Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01]

by Somewhere to Belong

  “You think it was her heart?” I asked. Oma had complained of pains in her shoulder and back over the past month.

  “It’s difficult to know for sure, but that might be the cause.” He lifted the old woman in his arms and placed her body on the bed. “Do you know who we should summon to prepare her?”

  “She has no family members. I’ll fetch my mother. She’ll see to the body.”

  I returned to the parlor and motioned for Berta to follow me. Neither of us spoke until we were outside. The budding trees throughout the village heralded a season of new life, yet Oma’s death had diminished all beauty of the season.

  “What did Father say?”

  “She died sometime during the night. You weren’t responsible for her death. Come on. We need to return to the kitchen.”

  “You’re angry with me. I can tell.”

  Mud squished beneath the soles of my shoes as I stepped off the board sidewalk and out into the street. “I’m not angry, Berta. I’m sad. I loved Oma Reich. Even though I know she’s in a better place, it doesn’t mean I won’t miss her.”

  Berta clung to my side while I delivered the news to my parents. The village carpenter would be summoned to Oma’s room, where he would measure the old woman’s body before he prepared a simple pine box for her burial. The wood shavings would be saved and used in Oma’s coffin pillow. My mother would wash the woman’s body and dress her in a white muslin gown, a shawl, and knit stockings. Oma’s gray hair would be tucked beneath a finely knitted white cap and then covered with a plain white muslin cap before the silk ribbons were tied beneath her wrinkled chin and she was placed in the wooden box.

  The ritual remained the same for each member of the community: White clothing for both the men and women, burial in a plain wooden box that was neither too large nor too small, a place in the ground next to the last person who had died, and a simple headstone with the name of the deceased and the date of death. Just as the community had provided equality in life, it provided parity in death.

  By the next morning our parlor had been cleared of all furniture save a small doily-covered table, the casket, and a clock with the hands stopped at midnight to signify Oma Reich’s approximate time of death. Though the weather was not yet overly warm, my mother had placed canning jars filled with ice inside and beneath the coffin—just in case. “You never know. It could turn hot,” she said when I questioned her. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Since there were no surviving relatives, my parents greeted the visitors and accepted condolences on Oma’s behalf. One after another families appeared, walked to the casket, offered a brief prayer, and departed. Everyone was now gone except Berta. She’d been standing in a far corner of the room for over an hour. She’d neither approached the casket nor said a word to anyone.

  I padded across the multicolored wool carpet. It seemed strangely out of place on such a somber day as this. “Would you like me to go with you to the side of the casket, Berta?”

  “No. I can see from here.” Her gaze drifted toward the pine box. “She doesn’t look very good, does she?”

  I forced a smile. “She’s dead, Berta. No one looks good in death. Why don’t you go back upstairs with your parents. There’s no reason for you to remain down here.”

  After one final glance at the coffin, Berta shuffled from the room. Clearly the girl still believed she’d played some part in Oma Reich’s death.

  Berta and her parents attended the funeral service the next day for Oma Reich. Following our custom, Berta and her mother had made their way to the cemetery with the women while her father took his place with the men. She remained silent, quietly observing the ritual—at least that’s what I thought until I observed her slowly working her way to the rear of the crowd until she stood next to Rudolf. Though their exchange was brief, my stomach lurched at the sight. Berta was up to something.

  CHAPTER 6

  Berta Schumacher

  Throughout the days following Oma Reich’s funeral, Johanna guarded me like the village watchman who protected the town against fire. Rudolf and I had arranged to meet after the funeral, but Johanna foiled any opportunity to sneak away. Though I’d done my best to shake her from my side, she hadn’t been deterred. Instead of sneaking off to enjoy Rudolf ’s company, I’d been forced into the frenzy of spring cleaning. Since we already cleaned every day, I didn’t see the necessity of spring cleaning, but my opinion wasn’t considered.

  After scrubbing and scouring every inch of the kitchen and its contents, I learned the same was expected in our rooms at home. The very idea of more cleaning set my head spinning with fresh thoughts of escape. Beating rugs, carrying out mattresses, washing windows, and pressing freshly washed curtains was beyond what anyone should expect from me. Yet my mother and father ignored my complaints. By the time we’d completed the cleaning, my hands were raw, and I’d discovered muscles I didn’t know existed. And all of them ached.

  Finally Monday arrived to signal the beginning of Holy Week. I looked forward to helping prepare for Easter, but my excitement waned at the prospect of attending yet another church service each day at noon. Had there not been other excitement within the Küche, I would have sorely protested. I hoped the fun of dying Easter eggs would outweigh the boredom of the extra church meetings.

  “If you would listen to the elders during the church meetings, you would learn a great deal. And you would grow closer to the Lord, which would be a very good thing,” Johanna said when I lodged yet another complaint on our way to the kitchen. “Besides, I thought you were the girl who enjoyed any escape from work.”

  Rubbing my arms, I crossed the street alongside Johanna. “Escape from one confinement to another isn’t escape.” The cold March wind whistled through the tree branches, and I shivered beneath my heavy shawl. I hadn’t totally adapted to rising at this early hour, but I did derive a small sense of pleasure from the silence that cloaked the village before it bustled to life each day.

  “You can rest your feet while you worship the Lord. At least you must admit there is a bit of pleasure in that,” Johanna said.

  “I think I will find more pleasure in dying eggs for the children. Sister Muhlbach said I could help if I didn’t get in trouble the rest of the week.”

  Johanna patted my shoulder. “That’s quite an order, isn’t it?”

  “I made it through yesterday without any problems, but she said we wouldn’t boil and dye the eggs until Friday and Saturday. I wish it could be sooner.”

  “Good Friday is the best day. We won’t be preparing much food, so there will be more time.”

  More time because Good Friday would be a day of fasting—a concept I didn’t understand in the least. Although bread and water could be consumed, very little food would be prepared in the Küche on that day. What would it be like to smell cookies in the oven and be unable to taste them? Maybe baking cookies wouldn’t be so much fun after all.

  Very few eggs had been cracked during the past week. Each Küchebaas had to have enough dyed eggs to fill the baskets of the children who were served in her kitchen. Sister Muhlbach took that message to heart and had been abundantly clear: There would be more than enough cookies and eggs to fill every basket.

  With all the chickens at each kitchen house, I didn’t see how there could possibly be a shortage, but Sister Muhlbach had ordered that eggs would be used only for baking coffee cakes and other desserts. The excess were stored in large crocks in the basement, where they would remain cool. I had been assigned the task of carrying the eggs to the basement every afternoon.

  With each passing day, I’d performed my tasks and kept my lips sealed. I wanted to help with baking the cookies and dying the eggs, and Sister Muhlbach knew it! When Friday finally arrived, I knew I’d passed the test. After early morning church we returned to the kitchen.

  “First we must boil the eggs. While they cool, we can begin work on the cookies.” Sister Muhlbach waved in my direction. “Go to the cellar and bring up the eggs, Berta—one croc
k at a time. We don’t want any broken eggs.”

  I would have preferred to remain in the kitchen and watch how the water was prepared for the eggs, but I didn’t argue. Any disagreement and Sister Muhlbach would surely ban me from the kitchen. Lantern in hand, I descended the stairs and entered the cavernous cellar. After making my way across the room, I counted the crocks. My legs would be aching by the time I completed the task.

  With each trip to the kitchen, I’d peek to see if the onion skins had been added to the boiling water or the flour measured for the cookies. But if I lingered for even a few seconds, Sister Muhlbach waved me out the door. Once again, I descended the steps and lifted the lantern high. Four crocks remained. I now wished our two hundred chickens hadn’t been quite so productive. None of the crocks was quite full. I might be able to rearrange the eggs and reduce the number of containers to three. After a hasty attempt, I gave up on the plan. The eggs simply wouldn’t fit. But if I ignored Sister Muhlbach’s warning and carried two at a time, I would only need to make one more trip. I could place them outside on the porch and then carry one crock at a time into the kitchen.

  Cradling a heavy crock in each arm, I dangled the lantern from two fingers. With careful steps, I crossed the dirt floor and made my way up the stairs. Today, all of the women were busy inside the kitchen. No one to observe my disobedience. I heaved a sigh and placed the two bowls on the edge of the porch before returning downstairs. After securing a crock in each arm, I continued up the stairs, settled one container on the porch beside the other two, and carried the remaining one inside.

  The pots of water were beginning to simmer. “How many more?” Sister Muhlbach asked.

  I’d opened my mouth to answer when a barking dog and the distinct sound of breaking pottery sent me careering toward the back door. “No!” My shrieking admonition did nothing to frighten the furry black-and-white dog. I waved my arms at the animal. “Get away from there!” Paying me no heed, he continued to lap the egg yolks from amidst the pile of broken shells and scattered earthenware.

  The other women rushed outside, and their chorus of shouts sent the animal running toward the shed, where he stopped long enough to eye the remaining mess. But when Sister Hillmer rushed after him with a broom, he disappeared.

  “How did this happen, Berta?” Thick fingers surrounded my upper arm, and I turned to face Sister Muhlbach.

  My lips moved, but my mouth felt as though it had been filled with cotton batting. The dog peeked out from alongside the wood shed, and I considered breaking loose of the woman’s grasp. It would be far safer to hide with the dog than face her wrath. “I’m n-n-not sure,” I gasped.

  “Why were the crocks sitting out here on the porch? And whose dog is that? The only dogs permitted in the village belong to the shepherds. That dog isn’t one of ours.”

  Her words sounded more like an accusation than a question. Did she think I’d enticed the dog into the yard? Couldn’t she see my fear and concern? “I’ve never seen it before. I don’t know where it came from,” I croaked.

  The answer didn’t satisfy. She pointed at the mess. Only one crock remained safe on the porch. “Why were the crocks sitting out here?” Deep lines creased her forehead, and anger flashed in her dark eyes.

  My mind whirled. What to do? I looked into Sister Muhlbach’s dark eyes. “Things were busy with so many women in the kitchen, and I decided to bring the remaining crocks to the porch before I carried them inside. I thought it would cause less confusion.” Her eyebrows dipped low. She was doing her best to make sense of my explanation—at least that’s what I hoped. I relaxed when I saw a faint glint of understanding in her eyes.

  “We will make do. But the next time I give you a job, don’t try to improve on my instructions. Do as I tell you.” She signaled for Johanna and one of the other sisters to gather the two remaining crocks. “Once you’ve cleaned up this mess, come inside.”

  I’d set to work picking up pieces of shell and shards of crockery from the slimy mess when I glanced up to see the black-andwhite dog inching toward me. I raised my arm to wave the dog forward when fingers circled my wrist in a tight hold. “Don’t do that, Berta.”

  “Rudolf! What are you doing here?”

  “Delivering milk. What else?” He stomped his foot, and the dog backed up several paces. “Don’t let that dog eat the eggs, Berta. If he gets a taste for eggs, he’ll be trying to raid the chicken coops, and you’ll be blamed.” He stooped down beside me. “What happened?”

  I explained the mishap while I pushed the slippery glob onto a piece of the broken crock. “Sister Muhlbach blames me, but it’s the dog that’s at fault.”

  Rudolf lifted his cap and scratched his head. “If you’d followed her orders—”

  “Shh.” I held my finger to my lips. “I didn’t tell her about carrying two crocks at a time. That’s just between us. She’d never let me back inside to dye eggs if she knew the full truth.”

  “Either way, you were wrong. The lying just makes it worse, but I’ll keep your secret.” He leaned across and scraped the remaining mess into another shard. After dumping the mess into the trash barrel, he wiped off the knees of his pants. “Just pump a little water and scrub with a broom. Soon it will be clean as a whistle.”

  I pointed toward the woodshed. “And get rid of that dog before he causes even more trouble.”

  While I scrubbed away any evidence of the broken eggs, Rudolf shouldered the cans of milk and carried them to the basement. The dog remained at a distance, watching my every move until Rudolf reappeared. “I’ll put the dog on my wagon and turn him out when I get over to East. Maybe one of the shepherds can turn him into a sheep dog.”

  “Oh, thank you, Rudolf. I’m grateful.” If all those women hadn’t been in the kitchen, I would have kissed him. “You are a true friend.”

  With an exaggerated flourish, he doffed his cap and bent at the waist. “I’m always pleased to help you, Berta.”

  “How long will the meeting last on Easter morning?”

  Johanna grinned as we walked toward the kitchen on Saturday morning. “You’re as eager as the children.”

  “I admit I’m looking forward to a few hours of fun tomorrow afternoon. I hope it won’t rain.” Sister Muhlbach and Sister Nusser had both predicted bad weather.

  “Either way, the children will have fun. We can hide the eggs inside if it rains. One year when I was a little girl, it snowed on Easter. But it didn’t dampen our spirits. It’s the tradition that matters. We brought these customs with us when we came to this country.”

  I liked both of the customs, especially the soft, sugary cookies that had been cut into the shape of rabbits, squirrels, chickens, lambs, or deer. Sister Muhlbach had given permission for each of us to sample one of the treats yesterday. Today we would color the remaining eggs with dye from the woolen mill’s dye works.

  Yesterday’s eggs had been quite lovely, with the onion skins providing a rich honey color to the white shells. Sister Hillmer had shown me how to make patterns by tying string around the eggs before dropping them into the tinted water. I’d even used a wax stylus made by the beekeeper to write names on some of the eggs. Still, I was eager to see what today’s eggs would look like when they were completed.

  It was fear of being banned from the kitchen during egg dying that caused me to complete my morning chores without complaint. I didn’t want to risk being relegated to cleaning out the chicken coop or some other horrid task while the others enjoyed coloring eggs.

  My excitement mounted when Sister Muhlbach motioned me to the stove. “You can help me prepare the dye since you’ve never done this before.”

  Her willingness to include me came as a surprise, especially because I’d been responsible for the bowl of broken eggs. Pots of boiling water sat atop the stove.

  “Put one color of dye in each of these smaller pots. We will mix in the glue from the woodshop, then set the smaller pan on top of the boiling water, and you must stir.”

  “How
will I know when it’s ready?” My stomach lurched at the thought of making a mistake on such an important task.

  “Ach! You are always rushing. Before you finish one step, you must know what is next.” She placed the bowl of red dye and glue over the boiling water and handed me a long-handled spoon. “Stir until it bubbles. Then pour it into the custard bowls and let it cool and thicken.”

  Her explanation evoked more questions, but I doubted Sister Muhlbach wanted to hear them at the moment. Besides, I was now stirring the blue dye with my right hand and the red with my left. Never before had I considered the difficulty of keeping both hands moving at the same time.

  Soon the older children arrived to help color the eggs. The little ones would have their fun hunting for the eggs tomorrow. Sister Muhlbach pointed them to their places at the tables and gave them explicit instructions. “You color one egg at a time, and you will move from one table to the next. There is a different color at each table.” With exaggerated motions, she rolled the egg in the jellied substance and lifted it for all to see. To my amazement, the color held fast and the egg turned a brilliant red.

  “You can make some, too,” Johanna said. “I’ll show you how to make a rainbow egg.”

  When all the eggs had been colored, they were aligned on the table in a stunning display of bright colors. If only for this brief time, I was pleased to be in Amana.

  Easter morning I fastened my pink silk before topping it with dark calico. To me, it seemed perfectly fitting to wear a bright color on this morning when Christians celebrated the risen Savior. After tucking my hair beneath my cap and grabbing my shawl from the foot of the bed, I hastened to meet Johanna. Even on Easter, we were expected to cook. Unless you were ill, there was no day of rest for the kitchen workers.

  Sister Muhlbach had ordered us to be at the kitchen even earlier than usual. Today we would serve the special Easter meal. Much work must be completed before we departed for church. Yesterday I had offered to remain behind during the service, but my offer had been immediately rejected.