The sourness of a cabin full of sweaty men, unwashed after a long day of hard work, assaulted Annalisa anew. Her stomach swirled with the growing bouts of nausea. The stuffy heat, the spicy caraway of Mutter’s rostbratwurst, the tanginess of the sauerkraut—none of it eased her discomfort.
And it didn’t help that she was the center of the discussion.
“Nein! We won’t even consider it.” Vater pointed the nub of his missing forefinger at Herr Pastor. “It’s a good thing you’re a man of God or I’d send you running like Samson did to the Philistines.”
Annalisa leaned against the cool log wall with its mud and hay chinking and let it soothe the heat of her back. She longed to scoop up Gretchen, who was playing with the other children in the loft, and go home to bed.
She was tired of listening to everyone discuss Hans’s death, and she was tired of worrying about what would happen next.
But she couldn’t leave—not without knowing the fate Vater decided for her.
As hard as it had been with Hans, she knew there were men who were worse, men who wouldn’t hesitate to beat her or Gretchen.
Herr Pastor took a bite of bread, seemingly unruffled by Vater’s outburst. Of all the men in the room, Reverend Hermann Loehe was the most educated and spoke English well enough to converse with the locals. He’d resided in Forestville the longest and had helped their community in countless ways since they’d arrived. They couldn’t afford to alienate him.
His wife, Frau Pastor, broke away from the group of women in the corner and bustled to the table with more kartoffelsuppe.
“I could post a letter to my former parish down in Frankenlust,” Herr Pastor offered. “They may have an unattached man who might be willing to relocate.”
“Good idea, dear-heart,” Frau Pastor said, ladling the soup into his bowl. Her fleshy cheeks were flushed and curved into a dimpled smile. She was the only woman who ever dared entering into the men’s conversations. “I’m sure there would be a man worthy of our dear Annalisa from among the congregation.”
“A complete stranger is no good,” Vater bellowed as he held out his plate to Mutter.
As if Mutter had been watching for his summons, she scurried to the table to do his bidding and refill his plate. She still wore the same woolen peasant garb she’d brought with her from the Old Country. In fact, the plain brown dress and matching headscarf were the same she’d worn on the ship six years ago when they’d sailed out of Hamburg.
Even during the long months when they’d had to live in Detroit before finding land to buy, Mutter had insisted on wearing her sack-like garb. Most of the other Saxon women, when faced with ridicule over their heavy woolen clothes, had quickly conformed to the American styles.
But not Mutter. She would not think of wasting even the smallest length of thread to reshape their dresses.
“It’s too bad Leonard was the last of our men needing a wife.” Vater crossed his hands behind his head, revealing round damp spots under his arms. His sweaty hair stuck to his wide sun-browned forehead. Even though the door was open to invite in the cool evening air, the windows were sealed with oiled paper instead of glass, and the welcome fresh air refused to enter.
At the end of the table, Leonard belched. “Maybe it’s not too late to make an exchange, Herr Bernthal.”
Vater only harrumphed and waggled his hand at Mutter, trying to hurry her along with his second plate of sausage.
“I’ll give you back Idette,” Leonard continued, “in exchange for Annalisa.”
Annalisa stiffened. Next to her, Idette sucked in a breath.
“Idette is a lazy wife, and she has no experience with children.”
Vater sat forward and stared down the length of the table at Leonard. “I don’t know what kind of nonsense you’re speaking. None of my children are lazy. I’ve raised them all to be hard workers.”
Annalisa groped for Idette’s fingers. At seventeen her sister was only two years younger than she. Even so, inheriting five children on one’s wedding day would have taxed the most matronly of women. So far her sister had done the best she could. Couldn’t Leonard see that?
“A cow could manage my children better than she does,” Leonard grumbled.
The muscles in Idette’s hand tightened under Annalisa’s hold. Color infused her sister’s pretty face, and she learned forward as if she would defend herself.
“Then maybe I should have given you a cow instead of my daughter.” Vater leveled a stern look at Leonard.
“She’ll adjust,” Herr Pastor said quickly, glancing between Vater and Leonard, his whiskery eyebrows furrowing.
“Yes, give the child time,” Frau Pastor added. “After all, the wedding was less than three weeks ago. She’s young, hardly older than your children. And these things aren’t easy.”
“I’m doing the very best I can,” Idette said.
Annalisa knew she ought to stop Idette from speaking disrespectfully to her husband. But she couldn’t, not when she’d always admired Idette’s spirit and courage and wished she could have just a small measure of it for herself.
Idette lifted her chin and continued, “And I do everything I’m told.”
Leonard rolled his eyes. “That’s the problem. I need a wife who will see what needs to be done and do it without having to be told like a child.”
“You must gently instruct her,” Herr Pastor said. But his words were drowned by the guffaws and loud protests of the other men at the table. Pastor’s advice was as foreign to them as many of the American customs.
Idette glared at Leonard. “He’s a brute,” she whispered to Annalisa. “You’re lucky to be rid of your husband.”
Lucky? Annalisa knew better. Having a bad husband was better than no husband. What hope did she have for her future without a husband?
For several minutes the room filled with the usual boisterous noise, as all the men were talking at the same time.
Finally, Vater swallowed his last bite of sausage and shoved his plate to the center of the table. “I still have not solved the problem of what to do for Annalisa.”
If only she had a golden apple, or a golden goose, or something gold from one of the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales. Then she would be able to provide Gretchen with a better life.
Vater’s voice rose to dominate all the others. “If she doesn’t have a husband, she’ll lose the land.”
“Why not sell it to Ward since he wants it?” someone said.
“Nein, I won’t sell—” Annalisa caught herself and reined in her words, even though everything within her rose in objection. How could she stand back and let them sell her home and property to a crook like Ward? Where would they live? What would she do? She had no training or skills. How would she take care of Gretchen?
She pressed a hand to her abdomen. And maybe she’d have another life to care for. With the increasing nausea and the tenderness of her bosom, she had begun to suspect she was with child. It wasn’t good timing. But she was sure she would love a new baby as passionately as she loved Gretchen.
As far as she could see, babies were the only good that came out of marriage.
But it would mean she must work all the harder. And how could she do that if she allowed Ward to take over the farm?
Thankfully, Vater was already shaking his head. “That dummboozle is as bad as Pharaoh enslaving the Israelites. We’ve already fought to free ourselves from the slavery of the dukes and barons of the Old Country, and we won’t allow any man to control us again.”
A chorus of jawohls and nods met his words.
“I won’t give that man the satisfaction of buying Hans’s farm, even if he puts a gun to my head.” An angry scowl creased the thick beefy roundness of Vater’s face. “If we let him build that sawmill, he won’t do us any favors. He’ll only empty our pockets by overcharging us for boards.”
Like everyone in the room, Annalisa knew Vater’s hatred wasn’t directed so much at Ward as it was at Baron von Reichart, the nobleman whose selfishn
ess and cruelty had cost Vater the life of his oldest son.
If not for Baron von Reichart, they might never have left their homeland and all their family.
If not for Baron von Reichart, they might not have had to give up mining and learn a whole new way of living.
If not for Baron von Reichart, Vater would have two cherished sons, instead of one.
“Nein,” Vater said. “We’ll find a way to help Annalisa keep the farm.”
“Why bother helping her?” Leonard said. “As reckless as Hans was, she won’t be able to pay off the loan by next fall anyway.”
Annalisa ducked her head and moved away from the wall. Even in his death, Hans was still shaming her. She bustled toward the shelves where she had left her pies cooling earlier when she’d brought them from home, and she refused to meet the gazes of the other women.
No one else needed to say anything. They all knew Leonard was referring to Hans’s foolishness with their money.
“If she loses the farm next fall, so be it,” Vater declared. “But at least the land will default back to Jacob Buel, and Jacob is a good businessman. He despises Ward as much as we do. I have no doubt he’ll find another Deutscher to loan to.”
Idette whispered into her ear, having followed her to the pies. “Don’t listen to them. They’re all dummboozles.” Her sister’s scandalous tone mimicked their father’s.
Under normal circumstances, Idette’s playful banter would have cheered Annalisa. But not today. Not when she was tired and sick . . . and worried. She might be free from Hans and all of his problems, but she’d gained an even bigger problem. She had exactly one year to pay the remainder of the loan on the farm or lose everything. The loan had been set at four hundred dollars plus interest, and she still had over one hundred left to pay.
After Hans’s poor management of their profits, she was already behind on what she needed to earn. Without the help of a strong man to run and maintain the farm, she was doomed.
Annalisa slipped her hand under the pie, baked from the last of the apples she and Gretchen had picked early that morning. The earthenware pan was warm against her palm, and she breathed deeply of the sugary cinnamon scent.
“Let’s hide the pies.” Idette reached for the other pan. “Then we can eat them for ourselves later.”
“Ach, you’re as silly as always.”
Idette flashed her an impish grin.
But Annalisa’s lips were stiff, like the crust of day-old bread. Her sister was only trying to coax a smile from her, but how could she ever smile again? Not now with so much at stake.
She wound her way to the table and slid the pie onto the edge near Herr Pastor. Then she stood back and watched his face.
His eyes lit, and he rubbed at the whiskers on his chin as if making space for more crumbs. “Annalisa, you bake the best pies I’ve ever tasted.”
The words of praise spread warmth to her heart as they usually did. What had she done wrong that Hans had never praised her?
She slid a fork under the perfectly flaky piecrust and lifted out a wedge for Pastor. She’d hardly slid it onto his plate before he sank his fork in.
Vater reached for his plate, and his eyes regarded her with narrowed seriousness. “I’ve made up my mind. The only thing left for me to do is write to my brother, Matthias, in Essen and ask him to find a young man from among our kin to come over and marry Annalisa.”
The other men chorused their agreement.
Their calls fueled Vater’s plan. “Herr Pastor,” he said eagerly, “will you write the letter this very night? Then we can post it tomorrow.”
A husband from among their kin? From their homeland? Annalisa let the idea sift through her. Of course they had many relatives still living in Saxony. Would marrying one of her distant cousins provide the solution to her problems?
“Matthias is a wise man. He’ll find someone good for Annalisa.” Vater nodded at her, as if to tell her he understood the difficulties she’d endured with Hans and that this time he hoped to find her a better match. “If we’re very lucky, he’ll come to us in time for spring planting.”
She nodded in return. She knew Vater was doing what he thought was best for her. And she would submit to his authority. But she still couldn’t keep from wishing somehow things could be different—that she could be more important to the men in her life, that she could make them love her, that she could find a way to earn God’s attention.
Maybe if she’d been a better daughter or wife . . .
“In the meantime,” Herr Pastor said between bites, “we must all work together to help Annalisa through the winter.”
His suggestion was met with several unenthusiastic ja’s.
“You’re right, dear-heart.” Frau Pastor patted her husband’s cheek with an affection that Annalisa often saw between them but couldn’t understand. “I don’t like the idea that Annalisa will be all alone. We all know E. B. Ward can’t be trusted.”
Vater shoveled in a forkful of pie from the slice Idette had given him. “I’ll send Uri and Eleanor over to check on her and to help.”
The tension eased from Annalisa’s back.
Her younger sister would soon be of marriageable age and could shoulder a woman’s work. And if her brother came to help—even though he was only twelve—she would be just fine. She hoped . . .
At least until her groom arrived.
Chapter
2
JANUARY 1881
ESSEN, GERMANY
Carl von Reichart peered out the lone barred window of his dungeon cell.
In less than four hours, he would die.
The frigid January air squeezed through a crack in the window and reached around his neck, grabbing him, sending chills over his skin, reminding him that all too soon his head would be severed from his body.
He pressed his thin cheeks against the icy steel of the bars.
He didn’t know why he wanted to look outside. He should be on his knees in prayer—as he’d been most of the night.
But he couldn’t help himself. It was as if some unseen force had magnetized him and wouldn’t let him rest. The tormenting force kept fanning the hope that maybe—just maybe—he’d look out and see that things had changed.
And yet there in the earliest hours of dawn in the middle of the courtyard in his father’s ancient schloss, stood the guillotine, in exactly the same spot it had been only an hour before. And the hour before that. Exactly where one of his father’s servants had erected it the previous day.
It was still there with the winter moonlight gleaming upon the sharp blade, and the stone positioned where he would lay his cheek. Even the basket sat where it would capture his bloodied head.
His father had spared no effort for the public spectacle.
With a mirthless laugh Carl lowered his heels back to the bench. He stepped off the rickety slab of board that boasted the only furniture in the cell that had been his home for the past two weeks.
The flicker of an oil lamp in the dungeon’s long dark hallway cast a gaunt light over the rotten straw that covered the floor. A rat scurried along one of the stone walls, probably stealing the crumbs that remained on the platter from his last meal.
Carl dropped to the bench and gave a half grin. “Rat, you have committed more crimes than I have with your thieving ways. How is it that you have the freedom to come and go, while I am stuck in here?”
Of course, the rat didn’t stop to answer but instead scuttled through the bars on the door and disappeared into the blackness of the passageway. He hadn’t expected the creature to strike up a conversation, but the loneliness of the cavern pressed upon him more heavily this night than on any other.
“Too bad you cannot speak to me audibly, Lord.” He lifted his eyes, but all that met his gaze were the low beams of the ceiling. “I know you’ll remind me that many innocent men have been martyred in centuries past. Perhaps one sat in this same spot praying to you the night before his execution just as I am.”
Carl
leaned his head against the damp wall, heedless of the mold that covered the stone. He’d lost all sense of cleanliness many days ago. The stench of excrement and decay that had overpowered him for the first couple of days had all but disappeared, likely deep into the pores of his filthy skin.
“But I cannot complain. At least my father has had the civility to feed me well.”
The problem was that he had no appetite and hadn’t since the awful night two weeks ago when the bomb had exploded in the duke’s palace, killing a servant and severely injuring one of the nobleman’s sons.
The investigators had easily located the supplies left behind by the murderer. The wires, chemicals, and other items of destruction had all belonged to only one person in all of Essen—Carl von Reichart. Him. Everyone knew Baron von Reichart’s son was a physicist and an inventor and had a laboratory full of every kind of chemical imaginable.
Carl had been mortified to think his laboratory supplies had killed a man and almost murdered an innocent child. In fact, he became sick to his stomach every time he thought about it.
But he hadn’t expected everyone to turn on him, to think him capable of the horrible deed, even if the evidence pointed directly at him.
How could anyone believe him guilty of such a heinous crime? What reason did he have to murder the duke or his son? He was a wealthy nobleman, not one of those whining, malcontent peasant rebels.
With a groan Carl slid off the bench and got on his knees. He bowed his head and folded his hands. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis . . .”
Should he try something besides the Lord’s Prayer? Maybe something in his native German language instead of Latin?
Would anything really help?
The words of the prayer died on his lips.
It was January first, anno Domini 1881, the year he would turn thirty-one.
But he would not live to see the light of that future day, nor any other.
He might as well stop praying for deliverance and accept the fate that had been handed to him—whether he deserved it or not.
Jody Hedlund Page 2