Marta's Legacy Collection

by Francine Rivers

“So has your mother.”

  Dawn wanted to believe it. “Not like Granny does.”

  “And why would that be, do you suppose?”

  Why not be frank? Maybe she’d get the truth from Oma. No one else wanted to talk about the past. “Because I wasn’t planned, I guess. I was a mistake in a long line of mistakes she made.”

  “When has she ever said that to you?”

  “She never says much of anything to me.”

  “Your mother doesn’t say much of anything to anyone, other than Mitch.”

  “She talked with you all afternoon.” Dawn hadn’t meant to sound resentful or jealous. “I’ve never heard her talk that much to anyone, not even Mitch.”

  “She’s safe with me.”

  Dawn looked at her, waiting for more. She could see the sheen in Oma’s eyes as she looked at the sky.

  “Your mother has never had to guard words with me. She can speak her mind without fear I’ll love her less.” Oma gazed at the stars in silence for a few minutes, then spoke again. “We all make mistakes. It’s how we learn. I’m quite certain your mother would admit to making her share of mistakes. Though I’m also certain she does not consider you to be one of them.”

  “She’d probably still be in Haight-Ashbury if she hadn’t gotten pregnant with me.”

  Oma scowled. “Well, now, I don’t know how you can believe that when she didn’t even know you were on the way until a month after she came home.”

  “Granny said she came home pregnant.”

  “Yes. She did. But being pregnant isn’t the same thing as knowing you’re pregnant. Your mother found out the same day your granny did.”

  Dawn tried to think back on things Granny had said to her. “Maybe I got it wrong.”

  Oma relaxed again. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  Dawn chewed her lip for a moment. “Do you know who my father is?”

  “I never asked. Have you?”

  “Yes,” Dawn said in frustration, “but she always changes the subject.”

  “Then you might ask yourself when and how you asked.”

  “I just want to know the truth, Oma. Don’t I have a right to know?”

  “That’s all well and good, but what would you do with the truth if it was given to you?”

  Oma talked in riddles! “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Oma pushed herself up from the wicker chair. “Then you have something to ponder, haven’t you?” She picked up her empty cup, said good night, and went back inside the house.

  Over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and biscuits the next morning, Oma talked about what her other “kids” were doing. Dawn couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of Granny, in her sixties, still being considered a kid. Uncle Bernhard had received a long-deserved prestigious award for grafting lime, lemon, and orange trees. Business boomed and their son, Ed, now managed vendor and customer accounts as well as advertising so Bernie could concentrate on his horticulture experiments.

  Rumors circulated in Hollywood that Aunt Clotilde would be up for an Oscar. “Apparently the costumes she designed for some science fiction movie were out of this world,” Oma joked.

  Aunt Rikka still lived in her apartment in Soho. “She says she has good light for her painting and plenty of subjects. She’s doing portraits now. She just finished one of a hoodlum from the Bronx with a tattooed neck and arms. She’s calling it Simon the Zealot. She’s talked an IRS officer into posing as Matthew the tax collector. I don’t know who will buy these portraits, but she doesn’t care. She says she’s saved enough to paint whatever she wants for a while. If she runs short on money, she can always weld some more scrap metal together, give it a fancy name, and put it in that art gallery that loves her work. She told me she has a friend who mounted a urinal on a slab of wood and sold it for two hundred thousand dollars!” Oma shook her head. “People will make complete fools of themselves trying to keep up with whatever the latest art craze is.”

  Mom took Oma’s grocery list and headed off to the store, leaving Dawn alone with Oma. Oma smirked at Dawn as Mom went out the door. “Am I babysitting you or are you babysitting me?” She got up from her recliner. “I have some watering to do. Would you like to go out in the backyard with me? We can keep an eye on each other.”

  Dawn lounged on the swing. “You had four children, Oma, and they’re all so different.”

  “More similar than you might imagine.” Oma tipped a watering can over a box overflowing with blue and red petunias. “All four were bright and good-looking. They all found their God-given talents. Clotilde and Rikka are both artists. Bernhard and Hildemara took to science.”

  Dawn put her arm behind her head. “I don’t think I have any talent.”

  Oma straightened and glowered at her. “How would you know? You haven’t tried anything yet. Other than soccer, which your mother said you play very well.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think they have any professional women’s soccer leagues.”

  Oma set the watering can down and eased herself into a chair. “You probably have a good idea already what you want to do with your life.”

  Get married. Have children. She didn’t want to say all that after Mom’s nonresponse. “I’m only fifteen. How would I know?”

  “Your granny was reading books on Florence Nightingale at fifteen. I left home at fifteen. I knew what I wanted, or thought I did, and made steps to go after it.”

  Dawn couldn’t imagine leaving home right now, let alone leaving her country. How had Oma done that? “What did you want, Oma?” Had she run away like Mom? Maybe that was part of the bond between them.

  “I wanted a chance to make something of my life, and my father thought educating a girl was a waste of time and money. He made me quit school at twelve and sent me to work at whatever menial job he could find. He didn’t think I’d amount to anything. He sent me to housekeeping school in Bern to learn how to be a servant. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I found ways to make good use of the training. I was going to own something as grand as the Hotel Edelweiss someday.”

  “Hotel Edelweiss?”

  “My friend Rosie’s family had a hotel. It’s still in the family as far as I know.”

  “So you had to give up that dream?”

  “Not completely. I owned a boardinghouse in Montreal and helped build a forty-acre ranch specializing in almonds and grapes. If my father had pampered and petted me, I might have ended up staying in Steffisburg and waiting on him for the rest of my life.” She snorted and shook her head.

  All Dawn wanted to do was get married and have children. It didn’t seem like much when compared to Oma or Granny or even her mother, who had become a successful Realtor. In less than three years, Dawn would be eighteen. She’d need some kind of workable plan for her future until her dreams came true, if they did. “The idea of going out on my own scares me.” The thought was daunting.

  “Probably because you’re too comfortable.” Oma chortled. “Nice big room in a big fancy house with a swimming pool, everything taken care of for you. Why would you want to leave? The people I loved most told me to go. My mother told me to fly. Rosie couldn’t wait for me to have adventures. Even my employers, Solange and then Lady Daisy, both said I had to go. They loved me, but put their needs aside for my good. People either weigh you down or give you wings. I had to shove your granny out of the nest. If I hadn’t, she’d still be single and living on the farm, thinking she had to take care of me.” She looked annoyed at the memory. “I love every one of my children, and I did the best I knew how in raising them. I just wasn’t always the mother they wanted.” She let out a soft breath. “I tried to mend the rift with your granny, but . . .” She shook her head. “It’s easier to put up a wall than build a bridge.”

  “Are you sorry you never got your dream, Oma?”

  “I can’t complain. Sometimes we realize our dreams in ways we never imagined. I never thought I’d ever marry, let alone have children. I wanted an education more than anything. I
don’t have a high school diploma, but I can speak three languages, and I’ve read more great books than most college graduates. It’s a good thing God isn’t limited by what we have in mind for ourselves. His plan is so much bigger. When you’re as old as I am, you have time to sit still and take a long, thoughtful look back over your life and see how God’s plan was also a whole lot better.”

  “Jason talks about God the way you do.”

  Oma raised her brows. “And how’s that?”

  “Like God cares.”

  “And you don’t think He does?”

  “Well, I suppose so, but . . .”

  “It’s too hot out here for a philosophical conversation.” Oma fanned herself. “Let’s go inside.”

  Dawn followed Oma back inside the house. They sat at the kitchen table, the oscillating fan turned on high. “As I get older, I miss the Alps more. Then again, maybe it’s just the heat.”

  “Have you ever gone back?”

  “Once, when I was eighty-four. Rikka went with me and made drawings of the old Lutheran church, the schoolhouse where I went, Thun Castle. I was offered a job there once.”

  “In a castle?” Dawn was impressed.

  Oma snorted derisively. “As a maid who’d’ve been paid a pittance for the honor of working there.” She snorted again. “I said no.”

  “I never knew any of this. You should write all this down.”

  Oma pushed herself to her feet, took an old leather journal from a kitchen drawer, and tossed it on the table in front of Dawn. “Rosie gave that to me as a going-away present before I left for Bern. She told me to fill it with adventures.” Oma chuckled. “I didn’t expect to have any. So I filled it with bits and pieces of useful information, things I thought would get me where I wanted to go. And eventually, I suppose some of my ‘adventures’ made it into the pages too.”

  Dawn opened the journal. Oma’s German script was as small and perfect as the Declaration of Independence, and she had made the most of every page. “Can you read some of it to me?”

  Oma put her hands on her hips. “Ivanhoe will be a lot more interesting, especially for a girl with romantic inclinations. Jason, is it? He’s the one you want to marry?”

  Dawn blushed. “I can hope.” Covering her embarrassment, she gave Oma a smug smile. “I finished Ivanhoe last night.”

  “Did you now? Well, aren’t you the smart little cookie?” Oma looked pleased. “Go ahead and read my journal. It’s only the first section that’s in German. I started practicing my English as soon as I could. If nothing else, it’ll help put you to sleep.”

  Dawn flipped through pages. “Any recipes for love potions or advice on how to win a boy’s heart?”

  Oma laughed. “You’re on your own there, my girl. I only went out with one man and ended up marrying him. But there’s advice on how to mend fences and build bridges. Not that I’ve ever been good at either.”

  31

  That night, after Mom and Oma had gone to bed, Dawn stayed up reading the worn journal. The first pages, in German, looked like lists and maybe recipes. The journal switched to English beginning with a heading, “Tea Service for Lady Daisy.” A recipe for spicy chicken sandwiches was followed by advice on how to wash linens, polish silver, and clean wood floors. Sometimes a line would be written that wouldn’t fit in among the rest.

  Another year and I will forget why I came to England. Do I want to be as hopeless as Miss Millicent?

  She’d filled one page with information on crop rotation and how to prune almond trees and grapevines.

  I bought a car today. Niclas is not happy. I am!

  More menus followed, along with a list of “Summer Bedlam Activities.” Oma had filled the last two pages with Scripture.

  Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. Proverbs 3:5-6

  Oma had made a vine and grape border around this Scripture. The second stood alone with more space around it than anything she had written on the other pages.

  When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a (wo) man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. 1 Corinthians 13:11-13

  Dawn turned the last page.

  I have lived out my mother’s hope and pray I have given wings to my daughters’ dreams.

  Leaving space, she wrote again.

  A coddled child grows up crippled.

  The last entry put an ending to the journal.

  I lived and loved the best way I knew how, trusting God to keep His promise never to lose one of His own. I hold fast to what Mama taught me. In Him, we live and breathe. In Him, we will one day find one another again. In Him, we are one. In this life, we will not love perfectly. In the next, God promises we will. I hold to that hope. I cling to that dream.

  On the way home to Alexander Valley, Mom fell into her habitual silence. It didn’t bother Dawn as much this time, not after a week with Oma. “Can I go back with you next summer?”

  Mom smiled, eyes straight ahead. “So you enjoyed yourself.”

  “Very much.” She didn’t want to be left out or left behind again. “Christopher and I could camp outside on Oma’s lawn.”

  “He’d like that.”

  Well, her mother hadn’t said she couldn’t come. “Oma knows more than anyone I’ve ever met.” She gave her mother a teasing smile. “Even Mitch.”

  Mom let out a soft laugh. “She’s lived decades longer.”

  Dawn enjoyed the new rapport between them. “Could we go to a stationer’s on the way home? I’d like to get a thank-you gift for Oma.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “A diploma.”

  They stopped on the way through Santa Rosa. “I want something that looks like a real diploma. It has to look authentic. This one.” She pointed. “‘This certifies that Marta Waltert has graduated magna cum laude from the University of Hard Knocks.’”

  Mom laughed. “She’s going to love it!”

  When they picked up the framed diploma, Dawn wrote a note and put it in the box before sending it by Federal Express to Merced.

  Dear Oma,

  I learned more from you in one week than I’ve learned in ten years of school. I hope to visit again soon.

  Love, Dawn

  Ten days later, a package arrived Priority Mail from Oma. Dawn opened it at the kitchen table with Mom watching. “A leather journal! Just like the one her friend Rosie gave her.” Dawn ran her hand over the beautifully etched tan cover. When she opened it, a note fluttered to the floor. Mom picked it up and handed it to her.

  If you learned more from me in one week than you learned in ten years of school, you weren’t paying attention! Open those lovely blue eyes and look at the world around you! Open those cute shell-shaped ears and listen! Get busy on going after your dream. Thank you for my diploma. I have it hanging on my bedroom wall where I can admire it every night and pray for the blessed child who sent it.

  Love, Oma

  Dear Rosie,

  Carolyn brought May Flower Dawn with her this year. I had given up hope of ever getting to know my great-granddaughter. She was such an obnoxious child, so full of herself, so spoiled by Hildemara and critical of Carolyn—not that it was entirely her fault. Christopher usually comes with Carolyn, but Dawn asked to come this time. I see that as a miracle. I didn’t think she liked me.

  Dawn has a “crush” on a young man who barely knows she exists. I doubt that. The girl is a beauty—long blonde hair, blue eyes, nicely proportioned. I was taken aback. She is the mirror image of Elise. Thankfully, she is very different in temperament. May Flower Dawn and I had several very nice, long conversations. I was surprised to discover she has a teachable spirit. I am quite taken with her. She may very well
turn out to have the best of Hildemara Rose and Carolyn in her, and perhaps a little of me as well. Not too much, I hope.

  Dawn sent a gift. According to the diploma she had made, I graduated magna cum laude from the University of Hard Knocks. I laughed and wept when I saw it, and I wept more when I read her sweet note. May Flower Dawn wants to come again. I am filled with joy! Dare I hope she might be the one to bring my daughter home to me? Oh, how I would love to sit and serve Hildemara, Carolyn, and May Flower Dawn tea on my patio. Think of it, Rosie! Four generations of women together at last. We could drink in the scent of summer roses and talk. Oh, how I would love that. . . .

  32

  Three weeks later, Granny called. When Oma didn’t answer her telephone, her neighbor had gone over to check on her. She found Oma sitting in her recliner. She’d died peacefully, Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America open on her lap.

  The memorial service took place in a Methodist church in Merced, the front two rows packed with relatives and the rest packed with friends. No air-conditioning and late August heat made the sanctuary almost unbearable. Uncle Bernie and Aunt Elizabeth; Ed; Granny and Papa; Aunt Cloe and her producer husband, Ted; and Aunt Rikki and an old friend and widower named Melvin were all there. Dawn sat beside Mom in the pew behind Granny and Papa. Mitch sat on the other side of Mom, his arm wrapped around her as though holding her together. Christopher sat on the other side of Mitch, leaning against him.

  Dawn had never lost anyone, and she felt more regret than grief. She’d liked Oma immensely and wished she’d spent more time with her. But the depth of her mother’s grief frightened her. Mom had cried for three days after Granny called with the news. She hadn’t eaten in a week. Now, she sat ashen-faced, tears streaming down her cheeks as the minister spoke of heaven and the hope God gave everyone who believed in the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ our Savior and Lord.

  Granny glanced back at Mom, her expression pained, almost angry. Dawn had overheard her speaking to Mom in the pastor’s office before the service. “Are you going to be all right, Carolyn?” She had sounded impatient.