Love Finds You in Homestead, Iowa

by Melanie Dobson

  The doctor quieted for a moment, giving Liesel the opportunity to leave, but she refused to walk out the door. Her hands on her hips and her face resolute, she spoke firmly back to him.

  The doctor waved his finger in her face, his tone stern, but she interrupted his verbal assault to argue with him. It was almost as if Jacob had been transported back twenty years ago to that tiny kitchen in New York where his grandparents lived. His grandfather used to make those same grunting noises when Jacob’s grandmother had argued with him. He didn’t remember one time his grandmother backed down.

  Finally the doctor turned back to him and spoke in English. “I cannot allow you or your daughter out of my home.”

  Jacob brushed his hand over the blanket that covered Cassie’s legs. “Yes, sir.”

  Dr. Trachsel pointed to the ceiling. “There are three rooms upstairs you can use.”

  Jacob nodded again.

  “You must stay in those rooms.”

  “We will,” he replied. The doctor had no idea how grateful he was simply to have a dry place in which to spend the night.

  “I only have two dollars—” Reaching into his waistcoat, Jacob dug out the coins secured inside his pocket and held out the measly pile to the doctor. “Actually, it’s a little less than two dollars, but as soon as I find work, I will pay you back for your care.”

  The doctor motioned for him to put the money away. “We will discuss payment later.”

  Jacob held out the pile of coins further. “I want to pay you now.”

  “Later,” the doctor repeated as he reached for another bottle in the cabinet. “We must get you and your daughter well first.”

  Liesel dipped the washcloth into the basin of cool water to apply to Cassie’s forehead, and the doctor pointed at his leg. “Pull up your trousers, bitte.”

  Jacob leaned over and slowly peeled back his trouser leg to reveal the stained handkerchief he’d wrapped around his shin. Blood caked under the white cloth, concealing the wound.

  The doctor fixed a towel on the floor under Jacob’s leg and examined his calf before lifting a glass bottle above his skin. “This may sting a bit.”

  Jacob braced himself as the doctor poured the antiseptic. The clear liquid bubbled over the wound, and he clenched his teeth and fists, trying not to cry out.

  Through the blur of his pain, he watched Liesel move toward him with something in her hand. She plastered a coarse, cool washcloth over his forehead, and cold water trickled down his cheeks and nose, chasing away the heat that was spreading through his body. However, even with the cloth, the searing in his leg didn’t subside.

  Liesel stepped away, and he reached out, grasping for her. She held out her hand, and he squeezed and then released it suddenly, afraid he’d hurt her.

  She reached down and took his hand again. “Ist all right.”

  And so he squeezed her fingers until he slipped away.

  Help one another. Encourage, understand, and nurture one another for the betterment of all.

  Christian Metz, 1825

  Chapter Six

  Second National Building and Loan was a small yet reputable bank for Chicago’s wealthier citizens, and as the bank president, Frank Powell liked to tell himself that it was one of the most respected banks in the country. His father passed on the building and loan to Frank in 1846, and he’d worked tirelessly to keep its doors open throughout the Civil War.

  Over the years he’d reluctantly accepted deposits from the lower classes, but he didn’t like the risk involved with such accounts. He preferred the clientele who trusted him to invest their money securely for the future instead of the middle classers who were forever depositing and withdrawing funds. Still, he couldn’t seem to help himself when an engineer or teacher asked to open an account.

  His customers trusted him to guard their money, and he’d done well for them by investing their savings back into Chicago businesses and making them loans to buy houses in the city. And with a small percentage of it, he’d invested overseas in countries like England and Argentina. Then England and Argentina went bust like the rest of the world and that portion of his capital was forever gone.

  Wall Street and the U.S. government messed with the finances of their great nation, and they’d mucked it up. Then people across the nation followed suit, rushing on banks for all their cash even though it was spread in investments around the world.

  When a customer decided he wanted his money returned, Frank didn’t blink or beg. He returned the entire sum without question. Even when half of Chicago marched into his bank last summer and demanded every dollar and cent in their savings, he’d coughed up fifty thousand from the bank’s reserves. Unfortunately, he couldn’t march right back to the doors of their homes and businesses and demand every dollar and cent he’d loaned them.

  A hundred other banks went under last year, but Second National kept their doors open. They’d survived the worst crash he’d seen in his lifetime, but they were still stumbling to get their feet back on firm ground.

  He’d had to let two of his three clerks go—not because he wanted to, but because he’d had no choice. At the time, he’d hoped that he could rehire them within months, but even now, three months later, he couldn’t afford to hire another soul. Orwin Tucker wasn’t the brightest clerk who’d ever worked for him, but as long as he kept trying to learn the business, Frank couldn’t let him go.

  The president’s office was separated from the main lobby by a wall, a long window of frosted glass, and a door that allowed him to see his customers entering and leaving the bank while he sat behind his mahogany desk. This afternoon, when Stanley Roberts entered the bank, he knew the man wasn’t here to deposit cash. At this time of day, he should be out laying bricks at one of the few construction sites left in the city.

  Frank waited for Orwin to handle the man’s transaction from the teller cage before he went out to greet the man. Turning the page of the Daily News, he hoped for something positive in the midst of all the articles raging over the Pullman Strike, but there was not a stitch of good news.

  Minutes later Orwin appeared at Frank’s door with Stanley close behind him. His bank clerk was a wiry fellow with thick hair and even thicker spectacles. Stanley was a few inches shorter than Orwin, and his bushy beard matched his stout frame. At the moment, neither man looked pleased.

  “What is it?” Frank asked.

  Orwin scooted into his office and placed the ledger of the bank’s accounts on his desk. “Mr. Roberts is here to withdraw from his savings.”

  Frank pulled the red-and-gold-colored volume close to him and scanned Stanley’s record of deposits and withdrawals. At the beginning of January, the man had a little over a hundred dollars in his account, but he’d withdrawn twenty-five dollars a month during the first part of the year.

  Frank pushed the book aside. “You have fifteen dollars in your account, Mr. Roberts. Would you like to close it?”

  Stanley stepped up to his desk, an enflamed red climbing up his neck. His voice shook when he spoke. “Not fifteen dollars, Mr. Powell. I need my hundred and fifteen.”

  Frank reread the numbers on the ledger. “But you already took out your money.”

  “No, sir. I’ve been saving my money so I could move my family to a bigger flat, but now I lost my job and I need my money to make rent.”

  “The fifteen dollars should pay for your rent.”

  The man’s lips trembled. “I’ve got other bills to pay too, Mr. Powell, and it’s my money I’ve been saving. I don’t need to tell you where I’m spending it.”

  Frank turned the ledger around. “See these lines.”

  “I see a bunch of numbers, but it don’t mean nothing to me.”

  “This says that on January fifth, you took twenty-five dollars out of your account. My clerk initialed the transaction.” Frank pointed to Jacob Hirsch’s initials on the line.

  “But I didn’t take out the money.”

  “Then on February tenth, you withdrew another twen
ty-five dollars.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Orwin here approved that transaction.”

  “Do you remember that?” Stanley asked, looking over at Orwin, but the younger man shrugged.

  “That was six months ago.”

  Stanley turned back to Frank, and there were tears in the man’s eyes. “I trusted you with my money.”

  “And I took good care of it.”

  “But I didn’t take it out!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts.” If it had been one transaction, he may have thought it a clerical error, but Stanley had taken out the money four different times with three clerks signing for it. Frank felt sorry for the man, but he couldn’t give him someone else’s money either.

  Orwin held out the cash in his hand. Fifteen dollars.

  Stanley pounded his fist into his hand, and Frank eyed the telephone at the edge of his desk. Perhaps he should ring the police station.

  “How is my family supposed to live on fifteen dollars?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Roberts.”

  The man swiped the cash from Orwin’s palm. Cursing both Frank and Orwin, Stanley turned and stomped out of the door. Orwin apologized for the interruption as he backed out of the doorway and moved toward his teller cage.

  Frank sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Stanley didn’t seem like the kind of man who would try to trick the bank into giving him cash. Even so, you could never tell about people. Over the years he’d learned that some of the seemingly nicest people could bite you in the backside.

  In days past, he might have given Stanley a bit more money than fifteen dollars since the man had been a faithful bank customer, but times were different now. In the past twelve months, Frank had liquidated the bank’s overseas and domestic investments at a frightening rate to keep up with the requests of people who were taking their money out of the bank and hiding it under a floorboard in their home instead—as if no one would find it there. Even though a year had passed, many of his former customers hadn’t returned their savings to the bank, and now they were faulting on their bank loans as well. House loans. Business loans. Even farm loans.

  Second National didn’t have much cash these days, but they sure did own a heck of a lot of barns and office buildings that no one wanted to buy. Some days he felt like a chicken perched on a nest full of eggs that would never hatch.

  Liesel knew the instant her father stormed into the good doctor’s home. It was barely first light, and Cassie was sleeping in fits on the bed in front of her. Jacob was awake, sitting in vigilance on the other side of the bed as Albert Strauss stomped his feet below them and demanded the release of his daughter.

  Dr. Trachsel told her father that she’d refused to leave when she had the chance, but her father was insisting it wasn’t too late. Liesel could go home with him now. Silence followed, and she imagined the doctor down below, shaking his head while he explained to her father what he’d explained to her. The suffocation from diphtheria. Paralysis. If Albert exposed himself to diphtheria and carried the disease back to Amana, they could have an epidemic on their hands.

  Her father continued to argue. He was an Elder in Amana, a respected member of their Society, but she prayed quietly that the doctor wouldn’t back down under her father’s pressure. The moment she saw Cassie and Jacob across the tracks, she knew she was supposed to help them. It was almost as if God had placed her there at the depot and allowed her to linger until Jacob and Cassie arrived.

  Outside Cassie’s room, there was a sitting room, and on the other side of the family room was a bedroom for her to use. She hadn’t slept in the bedroom last night. In fact, she hadn’t slept much at all. She’d stayed up most of the night, keeping the girl’s face moist and putting blankets back on her small frame after she kicked them off. Every three hours, she administered the whiskey-and-milk mixture that Dr. Trachsel had prescribed to soothe Cassie’s throat and help her rest, but the whiskey didn’t seem to be working.

  She strained her ears, trying to listen to the conversation on the bottom floor as the doctor explained that Jacob did indeed need help caring for his daughter.

  Jacob’s fingers picked at the wool on Cassie’s blanket, his eyes on his daughter’s face. He didn’t ask, but even so, she wanted to explain that her father had a compassionate heart. He just wasn’t the least bit generous about allowing his only daughter to be quarantined with a worldly stranger, no matter what the condition of the man or the man’s child.

  The arguing continued downstairs for at least twenty minutes, and after it quieted, someone slipped a folded piece of paper under the door. She opened the note and scanned her father’s admonitions and reminders from the Scriptures. If Jacob threatened her, he wrote, she was to notify the doctor immediately so she could serve out her quarantine in a locked room.

  When she read those words, she glanced across the bed at Jacob’s bone-tired face. She’d been with him and Cassie all night and never once did she feel threatened. Most of the time he didn’t even seem to notice that she was in the same room.

  Jesus himself had reached out to those who were dirty. Unclean. He’d touched the lepers when no one else would go near them. She was only doing a very small part to follow His example.

  As she folded the letter, Jacob looked at her. “I’ve caused a lot of trouble, haven’t I?”

  “It’s not trouble.” She slid the letter into her apron pocket. “My father’s only worried about me.”

  “He’s right, you know.” He took a deep breath, and for an instant, she was afraid he would send her away. “You should have left when the doctor told you to go.”

  “I wanted to help you….” She looked down at Cassie. “And help her.”

  He cleared his throat, and his voice cracked when he spoke again. “I’d never hurt you.”

  Her eyes flickered up, ever so briefly, and met his intense gaze. She saw the power and kindness in his eyes. “I know.”

  His gaze softened again. “Cassie thinks she has a guardian angel.”

  “Her faith is strong, Jacob. This is gut.”

  He paused before he spoke again. “She thinks her angel has blond hair.”

  Heat climbed up her neck, and she hoped he couldn’t see her blush in the morning light.

  So now cast aside all fear and, with a childlike heart, immerse yourself in fulfilling mercy, love, and faith of your Immanuel.

  Ursula Mayer, 1717

  Chapter Seven

  Hail hammered the shingles on the doctor’s house, plunking bits of ice against the bedroom window. Lightning illuminated the tangled branches outside the dark glass, and a violent crash followed the flash of light, shaking the walls around Liesel and her patient. Even with the lightning and thunder her patient didn’t open her eyes, but the light and sound were welcome company for Liesel.

  God’s in His heaven; all’s right with the world.

  God was in heaven, of that she was certain, but she wasn’t sure she could agree with Mr. Browning’s words about all being right in the world. God was here tonight, in this room, but nothing seemed right in her world.

  Cassie groaned on the sweat-soaked bed, tossing her head back and forth on the pillow. Liesel dipped a washcloth in a bowl of tepid water, wrung it out, and wiped the puddles of sweat from the child’s face. Instead of getting better, Cassie’s health continued to spiral downward. They’d forced the last of the whiskey through her lips hours ago, so Jacob had gone downstairs in search of more to ease Cassie’s pain and help her rest.

  The water didn’t seem to be doing much good on Cassie’s skin, but the work gave Liesel something to do and some way to at least pretend she was helping to keep Cassie from slipping through death’s door.

  The doctor ventured up the stairs at least once a day to give them medicine and advice, but he never crossed the threshold to check on Cassie. Of all the people in Homestead, he had to be the most careful to not expose himself to the disease any more than he already had. No one else was qualified to care
for the people in their community.

  Rosa Trachsel had left liver sausage, potato salad, and tins with tea and milk outside the door for supper. The woman had knocked to alert them to the hot food, but by the time Liesel rushed to the door to ask for whiskey, the woman had disappeared back down the steps.

  Jacob had wanted to go downstairs right then, but she’d asked him to wait until the doctor came and checked on them for the night so they wouldn’t break their quarantine. Hours passed and the doctor never came…so around nine, Jacob had walked out the door.

  The kerosene lamp flickered, and shadows danced around the twin beds and the two chairs alongside Cassie’s bed. Beside the bed there was also a large dresser and a clock in the corner that kept time but never chimed.

  With a loud moan, Cassie thrashed and kicked at the heavy blanket on top of her, sending it off the bed. Liesel picked the wool blanket off the floor and tucked it around the girl’s hot skin once more to help her sweat out the fever.

  Three nights had passed since Jacob and Cassie arrived in Homestead, and Liesel had only left this room to use the chamber pot in her bedroom. She’d slept very little since volunteering to help Jacob Hirsch, only briefly napping in the chair while he attended to his daughter. Every once in a while, he would doze off as well, but then he would force himself to wake again, pacing the floor and sipping the coffee that Rosa brought them. Jacob ignored the doctor’s instructions to rest so his body could fight off the infection in his leg. It was almost as if he didn’t care about healing his leg or even if he survived…like he was ready to go to the grave with his daughter.

  Liesel soaked the washcloth again and wrung it out. She’d never had the great privilege of birthing a child so she couldn’t imagine the grief over losing one, but even so, it was for God—not man—to decide the time for each of His children to come home. Until God called this precious soul to Him, she’d work as hard as she could to keep both father and daughter alive.