An Offering: The Tale of Therese

by Pittman, Allison

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  Visit Allison Pittman at allisonkpittman.com.

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  An Offering: The Tale of Therese

  Copyright © 2017 by Allison Pittman. All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration of frame copyright © Ozerina Anna/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Julie Chen

  Edited by Sarah Mason Rische

  Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  An Offering: The Tale of Therese is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  ISBN 978-1-4694-2391-7 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4694-2392-4 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-2393-1 (Apple)

  Build: 2017-05-22 09:02:00

  “We must beg God to be our wall,

  and send His angels to help us.”

  Martin Luther in a letter written to Frederick Myconius

  NOVEMBER 7, 1529

  The author wonders if, perhaps, Luther had heard this tale. . . .

  Contents

  Brunnendorf, Germany

  Brehna

  About the Author

  Preview of Loving Luther

  Brunnendorf, Germany

  SPRING 1504

  In the center of the village of Brunnendorf stood a fountain, the sole remaining structure of the lavish home of a Roman general. Every bit of architecture, all the defining walls and arches, had crumbled and been carted away, save for the tiles that once made up the courtyard over which the fountain presided. When she was a very little girl, Therese had to stand high on her toes just to peek into the water, ever fresh from the spouts shaped like four howling wolves’ heads. Long ago, these may have looked fierce and frightening, but just as Therese had grown to be a big girl of eight years old, time had softened the fountain’s features, save for one wolf—the largest, whose snout remained sharp and detailed. Every day when Therese came with the pewter pitcher to fill, she looked up into the empty eyes of the wolf and said, “Thank you for the water,” before walking home—carefully, so she wouldn’t slosh a drop.

  On this morning, she’d gone out earlier than usual, just past the time when the sun peeked into the alley where she and her mother lived in a single, small room at the back of a tailor’s shop. It was to be a big day, for she was going to visit her Oma and Opa in the next village, going all alone like a big girl.

  Before that, though, she needed to fetch the water. Mutti didn’t like to venture out to the fountain in the square. Not in the daytime, anyway, and certainly not in the early hours of morning. She’d still been abed when Therese left, which made it all the more surprising when she stood at the door at her return. Not just at the door, but in the doorway, blocking any way for Therese to get back inside.

  “Go,” Mutti said, taking the pitcher from her hands.

  “Now? But—” Therese wanted to say that she was hungry, but surely Mutti knew that. There’d been nothing in the bread box that morning, and she’d hoped to have a few coppers to take to the baker for breakfast.

  “If you hurry, you might be there in time for dinner.”

  “But what will you—?”

  “Never mind. There’s a bit of bread left in the box, and if it’s not enough, I’ll go to the baker to see what he has left from the window.”

  It was a lie, of course. Therese always knew when Mutti was lying, even when she didn’t have the evidence of an empty bread box to prove it. Like now, when she wouldn’t look straight into Therese’s eyes. Instead, she looked past her, tracking a man heading straight for their door.

  “Stay until dark, if you want. See if you can get a nice supper.”

  “If they—”

  Mutti was nudging her, but Therese felt her bare feet grip the stone—a long-forgotten remnant of the Roman general’s mansion—outside the door.

  “On with you, girl.”

  “And you’re sure you can’t come with me, Mutti?”

  “Don’t be silly. No, of course not.” Already she was backing away, closing the door, but not completely. “You know how things are. Plus, there’s much to be done here, and I’ll see if the baker doesn’t have a bit of something sweet for our breakfast tomorrow. Now go.”

  This last word was delivered with a waving motion, as if Mutti intended to sweep Therese off the street, out of the path of the man who slowed his steps and divided his gaze between the mother and the daughter with unabashed curiosity.

  “You remember the way, don’t you, my darling?” The sudden level of sweet concern was undoubtedly intended for the new arrival. Another lie.

  “I–I think so,” Therese said, apparently satisfying her mother’s unease. They both backed away from the doorway then, leaving it a few inches ajar. Enough for a man’s foot to step through.

  Therese stood, immobile, staring at that very foot. The shoe was made of sturdy but worn leather, with uneven stitching that showed a multitude of repairs. A poor man’s shoe, to be sure, but then Therese spent the better part of every day running through the streets of Brunnendorf, eyes downcast. Every shoe she’d ever seen had the same air of dilapidation.

  “Sieh mich an, Schätzchen.” His voice invited her to look up, past the dirty woolen breeches and the long, stained tunic. But she would not. Friendly as the voice might be—alluring, even—Therese knew if she looked at him, if she saw his face, it would haunt her for the rest of the day. And days to come. She would look for it again and again as she wandered through the market, or delivered a bit of sewing work, or stood in line at the Bierfass with her mother’s battered pewter stein. The small speck of hope now nestled deep in her stomach would turn over and over upon itself, stretching out with questions:

  Will you love my mother?

  Will you be the one to give us a home?

  Because that’s what Mutti always said about the men who came to visit. That someday a man would take them from this place—her and her beautiful daughter. To a cottage with a goat in the yard and fresh milk every day. And a garden and a window with a patch of sunshine where they could have a cat purring softly on a cushion.

  But not this one. He smelled of sour beer and something else Therese couldn’t name. The feet she stared at seemed unstable, and she began to feel dizzy with the focus.

  “Tell me your name,” he said, and a black-stained hand came into her field of vision. Before he could touch her, she backed one step away.

  “Don’t touch her.” Mutti was back, the door open wide enough now to show her face. She’d taken off the dirty kerchief and splashed her face with the cold water in the basin. It still shone pink and damp, a sweet contrast to the hardness in her eyes.

  “I only asked the child’s name.”

  “The child’s name is not your concern.” Mutti fixed her gaze on Therese. “Go.”

  The single word landed like a slap. Therese put her hand to her cheek to soothe the imagined sting.

  Therese stepped away, moving backward at first, waiting for Mutti to change her mind and send the strange man away. Sweep him from the stone. By the time she reached the corner, though, she gave up hope and made the first turn into the square proper. It was the hour Brunnendorf came to life. Vendors set up their wares and shopkeepers hung out their shingles. She spied one farmer’s cart, late in its lumbering through the narrow streets. Lashed to its high walls, baskets brimming with green-topped vegetables swayed wi
th each turn of the wheels. It was only a matter of time before something fell out, and everyone knew that once a piece of food hit the street, a child—or anybody, really—could snatch it up and not be accused of stealing.

  She followed, quickening her steps to keep pace with the wagon, hoping the farm goods were something sweet, like a carrot, or even a beet—though that would need to be cooked later in the day. The carrot she could have now, as a kind of breakfast, or even a late substitution for last night’s missed supper.

  To her advantage, the wagon turned to Firma Street, a better class of neighborhood than where she and Mutti lived. Less chance that some other hungry child would join in her pursuit. Still, a fat man in a stained apron stood in his doorway and yelled, “Beggar’s at your back wheel!” Around her, the sound of jeering rose. Thin at first, the occasional shout of a shrew, echoed by some bratty child more fortunate than herself. A smattering of dirt struck her cheek, and she thought it must have been kicked up by the farmer’s horse. Until another hit at her neck, just above the frayed collar of her dress, and another to her hair.

  “Beggar at the wheel!” Another shopkeeper joined the chorus, a woman this time. She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled it twice more to the driver, but Therese did not look up to see his reaction. She saw nothing but the turning wheel and the bouncing basket until, with a sharp pain to the side of her head, she saw nothing at all.

  Therese awoke enveloped in black. So much, in fact, that she wasn’t sure if she’d awoken at all or if she’d descended into the abyss of hell, the eternal home of all unbaptized children.

  Not until she recognized the noises of the street—the calls of vendors and the shouts of women—did she realize that, unless everyone in the world shared her condemnation, she was indeed alive. She stretched her arms out against the darkness, feeling at first only scratchiness before her hands broke through to the cool, fresh air.

  “She’s all right,” a woman’s voice said, and the blackness was lifted to reveal the stark dress of a nun, her robe and wimple so voluminous as to enfold Therese completely where she nestled in the sister’s lap. She saw nothing of a face, only a simple cross made of wood, hanging by a piece of plain brown twine. Therese shifted against the woman’s embrace and brought her hand up to her cheek. The same place where she’d imagined the blow of her mother’s words now bore the mark of that wood where she’d been pressed up against it. Then she moved her hand to her temple, winced, and drew it back, stained with blood.

  “Who could do such a thing?” Therese could feel the sister’s anger through the vibration of her body. “Did our Savior himself not challenge the sinless to throw the first stone? And you? This poor child. Which of you has not been hungry?”

  Therese heard the murmurs, followed by the dispersing of the crowd, until she felt sure she was no longer the object of anyone’s attention.

  “There, there,” the nun said, slowly easing Therese away. She had settled the two of them in the street. Therese hadn’t been held in such a way in a long, long time. Not since she’d turned six, when Mutti said that a girl who needed two hands to show her age was far too big to cuddle like a baby. So when the sister asked, “Can you stand up?” Therese was reluctant to do so. She unfolded herself slowly, squeaking and wobbling, clutching at the woman’s soft shoulder to find her balance.

  “Good girl.”

  The face, now below her, stretched into a smile. Pink lips, pinker cheeks, and a dusting of freckles—all framed by the white hem of the wimple. Her brows were heavy and dark, meeting nearly in the middle, but the eyes beneath them were the color of shadowy moss.

  “I’m not a good girl.”

  “What? Nonsense.” She huffed a bit getting to her feet, and when she did, Therese discovered that, though she was round as a barrel, she was not much taller than a child. “Let me take you back to your mother, and we’ll clean that nasty cut of yours.”

  “I–I can’t go back to my mother.”

  “Oh?” Not a moment’s hesitation. “Well, then, come with me. I’ll take you someplace else.” Therese found her dirty, bloodied hand encased in the sister’s soft, pudgy one and allowed herself to be led unquestioningly. “My name is Heida. Sister Heida, from the convent over in Brehna.”

  Therese said nothing, only kept her eyes downcast at the flapping of the black robe that flicked against her own bare skin.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  A long-held warning from her mother held Therese’s tongue.

  Never before had she attracted such attention from the people in the streets—many of whom, she knew, could name her. Not her real name, maybe. Not the name her mother whispered in her ear in rare moments of affection, or the name she answered to when she was out playing too long past dusk and was summoned home. But the other names. Das Schwein. Das Gesindel. Fatherless trash. Mongrel. Daughter of a whore.

  “All is well, child,” Sister Heida continued, not breaking her stride. Her steps were short, letting Therese keep an easy pace beside her. “Our Father knows your name. For now that is enough.”

  Therese wanted to protest—but he doesn’t know me. But the idea that he might, fleeting as it was, kept her silent.

  Sister Heida led her deeper into town, in just the opposite direction she was meant to go, and yet she did not tug away. That is, not until their destination became clear. The tall brick archway abutted the street, giving entrance to a courtyard paved with smooth, cool stone. Never before had Therese been on the other side of the arch, let alone in the courtyard, and now she found herself on the steps of the church itself, with Sister Heida straining to reach the heavy iron knockers halfway up the door.

  “If you ask me, it’s a sin to keep the doors locked so late,” she said, as if Therese had asked. “God’s children need refuge at all hours.”

  Therese tugged her hand away. Or tried to. “I’m not to go in there. Mutti says—”

  “There’s nothing to be frightened of. Do you not come here to worship?”

  Therese yanked in earnest. Fear clogged her throat, muffling her protest. She heard the echo of steps on the other side, then the sound of a sliding bar, and finally the heavy scrape of the door against the stone step.

  “Good afternoon, Father. I have an injured child here. She’s frightened and, I think, hungry. May I bring her in? Clean her wound and give her something to eat?”

  Therese lifted her eyes and allowed her face to be fully seen by the priest. Father Bastian, his name familiar only because she’d heard it shouted so many times in the streets.

  “An offering, Father Bastian, for my brother who died without confession!”

  He’d walk about, collecting coins and offerings of sweet pastries and roasted meat, all of which strained the belt fastened around his brown robe. While Sister Heida’s girth promised welcoming softness, Father Bastian’s protruded hard, like an ungainly pumpkin.

  “Do you know this girl?” he asked, his breath wheezing with the effort of opening the door.

  “I know she is a child in need of care,” Sister Heida answered, clutching Therese’s hand tighter. “Now, as your sister in Christ, I ask that you let me in.”

  “But she—”

  “I’m sure you are not granting yourself so high a seat of judgment that you will determine who is worthy to enter the House of God? Let us pass.”

  Therese felt the tug of a smile at her lips and tucked herself closer to Sister Heida’s side. Ignoring the begrudging attitude of the priest’s gesture, she walked over the threshold into a small room, its walls lined with benches. Light came only from a window in the ceiling high above, making the room grow dimmer as the doors closed behind them, but not so dim that Therese couldn’t fix her eyes on the images carved into the paneling above her head.

  Never had she seen anything so intricate, so detailed. Women and men in robes that flowed within the grain of the wood. Mournful, somber faces, and one man—majestic among them, his hand reaching up as if to touch the intangible objec
t of his gaze. A crown floated above his head, and even though she couldn’t be sure, Therese imagined both heat and light coming from its glow. She wished for a moment to light the cold tapers along the wall, just so she could see the images in the sharpness of shadow. Perhaps Sister Heida would allow her to stay until dark.

  “Beautiful, are they not?” Sister Heida, still holding her hand, brought it up to touch the wood. The man’s robe felt like silk beneath her fingers. “Do you know who this is?”

  Therese shook her head. “No.”

  “And you are how old?”

  “Eight.”

  Sister Heida made a tsking sound. “How sad. This is our Lord Jesus Christ. This is an image of him long ago, when crowds of people would gather to hear him speak.”

  “What did he say?”

  A chuckle rumbled through Sister Heida’s robes. “So much, he said, that we need a whole book to hold his words.”

  “I know how to read a little. I can read my name and almost write it.”

  “Can you? How wonderful.”

  The unabashed praise in Sister Heida’s words melted the tiniest chip of Therese’s fear, and she found herself wanting to babble about all of her accomplishments. How Mutti could trust her to buy food at the market whenever they had the coins to do so. How she could mend her own dresses when her elbows wore through, or add a ribbon of fabric at the hem when they grew too short. She knew how to make the bed smooth and sweep the floor when the landlord came to collect the rent, or she could keep herself sitting quietly in the dark, facing the wall, when they didn’t have the money to give him.

  Mostly, though, her biggest accomplishment was that she knew the way to her grandparents’ home. Out of Brunnendorf, along the creek, through a bit of forest, then across a farmer’s field to Opa’s gate. This she could do all by herself, and she puffed up with prideful boasting about it when the other children taunted her for living like refuse lingering in the alley.

  Once, when she’d been telling a gathering of children dressed in rags equal to her own that she would return with a new cloak and shoes after a visit to her grandmother, Mutti had grabbed her arm and wrenched her inside.