Somewhere to Belong

by Judith Miller

  I bobbed my head. “Ja. Like Rudolf living in our same house.”

  “Not exactly.” He cleared his throat. “Because our parents spent much time together, Karin and I became close friends. Her parents and my parents always expected we would marry. And from the time we were small children, I thought the same thing.”

  “What happened? Did she die?”

  “Nein! She is very much alive and well. She still lives with her parents in the same house where my Mutter lives.” He unclasped his hands and rested them on his knees. “As Karin neared the age when we could ask permission to marry, I knew that I didn’t love her in the way a man loves a wife. I cared deeply for her but more like a sister or a cousin.”

  “You told her this?”

  “Ja, but she insisted we could still have a good marriage. I told her it would be better to stay single than marry without love.” He massaged his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Each day we would argue. And my Mutter wasn’t happy with my decision, either. She loved Karin, and I think she felt guilty about it.” He glanced toward the window. “I tried to explain it was my decision, and it wouldn’t change things between her and Karin’s family, but it did.”

  “So when there was a job with my Vater, you—”

  “I begged for the chance to come here and work with him. Even though this had continued for over two years, Karin still thought I would change my mind. I think she can better accept that we won’t marry if I am gone from there.” He looked deep into my eyes. “I didn’t want to hurt her, but a marriage without love is not gut. That’s why you must find out what you want.” He pointed to my heart. “I want you to marry me only if you know you have love in your heart for me and are sure you want to live in Amana.”

  “Thank you, Carl.” I glanced out the window, where several children were running down the street, their shoes kicking up trails of dust. His words surprised me. This was truly a good man. A man who wouldn’t force himself upon me. A man who wanted to marry for the proper reasons. A considerate man who wanted only the best for those he cared about.

  Maybe he was a man I could love.

  CHAPTER 17

  Berta Schumacher

  “He’s leaving!”

  My stomach roiled as I spoke the words.

  I clutched Johanna’s arm with a ferocity that brought her to an immediate halt and caused her to yelp in pain. “Did you hear me, Johanna?” Ignoring her cry, I held fast to her arm, determined to make her listen.

  “Who is leaving? Rudolf?” One by one Johanna pried my fingers loose and rubbed her arm. “You hurt me. I’m going to have bruises by this afternoon.”

  We were approaching the Küche when I stepped in front of her. If I blocked her path, she’d have to listen. “Don’t you understand? This is more important than a bruised arm. This is going to change my life, forever—even more than when we moved here.” My admission felt like a blow to the stomach. Instinctively I crossed my arms tight against my waist.

  Johanna grasped my hand. “Come on. Let’s get into the kitchen. We’ll talk there.” Once inside I dropped to one of the long wooden benches. Johanna sat down beside me, gathered my hands between her own, and focused her attention upon me. “Now tell me what has happened.”

  “My father is leaving us and going to Chicago.”

  “For good? He is leaving your mother and you?”

  She squeezed my hands, and I could see the sorrow that shone in her eyes. For once I was glad no one else had yet arrived for work. “He’s leaving the day after tomorrow. He says he’ll be gone for six weeks, maybe two months. He asked the elders to send him to Chicago for some additional medical training regarding a new procedure or something. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “But, Berta, he wouldn’t lie about such a thing. Before the Grossebruderrat would send him, your father would have shown them proof of his reason for going and explained how it would benefit the colonies. Their approval isn’t such an unusual thing.”

  “Isn’t it more important that the doctor be in the village to care for the sick?”

  “There is a doctor in Middle Amana who can come when needed. We were without a physician for almost a year before your family arrived. This must be something of value or the Grossebruderrat wouldn’t grant permission.”

  “He’s probably been scanning those medical periodicals looking for any reason he can use to get away from us.” I jumped up from the bench and began to pace the length of the kitchen. “How could he do this? Bring us here and then return to that woman?”

  “You don’t know that he’s doing anything of the sort, and you’ll accomplish nothing by working yourself into a frenzy. If you truly believe he’s never going to come back, I think you should talk to him this evening—ask him your questions.”

  That wouldn’t work. I didn’t want to have a discussion in front of my mother. If she believed he was merely going off to study some new technique, I didn’t want to be the one who dashed her hopes. Then again, maybe she did know and was trying to soften the blow for me. Maybe she’d developed a plan to tell me after he was gone, when I couldn’t create a scene and beg to go with him.

  I explained my concern to Johanna, at least the portion about not wanting to talk in front of my mother. “I need to talk to him this morning. Do you think you could go to the garden yourself and then stop at my father’s office after you’ve delivered the food to the workers?” She frowned, and I knew my suggestion had given rise to concern. Johanna wouldn’t want to lie, and Sister Nusser would be sure to ask about my whereabouts. “If anyone asks where I am, you can say that I needed to see the doctor. That would be true.”

  “But they will think you are ill.”

  “Exactly!” I squared my shoulders. “At least I’m not asking you to lie. All you need to do is take the baskets to the shed, wave, and then leave before the women come in from the garden plot. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I won’t lie.” Johanna pushed to her feet and held out her hand. “Come on. We need to begin breakfast preparations.”

  When the village bell clanged to announce breakfast, I kept watch for my father’s arrival. I stood at the kitchen doorway looking for any sign of him while Johanna took over my duties frying the potatoes. I held on to the doorjamb and lifted on tiptoe, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. My mother entered, circled around to her usual table, and sat down beside Sister Ilg, but there was no sign of my father.

  I bowed my head while we recited the morning prayer, but the moment the prayer ended, I scurried to my mother’s side. The strings of her black cap hung down on either side of her neck. How strange to see the small black cap take the place of a fashionable feather-bedecked chapeau—the kind of hat Mother used to perch upon her beautifully coiffed hair before leaving our house in Chicago. Other than daily brushing, her hair received little attention nowadays. Like most of the women, she parted it down the middle, fastened it into a knot at the nape of her neck, and covered it with her cap.

  “Where is Father?” I glanced toward his table to emphasize the empty space.

  “I don’t know. He went to his office early.” She shrugged. “He may have been detained.” The serving girls arrived at the tables with the pitchers of milk and coffee, and my mother nodded toward the kitchen. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  “I have been working, but when I didn’t see Father come in, I was concerned he had already left for Chicago.”

  With a sigh she shook her head. “I told you he is scheduled to leave tomorrow, Berta. You better go back to work before you get into trouble. I’m sure your father will be here soon,” she said, her eyes flitting around the table as she spoke to me in hushed tones. “If not, you’ll see him at the midday meal.”

  There was no use questioning her further. If my mother knew anything, she wasn’t going to tell me. Her curt response didn’t ease my suspicions, but I returned to the kitchen. “Thank you for your help with the potatoes, Johanna.”

  �
�Is your father here?”

  “No. And my mother was no help. She says she doesn’t know where he is.” I tilted my head closer to Johanna. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think she cares. She doesn’t appear concerned in the least that he is going back to that woman.”

  “You don’t know he’s doing any such thing. Besides, what can she do? Go to the elders and state her objection? I think she would be too embarrassed to tell them why she wanted them to change their plans.”

  I ladled two heaping scoops of fried potatoes into a bowl and handed it to one of the servers. “I suppose you’re right, but she is far too calm.”

  “Perhaps the Lord has given her a peaceful spirit about the situation. I would imagine she has asked God for guidance and protection.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “My mother isn’t one to ask God to guide her. She’s always relied upon my father or her own intuition when she was uncertain what to do.”

  “But she has changed since coming here. More than you or your father, she has embraced our way of life and appears content. A heavy burden is lifted when we trust the Lord to meet our needs. I think she has learned there is power in prayer and trusting God.” Johanna removed the skillet from the stove. “You should try it, Berta.”

  I hitched my shoulder and turned away. The last thing I wanted was another person preaching to me. I already had enough of that every evening as well as on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Johanna said no more. Perhaps I’d offended her, or maybe she was simply trying to complete her chores as quickly as possible to permit me additional time with my father.

  While the rest of us finished cleaning the kitchen and began preparations for the noonday meal, Sister Muhlbach cut thick slices of bread and tucked a jar of apple butter into the basket we would deliver to the workers. Though the bread was a favorite of some, others preferred leftover coffee cake or some other sweet with their coffee. Should Johanna not get away from the garden shed before the workers arrived, she would receive more than a few questions about my whereabouts, and she would receive complaints about the bread and apple butter, as well.

  We diverted from our usual route, but Johanna insisted upon waiting until I was certain my father was in his office. “If he’s not there, you should come with me, and we’ll check again on the way back to the Küche.”

  Johanna’s idea didn’t hold any appeal, so I offered a speedy prayer—the only kind I’d ever uttered—asking God to ensure that my father was in his office when we arrived. In my opinion a rapid request might help, and it certainly couldn’t hurt.

  My pulse quickened as we neared the office, and I hurried ahead of Johanna. Reaching the door, I glanced over my shoulder. “Wait out here,” I said.

  The small bell over the door jangled when I entered the building. No one was waiting in the outer office, and though I waited for a moment, I didn’t hear any sound from the adjoining room.

  After a moment longer I tapped lightly. I didn’t want to walk in if he was examining a patient. “Father! Are you in there?” When there was no immediate response, I knocked a little louder.

  “Who is it?”

  Who is it? How many people called him Father? “It’s me, Berta, your daughter.”

  “I’m with someone. You’ll need to return later.”

  His voice sounded strained, and I wondered if his patient was going to die. The thought was enough to send me scurrying to the door. I peered down the street, but Johanna was nowhere in sight. Should I follow and meet her somewhere along the road? What if she took a different route and I missed her?

  I closed the door and plopped instead onto one of the hard, straight-backed chairs. Leaning forward, I rested my chin in the palm of my hand and counted the rows in the rug that was striped in blue, brown, and gray. Next I counted how many blue stripes there were and then the gray. I was in the midst of counting the brown stripes when the heavy metal latch clacked and the door leading to my father’s office opened.

  A woman, looking as though she’d stepped from the pages of Godey’s magazine, stood framed in the doorway. Sunlight filtered through the windows and encircled her in a radiant glow. Her gown, the shade of ripe plums, was an immediate reminder of the pink silk skirt I’d worn when we first arrived in Amana. She carried a parasol in her lace-gloved hands, and thin plum-colored ribbons swirled atop her chapeau.

  Instantly I knew.

  Caroline.

  I jumped to my feet, my heart pumping as though I’d been running for hours. “What are you doing here?” I hadn’t expected to shout, but the sight of her caused a surge of dread and panic like nothing I’d ever before experienced. “You’re Caroline, aren’t you?” I choked out the question and prayed she’d refute my question and tell me she was a visitor who’d become ill while taking a tour of the village. Please, God.

  Before she’d said a word, my father appeared behind her and grasped the woman’s shoulders. Instinctively she stepped forward, and he moved to her side. Had it not been for the horror that shone in his eyes, they would have looked like the perfect married couple: he in his suit and white shirt, she in her elegant walking dress.

  “What are you doing here, Berta?”

  His tone was harsh and unfamiliar, and I struggled to understand why he’d spoken to me in such a manner. Arriving at his office unexpectedly couldn’t be considered improper. I was, after all, his daughter. He should have been pleased to see me.

  “I had hoped to have a brief chat, but I see you’re busy.” I met the woman’s steady gaze. “With Caroline.”

  I waited for him to respond, but it was the woman who extended her hand. “I’m Mrs. Harwell, and I am very pleased to meet you, Berta. Your father has spoken highly of you. I hope to see you again in the future.”

  See me again? I gasped at the outrageous remark. “Well, I don’t want to ever—”

  My father grabbed my wrist and gave me a warning look. “I’ll see you to the door, Mrs. Harwell. The buggy will arrive at the general store to return you to the train depot in Homestead shortly.”

  She bobbed her head. “I hope to have time to pick up a few gifts before I leave.” With a glance over her shoulder, she lifted her gloved hand and waved. “Good-bye, Berta.”

  I glowered in return. How dare she wave at me and sashay out the door as though we were best friends. I considered shouting after her that she wouldn’t see me or my father again if I had anything to do about it.

  The moment my father closed the door, he wheeled around on his heel. “How dare you speak to a guest in such a rude manner.” He narrowed his eyes until they were no more than slits. “I have never been so embarrassed in my life. And why did you address Mrs. Harwell as Caroline? Who is Caroline?”

  Anger churned in my belly. He was going to play a game of denial with me. “Caroline is the woman who wrote you the letter I delivered. I believe you said she was one of your patients who lives in Chicago.”

  “Oh yes. Now I remember.” He removed his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “It’s warm in here, don’t you think?”

  “I hadn’t noticed.” My response wasn’t completely true. I thought he should open a window. The waiting room could use a breath of fresh air, but I wasn’t going to tell him. Besides, it was his own guilt that was making him warm. Of that much I was certain, for when trapped in one of my own lies, I’d experienced the very same feeling.

  He seemed to regain his composure as he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “Exactly what did you want to discuss with me? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “Each day at midmorning and midafternoon, I deliver food to the garden workers. I asked Johanna to make the delivery so that I could stop here. Mother tells me you are going to Chicago to some sort of school.”

  “Yes, that’s correct, but couldn’t we discuss this when I get home this evening?”

  “There’s nobody waiting to see you, and I told Johanna I would meet her here on her return from the garden. I didn’t want to talk in front of
Mother.”

  He crossed the room and leaned against the doorjamb leading into his office. “Whyever not? We have no secrets.”

  “Really?” I laughed.

  He straightened at the sound of my derisive laughter. “Are you mocking me?”

  Instead of answering, I asked a question of my own. “Exactly who is Mrs. Harwell? Another patient from Chicago?”

  “No, of course not.” He pointed to one of the chairs. “Why don’t we sit down.” His complexion had turned a sickly gray that reminded me of the ashes I removed from the stove each day, and I wondered if he might faint. He didn’t wait for me to be seated before he dropped into one of the chairs.

  “Would you open one of the windows, Berta?”

  I did as he requested, but he wasn’t going to deter me. “You haven’t yet told me who she is, Father.”

  “Her name is Mrs. Phillip Harwell, and she is the proprietor of a finishing school. I know you have been unhappy here in Amana. After investigating the school, I planned to talk to your mother about the possibility of sending you there to complete your education.”

  “And what is the name of Mrs. Phillip Harwell’s finishing school? Caroline’s School for Educating Young Girls on the Fine Art of Stealing Someone Else’s Husband?”

  My father’s complexion remained pasty, but he pointed his finger at me. “You watch your tongue, young lady. I will not be spoken to in such a manner. And why do you keep referring to Caroline?”

  “Because I know all about her, Father. I read the letter. Let me see if I can remember the exact words.” I tapped my finger to my lips. “Ah yes. I believe this is a portion of it: ‘If you truly love me—as you so often have said—then why do you linger? Know that I love you, but I will not wait forever. Lovingly, Caroline.’

  Does that sound vaguely familiar?”

  Once again perspiration dotted his forehead. “Caroline and Mrs. Harwell are two different people. Mrs. Harwell is the proprietor of Harwell’s Finishing School for Young Ladies.”

  “In Chicago?”