by Karen Kirst
“Liesl said you usually have coffee after supper.”
She set his cup on the workbench and looked around the room. On the far wall, he’d built racks to hold his stock, various species of lumber, various thicknesses and lengths. Some were easy to distinguish, like black walnut or poplar or pine; others took closer inspection. Red oak, white oak, hickory, birch, maple. He even had some cherry shipped in from Pennsylvania. He was saving that for something really special.
“I noticed the beautiful furniture out there.” She gestured to the front room. “Did you make it?”
He nodded. “Some of it. My grandfather was a cabinetmaker and wood carver in the Old Country, and he taught my father, who taught me. I farm in the summer and make furniture in the winter.” Oscar picked up his coffee and blew across the top. It felt odd to have anyone in here besides Liesl. On winter evenings his daughter played on the floor with blocks of wood and curled planer shavings, talking and singing to herself, pretending the blocks were all sorts of fanciful things, but having Kate here was something different. It felt…intrusive? No, not exactly, but unsettling.
She studied the drawing on the bench. “This is beautiful. But where do you start?”
“I start by asking lots of questions.” He smiled. “I try to get the customer to be as specific as they can with what they want—what wood, what size, what deadline. And I try to educate them on what is possible and what isn’t. I can do many things with wood, but I can’t stop it from expanding and contracting, or splitting, or being too hard or too soft for what they want done.” He picked up a piece of pine he’d used to anchor a sheet of paper. “Like this. Pine is light, with a very open grain. When you carve it, you have to be careful, because it can chip out easily. And I don’t recommend it for a tabletop, because it’s so soft. You’ll get lots of dings and dents if you don’t treat it carefully.”
He strolled to the racks, touching the different woods. “Birch doesn’t take stain very well. It’s hard to get an even coat. And hickory is very difficult to carve because it’s so hard, but it makes a great toy box.” He stopped, realizing he’d been going on for quite a bit. Wood might be his favorite topic, but it wasn’t likely to be interesting to anyone else.
She tucked her bottom lip behind her teeth for a moment, her eyes showing her surprise at his enthusiasm. Those blue eyes, heavily fringed with dark lashes that, when turned full on him, made his heart beat a bit faster. Her hand went to her belly, pressing slightly.
Oscar remembered the wonder of feeling an unborn baby kicking and tumbling, the surge of joy and amazement at the sign of health and growth. He fought down the memory. He needed to remind himself that the Amakers’ stay was temporary and that he wanted it that way, not to dwell on things of the past that made his chest ache.
“I wanted to let you know that we would be gone most of the day tomorrow.” She picked her coffee cup up off the workbench. “I need to start another batch of cheese, and it will take all day.” Lightly fingering her collar, she looked at the drawing of the wedding chest, a sad light coming into her eyes. Had she owned a wedding chest, now destroyed by the fire? What had she kept in it?
Liesl came pelting into the room, ramming into his knees, hugging him hard and lifting her face to stare up at him. “Guess what Grossmutter told me, Daddy?”
He swung her up onto his arm, grateful for the interruption. “What, Poppet?”
“Grossmutter told me about Advent calendars. She said most everyone in Swizzerland has one, to teach little girls and boys about Christmas and waiting for things.” Liesl toyed with a button on his shirt and then raised her hands to press on his cheeks, making sure he was listening. “Some have little doors that you open to show you how many days till Christmas, and some have little pockets with treats in them that you get every day. But Grossmutter and Miss Kate had the bestest kind.”
“What kind is that?”
“An ’Ativity calendar.”
He glanced at Kate, who was blinking, her fingertips against her lips, eyes suspiciously bright. “You know what, Poppet, maybe you can tell me while you get ready for bed, all right?” He bounced her on his arm before setting her down. “Run out and say good night to the Amakers and I’ll meet you in your room for your story and prayers.”
“Can Miss Kate come, too?”
“I think Miss Kate is tired. Maybe she can help out tomorrow getting you to bed.” And she wouldn’t want to listen to a little girl prattle on about a treasure she had lost.
“Oh, I don’t mind.” Kate smiled brightly, though Oscar could tell it was forced. “I’ve never helped put a little girl to bed before. Maybe you could teach me all about it, Liesl. Soon I’ll have my own little one to put to bed, and I could use some practice.” She held out her hand to Liesl, who took it gravely.
“I’ll show you how.”
Oscar carried the lamp, and Liesl, true to form, talked the whole way up the stairs, into her nightgown and under the covers.
“Daddy tells me a story right before bed, but sometimes he lets me tell one, and I want to tell him about the ’Ativity calendar.”
Kate sat on the side of the bed, hands in her lap. Oscar leaned against the doorframe. “Only if Miss Kate says it’s all right.” She was clearly still raw, her loss fresh.
“She’ll like my story. Grossmutter said it was the thing Miss Kate loved best.” In Liesl’s innocence, she clapped her hands. “The ’Ativity calendar came all the way from Swizzerland, and it had lots of pieces, a new one for every day, and every morning, someone got to put another one out on the sideboard in the dining room. Is that right?”
Kate nodded. “Twenty-five pieces, all of them different.” Her voice was husky, but her face kind. “Beginning on December first, one piece each day was added, and we knew we were one day closer to Christmas.”
Liesl nodded, bouncing up to her knees. “And on the last day, Christmas Day, the Baby Jesus is born, and He goes in the manger.”
“Yes, and that’s how I knew, when I was a little girl, that it was finally Christmas.”
“Where did the pieces come from?” Oscar asked.
“My grandfather carved them. Sheep and donkeys and camels and shepherds and Mary and Joseph and the stable…each one beautiful. He brought the set with him from Switzerland when he was still a young man, and my father brought it to Minnesota, and I brought it to my husband’s home when I got married.”
And she’d lost it in the fire.
“And now it’s gone.” Liesl shook her little head. “Grossmutter looked so sad when she told me that. It makes me sad. I wish I had little donkeys and sheep.” Then she leaned over and took Kate’s hand. “But—” she shot a look at her father “—I still want a baby for Christmas. That’s my one thing that I am going to wish for.”
Clearly she hadn’t forgotten or changed her mind, and she wanted to make sure there was no confusion on the matter.
Oscar turned toward the hall and rolled his eyes. He’d have to talk about toys and books and maybe even a kitten, anything to distract her from the baby wish.
* * *
Early the next morning, Kate helped Grossmutter clean up the breakfast dishes and then shrugged into her coat to go help with the morning chores at their farm. She really needed to get some new clothes. Her one dress was limp, and her coat still smelled of smoke.
She stepped outside. Her breath plumed in white puffs, and hoarfrost covered every blade of grass and tree branch in lacy, icy fur. The sun topping the trees would soon melt the delicate artwork, but while it lasted, it was beautiful.
Oscar drew the wagon up to the porch and leaped down to help her. “You don’t have to come, you know. Martin and I can do the chores.”
Kate shook her head. “I have to make a batch of cheese today. I will be staying over there until the afternoon when Grossvater will come get me. It’s you who
doesn’t need to come. I will have all day to do the chores and tend the cheeses.” They were already treading on his good graces by extending their stay at his home by several days. He didn’t need to be away from his farm helping them when they could take care of things themselves.
“I’m coming.” Oscar steadied her as she climbed into the wagon. “You work too hard.”
“There is much to be done, and I am the one to do it.” She settled into the seat beside him, pressing her hand against her lower back. The baby had been restless last night, and she hadn’t gotten much sleep. And it wasn’t just the baby keeping her awake. Grossvater had told her not to worry, that God would take care of them, and in the daylight, she could hold fast to that truth, but when night came, and she was alone in her room, fears seemed to grow like mushrooms. It was as if, when she laid down in the dark, her fears perched heavily on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
They rolled into the Amaker farmyard, and the hoarfrost on the blackened ruins of the house covered some of the travesty. Kate averted her face, bracing herself against the thrust of grief that welled up.
“Kate, you go to the Käsehaus,” Grossvater said as he headed toward the barn. “We will bring the milk to you.”
When she entered the low-ceilinged cheese house, Kate took a deep breath, inhaling the milky, earthy, salty smells she had come to love. When she was a girl, she had helped her grandmother and mother make cheese, but always on a small scale, only for family use. When she had married Johann and come to the Amaker farm, Grossmutter had taught her how to make large quantities of cheese to sell. She enjoyed cheese making most days, but now, with so much depending upon the sale of the cheeses she’d made, the task was no longer as pleasurable.
She knelt before the brick firebox and raked out the old ashes before laying a new fire. Opening the dampers to get it going quickly, she moved to the large, brass kettle that could hold sixty gallons of milk when full.
In high summer she could make a new batch of cheese nearly every day, but now, in the fall, she was down to one batch a week, and this would be the last for the year. When the cows were grazing in the lush fields, their rich milk took on wonderful flavor, but now that the grass was brown and they were eating mostly hay, the cheeses wouldn’t taste quite as good. Normally, the end-of-season cheeses would be for family use, but this year, they would most likely be sold at a reduced cost to earn something to help tide the Amakers over.
Or to pay the mortgage on the cattle. Or the farm. Or go toward a new house. Or replenishing their wardrobes, food for the winter months, household goods…the list seemed endless.
Kate scrubbed the kettle with a mixture of vinegar and a touch of carbolic to make sure it was really clean, and slanted the damper on the fire to direct heat to the kettle to dry and warm it up.
Grossvater and Oscar appeared in the doorway with the loaded milk cart.
Grossvater also carried a pail. “I skimmed the cream off.” He set the bucket on the workbench and draped a square of cheesecloth over it. “I will take the cream to Oscar’s for Inge to make butter.” He looked into the wood box. “I will bring wood. Oscar…” He straightened with a wince. “Kate is going to need someone to help her with the lifting. I am not much good for that these days, but I can take care of the chores at your farm if you would stay and help her?”
“Oh, Grossvater, we don’t want to impose upon Mr. Rabb. I can take care of things here. I will work in smaller batches if I have to.” Kate worried her bottom lip.
“That’s a good idea, Martin.” Oscar put his hands into his coat pockets. “I’ll stay and help her.”
“We will bring you some lunch, Inge and the little one and I.” Grossvater drew his handkerchief out and blew his nose, coughing a bit. Kate cast him a worried glance. Last winter he had caught a cough before Christmas and it had lasted for months.
“Don’t worry about getting wood. I’ll do it.” Oscar followed him outside, returning with a huge armload of firewood, doing in one trip what would’ve taken Kate three or four. The wagon clattered out of the yard, and Kate removed her coat, hanging it on a peg by the door. The fire had already heated the small room, and it would only get warmer as she worked.
“You really didn’t have to stay. You must have your own things to do.” Her lips felt stiff, and she twisted her fingers together. It chafed to be the one on the receiving end of charity when she was used to being the giver, helping others.
“Work is slow now that the harvest is over. What should I do first?” Oscar asked. “I don’t know anything about cheese making.” He seemed sincere. And he could be a tremendous help to her.
“Would you pour the milk into the kettle? I need to see how much there is so I can mix the things I need to add.” She took down her apron, slipping the loop over her head. A smile came as she tied it behind her back. When she wasn’t nearly eight months pregnant, she could wrap the apron strings all the way around and tie them in front.
Oscar lifted the milk cans easily, tipping their contents into the massive kettle. “Looks like about forty gallons.”
“Do you have your pocket watch?” Kate asked. “I need to keep track of the time.”
He slipped a silver watch from his pants’ pocket and handed it to her. She flicked the cover open, and her eyes were drawn to the photograph tucked into the lid. A lovely woman with dark eyes looked back at her. This must be his wife. She’d been beautiful, and Kate could see more than a hint of resemblance to Liesl. She noted the time on a chart she kept on a clipboard on her workbench, and set the watch on the paper.
Kate poked a few small pieces of wood into the fire. “We need to warm the milk to about ninety degrees.” She adjusted the damper handle, lining it up with the mark on the brick to allow the right amount of heat to divert to the kettle base. Forty gallons of milk would yield sixteen two-pound cheeses.
“What else can I do?” Oscar took off his coat, too.
“While the milk is heating, I need to go downstairs and brush and turn the cheeses that are curing.” Kate dug a match out of the box on the wall and lit the lantern, carrying it by its handle and descending into the cellar under the building. Oscar followed.
She put the lantern on the table in the center of the room as Oscar let out a whistle. Wooden racks stuck out at right angles to the wall all around the room, shelf after shelf of cheeses, from small one-pound rounds to immense forty-pound wheels.
Thankfully, the largest wheels didn’t need to be brushed or turned. “Those were made more than a year ago and will be ready to sell soon. The smaller ones here—” she indicated four racks on the right side of the cellar “—are newer, made this summer. They all need to be turned over. And this row needs a fresh brushing of brine.” She moved to the brine barrel in the corner and dipped out a small pail. “If you could start flipping each cheese over, I’ll follow with the salt brine.”
They worked as a team, and Oscar took the brush out of her hand to tend to the cheeses on both the highest and lowest shelves himself. “How many cheeses are in here?”
She shrugged. “Two hundred? Maybe more. All in the Emmentaler style. Grossmutter comes from a village near Emmental. The cheese has a nutty, rich flavor, a good rind and many small holes.” Kate poked one of the cheeses that had been curing for a couple of weeks. The top and sides were domed a bit, and it rocked slightly. “The bulging sides mean the air holes have occurred. That’s a good sign. A flat-sided Emmentaler cheese is no good.”
“You go first.” Oscar indicated the stairs, and for good measure, he carried the lantern and held her elbow, guiding her up ahead of him. He really was worried about her and this baby. Johann had died before she’d even known she was expecting, so she hadn’t been cosseted or fussed over.
She could get used to this, as long as he didn’t overdo.
Picking up her clipboard, she reached up into her bun to take out
the pencil she’d stuck there. Keeping careful records made for good cheeses. She measured and mixed the cultures she would need to add once the milk had simmered long enough. “Would you check the temperature? It shouldn’t be over one hundred degrees, and closer to ninety is better. We don’t want to cook the milk, just warm it through.” A thermometer was clipped to the side of the kettle, but she found her hand to be a better judge. “Like bathwater warm, not tea-brewing warm.”
He quickly touched the outside of the kettle, and then returned his hand to the metal, nodding. “Warm but not hot. What are you making there?”
She lifted the brown stone jug that held her rennet mixture. “Rennet separates the curds from the whey, the milk solids from the liquids. It’s made using the lining of a calf’s stomach. And I need to add the culture that will produce the air holes in the cheese, too. Sort of like the way yeast makes bread rise.” Kate made careful notations on her clipboard. “I have to keep track of what I put in when, how long the batch cooks, how long I’ve stirred it. Otherwise, I might forget something important and ruin a whole batch.” And money was too dear to do that.
When the milk had simmered long enough, she handed Oscar a long, metal spoon. “I’ll pour this in, and you stir. Make sure you reach all the way to the bottom of the kettle.” Grateful for his help, she slowly sprinkled the culture powder over the surface of the warm milk.
When the culture had been stirred in long enough to bloom, she poured her rennet solution in. “This one really needs to be mixed well or the curds won’t form correctly.”
Oscar mixed faithfully while she checked the temperature with her little finger. Warm but not hot. Perfect.
“I’m hoping that the sale of the cheeses this year will be enough to pay off the loan Johann took out from the bank on the herd. If it isn’t, I don’t know what we’ll do.” And they still had to pay the mortgage on the farm itself, though with what, she didn’t know. She checked the time and lifted the flat, tin cover for the kettle. “We’ll let that rest for a quarter of an hour or so.”