I dutifully placed platters laden with bread, pitchers of syrup, and tureens of oatmeal first on the men’s tables, then on the women’s tables, and then on the table occupied by the older children. I’d deposited the last of the oatmeal and had nearly made it back to the kitchen when one of the elders motioned to me.
“Please tell Sister Muhlbach I wish to speak with her immediately— and please remove the pitchers of milk from the tables on your way to the kitchen.”
His request could mean only one thing—the milk was sour.
Perspiration dampened my palms, and I swiped them down the front of my apron. Spilling sour milk on the elders certainly wouldn’t help my plight. When I stopped at the women’s table, I could see the concern in my mother’s eyes. “Spoiled milk,” I whispered in her ear as I lifted the pitcher. “I’ll be in trouble for sure.”
Mother’s chest deflated like a balloon losing air. “You must learn to behave, Berta. I don’t want any trouble. Do you understand?”
She hissed the words through clenched teeth.
I reared back. Her words felt like a slap. Why did she want to stay in this awful place? What had happened to the mother I’d known in Chicago? The one who attended luncheons and balls? The one who enjoyed seeing the latest fashions when they arrived from Europe? The one who loved purchasing and wearing those fashionable gowns? Within hours of arriving in Iowa, she’d transformed into an unfashionable matron content to care for other women’s children and eat in a dining hall isolated from her own husband and daughter.
Pitchers in hand, I hastened to the kitchen and delivered the message to Sister Muhlbach. I didn’t have to tell her the milk was sour. I carried the evidence with me.
CHAPTER 5
Johanna Ilg
There was no controlling Berta. She had an excuse for everything. Yet over the past days her carefree spirit had warmed my heart in an inexplicable way I’d seldom experienced. I’d lain awake for several nights, contemplating exactly why I frequently came to her defense, for she certainly didn’t deserve my help. She’d learned little from the incident with the spoiled milk. Even two days of churning butter and making cottage cheese hadn’t deterred her from sneaking off to hide behind the shed and take a nap.
Something deep inside compelled me to protect her, yet I couldn’t decide what it was. We were in the washhouse helping with the family laundry, and each time our mothers carried a basket of wet clothes to the lines, Berta would tell me something more about Chicago and her life before arriving in Iowa. It was then, when I’d least expected it, I received my answer. Berta represented a link to my brother Wilhelm, in Chicago. When I listened to her talk about the city and the many places she’d been, I imagined Wilhelm doing those very same things. Not shopping for pretty dresses or attending teas, but I could picture him dining at a fine hotel, attending an outdoor concert in the park, or strolling along the shores of Lake Michigan. How wondrous his life must be—and how different from what he’d left behind here.
It took little to prompt my thoughts toward the many places I longed to visit before I died. No doubt my mother would be overwrought if she knew how often my thoughts lingered on the outside world. Not long ago I’d gathered courage and told her of my desire to visit Wilhelm in Chicago. Her complexion had turned pale, and she’d dropped to her chair in a near faint. “Your Vater and I will never consider such a thing. There is nothing gut for you in the outside world,” she’d said. But she hadn’t changed my mind.
I daydreamed of fashionable people like those who visited our villages. As visitors strolled through our village, staring at us in wonderment, I viewed them with the same curiosity. It seemed unfair that they could enter our world, yet I could not take a peek into theirs. If only mother would relent and let me visit Wilhelm in Chicago. Then I could cross one city off my list of places to see. Maybe Wilhelm would consider taking me to see some other cities, as well. My thoughts skittered in random directions: Boston, New York, even Omaha would be welcome.
Wearing a pair of the wooden shoes we routinely donned on washday, Berta shuffled to my side. After walking out of the clogs and soaking her stockings several times, she’d begun dragging her feet to keep the shoes in place. “Why doesn’t Sister Muhlbach report me to the elders? Each day I am certain she’ll speak to them, but each day I’m disappointed.”
“What?” Berta’s foolish question interrupted my thoughts of Wilhelm and Chicago. “Why would you want her to do such a thing? You should be thankful Sister Muhlbach has been patient with you. If you’d been assigned to any other Küchebaas, you would have been reported to the elders and banished from church meetings for at least a week or two—maybe more.” I’d barely uttered the words when realization struck me like a clap of thunder. Berta wanted the elders to ban her from attending church and prayer meetings. For a young woman of seventeen years, she was wily, willful, and set upon getting her way, even if it meant angering Sister Muhlbach.
Her chuckle angered me, and all feelings of compassion instantly evaporated. I grasped her cheeks and squeezed until her lips puckered.
“You’re hurting me,” she sputtered.
“Not nearly as much as you deserve.” I released my hold and silently asked God’s forgiveness for my unkind behavior. This girl’s conduct pained me as much as a festering carbuncle. “So you’re hoping to avoid church, are you? Well, you can rest assured that once I tell Sister Muhlbach what you’re up to, she’ll not speak to the elders. She’ll mete out her own punishment.” Berta attempted to lodge a complaint, but I shushed her. “The elders would view her inability to train you as a disappointment—and as a failure on my part, as well.”
“But you told me that was the punishment for improper behavior.” She tossed an armload of clothes into the water.
Quickly I scooped the clothes out and tossed them to the floor. “Not those, Berta. We wash the dark clothes last.”
“There are so many rules you can hardly expect me to remember all of them.” Pointing her index finger heavenward, she said, “Monday is washday, so we get away from the kitchen for part of the day. But only to perform more work.” She held up another finger. “Tuesday is the day when foods made with flour are served.”
She grinned. “I like Tuesdays.”
“Of course you do. All children enjoy filling their stomachs with potato dumplings or doughnuts and applesauce.”
“Don’t forget cream puffs and waffles. Those are my favorites.”
“Then you’ll be sorry to hear that once springtime is over and the hens aren’t laying lots of eggs, we don’t prepare so many of the pastries you love.”
Berta wrinkled her nose and let out a huff, clearly annoyed by the news. I shaved soap into the wash water and half listened while Berta returned to the recitation of duties associated with each day of the week.
She had all five fingers pointing heavenward. “And then there’s Friday. Who wouldn’t be delighted with Fridays? We receive the wondrous privilege of cleaning the kitchen.”
No one could deny Berta’s disdain for the Friday cleaning ritual.
She’d grumbled until Sister Muhlbach had finally sent her to the far corners of the dining room to scrub floors by herself. Even that hadn’t stilled Berta’s complaints. She’d continued to grumble until the rest of us joined our voices in songs to the Lord to drown out her protests.
She poked my arm, obviously aware I’d quit listening to her onslaught. “Our lives are controlled by food and work.”
I shook my head, eager to help Berta understand our ways. “Our lives are centered upon worshiping God. When work is completed in an orderly fashion, it permits us more time to seek God.”
“God knows where to find me. I don’t think He’s interested in Berta Schumacher and whether she’s baking coffee cakes or serving spoiled milk.”
“But He is, Berta. God is interested in all of us. You need only spend time with Him to discover His love for you. Read the Bible and pray. You’ll discover that He has much to say to you.
”
Mouth agape, she stared at me. I wasn’t certain what she was thinking, so I clamped my lips together and returned to scrubbing the wet clothes. Her silence gave me hope that she would take my words to heart. But my expectations were dashed when she tapped my arm and said, “I saw a good-looking fellow down at the barn with your father yesterday. I think he’d be a good match for you.”
I sighed and dropped another petticoat into the wash basket. “Do you think only of young men, Berta?”
“No, but I do think about them a good deal. Especially where you’re concerned.” She peeked around the doorway and then stepped closer. “I heard your father talking to the man— about you.”
Heat warmed my cheeks, and I turned away. This girl knew no boundaries. My mother reappeared for another basket of wet clothes, so I had a few minutes to regain my composure. The moment she exited the washhouse, I wheeled around to face Berta. “You should not be eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. What were you doing at the barns? You have no business down there.” Though I’d done my best to remain calm, I hadn’t managed to control the angry tremble in my voice. Berta stared at me, and I decided she was likely trying to decide if she should tell the truth or tell another one of her famous falsehoods. “And don’t fib to me.”
“I went to the barn because Rudolf said he’d meet me there after he completed the milk deliveries.”
“So now you’re going to blame Rudolf?”
“No! I’m telling you why I went to the barns. We didn’t think anyone would see us. We hid in one of the stalls. Just to talk,” she hastened to add. “About the time we were preparing to leave, your father and this other fellow walked inside the barn. We didn’t have any choice but to stay put.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face. “So Rudolf heard this conversation, as well?”
“Yes, but he didn’t mean any—”
I waved my hand to silence her. “Who was this man? Did you hear his name?”
Berta quickly closed the distance between us. “So you are interested? I knew you would be. Rudolf told me his name is Carl Froehlich, and he lives in High Amana.”
I didn’t need further explanation. I knew the Froehlich family. Carl’s father had been in charge of the barns in High Amana until he unexpectedly passed away the year Carl turned fifteen. He’d been too young to succeed his father as farm Baas, and the position had been assigned to Herman Miller. When Brother Miller would become too old to capably act as manager, his son, Edward, would step in.
Had Carl decided he could eventually become farm Baas in Main Amana by requesting a move? Or had he decided the succession would more easily occur if he was a member of our family? The thoughts raced through my head like a cat giving chase to a fleeing mouse.
From time to time my father had mentioned Brother Froehlich’s death and Carl’s dilemma. Probably because he saw irony in the situation. Though he’d fathered two sons, neither would step into my father’s position as farm boss. Had Pieter lived, I wondered if he would have remained in Amana or if he would have followed Wilhelm to Chicago. One day I’d asked my father that very question. Tears had pooled in his eyes when he told me it did no good to dwell on matters that couldn’t be changed. After that he never again mentioned Carl or a possible successor as farm boss.
“Tell me exactly what was said. And don’t change the conversation to suit your fancy.”
Berta cast her gaze toward the floor.
“Look me in the eye so I can see that you’re speaking the truth.” I reached forward and lifted her chin.
“I didn’t hear everything,” she whispered. “Rudolf said Carl wants to move from High and work for your father.”
“And? What else?”
“Your father said he would speak to the Grossebruderrat about his request.”
“That’s all? Nothing about me?”
“Not exactly. At least nothing I could hear. But why else would he want to come here and work? I’m sure you were mentioned.”
My heartbeat slowed and relief flooded over me. “So when you said they were talking about me, you made that up?” I wanted a positive affirmation she’d been lying.
“Well, maybe you could say that.”
“Just tell me yes or no, Berta. Tell me the truth. Did my father or Carl mention my name or speak of me in any way?”
“No. But I’m sure that if he comes to work for your father, he’ll want to marry you. The two of you would be a fine couple.”
“You need to cease your meddling ways.” I motioned for her to bring me the work pants. “And if you sneak off to the barn again, I’ll report you to Sister Muhlbach. If she discovers that you’re meeting Rudolf, she’ll have you scrubbing floors until your knees turn raw.”
I considered threatening to tell her parents but knew that would do little good. It had taken no time at all to realize Berta had her parents wrapped around her little finger. Neither of them would be of assistance. I didn’t know if I should speak to Sister Stilson. If I did, Rudolf would suffer dearly. His mother was as strict as the Schumachers were lenient. No, I’d speak privately to Rudolf and warn him he shouldn’t accept any further invitations from Berta.
I could only pray the elders would never again appoint me to oversee a new member of the community.
On her first day in the kitchen, Berta had been assigned to deliver Oma Reich’s meals. To anyone else, delivering food would have been of little consequence. But on that first delivery day, Oma Reich had made it her business to tell Berta what she thought of young ladies who shouted and stomped and created upheaval— especially when the upheaval took place in the rooms above Oma Reich’s dwelling place.
When Berta had returned, she requested someone else be assigned the deliveries. But Sister Muhlbach had been unrelenting. Three times a day Berta carried Oma’s meals across the street and down the block to our residence. As the days wore on, Berta’s complaints had subsided, and now she said nothing when she was sent on her way. In truth, I knew Berta had begun to enjoy the temporary reprieve from the kitchen. And after only a few days, Oma Reich had confided she thought Berta was beginning to change her ways.
I hadn’t argued. I’d let the old woman believe she could change Berta into a steadfast member of the community. Personally, I doubted anything would change Berta, but only time would tell.
Today when Sister Muhlbach covered the tray of food with a clean linen cloth, she instructed Berta, “No time for wasting today. Come straight back after you deliver Oma Reich’s meal. Spring cleaning begins after breakfast, and every hand is needed.”
I came alongside Berta as she lifted the tray. “I know you don’t want to help clean, but you must hurry back. Otherwise, Sister Muhlbach will have you scrubbing long after everyone else has gone home this evening.”
Though Berta promised a speedy return, I didn’t hold out hope. It seemed the girl forgot her promises as quickly as they were made. But for now, my own kitchen chores required completion. Only then could the window washing begin. The only noise to be heard in the dining room was the clatter of utensils striking plates or the occasional shuffling of feet on the wooden floor. I surveyed the tables for any bowls that might need to be refilled, gathered two, and returned to the kitchen.
“More oatmeal,” I announced, handing the bowls to Sister Dickel, who dipped a ladle into the oversized kettle.
“They’re extra hungry this morning,” she said.
“Or your oatmeal is particularly good today.” I hurried off with the steaming bowls before she could reply and returned them to the tables.
A shrill scream cut through the morning solitude, and all heads turned as the front door to the dining hall flew open. Eyes wild with fear and cap askew, Berta searched the tables wildly. “Father! Father! Come quick!” She yanked on her father’s arm with a ferocity that defied her small frame. “It’s Oma Reich. She needs your help.”
While her father extricated himself from the bench, I hurried to Berta’s side and grasped her
arm. “Come sit down, Berta.”
Body trembling, she wrested out of my hold. “No, I have to return with Father. Oma Reich is ill. Come with us. Please. You can help. She knows you. She’ll respond to you.”
“Berta’s right. I may need help.” Dr. Schumacher glanced at my father. “You don’t object, do you, Brother Frank?”
“No.” My father gestured toward the door. “Go along with them and do what you can to help, Johanna.”
We’d cleared the front door when Berta yanked on my hand.
“I think I killed her,” she hissed.
I couldn’t take another step. My feet dug into the ground as if they’d been nailed in place. “What did you do?”
“Come on, girls. There’s no time to waste.” Dr. Schumacher’s urgent command propelled me forward.
“I delivered her tray as usual. I called to her, but when she didn’t answer, I went into the bedroom.”
Silence hung between us until I poked her with my elbow. “And?”
“I thought she was asleep so I called her name again. When she didn’t respond, I grabbed hold of her arm.” She captured her lip between her teeth for a moment, and tears welled in her eyes.
“I think I pulled too hard, because she fell on the floor.”
“What?” I hadn’t meant to shriek.
Dr. Schumacher had run several feet ahead of us, but he glanced over his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” Berta said. “We’re coming.” And then to me, “Please don’t tell.”
I hastened my step. “Was she breathing? Did you check to see?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.” A gush of tears followed Berta’s stammered response.
“Stay out here,” I commanded when we entered the parlor. “I’ll go in with your father.”
Dr. Schumacher was on his knees when I stepped into the bedroom. I stooped down beside him and reached for Oma’s hand. The doctor shook his head. “She’s gone. From the appearance of her body, she probably died sometime during the night. Looks like she might have gotten up to call for help and couldn’t make it.”
Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01] Page 5