Lady stuff. Talkin’ babies and hairpins, my sveet.”

  Two loud humphs echoed in response and the women held their mouths.

  “Speakin’ of babies. Let’s have a good look at these two.” Gerda reached to the basket on the floor and pulled each baby to her lap expertly, supporting the heads in the corners of her arms.

  Eveline turned away and drank her schnapps. She had a hard time looking at her own babies. Couldn’t even enjoy their little faces for fear the mouths would open in howling and begging.

  Gerda turned to Eveline, her eyes no longer jovial. “They’re light.” She shook her head gravely. “Like air, these two.”

  Eveline held the empty glass between her hands, felt the heat of shame knowing she couldn’t feed her own babies. “They’re colicky.” It was all she knew how to say.

  “No,” the woman said grimly. “No, not colicky. Hungry.” She tried to get Eveline to look at her. “Are you dry?”

  “Yes.” She pressed against the glass, thought it might break between her fingers. “Wasn’t at first. Had more milk than I could manage. But they wouldn’t drink, and when they did they threw it up. I’ve been nervous. I don’t know.”

  Gerda’s eyes filled with concern as she propped one baby and then the other.

  “The doctor came out. He—”

  “Dr. Neeb?” Gerda interrupted.

  “Yes.”

  “Ack.” She rolled her eyes. “Man shouldn’t touch a baby. He vorks vith the dead more than the living.” She raised her eyebrows wisely. “Trust me. He digs up dead bodies and studies them. Keeps them in his basement. Fishes out frogs from the creeks and opens ’em up, stores the innards in jars.” She shuddered.

  Eveline remembered the smell of formaldehyde on the little man and cringed. “Well, he told me to stop nursing and only feed them cow’s milk. We give them the milk from the healthiest cow we got. None of us touch it for butter or cream or for ourselves. Just for the babies and they cough it all up.” The words tasted bitter. She reached for the schnapps to wipe the taste away.

  “These babies are sick, Eveline,” the woman said gently but firmly. “There’s something in the milk that no good for them.”

  “What am I supposed to do, stop giving them milk?” She said the words as if they were crazed speech.

  “That’s exactly vhat I’m saying. Something not right vith the milk for them. Try goat milk. If still comes up, mash up oatmeal or rice vith vater.”

  “I tried that, but they choke on it.” Her hand reached for her throat as if something held it.

  Gerda leaned forward and patted her knee. “This is no fault of yours, Eveline. Take no shame.”

  Her chin wrinkled. She did take shame in it. “I can’t feed my own children,” she whispered, despondent.

  “God gives vomen the greatest gift, to be able to create and carry and birth a new life. God gives vomen—only vomen!—that miracle.” The woman held her eyes and would not let her look away. “But God also gives a curse in the same gift. For ve love these little ones that grow inside of us so much that ve forget that ve are only humans and our bodies can do only vhat they can do.”

  Gerda leaned back then and smiled at the drowsy babies. “I had twelve children. Twelve miracles. But there has been suffering, too. And I felt this shame that you feel, dear Eveline. That I did something wrong. That I was not a goot enough woman and so my children had to suffer.”

  Her gaze wandered to the window. “You saw my Fritz. Saw that his mind no good. Doesn’t work right.” Sadness drifted over the large features, aged them. “My Fritz a good boy. As good a boy as you could get but slow, you see. Nearly a man but vith the mind of a little boy. His birth vas hard, Eveline. Very hard.” She shuddered with the remembrance. “Ten children before came out like vith a sneeze, but not this one. Feet first and the cord wrapped around his neck. Blue he vas. Blue like a sky ripe vith storm. But he lived but vas never right. But it’s okay. He a good boy. Works hard. Like an ox.” She patted Eveline on the sleeve. “You need a strong back, call on my Fritz.”

  The woman’s hands went idle in her large lap. “Then, there’s my youngest, my sweet Anna.”

  Eveline was surprised. The girl seemed perfect in every way.

  Gerda nodded at this, read her mind. “Yes, seems perfect. But look closely and you’ll see.” She painted a line at the edge of her forehead at the hairline. “She vears a vig. My Anna hasn’t a hair on her head. Got scarlet fever when she was four. Almost lost her, but by some miracle she lived, but she’ll be bald her whole life.”

  Eveline’s chest hollowed. “I’m so sorry, Gerda.”

  But the woman’s eyes sparkled. “It’s just hair, you see. And my Fritz, it’s just his mind. They’re still here vith me.”

  She turned b
ack to the babies and her eyes grew sad. And Eveline knew Gerda did not see the same life in her children as she saw in Anna and Fritz.

  * * *

  Andrew and Pieter stepped through one of five pigpens at the far north of the property. The earth was hard and packed, as the rains had been lean that August. Only the areas near the long troughs were wet and slick, thick with mud laced with withering lettuce leaves and carrot tops. Pieter took him over to a low, wooden covered stall and peeked in the door. “Piglets are in there. Lost another one overnight, so doubt they’ll make it through the week. But give it a try. I’ll wrap them in a basket before you leave.”

  The men entered the wide door of the three-story bank barn, the air warm and husky, sweetened with fresh hay and the smell of steaming farm animals. The barn was huge and Pieter examined the girth with hands on his hips, nodded with approval as if he had built it. “It’s a good barn. Strong. Some of those beams over a foot thick.” He walked to the right to the cow stalls. “These are our new ones, Holsteins. Can’t get better milkers than the Holsteins. Even the farmers that hate the Germans know that.” He nodded proudly. “This bunch only been here a couple weeks, but been milking as good as our others.”

  Pieter patted the nose of a large black-and-white cow, her nose wet and wide. “She’s our lead cow. Make sure you have one, too. If they get out, haul the lead cow in first and the others will follow.”

  Andrew noticed all the fresh feed stacked in the corners. “That’s a lot of hay.”

  “Yeah, but you’re gonna need a hell of a lot more, my friend. Got no grass, remember?”

  “How could I forget? We’ve been letting the cows feed in the woods until the cold sets in. Trying to conserve the hay.”

  Pieter stuck out his tongue. “Need to watch that. Milk starts to taste like pine needles. If you got a pregnant cow, the needles will make her abort. Happened to us a few times before we fenced the woods off.”