© 2012 by Judith Miller
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6041-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency
To the people of Amana
—for their kindness and inspiration.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
Epilogue
Special thanks to . . .
About the Author
Books by Judith Miller
Back Ads
Back Cover
Know ye that the Lord he is God:
it is he that hath made us,
and not we ourselves; we are his people,
and the sheep of his pasture.
—PSALM 100:3 KJV
CHAPTER 1
Saturday, October 29, 1892
Over-the-Rhine District, Cincinnati, Ohio
Dovie Cates
“I won’t be going with you.”
My breath evaporated in thin, ghostlike whorls as I uttered the words.
The skirt of my black mourning dress whipped in the brisk breeze, and I pressed a gloved hand against the fabric before turning to meet my father’s steely gaze.
Never before had I spoken with such authority. But life had changed. And not for the better.
I had questions. Questions that couldn’t be answered by my father.
“Dovie Cates, you become more like your mother every day.” My father’s eyes softened.
His reaction surprised me. I was nothing like my mother. At least not in my mind. We had shared the same thick chestnut-brown hair and hazel eyes, but my mother had been quiet and unassuming, unwilling to speak of her past or consider the future. Traits that were nothing like my own. I fought back tears and the lump that threatened to lodge in my throat. In retrospect, it was likely best Mother hadn’t worried about the future, for her life had been shorter than most. A future cut short nearly two months ago when she’d succumbed to the ravages of influenza.
Death had robbed her of a future, and it had robbed me of answers. Answers I’d been seeking. Answers about her past—her life before she’d left Iowa, before she’d met my father, and before I’d been born. Answers about her time in the Amana Colonies.
Father and I progressed along a sidewalk that fronted the narrow brick-and-frame houses built flush with the streets in the Over-the-Rhine district of Cincinnati. Sidewalks mopped or scrubbed clean each day by the German immigrants who lived in the tidy houses with backyard flower and vegetable gardens. Houses similar to the one in which I’d lived all of my twenty-two years.
My father reached inside his coat and withdrew his pipe. “Well, you can’t remain in Cincinnati. I’ve arranged for the sale of the house, and a single young woman with no means of support, alone in the city . . .” His unfinished sentence hung in the wintry air, defying argument.
Hoping to gain his accord, I nodded my agreement. “I don’t want to remain in Cincinnati, either.”
He slowed his step and cupped his hand around the bowl of his pipe. Holding a match to the bowl, he puffed until the tobacco glowed red and smoke lifted toward the azure sky. “If you don’t want to go to Texas with me and you don’t plan to remain in Cincinnati, what is it you have in mind?”
There was no telling how my father would react to the idea. Before speaking, I clenched my hands and sent a silent prayer heavenward. “I want to go to Iowa—to the Amana Colonies—and learn of Mother’s past.”
His jaw went slack and the pipe slipped a notch before he clamped his lips tight around the stem. Confusion clouded his dark eyes, and he shook his head. “Foolishness.”
“It isn’t!” I argued. “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, and I believe it is an excellent idea.”
Could my father not realize how lonely I would be in Texas? While he would be at work during the day and even out of town for short periods of time, I would be left alone in a strange city with nothing to occupy my time, without any friends—and without my mother.
“Tell me, how did you come to such a conclusion?”
“Mother would never tell me about her past—nothing before her marriage to you. Only once did she mention she had lived in the Amana Colonies, but whenever I tried to learn more, she refused to tell me. What can you tell me about her life back then?”
“Not much. And maybe your mother didn’t talk about the past because it wasn’t of any importance to her.” My father blew a ring of smoke into the air.
When I didn’t respond, he sighed.
“She did have a cousin, Louise, and they wrote to each other for a number of years.” His brows furrowed. “Your mother and this Louise lived in the village known as East Amana, and they were as close as sisters—at least that’s what your mother told me. When your grandparents decided to leave Iowa, your mother was forlorn. I was never certain what caused them to leave, but I know it had something to do with your grandfather. I didn’t ask a lot of questions.”
“Why? Weren’t you inquisitive?” A strand of hair escaped, and I tucked it beneath my black bonnet.
A house Frau with bucket in hand opened her front door and prepared to scrub the steps leading to the border of sidewalk. She smiled a toothy grin. “Guten Morgen.”
“Guten Morgen,” my father and I replied in unison.
He took another puff from his pipe as we continued onward. “No, I wasn’t particularly curious, and your mother never had any desire to discuss the past. Still, I knew her German roots were important to her. When she asked to settle in the Over-the-Rhine district rather than in another section of Cincinnati, I didn’t argue. My work kept me away long hours, and I knew that until she learned English, she would be more comfortable among other Germans.” He shrugged. “I knew there was no way to change anything that had happened in her past.”
His answer surprised me. “Maybe not change it, but perhaps you could have better understood her, if you’d learned of her past.” He shook his head as if to disagree, but I didn’t stop. “What we learn from the past can help us form the future, don’t you think?”
My father arched an eyebrow. “Your youth fills you with grand ideas, Dovie. Wait until you’re my age and then see if you feel the same. I’m not worried about the past or the future, but I do care about the present and what I must soon accomplish. My thoughts are upon my new job in Dallas. There is the sale of the house and packing our belongings.”
My stomach clenched at the firmness in his voice. I didn’t want our conversation to end at an impasse. I didn’t want to talk about his new position in Dallas or about selling our family home. I wanted to talk about my mother’s past and who she had been before she married him and moved to Ohio.
“Do you know anything else about Mother’s cousin Louise? Is she still alive?”
“I have no idea. They quit writing a long time ago, while you were still quite young. I think it was shortly after your grandparents died.”
Even if my mother’s parents had been alive, I doubted they would be of help. They had both died when I was quite young and prior to my birth. I gathered there had been little contact and few, if any, visits in either direction. Other than my father, there was no one who could provide the information I wanted.
He came to an abrupt halt in front of Krüger’s Bakery. After knocking the tobacco from his pipe, he tucked it back into his pocket and nodded toward the door. “Why don’t we go inside and have a treat?”
I wasn’t certain if he was using the bakery to fend off my questions, but the sweet, yeasty smells of strudel, Apfelkuchen, and Brochen pulled me toward the bakery door. I stood in front of the counter for several minutes before making my selection and then followed my father to a small corner table. He sat opposite me with his cup of strong coffee and Apfelkuchen while I momentarily savored my own choice—a large frosted Schnecken with raisins generously sprinkled into the dough and smelling of warm butter and cinnamon. My mouth watered as I cut a piece with my fork.
After I swallowed the first bite, I looked up at him. “If I could locate Mother’s cousin Louise and she agreed, would you allow me to go to Iowa for a visit?” I held my breath, afraid to look across the table as I waited for my father’s answer. He appeared thoughtful as he took another sip of coffee. “I would be very lonely in Texas, and you will be busy with your new job.” I didn’t want to beg, but I’d do so if necessary.
“You are twenty-two years old, Dovie. I don’t believe I can stop you from writing a letter. However, you had best be prepared for disappointment.”
“But would you agree? If Cousin Louise says I’m welcome to visit, would you give permission?” Before I wrote the letter, I needed the assurance he wouldn’t try to stop me once I’d made progress.
“I don’t think that will happen. You don’t even have a good address. But if she replies before we leave for Texas, I’ll grant you permission to make a visit before joining me in Dallas.”
I rose from the chair, leaned across the table, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”
His lips curved in a melancholy smile. “It’s always ‘Papa’ when you get your way. Am I right?”
I grinned and gave a nod. “I’ll send my letter in the morning. If I write her name and East Amana, Iowa, on the envelope, it should arrive without problem, don’t you think?”
After wiping his lips, he hiked one shoulder. “Who can say? I don’t even know if she still lives in East Amana. There is only one way to find out, and that is to write your letter.”
I grasped his hand. “Thank you, Papa. You have made me very happy.” From the distant look in his eyes, I knew his decision had come at a price, and my heart constricted. He would be alone in his move to Texas.
He squeezed my hand. “Just remember, this will be for a visit and then you will join me.”
A hint of German accented his final words, and I arched my eyebrows in surprise. “What has happened to your perfect English, Papa?”
He grinned. “Sometimes the German accent sneaks back without warning.”
Unlike my mother, my father refused to speak German except when required. He prided himself on his excellent command of the English language. On the other hand, I don’t think my mother ever felt comfortable speaking English, and her accent had remained thick until the day she died. Though she had been born in this country, my mother had learned little English until after she married Papa.
He pushed back his chair and stood. “Time to go home. There is much to do.”
I was pleased he didn’t want to linger. If he thought on the matter too much, he might change his mind. Besides, I wanted to get home and write my letter to Cousin Louise. For the first time since my mother’s death, the gnawing pain in my heart had lessened a bit.
My father’s step slowed as we neared the house. “You shouldn’t get your hopes too high. You’ve had enough sadness these past months. While you’re dreaming about being welcomed by distant relatives, you need to remember that it may not happen. Try to keep some good thoughts about coming to Dallas with your papa, too.”
We walked up the front steps, and I nodded as we entered the hallway. “I’ll do my best.” Though I said the words, I doubted I could summon any positive thoughts of life in Texas without the company of my mother or my friends.
I’d been unable to learn much about my mother’s past when she was alive, so going to Iowa at this time might be the only opportunity to discover what her life had been like in Amana—and why her family had decided to leave.
I waited until my father went upstairs to his bedroom before I gathered a pen and paper. All afternoon I’d considered what I should say. How did one ask complete strangers if they would agree to have you come for a visit? It lacked proper etiquette. Even if I’d never met them, these were not strangers—they were relatives. “We are united by blood,” I whispered.
As I dipped my pen into the bottle of black ink, I prayed that kinship would be enough to open their hearts and their door.
Dear Cousin Louise,
We have never met, so I would like to introduce myself to you. I am Dovie Cates, the daughter of your cousin Barbara. I am sorry to tell you that my mother died from influenza two months ago. If you are reading this letter, you probably still live in the Amana Colonies.
My father tells me that you and Mother corresponded after she left East Amana. I am most eager to meet my mother’s relatives. Please don’t think me rude, but I would very much like to come to East Amana for a visit. My father is required to move to Dallas, Texas, for his work, and he has agreed that I could come for a visit, should you agree.
It had been several years since I’d written anything of consequence in German, and I studied each word. I didn’t want any errors. A mistaken word or phrase could create enough misunderstanding to result in a refusal of my request.
I am a good worker and would be happy to help in any way possible during my stay. My father will soon be required to leave Cincinnati, so I would be grateful for an early reply.
Respectfully,
Dovie Cates
I folded the letter and tucked it into a matching cream-colored linen envelope. My father had been unable to recall the name of Cousin Louise’s husband. So although I realized the impropriety, I addressed the letter to Mrs. Louise Richter, East Amana, Iowa, and sealed the contents safely inside.
Still holding the letter in my hand, I bowed my head. “Please grant me this one favor, Lord. You alone know how much it means to me.”
CHAPTER 2
November 1892
East Amana, Iowa
Karlina Richter
“Karlina! The mail wagon is coming. You should hurry and meet Brother Herman outside.” I was nineteen years old and had been meeting the mail wagon since my fourteenth birthday, but my mother continued to give me the same instruction each day.<
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Even with all of the chatter and clanging of pots and pans in our kitchen house, my mother could hear Brother Herman arrive before anyone else. I wasn’t sure if it was the clopping horses’ hooves on the dirt road, or if she and Brother Herman had some secret signal, but my mother always knew when his wagon was approaching.
With a sweeping gesture, she waved me toward the door. “Take the outgoing mailbag to him, and when you come in, you should begin sorting. He is late again.” My mother didn’t need a clock to tell her who was early or late. She had a natural instinct for such things. As a young child, I thought she had a small watch tucked in the pocket of her apron or hidden in some other secret place. Her sense of time could prove beneficial or worrisome. Nothing pleased Mother more than people who were on time. And nothing annoyed her more than late arrivals.
As Küchebaas, my mother made sure three meals a day and a light lunch at midmorning and midafternoon were served to the nearly forty villagers who lived near our kitchen house. Each meal was served on time, and everyone who worked in Mother’s Küche soon learned that an interrupted schedule was not to Sister Louise Richter’s liking. There were other kitchen houses in our small village, but none that served food as good as my mother’s. At least that was my strong belief.
Because the craggy hills surrounding our village had never been considered suitable for growing crops, East Amana was the smallest of the seven villages that comprised the colonies. Though some of my friends said we were the forgotten village, I disagreed and argued we were all equal. When I’d asked my father’s opinion, he’d said, “We are all equal—but some are more equal than others.” Back then I hadn’t understood. Now I had gained more insight. Still, it didn’t change my love for East or for the sheep we cared for in our village.
Just as the Grossebruderrat, the elders charged with making decisions regarding the colonies, determined what work could best be accomplished in each village, they’d long ago decided our Küche should distribute the mail and medicine in East Amana. My mother performed those tasks in the same orderly fashion as she operated the kitchen. A large wooden structure divided into cubbyholes bore the name of each family in the village. Each day, Mother or I sorted the mail and placed it in the proper boxes for pickup. Overseeing the medicine cabinet required far less time than the mail. The medicine chest remained locked, but I knew where to find the key—just in case Mother was gone when someone needed medicine. Of course, the doctor from Main Amana could be summoned for anyone who needed care beyond the basic remedies stocked in our kitchen house.
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