“He’ll be back.” The girl spoke in Hester’s direction, her sullen eyes sliding away without meeting her gaze, her lips pouting as she turned away. She almost stumbled over the thin boy who was bent over, swiping the dust brush through the mess, the broken crockery jangling into the bucket he had brought. She landed a kick in his ribs, rolling him across the floor, with no more thought than if he would have been a hungry dog lapping at the gravy.
Hester gasped as the boy leaped to his feet and brought the heavy dust brush across the girl’s legs, leaving a thick splatter of grease on her skirt. Whirling, she caught him by the ear, her face grimacing with the strength of the twist she put on the appendage, bringing a howl that sounded like the high wail of a wounded cat.
They were both sent scuttling by threats from the cook, followed by the appearance of the tavern’s owner, a tall and stately man with the bearing of a gentleman.
Hester breathed a sigh, relieved to find someone who seemed completely accessible. “Good afternoon, sir.”
Immediately, the tavern owner’s hands began to flutter, two white birds flapping, ludicrous in their movement. Hester took two steps backward, feeling the cold, hard door latch through her shawl.
“My lovely lady. And what, pray, may I do for you?” His face was level with hers, his mouth red and fleshy like the carp that hid beneath tree roots in shallow water. His whiskers were thick and black, so much like William’s, his eyes dark and greedy and glittering.
Hester kept her poise, telling him levelly, and, she hoped, coldly, what she needed and why. Instantly, the owner of the tavern changed his approach, becoming the perfect gentleman in every way. He sold her two jugs, one of whiskey and one of brandy, took her money and promised to fill them whenever there was a necessity, wishing her godspeed and blessings in her venture.
From that day forward, he kept his word, recognizing her as the Amish medicine frau. She was always treated with respect and kindness, by the tavern owner, anyway.
Hester told Bappie where she was going, bringing only a nod and the waggling of one finger as she bent over her pattern.
She walked down the street clutching her black satchel, her purple dress offset by the black of her apron. Her long, easy stride, the tilt of her head, the elegance of her graceful neck, made more than one passerby turn for a second look, of which she was completely unaware.
Because it was a lovely day and she had a mission to accomplish, thoughts of her troubling future evaporated like thin smoke. A sense of well-being rode lightly on her shoulders. She smiled and waved as Walter Trout’s nephew, Jacob, rode by on his brown horse, cutting a striking figure. Vaguely, Hester wondered if he would ever become as large a man as his uncle.
She arrived at the second house on Water Street, a narrow stone dwelling with a white door, a brass knocker centered in its middle. She grasped it and rapped strongly, eager to begin.
When there was no answer from within, she rapped again and was rewarded by the door opening only a foot, with one pale, tousle-haired little boy staring bleary-eyed into her face.
“May I come in? I am Hester Zug.”
There was no answer, only the pulling back of the heavy, whitewashed door.
The odor was stifling, the room she entered in disarray. There was the distinct sound of retching coming from the recesses of a hallway, followed by a groan of misery. The room was dimly lit, so at first she was unaware of the piles of blankets and children strewn across the floor like afterthoughts. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she counted six piles of bedding, the pillows all containing varied sizes of dark-haired children. Some were sleeping fitfully, others lay awake, and a few had thrown up on the floor the watery, yellow bile that comes after the stomach has been emptied of its contents.
Hester jumped when the shadowy figure of the father emerged from the darkened hallway.
“You are here.”
“Yes.”
“My wife is sickest. I believe she has swooned. The baby is lying very still.”
Immediately, Hester brushed past him to the hot, suffocating bedroom. She found his wife hanging over the side of the bed, her face like a waxen doll, her arms like white rags draping to the floor.
Going to her side, Hester placed a hand on her forehead, not surprised to find it burning hot. When she found the white chamber pot, she saw the fullness of it, lifted it and held it sideways to the light. As she had feared, dysentery might be present. Were they all drinking well water? Was there a communal well? If so, this outbreak was not influenza as the doctors thought.
She lifted cold hands to her burning cheeks. But who am I? Oh, who am I to overstep my bounds?
Well, she would do what she knew worked—have everyone who was sick swallow walnut oil, the extraction of the walnut, beaten together with rose water; then fast for two hours; then drink a bowl of boiled milk with salt. It was always a quick relief. Quickly, efficiently, she found the two bottles, stepped over the sleeping children, and located a spoon in the drawer of the blue cupboard by the dry sink.
She went to the woman’s side, shook her, called her, all to no avail. Going to the baby’s cradle, she bent to touch the child’s head. It was cool to the touch, the baby asleep and breathing normally, but the stench of soiled diapers spoke of long neglect.
Nothing to do about that now. She resumed her efforts, finally waking the man’s wife, who rolled back on the bed, her head flopping like a rag doll, before she began gagging and heaving violently. The husband made clicking sounds of sympathy before turning to the chamber pot and heaving silently himself.
There was a loud cry from the front room, so Hester hurried out to find a small child rolling in agony, clutching his stomach, grasping and desperately scratching with his small white fingers.
Hester stooped and gathered him into her arms, soothing him by rubbing his back. He laid his head against her breast and wept bitterly, as an older child began to vomit with such force it took her breath away.
Carefully she spooned the mixture of walnut oil and rosewater into the child’s mouth, crooning to him as she did so.
One by one, she helped all the children, in varying stages of distress, to sit up. She gave the same medicine to the parents in larger amounts, saying if they couldn’t keep it down, she had more.
When the baby awoke screaming, and three of the children vomited, crying out with the misery of it, Hester knew she had to have help. She spoke a few curt words to the father, then walked as fast as possible, without running, up the street to their house. She burst through the door, calling out for Bappie, who accompanied her to Water Street with strident complaints. Her stiff-legged gait gave away the reluctance she was determined to convey.
“I’m getting married, Hester. A houseful of vomiting people is about the limit. I don’t know how you stand it. How am I going to get my sewing done if you keep this up?”
Hester stopped, grabbed Bappie’s arm, yanked her back, and thrust her face close to her freckled one.
“You stop whining, Barbara King. You are selfish, thinking only of yourself and Levi Buehler. How can you have a blessing in your life when you act like that? Huh?”
“You stop acting so self-righteous, Hester. When you grab that black bag, it’s like you think you’re God. Or at least his right-hand helper.” Bappie stamped her foot for emphasis, like a cow protecting her newborn calf, then stomped off, her arms held stiffly away from her body, her hands rolled into stubby fists.
Hester scuttled after her, so furious that tears welled in her eyes. But when they entered the house, both women forgot the angry words and got down to work. Bappie heated large quantities of water, added yellow lye soap, rolled the beds on the floor out of the way, and began scrubbing.
Hester kept shoveling in the walnut oil with rosewater, the children grimacing, even crying, but she remained resolute.
After they had all been dosed once, she took up the baby, holding him away from her body while Bappie, her mouth a grim line and a clothespin propped firml
y on her thin nose, peeled away the soiled diaper that had been on the sick child far too long.
They lowered the howling baby into a tin of warm water and bathed him well, wrapped him in a clean towel, applied a tincture of lobelia to his poor body, then spooned in a small amount of medicine. When his crying resumed, they boiled milk, added salt, and offered him a portion in a bottle.
They replenished the candleholders, trimmed the wicks of the coal oil lamps, and lit them.
Darkness came suddenly, as the sun disappeared behind the buildings, and still they labored. When someone couldn’t tolerate the medicine, the heaving began anew. Hester waited, then spooned in another small amount.
Bappie swiped viciously at the soiled floors and carried the chamber pots to the privy out back, her eyebrows lowered, her upper lip slightly lifted with distaste, her smallest finger extended, holding the pot gingerly as if it was red hot. In passing, she muttered, “I guess you know we’re not all created the same, Hester.”
Hester answered, “That’s right,” and kept on going. By one-half hour past midnight, the vomiting and heaving had stopped. There was deep breathing from the bedroom as the parents finally found rest from the torturous, heaving pains that had roiled their stomachs like boiling water. The children remained restless, some of them sitting up and crying out, the fear of pain stabbing at them like unseen claws.
Hester was always there, talking softly, giving them more medicine. Bappie, however, stopped in her tracks, fell on a blanket, rolled over, and began snoring almost at once. She was tired, so she slept.
Hester laughed softly to herself. In Berks County, Hans Zug owned a horse that reminded her of Bappie. He was a good worker and pulled the plow, or the wagon of hay, for hours, but once he was finished for the day, there was no use trying to rouse him. He would not budge. It was as if his huge hooves were nailed to the floor of his pen. He was done.
Hester sat and rocked the hungry baby, gave him watered milk from a rag, burped him, and sang softly. As her eyelids fell lower and lower, the rocking chair eased to a standstill and she laid her head gently on the baby’s.
A deep ache of remembering filled her then, a slow trickling of longings coupled with despair, as she recalled those days of unfulfillment, of never being able to give William what he wanted most. Children. Heirs to the farm. Generation after generation, carrying the seed of William King, just the way God had promised Abraham in the Heilige Schrift.
It never occurred to William that he may not have had the blessing. He had found favor in God’s eyes, he felt sure. He was honest in all his dealings, kept the Ordnung to the letter, worked hard, rose early to read God’s word, and prayed and prayed for Hester, who, it was plain to see, was the one who erred.
Oh, she knew, she knew his thoughts. She asked him one night in the intimacy of the bedroom, “What if neither of us has sinned?” She quoted the verses from the New Testament, where the people asked Jesus who had sinned because a child was blind, and he answered, “No one. Now the glory of God can be revealed.” And hadn’t it been?
The glory of God was here, too, when she was left alone. God’s ways were so mysterious, but his glory so perfect. For would she have even been allowed to think that she could practice this medicine, these forgotten Indian remedies, if she was a widow with many little ones to care for?
CHAPTER 10
AND SO HER THOUGHTS WHIRLED, AN ENDLESS VORTEX OF wondering with no definite answers, always just bits and pieces she would never understand.
She stroked the baby’s back and thought she didn’t need to know. To understand everything was not exercising faith, the faith of her culture, the faith of her people, the Amish. She knew her faith was firmly rooted, and she deeply appreciated it as she grew older. She was certain the Almighty was watching over her like the brightest star, guiding her into the future.
Hester’s eyes snapped open, sensing a figure standing close by. It was the mother, dressed in a clean gown, her hair held away from her face by a freshly tied ribbon.
“I’ll take him,” she whispered, her white hands reaching for him in the semidarkness
“How are you?” Hester whispered back.
“Thirsty.”
Hester shook her head. “Do you mind drinking leftover milk? When morning comes, I’d like to bring water from a different well. I’m afraid this well may be causing the sickness.”
Quickly she added, “Though I don’t know.”
Weakly, the mother nodded her head. “I’ll do anything you want. I have never been so sick, even when I was with child.”
Even before the day arrived, Hester was on her way, Bappie in tow, chilly and grumbling, attacking her back with darts of threatening words. “Hester, I’m hungry. Now you can’t expect me to eat anything in sell cutsich haus. I’m not eating a bite. I’m skinny as a pole, so I can’t take much sickness. I have to eat. I didn’t eat yesterday. Well, last night you know those potatoes on the stove got ruined. What a waste.”
And so she railed against Hester, who walked swiftly to their pump in the backyard and pumped two buckets full to the brim without speaking.
“Help me carry these to Water Street, then you can come straight home and start frying mush,” she said, the words as hard as pebbles.
“Use a yoke.”
“All right.”
Bappie ran to the stoop, got the wooden yoke, settled it on Hester’s shoulders, attached the buckets, and shooed her away.
She was going to make soft-boiled eggs and, if she was still hungry, Schnitzel Eier Kuchen, with the old bacon hung in the rafters and new eggs that the chickens laid this morning. If she felt like it, she would make panne kuchen, too. With maple syrup.
Hester threw up a hand and was on her way, balancing both wooden buckets with her hands, striding easily. She swallowed more than once, thinking of bacon, eggs, and pancakes.
As it turned out, her work had just begun.
The first family she helped, the Lewises, were able to be on their own that afternoon. They pressed a few coins into Hester’s hands and thanked her with genuine sincerity, over and over, as the large-eyed children sat up and watched her, still feeling weak but rid of the clawing nausea.
She had closed the door behind her softly and was on her way home, her head spinning from lack of sleep, grateful to be able to put one foot in front of the other. She heard footsteps, then.
“Ma’am? Beg pardon, Ma’am.”
Turning, she looked into the eyes of a child, a boy with a thatch of whitish-blond hair, eyes like saucers, his chest heaving.
“Were you at the Lewises’?”
“Yes.”
“Would you come? My mum’s sickern I ever saw her.”
“Lead the way.”
Only a few houses from the Lewises’ stood a wood-sided house, its door well built, with two fairly large windows facing the street, heavy curtains draped on each side.
Wearily, Hester climbed the stone steps and entered the house, surprised to find her feet cushioned on soft rugs, and a low reclining chair, unlike anything Hester had ever seen, placed below the windows. Luxurious pillows, stitched with a rose pattern, were set along its back. Various pieces of ornate furniture sat tastefully along the walls with brilliantly hooked rugs scattered in front of them, as if each one had its own little flower patch. Ein English haus, she thought, as she followed the boy to the bedroom.
An exact replica of the Lewises’ illness sent Hester’s heart plummeting. The husband, moaning feverishly from the high sleigh bed, the wife like a plump porcelain doll sunk into voluptuous pillows, the telltale acrid smell of sickness—it was all there.
Quickly, Hester checked the room for a cradle, a trundle bed. Turning to the small boy, she asked, “Do you have sisters or brothers?”
“Yes. Four.”
“Where are they?”
“My grandmother came to get them. They weren’t sick.”
“Where does your grandmother live?”
“Just down the street.”
With a sinking heart, the weight like a stone in her stomach, Hester realized she could not handle this alone if it was dysentery from the well water. She needed to talk to a doctor, someone who would support her theory, her speculation.
She bent over the people in the bed, touching their foreheads as they groaned in pain. She asked for cool water, which the boy brought gladly, then wiped their faces with a cool cloth. She spoke to the man when he awakened and asked him and his wife to swallow the bitter herbal tincture.
After deciding this situation was not as grave as the Lewises had been, she asked the boy if he knew where Doctor Porter’s office was.
He shook his head.
“Are you feeling sick?”
“No.”
“Have you already been sick?”
“No, ma’am. Just my mother and father.”
“Do you drink the water there?”
Hester pointed to the bucket, the one on the kitchen dry sink.
“No. I never do. I drink milk. That water is yellow and tastes like sand. I drink coffee though. And tea.”
Hester could feel the excitement rumbling along her veins. Was her guess the correct one?
She had no time to think as the front door burst open and a large, wild-eyed apparition barreled into the room with the force of a runaway bull.
“Ah needs help!” The poor Negro woman was clearly alarmed, her hand going to her huge heaving dressfront, the whites of her eyes like little half-moons on each side of her dark irises. Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to gain her breath.
“De little ‘uns, is sickern’ calves. Like little babies, dey spit up, dey cryin’. De missus too old for dis.”
“Did you call Doctor Porter?”
“Yes’m. Ah done sent ma man a few minutes back.”
“Good.”
Hester accompanied the heaving figure back out the door, down the street, and into another house, almost identical to the one she had left. An older woman rose to greet them, her bearing regal, stiff, and condescending.
“An Amish? Royal, I didn’t know the woman was Amish.” She said the word as if it tasted bitter on her tongue. Hester stood tall, unbending, too sleep-deprived to care.
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