As we climb higher, we find the mountain laurel—clusters of small, white umbrellas dotted inside with crimson and trimmed with green. But my very favorite is the maypop—a pale lady just like a doll, with arms held out as if in a dance and an extravagant fringed skirt of purple and white. We gather a few of each flower to bring to Mama, who spends most of these spring days sewing linens to replace those we used to bind the wounds of the soldiers.
The war has ended, and the Northern army has won. Some blue soldiers stay in the town and tell people what to do, and Mama and Papa do not like it, but they say they are thankful that there will be no more battles. Mama says she is sorry about the Yankee soldiers who got blown up by accident on the big ship with the long name that starts with an “L,” when they were on their way home to their families. She says that, Yankees or not, they are people’s sons and husbands, and it is sad that they had to die.
I don’t know how, with all the sorrow they have brought us, she is able to find more sorrow for their deaths. If they had died earlier, they might never have come here.
*****
NOVEMBER 29, 1865
(SIX MONTHS LATER)
Franklin, Tennessee
Mama enters the darkened room bearing the surprise she has been promising—an amazing cake, layers high, decorated with red berries and seven candles. The candlelight captures the love in her eyes as she looks at me, the pride of accomplishment in the set of her wide, firm mouth. Since our fruit trees and nut trees are all gone, Mama has gathered the apples and pecans for this cake from neighbors in town, trading with our milk and eggs. And now we have Bertie’s sweet, creamy milk ourselves, to go with the cake. Our dining room is patched and dark, but Mama has laid the table with our good china and silver to make a seventh birthday party for me, and I have put on my best blue cotton dress with white lace and white pantaloons. It is tighter and shorter than it was last year, but still my favorite.
Earlier this evening, after dinner and before the cake, Papa was teaching me how to waltz, and the skirts of my dress spun out like the petals of a flower. First I stood on Papa’s feet and felt the way he was moving as he twirled me around the room. Then I stood on my own and followed as he led me, first in slow, small circles, and then in wide, sweeping ones. It was the loveliest feeling to glide with Papa to the movement of the music. After a while I did not even think of where my feet would go, but moved as I think a bird must fly—naturally, joyfully.
Now the best part of the evening has come—the cake and the song.
“Amelia, will you lead?” Mama asks.
Everyone in our family likes to sing, but Amelia is the true musician, the one who is always asked to sing solos in the church choir, and for whom Papa, as soon as he could make the house livable again, has repaired our family piano. Now she makes a little extra money for us by giving piano lessons, but she also brightens our evenings by playing. She begins to sing in her high, precise soprano voice. Papa joins in, his voice warm and light as a summer sky. I later learn that his voice is called tenor, and that Mama’s rich, deep tones are called alto. Paul sings, too, and even Gus, lisping. They sing for me a traditional German birthday song:
Viel Gluck und viel Segen
Auf all Deinen Wegen,
Gesundheit und Fohsinn
Sei auch mit dabei!
It means much luck and many blessings on all your ways, good health and cheerfulness be also with you. I look around the table at each of them—Papa’s gentle, sensitive face, Mama’s often stern face smiling widely at my happiness, Paul’s and Gus’s excitement as they eye the cake and fruit—and I tell myself to remember this moment forever. Then I blow out the seven candles, taking an extra breath for the last one, the candle of this last, most difficult year. I am thankful that it is my last birthday party we are remembering together, and not those other days immediately following, though the consequences of the battle will return to plague us for longer than we had imagined.
*****
JULY 1869
(FOUR YEARS LATER)
Franklin, Tennessee
A loud pounding on the front door freezes my hand in mid-sketch. Paul and I look at each other fearfully. The pounding continues, forceful, not the tap of a neighborly visit. Papa answers, and Paul and I hide around the corner in the parlor to listen. From the parlor window we see two men on our porch and four others who are holding horses in the street at the foot of the walkway.
“Albert Lotz?” barks a tall man with a bristly red beard and a face like a pig’s—little, deep-set dark eyes set in rolls of reddened flesh.
“Yes, I am Johann Albert Lotz,” Papa answers in his formal, mild way.
“We hear you’ve been making a pianny.”
“Indeed, more than one. I am a woodworker.”
“Y-e-s-s-s, but this one is partic-a-lar,” drawls the pig man.
“Oh, how so?” answers Papa.
Something is wrong; this is not a friendly visit. If it were, Papa would have asked these people to come in and sit down. Instead, he steps out of the house and closes the door behind him. I help Paul to lift the window nearest the porch as quietly as we can, to listen.
“We hear that this par-tic-a-lar pianny got an American eagle on it, is that right?”
“Sir, I am not sure I like your tone. Would you kindly identify yourself, and introduce these people with you?”
“Well, pretty much all you need to know is that we here are members of the Klan over to Pulaski, couple counties south of here, and we’ve come to take a look at your pianny.”
For the past year, Papa has been working in most of his spare time on a wonderful new piano. He has used the best rosewood he could obtain, and crafted each part with all his skills. Now that the war has been over for several years, Papa wants to make this piano as a memorial to peace in the nation, so he has carved on top of the front panel a great American eagle with outstretched wings, holding the Federal flag and the Confederate flag, one in each talon. I think it is one of the loveliest pieces he has ever made.
Papa hesitates and then says, “Well, I do not see any harm in your looking at the piano. It is out in my workshop, behind the house. But I will ask that only one or two of you come with me, so we do not alarm my family.”
Papa’s words bring me back to that other day when many frightening men were at our door. I catch my breath, and Paul puts his arm around my shoulder.
The pig man nods at the man next to him, also tall but thin, with a leathery face, and wearing a Confederate uniform even though the Confederacy lost the war years ago. These must be the two leaders of this group. They follow Papa down the stairs and around to the back of the house, while the others—five of them—stand out front with the horses. Paul and I tear off down the hall to the kitchen and out the back door, where we can hide around the corner of the house near enough to Papa’s workshop to hear their voices. It is not difficult to hear the voices of the visitors who soon are shouting.
“See there, Glover,” says the leathery uniformed man. “It’s just as we hear’d. That eagle is desecratin’ the Confederate flag!”
“It surely seems to be so, Seth,” the pig man drawls menacingly.
“Gentlemen, you misunderstand! This is meant as a monument to peace now that the war is over. It is meant to respect both North and South, to bring the two together.”
“The two will never be together, German, though I doubt you could understand that since you don’t belong here.”
The last snarling remark is in the voice of the leathery man. How could someone speak to Papa so?
But Papa does not answer angrily. He merely says, “Sir, I have lived, worshipped, and worked in this community for many years. It is my home, and no one regrets the bloody war more deeply than I.”
“Mmph,” snorts the leathery voice.
“Be that as it might,” pig man answers, “there is no denying that this eagle’s claw is digging into the flag of our Confederacy just like it was a rabbit to devour. Can you deny t
hat, Lotz?”
“I do not deny that the talon grips the flag, but this is how the grain of the wood demands I carve it. I do deny your interpretation. The eagle is holding both flags together, lifting both together—”
“Say what you want, German, this is an insult that will not go unpunished!” leather man shouts.
“We are the power now. It’s up to us to keep the Confederacy alive, Lotz, and you have not cooperated,” pig man threatens.
They emerge from the workshop, the two angry men pushing Papa backward toward the house. My heart is beating nearly out of my chest. Paul, who is now twelve, is about to go to Papa to help him when Papa raises his open palm in the air to speak.
“Gentlemen, I have no quarrel with you, and certainly none with the Confederacy.”
“Your actions speak more loudly, German,” says leather man, moving toward the front of the house.
Papa stands on the porch as they ride away, his dear hands hanging helplessly by his sides. Suddenly, he looks older than ever he has before.
*****
LATE JULY 1869
(ABOUT TWO WEEKS LATER)
Franklin, Tennessee
Mama is crying. Papa is continuing to question his friend from Giles County who has arrived breathless a short time before. Paul and I are not supposed to be listening, but of course we are listening from our perch on the stairs that allows us to hear everything, even through closed doors. We have sent Gus out to the kitchen to “help” Amelia just in case something frightening is going on.
Something frightening is going on.
“Yes, I am certain of what I have heard. It is rumored everywhere. The Ku Klux Klan wants to tar and feather you, right here in your own yard. They want to make an example of you.”
“Because of a piano?”
“Because of many things, Albert. This is difficult to say but you must understand. Many people in Tennessee call you a neighbor and a friend, but you are not from here. You and your son did not fight for us.”
Papa nods slowly. “Yes, I see. So they would kill me?”
Mama lets out a sob.
“Worse, Albert. They would cover your body with liquid tar that would strip the skin right off of you. Then they would pour feathers over you to mock you, which might just smother you to death. If you survived, and I say if, you would be hideously disfigured for the rest of your life, and a laughingstock among those who do not know you for the man you are. Your reputation would be destroyed. There is nothing to do but flee.”
“But my family would have to leave everything they know and love. And my business—I have just begun to turn a real profit again. And the house I have built, and rebuilt, with my own hands.
“I know, Albert. I would like to see you and your family stay in your home and continue to contribute to this community, but to stay would almost surely cost you your life, and perhaps endanger your family, as well.”
“We must go, Albert,” Mama says, wiping her tears and speaking with a firmness that gives me courage. “There is no question. We must go as soon as ever we can.”
“Your wife is a wise woman, Albert. Do not think twice about this.” The visitor stands to leave. “And do not speak my name to anyone in connection with this if you have ever been my friend.”
“Of course, of course. I am deeply grateful to you for your kindness, William. No doubt I owe you my life.”
When the adults begin to say their good-byes, we quickly steal upstairs to the hallway, looking at each other in fear and disbelief. The worst part is not being able to ask Papa and Mama what it all means. I cry, and Paul puts his arm around my shoulder. I can feel his body trembling. Then he is crying, too.
*****
AUGUST 1869
(TWO DAYS LATER)
Franklin, TN
Mama gathers Amelia, Paul, Gus, and me into the library where Papa is sitting in his reading chair. It is early evening, just before dinner, and a gentle light filters through the window and onto his face. The feeling of the room is as quiet and serious as if we were in church. We stand before him, and Mama takes her place behind him, her hand on his shoulder. Papa’s explanation is simple and irrefutable.
“My dear children, we have a situation that demands that we leave our home,” he begins.
Amelia catches her breath, her hand flying to her mouth, the color draining from her face. She grips a side table for support. Paul and I look at each other, trying to show surprise, hoping that Papa and Mama will not guess that we already know. Gus, who is only seven, truly is surprised, his mouth opening and shutting soundlessly like a puppet’s.
“Your mother and I have had to move many times before,” he continues. “We know how to prepare for our journey, and in fact we have already begun to prepare. There is nothing to be concerned about.”
“But where will we go, Papa?” Gus blurts out.
“In a moment, Augustus,” Mama says.
“The great difficulty, of course, will be leaving this house, which has been a fine home to us, and leaving the Carters and other neighbors who are true friends,” Papa continues. “But as I have said, your mother and I have done this before. We know that we can build a new home, and that we will find kind and good people anywhere we go.”
Amelia is nodding, so Paul and I nod, too, but Mama is searching our faces. She knows us well; surely she guesses from our lack of emotion that we are not hearing about this for the first time. Her brow is wrinkling.
“Augustus, you would like to know where we are going, and I will tell you. We shall cross the country to the State of California,” Papa says.
Now it is Paul who gasps, but with enthusiasm—this truly is news, and a great adventure. My heart is beating quickly, and I do not know whether I am terrified or excited, or perhaps both. I take Paul’s hand and squeeze it tightly.
“There is a great deal of opportunity in California, and many people are choosing to relocate there, so we will not only have companions for our journey, but customers for the woodworking business when we arrive.” Papa pauses, and looks up at Mama. “You need to understand, children, that we must act very quickly to leave the town of Franklin within the next two weeks.”
My stomach lurches. Paul takes his hand away to rub it, and I realize that I have been digging my fingernails into his palm. Now, added to the threats made to Papa, are the fear of swift change, and the fear of the unknown.
Neither Mama nor Papa speaks for a moment, so Paul does. “Papa, what will be our route? Will we go through Indian country? Will we drive a covered wagon? Will we join a wagon train? Will we take the animals? Will we take our belongings with us?”
Papa gives a little laugh and holds up his hand. “One question at a time, son. We have been advised not to attempt the Oregon-California Trail this year, since it is already August, and we could not hope to arrive at Independence, Missouri, to embark for at least another month. This would risk impassable winter weather, especially in the western mountains. Your mama has written to her cousin in Germantown outside of Memphis, and we have been invited to stay with her family until early spring of next year when we will head north to Independence to begin the Trail. Amelia, you met Cousin Hilda and her husband Rudi, ahem, Herr Schotter, while we were living in Nashville. Do you remember them?”
Amelia clears her throat. “Yes, I remember them. It is very kind of them to ask us to stay.” Amelia does not seem enthusiastic about the reunion. She still looks white as milk, and her eyes are shining as if she is about to cry, though she does not.
“Indeed it is kind of them to put up an entire family for so many months,” says Mama. “We will do all we can to be a help to them, and not a burden.”
All of us children nod or murmur agreement.
“Now, Paul, you would like to know what we will take with us,” Papa continues. “The answer is that we will take very little, only what will fit into about one half of a wagon, since the other half will be filled with provisions. We will be living very simply for a while.” He loo
ks at Amelia and smiles so tenderly that she returns his smile, though hers trembles. It will be very hard for Amelia to leave her piano, her lessons, and her students, not to mention her friends and possible beaus. For Paul, Gus, and me, our home itself is largely our world, but Amelia has been discovering a larger world, and will have to put it aside for a time.
“Now, I think it is time for supper,” Mama says briskly. “Chicken and dumplings in honor of our new beginnings.” She doesn’t need to tell us, since the delicious aroma fills the house. I guess we will not need the chickens for much longer.
Papa rises and walks toward the dining room. He has not answered Paul’s question about the Indians, but I am sure Paul will keep asking until he finds out.
*****
LATE AUGUST 1869
(TWO WEEKS LATER)
Franklin, Tennessee
Change has swept in on us like a mighty storm, lifting our family in its updraft and ultimately carrying us away, will we, nil we. We surrender to its currents because we must.
During these last weeks in our home, I study Papa’s and Mama’s faces from day to day. I want to learn how they are dealing with this crisis, to understand how to carry the confusion of feelings in my heart. Neither of them ever seems to change, neither ever wavers, at least not in the sight of us children. They speak very little—practical details about our tasks or words of encouragement, but they seem to say with each look and movement: This is the burden we have been given; we will simply carry it, and we will help one another to carry it. This is what I try to do, though I cannot stop thinking about the pig man and the leather man and the mean-looking men they brought with them—another army, more horrible people who are trying to hurt us when we weren’t hurting anybody. It is so unfair that it makes my stomach hurt.
Strangers come and go as Papa sells our dining table and the chairs where we sat to take our meals together, our sofas and soft chairs where we sat to read and talk, his desk and bookshelves, even most of his treasured books. He sells the fine wood for making furniture that he has accumulated with such difficulty since the battle. And then, unimaginably, he sells our house.
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