Lovelier than Daylight

by Rosslyn Elliott

  He looked at the spot where Susanna had been as he passed. She was still there, just taking her uncle’s arm as he returned to her. She stared at Johann in surprise. Was that a touch of disapproval in her glance? He turned away with a flash of irritation and walked on. Let her think what she wished, he did not care, as long as the Hanbys did not advertise his identity here in Westerville.

  The straight brick lines of the church bell tower rose against the green treetops behind it, its crenellated top like a castle battlement. The tower was incongruous in front of the humble, low-roofed church behind it. For such a plain building, it had a very grand bell.

  At the front doors the men jostled in like a herd of horses, some calling friendly greetings and striding around the pews with the ease of long familiarity, others moving more gingerly into a strange house of worship, gazing at the rows of dark pews, the low roof rising to heavy support beams. It was not as elegant as Johann’s church, St. John’s German Independent Evangelical, with its stained glass and polished organ pipes. But Westerville was a small town and the simple starkness of the church had a beauty of its own. Besides, Johann’s church had incurred a debt of twenty thousand dollars in its construction, a debt that weighed on his father and the other founders. There was something to be said for a more frugal approach.

  The pews filled, and Johann remained at the back with a score of others who did not find seats. This mixing of congregations was very convenient—no one noticed him as an outsider. Half the men there were outsiders, at least at this church.

  The reverend rose and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, the time has come to rise in defense of our families.” He spoke for ten minutes, an impassioned, sincere outpouring with just the right pacing and build so the men hung on his words and punctuated them with “Amen” and “Preach it, Reverend Robertson!”

  He paused. “In our very midst . . .” His eyes skimmed the pews. “We have living examples who can witness to the terrible destructive power of intoxicating drinks. One of those men has had the courage to confess and turn from his past, and I know he will have no reluctance to testify for us today. I would like to ask our brother Arthur Pippen to come forward.”

  Halfway down the aisle, a slight man stood up in a pew and walked to the front to ascend the low platform and stand next to the reverend. He wore a coat shiny at the elbows from wear, but his hair was neatly combed back, his face alive with the urgency of his thought. “I am not ashamed to tell you that my Lord Jesus Christ delivered me from a drunken, wasted life a year ago in this very church.” His voice hardly carried to the back doors, but it was firm. “And by doing so, he saved my wife and children from hunger and misery.”

  “Praise be,” another man said from the front pew with pentup feeling. Reverend Robertson turned, murmured something to Mr. Pippen, and shook his hand.

  After a moment the small man continued. “Through an unwise friendship with some farm laborers, I fell into the habit of taking strong drink, and before I knew it, the demon had taken residence in me. I thought of nothing but that glass of whiskey from the moment I awoke until I obtained it. I lost my good position at Mr. Jones’s farm.” His face sagged. “Were it not for the charity of the good ladies of Westerville, my wife and children would have had nothing to eat, and even as it was, they suffered—” He faltered and swallowed visibly. “Don’t let Henry Corbin open a saloon. The temptation is too great, especially for young men who follow their friends through the swinging doors. I have cast out my demon by God’s grace, but I beg you not to let others fall by the wayside.”

  “We won’t!” someone called from the back.

  “God bless you, brother,” the reverend said. As Mr. Pippen took a seat, the black-clad minister held up his hands. “Let us pray.”

  After the prayer the men drew hymnbooks from the pews and held them with long familiarity as they sang loud and stirring hymns, men’s voices lifted together in strength and vibrance. Johann sang, but quietly, so his voice would not attract attention. He sang second tenor with the German men’s choir, the Maennerchor of Columbus, and he knew from experience that people would stop to listen if he sang out. Even in his own church, he was careful to blend in so as not to distract from the worship.

  Another pastor from elsewhere stood to give a speech. After a few more fervent declarations from individual men about the sad effects of drink on men they knew, the Reverend Robertson dismissed them. “Go and serve the Lord, and ask everyone you know to oppose the saloon.”

  A few men strode out with the preoccupied look of those who have business to attend. But many remained, talking in knots scattered through the pews.

  “Good morning, brother.” A man with pox scars on a friendly, broad face extended his hand to Johann. “Are you new to Westerville? I don’t recognize your face.”

  “Yes, sir. Here on temporary business. John Green, pleased to meet you.” Johann felt a pang of guilt. He did not like to misrepresent himself, but the name Giere was too well known for him to risk using it.

  “Well, I’m mighty glad to see you here. It’s an urgent cause.”

  “Yes, sir.” Johann listened as the man went on to tell his own story about a grandfather ruined by drink. Close behind them, another small group of men was talking, and Johann found himself distracted by their mutterings.

  “It’s not right,” one of them said in an intense half whisper. Another shushed him and the conversation fell quieter for a minute before rising to be audible again.

  “What if Corbin won’t leave?”

  “There are ways to ensure that he does. The survival of the college may depend on it.”

  “Some men are more stubborn than others. He looks like an obstinate one who won’t be persuaded easily.”

  “Then we persuade with fists. Or other forceful means.”

  Johann stole a look behind him at the men, then turned back and nodded as if fascinated by his own conversation with the pock-faced man.

  The mutterers behind him were young: in their early twenties at most. Perhaps that was not so surprising. Young men were full of big talk.

  One of them paused but then continued after Johann turned away. He had the kind of nasal baritone that carried farther than intended, a voice for whom a “whisper” was another man’s normal volume. “The law does not give us enough recourse. It should not be legal for him to open here, against our will, and thumb his nose at the citizens.”

  “And at Otterbein too,” another added. “Some situations call for emergency measures.”

  Were they Otterbein students? They certainly spoke like college men, all formal phrasing and pretty speeches while they discussed the use of force.

  “Let’s go outside,” another said. “It’s too close in here. We need to speak further.” They went out, putting on their neat bowler hats, exiting into the early heat of the summer morning.

  Johann considered following them. No, it would be too obvious and he would not overhear anything more if they saw him. He smiled at the pock-marked man and thanked him for sharing his thoughts, then took his leave a few moments later.

  Outside, the sun beat down on his shoulders and made him thirsty for a glass of lemonade from his mother’s kitchen, or a crisp, light lager straight from the cool barrels at the brewery. He had no taste for the harder liquor these men despised, and he understood why they hated it so. It was designed for intoxication in its potency and could turn the strongest men into despicable animals. But lager was not the same, no matter what Susanna Hanby said.

  He quickened his pace and headed back toward the hotel. He must get back to Columbus and turn in an initial report, but he would be back as soon as his brewery duties allowed. The story of the saloon was getting more interesting by the hour. He would not forget the faces of those young men in the church, at least the two he had seen in his quick glance backward. That clique bore watching.

  Mr. Reinhardt put on his glasses and inspected the article. After a minute or two, he laid it on the desk and tapped on it. “Ex
cellent. Concise but vivid, unusual, with a whole town up in arms. I’ll run it tomorrow and also wire it to the New Yorker Staats-Zeitung.”

  “What?” Johann leaned forward in his chair and took his writing back just as Mr. Reinhardt made a futile grab for it. “It’s not a crime article.”

  “But it shows your talent. You want to get your foot in the door as a candidate so they don’t hire someone before you.”

  “I do?” Johann asked dryly.

  “Your talent is too great to hide under a bushel. I’m doing it for your own good. Give me that back.”

  Johann hesitated, then handed over the article. “Very well. But don’t tell anyone.”

  Mr. Reinhardt chuckled. “You’ll have to tell them when you’re packing your bags.”

  “A very unlikely event.” The mixture of adrenaline, longing, and guilt made him twitchy and he got to his feet. “I must go back—our brewmeister wants to talk to me.”

  “Give me just a moment more.” Mr. Reinhardt took off his glasses and laid them on the desk. “You love reporting the news. I know you do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people need to know what crimes and injustices are happening around them.”

  “Why?” Mr. Reinhardt prodded.

  He masked his irritation. “Because we live in a democracy, and the people can’t govern themselves well if they don’t know the truth about the world we live in. What if our rich citizens never hear of the poverty and suffering of the rest of the city? Why should they ever give to charity or vote for reform?” He had grown emphatic and fervent, which made him feel foolish when he stopped for breath. Mr. Reinhardt knew him too well.

  But the editor smiled. “Very good reasons. And why would you want to be a brewer?”

  Johann was silent.

  “There is only one answer—to please your father. I am right, yes?”

  Johann stood up. “It’s more than that. My father already lost one brother in the War, and another long ago in Germany. I’m the only Giere left to carry on the name.”

  “Your uncle Fritz was my friend too, God rest his soul. But you can’t let his sacrifice turn you away from a God-given gift and path to serve.”

  “Who’s to say it’s God-given? God asks me to honor my father.”

  “Men are not given talents so they can bury them.”

  This line of argument made Johann uneasy. It was true—his allegiance to God was higher than even his duty to his father. But discerning the will of God for his future was no easy feat. “How do we know that we aren’t simply using the Almighty as an excuse to justify our own selfish desires?”

  “You watch and you listen and you pray.” Mr. Reinhardt sounded gruff, as if the topic had become too personal. He stood and began to collect pages from the top of his desk and the cabinets behind him. “I’m confident it will become clear.”

  Johann opened the office door and stepped out.

  “You’re not a brewer, Johann.” Mr. Reinhardt’s voice carried out to him over the clack of the press.

  Johann closed the door as if a flimsy piece of wood and glass could shield him from the lure of New York.

  Nine

  June 30th, 1875

  To George Leeds

  Union Center, Ohio

  Dear George,

  We have found the children and wish to take them in as our own. In order to do so, we ask you to come assert your paternal rights to remove them from the orphanages. We will pay your train fare and all expenses to Columbus. Please write and let us know when you will arrive. Also, please inform me if you have any news of my sister’s whereabouts. Have pity on my distress at her disappearance.

  Best,

  Susanna Hanby

  July 3rd, 1875

  To Susanna Hanby

  Thirty-One State Street

  Westerville, Ohio

  I got your letter. I’m not going to do what you want. Your sister left the children with the orphanage and it is not my fault if she left her own children. Let them go to better mothers who don’t run off like loose women. She didn’t tell me nothing about where she went.

  Yeo. Leeds

  She folded the letter once, twice, three times, into a tiny square as if she could fold it out of existence.

  “What is it?” Her uncle held out one strong, knobby hand for the letter.

  She handed it over, and he unfolded it and scanned the creased paper in silence.

  “What will we do?” she asked. “He refuses. They’ll send the children away and we’ll lose them.” The thought seared her like a hot iron. And how dare George speak of her sister so, in writing, even? Loose woman, indeed. Susanna would swear in a court of law that she did not believe her sister would do such a thing. The more she reflected on it, the more likely it seemed that no other man had been involved at all.

  Her tight-laced corset was hurting her and she could not get enough air. She just prayed Rachel was still alive.

  “Don’t be too dismayed,” Uncle Will said, his deep-set eyes gentle under white brows. “They won’t send the children out for at least a few weeks, maybe longer. We’ll think of something.”

  “I must visit them again. They can’t think I’ve left them to stay there, especially in that horrible place where they’re keeping Clara and the boys.”

  “We’ll go visit in three more days. The Independence Day celebrations are over now, and the traffic in and out of the city will be thinner. But we can’t go too soon or we will look overly eager and arouse the housekeeper’s suspicions—the one at the Hare Home. If she thinks we’re trying to take the children, she’ll ban us from the premises completely.”

  “I feel as if I’ll burst with the wait.”

  “Why don’t you go down to the store and get some candy to save for our visit? Remember, I told the housekeeper we would bring her some. We must stay in her good graces. Then I’ll get one of our hams and we can smuggle some in for the children. Candy for the matron, but real food for the children.”

  “You’re very good to us.” She was subdued at the thought that he would also be sacrificing a good chunk of one of the two smoked hams she had seen in the cellar. But he had told her several times that there was a year’s harvest in the barn, what with all the church contributions.

  “You’re my family, and so are Rachel and her children.”

  The confectioner’s window brimmed with colorful candies: gaily wrapped toffee, chocolate bars with curlicued logos, powdered jellies and peppermints, green and blue lollipops. Inside was a child’s magical world of neat boxes, bins full of hard candy, and tantalizing treats stuck up on countertops.

  “The children will love it in here when we bring them back.” Auntie’s delicate face brightened under its fine overlay of wrinkles.

  How Susanna wished she had the same strong faith in the children’s return—she had tried to summon it, but fear kept slipping into her thoughts. It was so hard to wait. She had to try to be more like her aunt.

  Susanna poked through the bins by the window, scooping at the candies with the wide paddles, watching the swirl of their pink and white wrappers. “Can we bring a little toffee? Wesley likes it.”

  “Don’t be disappointed if the children don’t get the sweets.”

  “I’ll hide a few pieces in my pocket.” Susanna would not let that housekeeper eat it all. She shoveled ten pieces into a paper bag and folded down the top.

  Outside the window three children had crowded up to watch with hungry interest. They were thin and dressed in old clothing, their sleeves frayed, the boy’s breeches too short.

  Susanna turned to her aunt. “I want to give them some candy too.” She nodded toward the faces pressed against the window. “Who are they?”

  “The Pippen children,” her aunt said in a low voice. “They may not have a lot, but they’re getting along all right now that their father is abstaining from drink. I know their mother. We can give them some peppermints if you wish.”

  Th
e store bell rang and a woman entered, dressed in old, faded clothing like the children. She couldn’t be above twenty-five, but she looked like she had been wrung out against a washboard too many times, her lips pale, her coloring wan. Still, she was not unhappy-looking.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hanby.” Her smile momentarily brightened her face, but her teeth were brittle and chipped, as if she had gone without milk and meat for long stretches.

  “You’re looking well, Mrs. Pippen,” Susanna’s aunt said. “Healthy and happy this fine day?” There was another question beneath the one on the surface, a woman-to woman question.

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Pippen answered. “It’s Mary’s birthday, and she is getting a peppermint stick.” The glow with which she pronounced the words made the rarity of such a treat clear. She smiled in the direction of the little towheaded girl outside, who was standing on tiptoe looking over the sill.

  Susanna exchanged glances with her aunt. They would not give any candy to these children today and risk spoiling the pleasure Mrs. Pippen took in buying her own single piece.

  “How lovely,” Aunt Ann said warmly. “And I’m making muffins later today. I will have to bring Mary some. I know she loves them.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Pippen said with the humility of one who has learned not to turn away offers of food.

  She handed her money to the shop girl, who put her single candy in a small brown paper bag. “We’ll see you later, then?” Mrs. Pippen asked Susanna and her aunt with a duck of her head.

  “We’ll stop by to visit,” Aunt Ann said.

  The door closed behind the wan woman, and Susanna saw her give the red-and-white candy to the beaming girl. The first thing the little girl did was break it in three and share it with her brother and sister. A pang struck Susanna as she watched them traipse down the street until they turned the corner.