Her chin thrust out. “Oh, yes you do.”
With a shrug in Thomas’s direction, Peter got a clean bowl and plopped in a great lump of mush. He added a dollop of molasses and doused it with cream, then set the bowl and a spoon in front of the woman. Standing beside her chair, he waited until she took up the spoon, stirred the contents into a semismooth consistency, and brought a small bite to her mouth.
Grossmutter continued eating while observing the woman with her sharp scrutiny. Peter could not tell what she was thinking.
Thomas, still sitting on the other side of the table, also watched. “Mrs. Steadman? You didn’t say grace.”
A blush stole across the woman’s cheeks.
Peter sent a brief glowering look in Thomas’s direction, then smiled down at the woman. “When I blessed the food this morning, God knew you would eat. It will digest without a second prayer.” He glared once more at Thomas, who hung his head. “I will get water for the dishes. Thomas, you stay and visit with Frau Steadman.”
Thomas raised his chin and smiled at Summer. The woman went on eating with small, dainty bites. Peter picked up a bucket, stepped out the door, and headed across the dewy grass to the well. As he turned the crank to bring up the pail, he tested the unknown word. “Ma-nip-u-lated.” How he wished he knew what she meant. With a sigh, he poured the water from the pail into his waiting bucket, taking care not to splash over the rim, then threw the pail back into the depths of the well.
Back in the house he found Thomas, under Grossmutter’s watchful eye, sharing what he had been studying in school before his accident. The woman listened, her fine brows pulled down in concentration. He peeked at her bowl and hid a smile of satisfaction. It was nearly empty. Good. The tricking of her worked.
He poured the water into the reservoir of the stove to heat and placed the empty bucket on the floor beside the dry sink. When he straightened, he found Frau Steadman waiting, bowl and spoon in hand. Her nearness caught him off guard, and he stumbled backward a step, kicking the bucket. She glanced at the bucket then looked at his face.
He felt heat building in the back of his neck. He looked toward the table, where Thomas grinned and Grossmutter pursed her lips.
“Mr. Ollenburger?”
He turned back to the woman.
She gestured toward the dry sink. “Would you like me to wash the dishes?”
Peter shook his head, returning to the table to put some distance between them. “Washing the dishes is Thomas’s job. It does not hurt his ribs to lift only bowls and spoons. When he is finished, he can show you his books, and you two can begin to study.”
She watched as he carried Thomas’s bowl to the dry sink and added it to the others waiting in the tin wash pan. “I was hoping …” He heard the tremble in her voice and stopped rearranging bowls to look at her. “Ja? You were hoping?”
She licked her lips, hiding her hands in the folds of her skirt. He watched her eyes flit sideways to the table before coming back to him. “I know that Thomas is eager to begin his studies, but I wondered if perhaps we could delay it for one more day.”
“Delay …” Peter looked at Thomas.
“Wait until later, Pa.”
“Wait until later?” Peter said to Frau Steadman.
“Just one day. I would like to have the chance to settle in, to bring the things from my wagon to the shariah.” She paused. “Would-would that be acceptable?”
Peter swallowed. He would rather wait until later to go to the no-longer-there wagon, but he knew he could not. He lowered his chin and aimed his voice at the floor. “I think to … delay … one day will not harm the boy. I will hitch the oxen.”
He looked up to see gratitude in her eyes.
“Thank you.”
As he clumped across the ground toward the barn, he wondered if she would regret that thank-you once she saw what the doctor had done.
Summer scuffed her toe through the pile of ashes. Ashes. Only ashes remained of what was once her wagon, furniture, books … and memories. The minister had said, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …” as the men had shoveled soil on top of her children’s graves. Her children were ashes. Her belongings were ashes. Her dreams were ashes. Hot tears formed in her eyes, and she pulled her coat tighter around her chin as she battled the desire to dissolve into wails of anguished fury.
“Sorry I am that it was done, Frau Steadman, but the good of many must sometimes come before the good of one.” The sympathy in Mr. Ollenburger’s eyes substantiated his words. He lifted his ax, using it to point toward a stand of maples along the riverbank. “I-I go now to chop the trees for your new bed. You … you sit and …” He shrugged in a helpless gesture and headed into the trees, the ax on his shoulder.
Soon she heard the hollow clack of iron against wood. Chopping trees to build her new bed, he had said. Anger, hot and consuming, rose up within her. She didn’t want a new bed! She wanted her own carved oak bedstead on which her children had been born, and the quilt pieced by her grandmother, and the rocking chair in which she had soothed her babies to sleep before tucking them into the cradle that had been her own sleeping spot when she was an infant. So many precious, irreplaceable items had been inside that wagon! It was unthinkable that this pile of soot and grit was now all she had.
The wind lifted particles of gray ash and carried them away across the brittle grass. She spun from the sight, a strangled sob forcing its way out of her throat. Her gaze fell upon the row of headstones. She broke into a stumbling run and dropped to her knees in front of the graves, allowing the tears to flow.
“Oh, Vincent, all your books … They’re gone, son.” The wind whipped at her hair and dried the tears that rained down her cheeks in an endless flood. “And Rose, my precious girl, the sweet embroidery you worked on as we traveled … You were so proud of the posies you stitched from pink silk floss. You said you would hang the sampler in our new parlor. I’m so sorry I can’t hang it for you, Rose….”
She turned to another mound. “Tod, dear Tod, your carved soldiers are all burned up.” She closed her eyes, envisioning the little boy lying flat on his belly in the grass with the wooden men clasped in his dimpled fists. “I’m so glad I put one with you in your grave. At least you have one left with which to play.” She slapped her hands to her cheeks, gasping as guilt assailed her. “But, Tillie … Oh, my dear sweet baby, I didn’t put your dolly with you. I kept it, thinking I would hold it when the need to hold you was too strong. And now, like you, it’s gone. I should have buried it with you, my darling. I’m sorry, Tillie. I’m so sorry….”
Sobs shook her. She could no longer speak. Burying her face against her knees, she cried until she thought her chest might explode. It was several minutes before she realized the sound of the ax had stopped. She peered over her shoulder. On the other side of the ash pile, Mr. Ollenburger crouched on his haunches, the ax across his knees. His wagon waited behind him, a tumble of fresh-cut saplings piled in its bed.
She turned back to the graves and cleaned her face with her sleeve. Painfully she pushed herself to her feet, but she couldn’t make herself leave. Her gaze drifted down the row of markers, ending with little Tillie’s. She read aloud the words engraved there: “‘An angel took my flower away, but I will not repine, since Jesus at His bosom wears the flower that once was mine.’”
“It is true.”
She jumped at the deep voice that came from behind her right shoulder. “What?”
He stepped beside her. “What you said. It is true.” He nodded his shaggy head, his eyes solemn. “All of your liebchen are now with Jesus, safe in His arms.”
Anger at all she’d lost welled up like an ocean wave. “But I want them with me! What does He need with them? They’re my children! My children …” Another sob rent her words, and she placed a hand against her lips to stifle any more that might erupt.
Mr. Ollenburger’s eyes softened with understanding. “I know, Frau Steadman. The sadness goes very deep. It fills you until there is not room for anything
else.”
She nodded. The sorrow was a crushing burden. It equaled her guilt.
“There is One who can take your sadness and fill your heart with joy once more, if only you will ask Him.”
Summer forced out her breath in a harsh huff. “Please, Mr. Ollenburger, do not preach a sermon to me. This God of whom you speak ignored my cries to save my children. Even if He could restore my joy, why would He? He didn’t care enough to hear me before. Why would He listen now?”
The man flapped his jaw twice, as if unable to form words, then snapped it shut.
She turned away from him, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering in the cool wind.
After a long while, he spoke again, his voice of distant thunder tender in its delivery. “Why my Elsa was took from me I still do not know. She wanted even more than me to see this land where no one stops you from worshiping the true God. A land where our Thomas could grow and choose whatever he wished to be. But out at the sea, she died. She is buried in the ocean.”
Summer gasped.
“So not even a grave do we have to visit.” He turned, his gaze settling on the headstones. “My Elsa had been with me my whole life. All of my memories from little boy up to full-grown man have her in them. Very hard it was to say good-bye. Very hard for her Grossmutter, too, who had raised her since she was little girl. But …” He rested a large hand against the front of his sheep wool jacket, facing Summer again. “I visit her in my heart. And I talk to the God with whom she now lives. That is where I find my comfort.” He shrugged, his huge shoulders bunching his jacket around his bearded chin. “But time it took to find my comfort. It will take time for you, too.”
He stepped closer, his expression serious. “Do not say God is not there or is uncaring. Our God is a God who knows. He knows your pain of loss. He has felt it Himself as His Son died and He must to turn away. He knows what is found in our future, and He knows what is best for us. We must trust that He knows.”
Summer turned back to the graves. “I’m glad you found your comfort, Mr. Ollenburger. But this is what I know—my husband believed God would take us safely to Oklahoma. God didn’t. Now here I am with no husband, no children, and nothing to remind me of them. It’s all … burnt up.” Tears pricked behind her lids as she spit the words through clenched teeth. “And my joy is burnt up, too.”
At that moment two curled bits of soot rose, lifted by the wind, and danced away on the breeze. Summer watched them go, the pressure in her chest increasing as they disappeared in the treetops. “My joy is now ashes, Mr. Ollenburger, and as you can plainly see, ashes cannot be put back together again.”
He seemed to search for those two bits of soot, his brows pulled down.
She waited for him to refute her bitter words.
He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a rumpled piece of paper with seared edges. He looked at it for a moment, his lips pressed together so tightly his whiskers stuck out. “I found this in the bushes beside the river. I do not know, but—” He held it out to her. “It looks to be one little piece from your ashes.”
When she didn’t reach for it, he clasped her wrist and lifted her hand to meet the paper. “Take it with you, Frau Steadman. One day, it will bring you joy to have it.”
He walked away, leaving her holding the shred of brittle scorched paper. Tears flooded her eyes as she recognized a page from Rodney’s Bible—the page on which the births of their children had been recorded. One corner was completely burned away, and three of the four sides were singed from the flame, but each name and date was still intact, penned in Rodney’s neat script.
A part of her heart ached with desire to give thanks to God for the miracle of this little scrap surviving the fire that destroyed everything else. But she hardened herself against it. If God was able to keep this piece of paper from burning up, He should have been able to save her children. She started to crumple it into a wad, but something stopped her. Instead, she folded it with great care and placed it in her pocket.
Mr. Ollenburger waited beside the oxen, his large hand resting on the shoulder of one sturdy beast. With a sigh, she pushed her feet into motion. She had made a deal with this man to teach his son, and she would honor it. Never, though, would she believe in his God.
5
MR. OLLENBURGER STOPPED the wagon in front of the house. He turned to Summer and spoke the first words since they had left the gravesite. “I go now to clean out the shariah and build your bed. I will also go to town and find a stove so you will have heat. Even a small one would be plenty big enough.”
Summer allowed him to grasp her hands and help her over the edge of the wagon. It seemed to take no effort for him to lift her down. She shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand as she peered up at him. “Do you need some money?”
“Nein.” His chin thrust out in stubbornness, the curled whiskers bristling. “It is my shariah. I will provide the heating for it.”
“If you’re sure …” Wind zipped around the house and tossed a strand of hair across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear.
“I am sure. You spend day with the boy, get to know each other.” With a push of his foot, he released the brake. “Do not expect me until suppertime.”
Summer watched the wagon lumber away before she crossed to the house. Standing on the small stoop, she raised her hand and knocked. The door swung open, and Thomas stepped out beside her.
“Where is Pa going?”
“To do some chores.” Summer watched the wind tousle the boy’s hair. Her fingers ached to smooth the locks back into place. “He said we were to spend the day getting acquainted.”
Thomas looked up at her with unblinking eyes. He seemed to be taking stock of her, and she felt a blush filling her cheeks. Finally he shrugged. “I could show you around the place. If you’re going to live here, you might want to know where everything is.”
“That-that’s fine.” Summer tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff, as if smiling would never again be possible.
“I’ll get my jacket.” The boy went back into the house and returned a few minutes later, a brown woolen jacket tugged over his overalls.
“Don’t you need a hat?” Her maternal worry came naturally, making her heart beat faster.
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”
Summer looked at the closed door. Was the old woman still sitting at the table? “Is it all right for us to leave your grandmother unattended?”
“Oh sure. She likes having time to herself.” He scratched his head. “So … do you want to see everything now?”
She remembered Mr. Ollenburger’s warning to keep the boy’s activity limited. “If you’re going to show me around, we will walk sedately.” She bent her left arm at the elbow. “Position your arm like this.”
The boy stuck out his right arm.
“No, your left arm.”
With a frown, he switched arms.
Summer slipped her right hand through his elbow. “Now you may lead me around your property. Save your favorite place for last.”
The boy’s eyes lit with eagerness. “That would be the gristmill.”
Summer nodded. “Very well. Show me everything of importance on the way. But as I said, walk sedately.”
She made sure Thomas learned the meaning of “walk sedately” as they strolled around the house and headed toward the northeast corner of the Ollenburgers’ property. When Thomas pointed out the barn, his horse, Daisy, pawed the ground and snuffled a greeting from a small enclosure attached to the large log building. Behind the barn were the henhouse and pigpens. Summer needed no verbal introduction to the latter location; her nose recognized it well in advance.
Thomas pointed to the outhouse. “There’s the necessary. Reckon that’s good to know even though there’s one behind the shariah, too.”
Summer was sure her face glowed a brilliant pink at the boy’s blithe comment—she had already made acquaintance with the necessary behind the shariah that morning, but she wouldn’t have admitte
d it to Thomas!
“And over there,” the boy said, pride in his voice, “is our gristmill. My pa’s the only miller in Gaeddert.”
That was the gristmill? Summer lifted her hand once more to shield her eyes, certain she had missed something. She saw only a large windmill that sat atop a high wooden platform supported by massive wood beams.
Thomas tugged at her arm. “My great-grandfather and my grandfather were millers. Pa started milling before he was my age. My grandfather’s gristmill was powered by water. When Pa settled in Kansas, he thought he’d build a water-powered gristmill, too. That’s why he chose land near the Cottonwood River. But he found out the river moves too slow.”
The boy led her around the windmill, which towered more than thirty feet in the air, including the four-foot-high platform. The blades nearly touched the ground. Summer marveled at the immense size of the windmill.
“So he had to find a different way to power it,” he went on. “Pa figured, wind’s usually blowing here. Why not do like the Dutch and use wind to power the mill?”
“Very clever of him.” She tipped her head back to view the entire mill. “Why did he not build it on the ground? Why up on top of that platform?”
The boy kept his right arm tucked tight against his side as he released a light laugh. “Well, the wind blows almost every day, but it doesn’t always blow from the same direction.” He led her to the opposite side. “Look—by hitching the oxen to the beams, Pa can turn the mill so it faces the wind. That way, no matter what direction the wind is from, the mill can keep working.” His chest puffed out. “My pa’s the smartest man I know.”
Summer had to concede, the engineering was clearly the work of an intelligent mind. Mr. Ollenburger’s large size, his humble speech, and even the simple construction of the shariah could lead one to believe otherwise. What had he said of the shack? It was not a masterpiece of carpentry. Well, this gristmill certainly was that. She hoped his son proved to be as quick-witted. If so, it would be as pleasant to work with him as it had been to work with Vincent.
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