More Than Words

by Judith Miller

  She offered a fleeting embrace. “You know that I will. I am glad your Vater is there to stand alongside you.”

  Chair legs scraped across the oak floor as the elders took their seats. Father and I stood in front of them and waited while Brother Stresemann shuffled through papers and withdrew a copy of the periodical along with the plan for the Älterschule. “Before we discuss the magazine, I want to tell you that we were impressed with the plan you wrote for the Älterschule. Sister Mina explained that you provided a great deal of help and that you organized and wrote the material she submitted to us. I trust you didn’t send a copy of this to Mr. Finley?”

  “Nein. He has nothing else that I have written.” I could only imagine the fodder a story about the Älterschule would have provided for a cartoon in the magazine.

  Brother Stresemann pushed aside the plans for the Älterschule and withdrew his copy of the periodical. “We have gone over every line of this story.” He glanced up at me. “It is very long, Sister Gretchen.”

  “It was written as a number of stories, but Mr. Finley combined them without—”

  He signaled for silence. “I will tell you when I want a response, Sister Gretchen. As I was saying, we have gone through each line of the story. Everything you have written is true, and there is nothing we can find that reflects poorly upon the colonies.”

  “Except those pictures,” one of the elders said. “Those drawings …”

  Brother Stresemann glanced down the table and silenced the brother. “We find the cartoons offensive in every way. They are intended to make us appear like oafish drunkards and fools.” He lowered his head and looked at the men sitting to his right and to his left. “We do not care what others think. It is not as though we have ever attempted to convert outsiders to our beliefs. We want only to please God, and we hope you feel the same way, Sister Gretchen.” He lifted a sheet of paper. “We do have some questions.”

  They’d obviously written out a list. My temples pulsed with sharp stabs of pain as I waited to hear the first question and prayed I’d have an adequate answer.

  “Did your father give you permission to write these stories?”

  “I did—”

  My father touched my arm gently and interrupted me. “I will answer, Gretchen. My daughter has my permission to read books and to write stories as long as it does not interfere with her Bible reading and prayers. Mr. Finley did not gain permission from anyone to print those stories. Not from me and not from Gretchen. He is not the man he pretended to be. He told me he was a salesman. He sold me many varieties of lace and trims for the general store.” My father motioned to me. “Show him the letter, Gretchen.”

  I handed the letter to Brother Stresemann, who said he would read it aloud in the interest of saving time. Once he’d finished, the men murmured their distaste for what Mr. Finley had done.

  “But the truth is that none of this would have happened if Sister Gretchen hadn’t given him those stories,” one of the elders remarked.

  Brother Stresemann rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “It has been a long day with many problems and few solutions.”

  Gathering courage, I stepped forward. “If I may speak, I believe I can solve one problem, Brother Stresemann.”

  The elder traced his fingers through his gray thatch of hair. “And how can you do that, Sister Gretchen? Are you going to tell us what punishment we should mete out to you?”

  I shook my head. “I am going to give you more than enough money to pay for the increased fees Mr. Harper wants to charge you.”

  Brother Stresemann’s hands dropped to the table with a thud, and weariness settled in his eyes. Two of the other elders coughed. I thought they were trying to hide their laughter, but I couldn’t be certain. I withdrew the bank draft from my pocket, stepped forward, and placed it on the table near Brother Stresemann’s folded hands.

  He stared at the draft before lifting it for a closer look. “They paid you this for those stories?”

  “Ja. Mr. Finley’s letter said this was the payment for what they printed in their magazine. At first I was going to return it, but then I heard talk that Mr. Harper planned to raise his fees and decided to wait until my meeting with you.”

  Brother Stresemann pushed the draft down one side of the table and then the other. For a brief time the men appeared bewildered. “Does not seem possible they would pay such a large amount of money for stories,” the elder at the far end of the table said.

  His comment was met by several bobbing heads and a chorus of “ja’s.” Their features molded into a strange mixture of disbelief and delight.

  “Mr. Finley’s letter proves it is true. If you would like me to return the draft to him, I have no objection.”

  The man at the end of the table shook his head until I thought his hair would fall from his head. “Nein. We have been praying to God for an answer to Mr. Harper’s demand for more money, and God has provided.”

  Another elder held up his hand. “I am not so sure. This money is tainted.”

  My father straightened his shoulders. “How is it tainted? My daughter did nothing immoral. She wrote gut stories about our people and how we live.”

  “Brother Kohler is right. Sister Gretchen did not write the stories seeking money or fame, and the stories speak well of our people.” Brother Stresemann looked at me. “Her error was in trusting an outsider rather than seeking guidance from the elders.”

  “Still, I am not sure this is money we should accept. It gives Mr. Finley and his magazine the idea that we approve of his dishonest deeds.” The elder who’d spoken of the tainted money was determined to make his point.

  A man sitting next to Brother Stresemann slapped his hand on the table. “Ach! We pray for a miracle; God answers; but you want to refuse? We are to send it back and tell God, ‘No thank you. We don’t need your miracle’?”

  The objecting elder leaned forward, his chest resting on the table as he faced his opponent. “I did not say we should return God’s miracle. You are putting words in my mouth.”

  “Gut! Then you agree we should keep the money and use it to pay Mr. Harper.” The man seated next to Brother Stresemann motioned to the others. “I think we are in agreement, ja?”

  Realizing he’d lost control of the meeting, Brother Stresemann pushed to his feet. “We will take a vote.”

  The vote didn’t take long. Brother Stresemann called out the name of each man, who then cast a vote—either ja or nein. I held my breath when he called out the name of the elder who had offered the earlier objections. The man’s gaze softened when he looked at me. “Ja.”

  I sighed with relief. The decision was unanimous.

  “This money will save us from a most difficult problem, Sister Gretchen. And since word will soon spread about the magazine story, I believe we should explain to all residents of the colonies that the money from the story will be used to pay Mr. Harper.”

  “And that she had nothing to do with those drawings,” my father said.

  Brother Stresemann nodded. “As for any punishment, I think the good has outweighed the bad. What has happened is similar to what happened with Joseph when his brothers sold him into slavery.” He looked down the row of men as if to encourage them to think back to the book of Genesis. “What Joseph’s brothers intended for evil God meant for good. Ja?” When the baffled stares didn’t disappear, he continued. “The people at that magazine intended to make us appear foolish, but God is using what happened to provide us with money to keep us strong and independent.”

  Their eyes shone with recognition when he finished the explanation, and a chorus of agreement could be heard from both sides of the table.

  Relief flooded through me. “Thank you for your kindness in this matter. You have been most fair.” Though the meeting had gone much better than expected, I couldn’t wait to escape the room and withdraw from the steely-eyed men and their difficult questions.

  I had turned to leave when Brother Stresemann’s voice cut through th
e shuffle of feet. “One more thing, Sister Gretchen.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Ja? There is something else to discuss?” Perspiration trickled down my neck.

  “While we were eating our refreshments, we were talking about your ability to write, and we are thinking you could put your gift to good use here in Amana.”

  Turning, I stepped closer to the table. Surely I had misunderstood. “You would have me write the history of our people for all to read?”

  He chuckled. “I don’t know who you mean by all, but we think it would be gut to have a permanent record of our history. Who better to do such a thing than you?”

  “I don’t know what to say. I would be … honored. I’m not certain I possess the ability, but I will do my best.”

  “Gut. Then it is settled. Later we will discuss how you can accomplish your task, but after seeing the plan you set out for the Älterschule, I doubt you will find it so difficult.”

  Brother Stresemann gestured toward the door. “Unless you have questions for us, Brother Kohler, you and your daughter may leave. I think we are all ready for another fine meal at Sister Marguerite’s Küche.”

  I wanted to race for the door, but I mustered restraint and walked at a ladylike pace. On my way out I thanked God for the great blessing that He had provided. I still couldn’t believe the elders wanted to entrust me with the honor of writing for the community. Once my father appeared at the men’s door, I rushed to his side. “I cannot believe they were so kind to me. I’m afraid after they give it more thought, they’ll decide that I should at least be remanded back to children’s church.”

  “They are fair-minded men who always do their best to abide by God’s Word. They will not change their minds once they have given their word.”

  “Ja. You are right, but I never expected things to go so well. Can you believe they plan to have me write the history of our people?” I took my father’s arm and skipped along beside him.

  He pointed to my feet and tipped his head back and laughed aloud, a big belly laugh. I hadn’t heard such a laugh from him since before my mother died.

  “It has been a long time since I have seen you skip.”

  I giggled. “It has been a long time since I’ve heard you laugh.”

  “It is gut we both can be happy. To have the money for Mr. Harper was a wonderful thing. Why did you not tell me about the bank draft?”

  “I couldn’t decide what to do about it. I kept thinking I should send it back. I prayed and prayed but didn’t receive an answer. Then when I heard about Mr. Harper and the increase he planned to charge each village, I knew the money could be put to gut use. I was sure that was God’s answer to me. I can’t wait to tell Conrad.”

  My father pointed toward the barbershop. “Go on. He is waiting outside for you.”

  Releasing my father’s arm, I ran toward Conrad, eager to tell him all the good news.

  CHAPTER 24

  A bell sounded somewhere in the distance, and I rolled to my side. It was still dark outside, too early for the breakfast bell. My eyes fluttered open and then closed tight. Once again the bell clanged. This time I heard my father’s feet hit the floor with a heavy thud, and I jumped from my bed. The distant yet distinctive clang was the watchman sounding the fire alarm. I yanked the curtain away from the window and peered outside. No sign of fire, but when I lifted the window, the frightening odor of smoke wafted on the nighttime breeze.

  I grabbed a lightweight shawl from the foot of my bed and slipped it over my shoulders before cracking open the bedroom door. Father was already in the parlor wiping sleep from his eyes with one hand and lifting a suspender onto his shoulder with the other. He shouted for Stefan to hurry and follow him.

  When he caught sight of me, he motioned toward Oma’s room. “You stay here and keep your grandmother inside. No telling what we’ve got out there.” He cranked his head toward his bedroom. “Stefan! Now!”

  The boy’s half-tucked shirt hung like a ruffle along the top of his trousers. One shoe was on, the other in his hand. He stopped only long enough to shove his foot inside before hobbling after our father.

  Tightening the knit shawl around my nightgown, I followed them to the door and peeked outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of what had caused the watchman to sound the alarm. Other doors swung open, and men rushed into the street, looking first one direction and then the other, each trying to gain a sense of where he was needed. Conrad appeared from his rooms behind the barbershop and peered down the street. Soon the jumble of men and boys aligned themselves and ran in the direction of the sawmill. Every able-bodied man and boy in the village was considered a member of the firefighting unit.

  Though we didn’t lack water to fight fires in Homestead, the fear of injury and ruin struck fear in every heart. Many a home or business had been lost to fire, but the Grossebruderrat still refused to insure any of our holdings. “Cheaper to rebuild” was always the answer when an insurance salesman attempted to influence the brethren to purchase coverage for our buildings. Long ago they had declared insurance to be an economic waste. When a home burned to the ground, wood was cut at the sawmill and the men set to work replacing the house and furnishings. The fact that no one owned anything of great financial value and little of sentimental value made the loss of a house less distressing than for outsiders.

  Fire at a business was not so easily overlooked. The production that was lost until a business could be rebuilt sometimes created great hardship. But whether insured or not, the business couldn’t operate until it was rebuilt. Insurance would cover the cost of rebuilding, but there was no way to insure against the hardship to the community. Even those hardships were lessened by the fact that the other villages would supply whatever was needed until rebuilding had been completed. We took care of one another in times of plenty and in times of need.

  As the distinct odor of burning wood grew stronger, I knew this could not be a small blaze. I longed to join the women who had followed after the men to discover what was ablaze, but I wouldn’t go against my father’s admonition. Stepping back, I closed the door and turned toward Oma’s bedroom. Picking up the lamp, I stepped toward her room. Strange that the clanging bell and noise in the street hadn’t wakened her.

  When there was no response to my tap on her door, I pushed down on the metal latch and peeked inside the room. The lamp flickered as I stepped inside. Her bedcovers were as flat as Sister Marguerite’s pancakes. My heart stopped for a second and then jolted into a rapid, disjointed beat that made it difficult to breathe. Not wanting to believe my eyes, I stepped forward and patted the covers. Even while I patted, I chastised myself for such foolish behavior. My grandmother wasn’t in the bed. Where could she be? I yanked aside the curtains and sighed with relief when I saw that the window remained closed.

  “She has to be somewhere in the house or store,” I muttered. After placing the lamp on the bedside table, I dropped to my knees and peered beneath the bed. If Oma had awakened to all the commotion and been out of her right mind, she might be hiding somewhere in the house. At least that was my hope. I didn’t see anything under the bed, but I dropped to my stomach, stretched sideways, and patted the floor to be certain. Nothing. My heart plummeted.

  Resting my arm on the side of the bed, I pushed to my feet and glanced about the room, trying to imagine where I would be if I were Oma. I looked at the door leading into the store. Maybe she’d heard the noise and gone in there to hide. I held out a glimmer of hope that I’d be correct.

  Keeping the lamp shoulder-high, I entered the store. “Oma! Oma, are you in here?” Silence. “Please answer me. It’s Gretchen. Everything is fine. Just tell me where you are.” I waited, straining to hear the slightest noise. Not even a board creaked in response. I walked each aisle, trying to maintain hope. Once I’d checked every aisle and looked in every nook and cranny where she might fit, I leaned against the counter. An unexpected tear trickled down my cheek. I set the lamp on the counter and swiped my cheek with the back of my
hand.

  I prepared to return to the parlor but stopped in my tracks when the latch clunked at the back door of the store. My heart hammered in my chest. Had an itinerant hobo or a Gypsy decided to take advantage while the men were off fighting the fire? Surely not. I put out the lamp and reached for the broom. If caught by surprise, perhaps a wallop to the head with the broom handle would stop the culprit. I inhaled a shallow breath and crouched behind a stack of fabric.

  My heart pounded with a resounding thud that kept pace with the trespasser’s footsteps. Perspiration dampened my palms, and I silently chided myself to remain calm. Unsettled nerves wouldn’t help in this situation. Only a few more steps.

  “Emil? Where are you, Emil?”

  Relief flooded over me, and the broom clattered to the floor as I stepped from behind the stack of fabric. “Oma? It is me, Gretchen. Where have you been?” I stepped toward her, but she held out her arm to ward me off.

  “Where is my Emil? I have been looking and looking, and I am very tired.”

  My heartbeat slowed, and I inhaled a deep breath. “He is out of town, but he is coming back in the morning. He said you should get a gut sleep. Would you like me to show you where you can rest?” Even in the darkened room, I could see the confusion in her eyes. “Come. I will take you to the bedroom.” I took a tentative step and extended my arm.

  As she drew near and grasped my arm, I detected the odor of smoke in her disheveled hair. “If Emil said I should rest, then I will.”

  My hands turned clammy. “Where have you been looking for him?”

  “At the other part of town.” She pointed to the lamp. It sat outlined by only moonlight. “We need light.” She shoved a free hand into her pocket, retrieved a match, and thrust it toward me. “Here. You can do it.”

  My breath caught in my throat as I stared at her hand. Why did she have a match, and why did she smell like smoke? I lit the wick, and with Oma holding one arm, I carried the lamp in the other. I prayed the thoughts swirling in my mind were incorrect, that she couldn’t have set a fire, that she would never do such a thing; and that the match in her pocket and the smell of smoke in her hair didn’t mean a thing except that she had a match and she’d been outdoors. Any questioning might send her into a frenzy, and right now, what Oma needed more than anything was to go to bed before my father returned home.