Fields of Grace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Eli tugged Lillian closer. “It has been cold enough to put the seeds to sleep. We have time yet for snow. Besides . . .” He raised one eyebrow and smiled down at Lillian. “The sky is heavy with clouds and very gray. We might get our first snow at the beginning of a new year. Would that not be perfect?”

  Henrik stepped toward the trunk where Joseph sat. “Have you not finished those problems yet?”

  Joseph rolled his eyes. “I am finished. Do you want to see?”

  “Later.” Henrik gestured to his blotchy trousers. “I got my pants wet when I watered the animals. I am going to change.” He disappeared down the hallway.

  Eli nuzzled Lillian’s neck with his cold nose. “Mmm, you smell good.”

  She wriggled until his soft whiskers met her neck. “I smell like hot lard. I am preparing to cook Portselkje.”

  Eli jolted back, clamping his hands over her shoulders and straightening his arms. “For sure?”

  “For sure, just like the ones in Molotschna—no substitutes.” She removed herself from his grasp and returned to the fireplace. The bowl of dough sat on a rough shelf pressed into the wall. She stuck her finger in the mixture, then popped the dough into her mouth. “We had to celebrate Christmas with fried rabbit instead of our traditional pork roast, and our Plümekjielke contained dried venison instead of ham. But we will have Portselkje for New Year’s Eve, just like always.”

  “The rabbit went down all right with lots of sauerkraut,” Eli said. Lillian appreciated that he never complained about the food she put on the table, even though many of their familiar recipes had taken on new flavors and textures with her modified ingredients. He shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on Joseph’s head as he passed the boy. With a giggle, Joseph flopped the jacket over the trunk and followed his stepfather to the bowl of dough. Both Eli and Joseph pinched out a bit and tasted it.

  “Mmm! Goot, Ma!” Joseph proclaimed.

  “As good as the Plümekjielke at Christmas,” Eli added.

  Lillian sighed. It heartened her to know the hearty prune, noodle, and meat dish she prepared for their Christmas breakfast had been appreciated, yet she longed for pork instead of the dried deer meat and wild game that filled their bellies. Her mouth watered at the thought of smoked ham, sausage, and spare ribs. Then she chided herself. She shouldn’t complain—God was good to meet their needs for food. Yet a part of her hungered for the foods of her homeland.

  Tipping her head, she looked up at Eli. “Will you raise a piglet or two in the spring so we can butcher them and have ham in our Plümekjielke next year?”

  Joseph’s bright eyes bounced back and forth between his mother and stepfather. “And we can build a Meagrope to render our own lard—then we will have cracklings!”

  Lillian nearly groaned with pleasure at the thought of the crisp bits of meat found in the bottom of the rendering tub when the lard was removed.

  Eli laughed and flicked Lillian’s chin with his index finger. “I will see what I can do. Maybe when I go to sell the calf, I will buy a couple of fat piglets.”

  She would have preferred a sure response, but Lillian had learned Eli wouldn’t make a promise unless he could keep it. She must be satisfied for now. If he said he would try, he would do so. Glancing at the trunk that served as their dining table, she said, “Joseph, please hang your pa’s coat on the hook and put away your books. Now that we are all here, we will eat soon.”

  “Jo, Ma.”

  Lillian spooned out a dollop of dough and eased it into the grease. A sizzle rose, and the fritter bounced in the boiling fat.

  Eli crowded close, sticking his nose over the pot. “Why was Joseph studying today? New Year’s Eve should be a holiday.”

  Lillian gently pushed Eli aside and flipped the fritter with a wooden spoon. “Henrik insisted. He said Joseph spent too many study days fishing, so now that the creek is frozen, he must spend his days studying.”

  Eli clicked his tongue against his teeth. “A hard taskmaster Henrik will be when he has a classroom of students to supervise.”

  Lillian lifted the browned fritter from the grease with the slotted wooden spoon. Eli’s gaze followed it, and she caught him licking his lips. She laughed, shaking her head. “You are no better than a little boy! You may have the first New Year’s cookie.”

  His grin gave her all the thanks she needed. She rolled the hot fritter in a pan of granulated sugar. The moment she turned from the pan, Eli lifted the oblong fritter between his thumb and finger. He hissed, “Sea heet!” He tossed the fritter from hand to hand, sending a tiny shower of sugar across the floor.

  “Eli! You make a mess!” Lillian ground the sugar granules into the dirt floor.

  After blowing on the fritter, Eli took a big bite. He waggled his brows at her, signifying his enjoyment. With a laugh, Lillian set to work frying the remaining dough. The aroma made her mouth water, but she diligently waited between batches for the lard to boil. She wanted her Portselkje to be perfect.

  Soon her serving bowl mounded with golden brown, sugarcoated fritters. She set the bowl on the trunk and smiled at Eli, who eyed the traditional treats from his stool at the table. “Call the boys and we will eat.”

  The fritters disappeared quickly amidst reflections on the past year and plans for 1873. Tears twinkled in everyone’s eyes when they spoke of Reinhardt and Jakob, but Lillian appreciated the freedom to mention the names without experiencing stabbing pain or deep remorse.

  Joseph snagged the last fritter from the bowl and then paused, sighing contentedly. “These are good, Ma, but it seems strange eating them all ourselves instead of sharing them with neighbors.”

  Lillian nodded, remembering the knocks at the door, the boisterous cries of “Froo Niejoa!” ringing on the night air, and the laughter of friends and family who crowded into the house to eat a fritter before setting off to the next house.

  “But think,” Eli said, “by next New Year, we will be part of a village. The others will come next spring, build their houses just as we have, and we will knock on their doors and wish them a Happy New Year.”

  Joseph grinned. “I know on which door Henrik wants to knock—the Friesens’ door.”

  “Joseph,” Henrik warned, but Joseph laughed and popped the last of the fritter into his mouth.

  Lillian, determined to avoid an argument on the final day of the year, said, “Do you really think they will come by next spring?”

  “For sure they will.” Eli’s confident tone dispelled Lillian’s worry. “The explorers will have returned to Gnadenfeld by now. I believe our neighbors are making their plans to come to America, just as we made our plans at the beginning of this year. Now see where we are, and all we have accomplished?” He rested his elbows on the edge of the trunk. “Our God has been good to us, and He will bring the others to us.”

  A hint of the old rebellion surfaced in Henrik’s eyes. “How can you be sure they will come here?”

  Recently, despite Lillian’s happiness with Eli, she had glimpsed moments of defiance in her oldest son’s behavior. She suspected he struggled with allowing Eli to usurp Reinhardt’s place in her life and heart, yet she refused to apologize for unreservedly loving Eli. He was a good man, devoted to her and her children, and Henrik would eventually grow up enough to realize Eli was a special gift to them.

  A complacent smile crinkled Eli’s eyes. “Did you not send a letter to Susie Friesen and her family and tell them where we are and how rich the land?”

  Henrik offered a slow nod.

  “Well, then, think of that.” Eli’s voice held no animosity. “Besides, I pray daily for our friends and neighbors to find safe transport to this wonderful land. God has good plans for our people here, and He will see those plans through.” Eli lightly bounced his fist off of Henrik’s forearm. “Trust Him, Henrik. You will see—our God does not fail.”

  Lillian washed the dishes with Joseph’s help, and then she and her family spent the evening singing hymns, reading from the Bible, and playing Hin
kspiel, a hopping game. By the end of the hour-long game, they were giggling so hard they could barely stand, let alone hop on one foot. Eli frequently flipped his pocket watch open to monitor the time, and at midnight, they joined hands and bowed their heads for prayer.

  Eli cleared his throat. “Our loving Father God, as we say farewell to one year and enter another, we thank You for Your steadfast presence in our lives. We praise You for bringing us to this land. It is a good land, God—” His voice cracked, and Lillian squeezed his hand. She heard him swallow, and then he continued. “May You find us worthy of Your blessings. Protect and guide us. May we bring joy to You as we follow Your ways. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Lillian echoed. She embraced her boys by turn, whispering, “Froo Niejoa” to both of them. After returning the greeting, Joseph and Henrik headed to bed. Lillian then turned into Eli’s arms. “Froo Niejoa, Eli.”

  “Ah, Lillian . . .” He sighed against her hair, his whiskers tickling her temple. “This will be the happiest year ever, I think. With you and the boys . . . such blessings . . . My life is complete.” He tilted his head and delivered a soft, sweet, full-of-promise kiss on her eager lips.

  Lillian sat up, startled from sleep by a single thump on the wooden door. Was someone knocking? She blinked into the room. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling. Her senses alert, she listened, waiting for a second knock. But the only sounds that met her ears were the crackling fire and Eli’s steady breathing.

  With a sigh, she lay back down, snuggling her head on Eli’s shoulder. His arm came around her, and she smiled. Even in sleep, he held her. She closed her eyes and—thud! thud!—the sound came again. This time Eli sat up, dislodging her. She propped herself on one elbow.

  “Waut weascht ’et?” Eli looked around in confusion.

  Before Lillian could reply that perhaps someone pounded at the door, a volley of thuds erupted outside. This could be no fists on wood, Lillian realized. Both she and Eli jumped from their bed. Eli’s nightshirt flapped as he raced for the door. Henrik and Joseph staggered from the hallway, their eyes wide. Joseph crossed directly to Lillian.

  “Ma, what is it?” His question mimicked Eli’s, but she had no answer for him, either. She put her arm around his shoulder and looked at Eli, waiting for his leadership.

  The thuds grew louder, reminding Lillian of the distant sound of hammers on nail heads when the villagers joined together to build a barn. Yet no village existed, and no barns were being built. Her sleep-foggy brain couldn’t comprehend what else would make such a raucous noise.

  Eli and Henrik stood in front of the door. Eli alternately reached for the crossbar and pulled back. Lillian had never seen him behave so indecisively, which increased her alarm. Adding to the frightful thuds came the cries of the animals. The oxen’s low-pitched moos contrasted with the high screams of the horses; the chickens’ persistent squawks filled the middle, creating a discordant trio of confusion and fear.

  “Pa, do something!” Joseph, nearly as tall as Lillian, clung to her.

  Henrik clenched his fists. “We must go out, see to the animals. Open the door.”

  And finally Eli opened it. The sound of fierce pounding multiplied with the loss of the protective barrier. Outside, white balls fell from the black sky, bounced against the hard ground, and scattered.

  “Hoagelsteens . . .” Eli gasped the word.

  Hailstones! Lillian rushed to the door. “The chickens! We must—”

  Eli grabbed her and pulled her back. “No, Lillian! See how large the stones are? Bigger than goose eggs . . .” He shook his head, his fingers convulsing on her back. “A stone of that size could injure a man. We must stay inside.”

  “But—” A chunk of sod fell from the ceiling, cutting Lillian’s argument short. The clump shattered, and a round, white hailstone rolled free. Joseph picked it up and held it out to his mother.

  She looked at the damaged ceiling, her heart pounding. Would the ceiling collapse? She clasped her hands beneath her chin and silently begged for God’s protection.

  Standing in the doorway with cold wind tossing the tail of his nightshirt around his bare legs, Eli called out, “Dear God, please make it stop!”

  For a few frightful seconds the onslaught continued, but then, mercifully, the hail began to abate. Gradually the storm calmed, until only a few stones thunked against the hail-scattered ground. Even after the deluge stilled, Lillian’s ears continued to ring. Eli remained in the open doorway, staring out into the night.

  Lillian stepped past Eli and closed the door. Breathing heavily, as if she had run a long race, she leaned against the door and peered into her husband’s pale face. He continued to stare straight ahead, a dazed look in his eyes. With his sagged features and slumped shoulders, it seemed that he had aged ten years in the past few minutes. Lillian swallowed a lump of worry and sorrow. “Eli?” She touched his arm. “Should you go check on the animals?”

  “I will get dressed and go, too.” Henrik whirled toward the hallway.

  “And me!” Joseph trotted after Henrik.

  “Nä!” Eli’s stern tone brought both boys to a halt. They turned and looked at their stepfather. Eli waved his hands at them. “You stay with your mother. I will go.”

  The boys flanked Lillian while Eli pulled on his boots and put on his coat over his nightshirt. He strode out, the crunch of hailstones beneath his boots reaching their ears even with the door closed. It seemed hours passed while she and the boys waited, standing in a silent row, watching the door for Eli’s return.

  Finally, the string squeaked in the hole, and the crossbar rose. Lillian took one step forward away from her sons as the door opened and Eli entered the house. He closed the door behind him, and with slow, measured movements removed his coat and lay it across a trunk. Only then did he face his family.

  Lillian wrung her hands together. “The animals?”

  “The horses and oxen are nervous, but fine.” He looked past Lillian to Joseph. “I am sorry, boy, but the chickens . . . they did not fare so well.”

  Joseph clamped his hand over his mouth, and Lillian quickly slipped her arm around his shoulders.

  Henrik strode forward, his hands fisted. “What of the wheat?”

  Eli closed his eyes and drew a long breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes, Lillian glimpsed pain coupled with peace—a combination she could not understand.

  Eli placed his hand on Henrik’s shoulder. “The wheat is gone.”

  30

  Eli tightened his arm around Lillian. She lay with her cheek on his shoulder, her fingers toying with the buttons of his nightshirt. Despite the shattering loss of their crop, she didn’t wail or complain. Yet he had seen fear in her eyes, and he sought words to appease her worry.

  “It is only one crop.” He forced a soft chuckle. “What is the loss of one crop in a man’s lifetime? Nothing . . . an inconvenience.” He flicked his fingers as if shooing away a pesky gnat and coiled a strand of her hair around his finger. The dark blond tresses resembled spun gold in the firelight.

  Without shifting from her position, she asked, “Will you be able to salvage any seed to replant?”

  “Nä.” The thought brought a sharp stab of pain. The hours of careful choosing, of filling that sack with Jakob’s help, flooded his memory. No bag of seed would ever be as special as that one he brought from Gnadenfeld. “But when the others come, they will bring more seed. We will buy some and plant again.”

  Lillian’s thick lashes swept up and down, and her forehead puckered. “Eli . . . will we have enough money to carry us until you harvest next year’s crop?”

  Despite himself, Eli smiled. That she was considering next year’s crop told him she hadn’t given up on the land. He kissed the top of her head before answering. “We will be all right. The Lord is good to put us in a place where we can hunt and fish, and glean nuts, berries, and roots from the land. We will not starve.”

  Suddenly, a remembrance twisted his hea
rt. “I did want to build you a solid house before next winter.” Even with the fireplace, the sod house remained damp and chilly. Lillian needed a warm, permanent home. “But lumber . . . that costs much money. It will have to wait.” Her sigh stirred his beard. “But do not worry. The Lord has always provided. He will continue to do so.”

  She rose up, propping herself on one elbow to peer into his face. “Then you believe we will be all right?”

  Eli cupped her cheek with his hand. Her skin, warm and silky, soothed him. “I believe God will not fail us. We will be all right.”

  For several seconds, she stared into his eyes, seeming to search for something. Then she gave him a gentle smile. “Nä-jo, I trust God . . . and you.”

  Mingled emotions—gratitude, love, protectiveness—fought for prominence, creating a huge knot in his throat. He drew her back to his shoulder. “Sleep now, Lillian.”

  She nestled, and he wrapped both arms around her. Contentedness enfolded him. Together, with God’s help, he and his Lillian could weather anything.

  Henrik startled awake, his body drenched in sweat. Images from a nightmare replayed in his mind: trying to plant wheat only to have the seeds stolen by birds or blown away by the wind. In his dream, he demanded nature leave the seeds alone—he had to grow wheat or he wouldn’t be able to earn money for school—but the birds and wind laughed at him.

  Now fully awake, he shivered beneath his quilts and stared at the sod ceiling of his little room. Anger—hot, fierce, all-consuming— made his heart pound just as the hailstones had pounded the wheat into the ground. Eli and his grand plans . . . what would happen now?

  Joseph’s soft snore rattled from the other side of the room. His brother would probably sleep until midmorning, given the late evening and nighttime excitement. That suited Henrik fine. He had some things to say to Eli, and it would be best if Joseph didn’t hear.

  He rolled from his bed, cringing as the dried grass crackled beneath him. Henrik shimmied into his clothes and then opened the trunk very slowly, holding his breath when the hinges complained. But Joseph slept on. Relieved, Henrik removed the two pairs of Father’s trousers Ma had modified to fit him. He set them aside, then stacked a few shirts, a pair of long johns, and all of his socks on the bed. He closed the trunk lid with a soft thud, and Joseph snuffled, scrunching up his face.