Somewhere to Belong

by Judith Miller

  I was surprised when Sister Muhlbach ordered me to deliver the afternoon repast to the garden. She knew I enjoyed the task, and I’d expected her to permanently assign the deliveries to Sister Dickel. “I’d tell you to hurry back, but I’m certain you’ll do as you please.” She shrugged and shook her head, obviously resigned to the fact that nothing would change until I’d been properly punished.

  Basket in hand, I hurried out the door before she could change her mind. On the way I decided she’d sent me because I’d been of little use in the kitchen. Either way, I was glad to be outdoors. Maybe Sister Muhlbach would ask the elders to assign me to the garden or the calico mill. Or maybe they would send me to work with my mother at the Kinderschule. I wouldn’t mind that so much. Playing games with the children would be fun, and I could go visit Rudolf whenever I wanted. Mother wouldn’t care.

  I stopped by the dairy barn after I’d handed over the basket to Sister Nusser, but Rudolf hadn’t returned from his afternoon deliveries. My stop at the general store was as brief as the one to the dairy barn. No mail for me or for my mother. A weight settled in my stomach. Why didn’t Father write? Couldn’t he take a few minutes to pen a note to us and tell us all was well and he missed us? I wandered aimlessly down the sidewalk, unwilling to return to the Küche just yet. When nothing of particular interest came to mind, I decided to go home and rest for a while before returning to work.

  It wasn’t until I entered the front door and glanced toward the Ilgs’ apartment that I knew what I would do with my time. After tapping on the door to make certain no one was home, I entered the parlor. “Sister Ilg?” I hadn’t seen Johanna’s mother at the garden, and I wanted to be sure she hadn’t taken to her bed with an illness of some sort. I tried to remember if I’d seen her at breakfast, but I couldn’t recall. Better to be safe.

  “It’s me, Berta Schumacher.” I tiptoed through the parlor and peeked into the bedroom. Empty. I heaved a sigh and opened the door to Johanna’s bedroom. A nagging guilt tiptoed into the room behind me, but I pushed it aside. Johanna wouldn’t mind if I borrowed her magazines. After all, I’d given her the poetry book before she left for Chicago. She’d think it a fair exchange. I carefully examined her wardrobe and dresser, but a search of both revealed nothing. Perhaps she’d taken them with her.

  My excitement plummeted. I was about to leave the room when I spied the small trunk at the foot of her bed. The chest was filled with mementoes from Johanna’s childhood. A few hand-carved toys, a doll, an old blanket, and a flour sack. My breath caught in my throat the minute I saw it. Even before I shoved my hand inside, a piece of the pink silk escaped the bag’s opening. Johanna had never destroyed my skirt. She’d either forgotten about it or she’d intentionally decided to keep it. Either way, I was pleased. I dug a little deeper, but still no magazines.

  I stood in the doorway and studied the room. Where would I hide magazines in this room? I’d checked in each piece of furniture, looked behind the wardrobe, and under the bed. Where else could they be? My gaze settled on the carpet. I dropped to my knees alongside the bed and then lay down on the carpet. Reaching beneath the bed, I traced my palm over the rug until I felt an unexpected rise in the carpet. She’d shoved the magazines beneath the rug so that if anyone looked under her bed, the magazines wouldn’t be detected. My delight mounted when I lifted the edge of the rug and was able to retrieve them. I tossed the magazines atop the bed, patted the edge of the rug into place, and got to my feet, pleased with my success.

  I rolled the magazines and tucked them inside the flour bag with my pink silk skirt. After one quick glance to ensure all was in order, I exited the bedroom, crossed the parlor, and peeked out the door before making my final escape into the foyer and up the stairs. My palms were damp with perspiration, and my breathing came in rapid spurts as I pushed open our parlor door.

  “Is that you, Berta?”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth to force back the shriek in my throat.

  “Berta?” My mother’s voice drifted from the bedroom.

  “Yes, Mother. Are you ill?” Panic held me captive as I heard her approaching footsteps. I needed to hide the bag, but before I could force my feet to move, she was in the room.

  She pointed to the cloth bag held tight in my arm. “What do you have there?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s an old flour sack that I use when I take food to the garden workers.”

  She nodded as though what I’d said was entirely believable. There was no reason for her to think I would lie about a flour bag. She continued toward the door and then stopped. Her brows pulled into a frown. “Why are you at home?”

  My thoughts swirled. “I need to change my shoes. This pair pinches my toes.” I took a step toward my bedroom. “Have you heard anything from Father?”

  She shook her head. “No, of course not. I’ve told you, Berta, that your father has never been a man to write letters. If I received any word from him, I’m certain it would be bad news. When he is away from home, I know that no news is good news.” She pointed toward the bedroom. “Don’t take long. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  I didn’t know if I believed her, but she waved and was out the door. I could only wonder what she would think when she discovered I was already in trouble. I expected Sister Muhlbach or one of the elders to mention the meeting to my mother. Then again, I didn’t really know how such matters were handled. Maybe Mother wouldn’t be advised until the elders rendered their final decision.

  I tugged and wiggled one of my dresser drawers until it had opened wide enough to shove the flour sack inside, but then I stopped. There was no reason to hurry back to the kitchen. I was already in trouble, so why not relax at home awhile longer. I dumped the contents of the bag onto my bed, reveling in the color and feel of the pink silk. Lifting the fabric, I draped it over my head and let it fall over my face, enjoying the feel of the soft, cool silk against my skin. Could I possibly repair it?

  Jumping to my feet, I spread the skirt across the bed. My hopes deflated as I traced my fingers along the jagged rip. I had hoped for a split seam that could easily be repaired, but the rip was four inches above the hem and right in the center. I doubted even a practiced seamstress could repair the frayed fabric to its previous glory. I stood back and took stock of what could be salvaged.

  Making a decision, I retrieved Mother’s sewing box, removed the scissors, and set to work. The first cut proved the most difficult, but after that initial snip I sliced through the fabric with ease. Had I been more talented with a needle and thread, I would have developed a more intricate plan, but this would have to do. Besides, no one would see my slipshod handiwork. After separating the upper portion of the skirt, I set it aside and cut the ripped portion from the lower half. Feeling satisfied with my plan, I retrieved a muslin petticoat from my dresser and arranged the pieces of pink silk over the muslin. I stood back and studied the effect. The wide strip of white muslin between the two pieces of silk would do nicely.

  After I’d stitched the silk to the upper portion of the petticoat, my concentration waned. Even this mischievous project couldn’t increase my interest in sewing. I didn’t understand why so many women claimed handwork a pleasurable activity. Sewing would never rank high on my list of favorite pastimes.

  My conscience began to prick a bit, and I thought I’d better return to the kitchen. I could finish the sewing that evening. After tucking my project into the dresser drawer, I scurried downstairs. A fleeting remembrance of my promise to Johanna flashed to mind, but I pushed aside the twinge of guilt and thought about the pink silk instead. How could something so lovely be considered improper?

  CHAPTER 26

  My sewing had gone quite well last evening. In fact, I had finished it by bedtime. Granted, my stitches were far from perfect. Where most women would have used five or six stitches, I used only one. But the appearance didn’t matter all that much. The pink silk was a memory of my past life, a time when my mother and father enjoyed my company and do
ted upon me. After tying it around my waist this morning, I stood before the mirror and stared at my lopsided handiwork. I traced my fingers along the soft fabric and longed to feel my father’s or my mother’s arms around me. Johanna said God loved me, but I couldn’t feel His embrace, either.

  It seemed an eternity since we’d come to Amana—an eternity since I’d worn my lovely pink silk. I fastened my dark calico skirt atop the petticoat and turned to make certain none of the pink fabric could be seen. Assured the silk was well hidden, I departed for the Küche. Since arranging for the meeting with the elders, Sister Muhlbach said nothing when I was late or if I didn’t complete my assigned tasks. However, I was certain she was keeping a mental record of all my wrongdoings. A list she would gladly present to the elders. A list of which I was secretly ashamed, though I’d never admit such a thing to her—she wouldn’t believe me anyway. Besides, my behavior didn’t reflect the remorse and guilt that had become more frequent since I’d made my promise to Johanna.

  Today she and Sister Dickel would go to the general store to choose the provisions for next week’s meals. The fact that she would be gone for a good long time pleased me. No doubt she’d leave a list of tasks for me to complete in her absence. And no doubt I’d ignore them. The weather was far too nice to remain indoors.

  We had completed washing the breakfast dishes and the young girls were sweeping the dining room floor when Sister Muhlbach signaled us to gather in the kitchen. The young helpers hastened to do her bidding, while I followed at a much slower pace. “I will be gone most of the morning, and I expect the noonday preparations to be completed when I return. I am depending upon you.” She hesitated and glanced at Sister Dickel. “Perhaps I should leave you here and take Berta with me.”

  Disappointment clouded Sister Dickel’s eyes, and her lips drooped into a frown. I was just as unhappy with the suggested change of plan. Shopping with Sister Muhlbach didn’t rank high on my list of fun ways to spend a morning.

  “But it’s my turn to go,” Sister Dickel said.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t change the schedule. I worry too much.” Sister Muhlbach looked at me as she spoke.

  She obviously hoped I would give her some sign that I’d be on my best behavior during her absence, but I didn’t bite. After gathering their shopping baskets, the two of them departed. I briefly considered leading the junior girls in a rebellion but doubted I could convince them. Besides, they’d be afraid to truly enjoy the experience. Instead, I wandered outside. It wasn’t long before I spotted the handyman near the toolshed.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Barton?” I strolled across the cushion of soft grass and stopped beside him.

  He lifted a saw in the air. “Cleaning the tools. Looks like the fella who worked here before me didn’t think it was important.”

  “When did it become important to you? From what I’ve seen, you wouldn’t win any prizes for hard work.”

  He glanced up at me as he rubbed an oiled cloth along the metal blade. “You’re sure a feisty gal. None of the other women say a word to me, but you’re always ready to say whatever comes to mind.”

  “I haven’t lived here as long as they have. And just so you know, I still haven’t completely forgiven you for not siding with me against Sister Muhlbach.”

  Even though the brim of his floppy hat shaded his face, he squinted against the shard of sun that reflected off the saw blade. “I already explained why I couldn’t come to your defense. Doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re a fine young lady.” He grinned. “How come you’re not inside helping fix the noon meal?”

  “Sister Muhlbach and Sister Dickel went to the general store, and I intend to enjoy this fine morning.”

  He examined the saw and gave a nod. “Well, I’ve about finished up in here. How you planning to enjoy your morning?”

  I hadn’t given the matter much thought, but when I spied a long-handled mallet in the shed, I smiled. “How about some croquet?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know what that is.”

  “I’ve only seen it played a few times, but we can make up our own rules.” After I explained the game and what was needed, Mr. Barton twisted some pieces of wire to make wickets. “We’ll have to share the mallet. It may be a bit short for you, but it will be a little long for me, so that should make us equal.”

  “You have wooden balls for us to use in this game?”

  I paced back and forth as I attempted to come up with a solution. “I know! I’ll bring some of the onions from the cellar. We can use those.”

  Before Mr. Barton could express an opinion, I raced back across the yard and down the cellar steps. I stopped on the bottom step to give my eyes time to adjust to the darkness before working my way through the dank room. My previous trips to the cellar proved helpful, and I soon located a basket of onions. Mr. Barton was poking the pieces of wire into the grass when I returned.

  “Those look like they’re in the right place?”

  I hitched my shoulders. “I don’t really recall. It doesn’t matter. We can make up the rules as we go along. That’s more fun anyway.”

  He tipped his hat back on his head. “Kind of the way you’re going through life, right? Just making up your own rules as you go along?”

  I plopped the basket of onions beside one of the wire wickets. “Exactly. I think fun is what’s most important. ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.’ In case you didn’t know, that’s from the Bible.”

  Mr. Barton leaned down and retrieved one of the onions. “Is it now? I’d never guess you’d be one to quote the Word of God, Berta.”

  “I only have a few passages committed to memory.” No need to have him thinking I was a Bible scholar.

  “And from the sound of it, the verses you’ve memorized are ones that best fit your idea of how you want to behave.”

  His comment annoyed me. Probably because I’d been plagued by moments of remorse and guilt of late. “You want to give this a try or not?”

  “Just makin’ an observation. No need to get surly.” He nodded toward the mallet. “You go first so I can see how it’s done.”

  Only the top of the onion peeked out from the grass, but I aligned myself and gave it a whack. The onion didn’t move far, but my effort destroyed a small clump of grass. “Maybe a potato would work better.”

  He took the mallet. “I don’t think a potato is gonna work any better than an onion. Here, let me give it a try.” His swing produced no better effort than my own.

  “The onion is too small and the mallet is too big. What about a head of cabbage?”

  Mr. Barton shook his head. “They won’t fit through those wires.”

  “We don’t need to use the wickets. We can lean a board against the shed and aim the head of cabbage at it. Whoever comes closest will win. What do you say?”

  “I’ll get these wires out of the yard and see if I can find something we can use for a target.” He pointed to the basket of onions. “Might as well take that basket of onions with you to the cellar.”

  I grabbed the basket handles and returned to the cellar. Each year most of the cabbage was made into sauerkraut, but I knew Sister Muhlbach kept some in reserve. I just couldn’t remember where I’d seen it. After several minutes of searching and feeling inside the baskets, I discovered cabbage. With a grunt, I lifted the heavy basket, waddled toward the steps, and called to Mr. Barton.

  When he poked his head above the door opening, I motioned him forward. “You need to carry this—it’s too heavy.”

  In no time he’d retrieved the basket and carried it to a grassy spot a distance from the shed. “What do you think? Is that going to work for our target?”

  “Looks good to me,” I said, positioning a head of cabbage on the ground. “Hope this doesn’t break the mallet.”

  “I don’t think you’re quite that strong.”

  I took the remark as a challenge and thumped the head of cabbage with a mighty wallop that landed i
t just short of the target. Mr. Barton reached for the mallet, but I pulled away, grabbed another cabbage from the basket, and placed it in position. “I get two hits and then you get two.”

  “Right. I forgot you make up the rules as we go along.” He held up his hand. “If you miss this time, does it go up to three times before I take a swing?”

  The man could certainly be aggravating with his offhand remarks. “No, it won’t be increased. We each get two swings before we hand over the mallet.” I settled into position, swung, and kept my focus on the flying cabbage. “Good one!” I jumped up and down, delighted that I’d met with success.

  “It only grazed the side of the board. I don’t think it should count as a direct hit.”

  “You’re jealous because you didn’t think I’d succeed.” I pointed to the mallet. “Go ahead. Let me see you do any better.”

  Snatching a cabbage from the basket, he dropped it to the ground.

  “Wait! You have to move farther back. My arms are shorter than yours.” I extended my arm to prove I was right.

  Using the toe of his boot, he moved the cabbage to the spot I picked. “You sure this is where you want me?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re not gonna change your mind once I have the mallet in the air, are ya?”

  I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. “I said I wasn’t going to change my mind. Quit holding up the game and hit the cabbage.”

  “I’m not the one changing the rules,” he muttered as he took aim and swung the mallet. The cabbage careened through the air and landed against the shed with a splattering force.

  “Excellent! I want to do that with mine.”

  “You’re gonna have to hit it harder next time.” He positioned his second head of cabbage and once again met with the same success. Pieces of cabbage flew in all directions.