by Cathy Marie Hake, Lynn A. Coleman, Mary Davis, Susan Page Davis
Lorelei opened the door, and a combination of aromas from the kitchen and her light, floral perfume greeted him. Her eyes sparkled. “We waited breakfast on you. There’s even some applesauce—cinnamon applesauce.”
He cracked a grim smile. They’d tried to do their part to make this comfortable. After breakfast, they moved from the kitchen table to the small parlor.
Lorelei smoothed her Sunday-best dress. “I thought to have us sing a bit, read a passage of scripture, and pray.”
Russell shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “Ladies, I’ll not be a hypocrite. I won’t sing the words to those hymns. I don’t feel them, and a man ought not misrepresent himself to the Lord or to others.”
Mrs. Goetz smoothly invited, “Then listen and hum. You can appreciate the music even if the lyrics don’t quite match your thoughts.”
Satisfied with that compromise, Russell sat down and hummed old, familiar hymns. Lorelei lovingly opened her Bible and paused a moment as she fingered the ribbon marking the passages she’d selected. She didn’t start reading from the left page where the Psalms began. Instead, she shifted the Bible slightly and began reading. “Psalm four: ‘Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness: thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer….’ ”
Three psalms she read, her expressive voice rising and falling, carrying a range of emotions that made the psalmist come alive. Before now, the Psalms had never been much more than pretty words to Russell. The depth and complexity in the verses struck several nerves.
After Lorelei finished reading, Mrs. Goetz prayed. Lorelei had once told him that her mother usually prayed in German, but at the meals they’d shared, she prayed in English. Even so, then, as today, she occasionally slipped and called God Vater instead of Father. Her prayer, so honest and intimate, made the ache in his heart double.
Seconds after saying, “Amen,” Mrs. Goetz smiled at him. “Russell, you will stay for dinner?”
“I can’t. I have to go.” He stood and saw the surprise, shock, and chagrin on Lorelei’s face. He couldn’t help it. He had to get out of there, shift his thinking, and shut down the unexpected flood of emotions he felt from hearing David’s words, the hymns, and prayer.
At home, the haunting passages played through his mind. He’d never appreciated how David was a warrior. He’d been besieged, seen comrades fall. I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety…. The words from the psalm nagged him, taunted, and wouldn’t let go. Even after enduring combat, killing and seeing his own men perish, David could lie down in peace—and he slept. Oh, to have my head hit the pillow and not relive the horror of what I saw and did!
David the soldier was also David the musician, the one who sang unto the Lord. I can’t sing. Nothing flows from me but anger and sadness. How did David manage?
As the week went by, Russell found himself humming as the words of hymns Lorelei and her mother had sung seeped into his memory. “Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide. The darkness deepens …” Russell knew all about darkness—not just the pitch black of night, but the ugliness of the soul. In the silent moments when Russell paused from his work to rub his leg or catch his breath, he’d recall the lyrics again and again. “Lord, with me abide….”
The next Sunday, he took a harmonica to worship, hoping to drown out the lyrics. He didn’t want to remember how he’d once treasured those hymns and believed them, had held faith in a loving God. Russell hoped if he concentrated on playing, the lyrics wouldn’t continually intrude upon his conscience, but nothing could drown out the sweet blend of Lorelei and her mother’s voices as they worshiped the God they loved so dearly—the same one who turned His face away and allowed Russell to wallow in the aftermath of man’s ultimate evil.
No matter how hard he worked, regardless of the physical difficulty or the mental acuity required for a task, Russell couldn’t free himself from the persistent reminders and memories of what Lorelei and her mother sang, read, or said. Between the songs of reverence and praise and the scriptures, he left the Goetz cottage and lived with the echoes of worship all week long.
Daytime was hard enough; nights grew nearly impossible. Russell would lie in bed and fight to find a comfortable position. His leg troubled him after the exertions of the day, and that pain only compounded his inability to sleep well. He’d toss and turn, besieged by flashes of battlefield memories. Jolting awake, he’d struggle to reorient himself. In the moments after he established that he was safe in his bed, he’d try to substitute a different vision in his mind. Time and again, his thoughts would go to Lorelei as she held up a stained-glass window of Christ or as she read her Bible. Lorelei laughing. Sun shimmering on her golden hair as she bowed her head in prayer. She had the peace he craved. It didn’t take a genius to figure out her peace ran soul deep—but the problem was, his trouble plumbed the depths of his soul.
Each Sunday, he kept his promise and went to their cottage. At first it was just to keep them safe, but in the following weeks it became a habit. Sunday morning became the only way he marked time. He’d left home and family behind in search of a refuge, to get away from others; yet he paid a weekly visit to his neighbors, sat in their parlor, and examined how others in the Bible had endured the separation from God he was experiencing.
Most of all, Russell identified with David. He’d lost his friend Jonathan. He’d gone to battle, been brave, then shook with fear. Psalm after psalm revealed the ups and downs he’d experienced—the joys, the sorrows, the fears, the depression. David was just as likely to cry in grief and sorrow as he was to sing in victory.
David—David had known the ugliness that lurked not only in other men’s souls, but in his own, too. War had forced Russell to do things he’d never imagined himself doing. He’d slain—even rejoiced and taken pride in causing his enemies’ deaths. That fact plagued him … but King David—the warrior, the psalmist—had done the same thing. And Lorelei had said David was a man after God’s heart.
Right and wrong—they once were so clear. Now Russell struggled to reconcile a loving God with all He allowed to happen. As time passed, Russell’s anger started to give way to unspeakable sorrow.
David had times of darkness when he couldn’t see God’s face. Why had he still called out to God? And why can’t I? Russell shook his head. I can’t.
Chapter 16
It’s cold in here.”
Lorelei nodded absently and tapped a nail into the surface to keep the next piece of glass in place.
“Why didn’t you light the fire?” Russell tromped across the workroom toward the potbelly stove.
“Please, don’t light it.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “The newspaper says it is best to leave the house cold. They think it kills the microorganisms for the influenza.”
“The cold will kill you before it kills the germs. You don’t dare catch a chill. It’ll weaken your lungs and make you a prime target.” He opened the grated front of the small stove, then slammed it shut.
“Come look at this window. I’ve been working on it for your parlor. Remember the pieces I couldn’t match? I’ve removed the original edge, cut and used those pieces, and reformed the border with this opalescent gold. See how the amber makes the vertical lines shimmer?”
“What about that spot in the middle?”
“I couldn’t quite make the glass stretch far enough, so I decided we’d put jewels here, here, and there.” She touched the empty spots.
“Jewels?”
“Yes.” She pulled a box from a shelf off to her right and opened the lid.
“Oh. Bauble things.”
She laughed. “There are plain, smooth, round ones, or we can use faceted ones. What do you prefer?”
He reached over her shoulder and used his forefinger to push the jewels around in the box until he found one that appealed to him. “This kind.” He picked it up and set it on her work board. “Yeah. I like that a lot.”
&nbs
p; “I agree. We need two more.” Before he could respond, Lorelei hurriedly added, “In fact, there are many supplies I need to buy—more lead cames, more solder, and emery so I can smooth out the chips on some of your pieces in order to repair them best.”
“Make a list. I’ll go to town.”
“I knew you’d offer, but it won’t work. I need to look at the things and decide for myself.” She could see the fire in his eyes, so she hastily added, “If I’m to stay out of town, at least I should have the things necessary to keep myself busy.”
“Don’t you understand?” Russell glowered at her. “My mother and sister just had a simple cold and fever. Even after they recovered, they stayed in Buttonhole, because by then, Dad wouldn’t let them get on the train. It’s utter foolishness to mix with people.”
“I’m getting essentials, not going to a party.”
“Lo-ri!” The frantic pitch of Mama’s voice sounded from the house.
“Coming, Mama!” She started toward the house, and Russell rushed alongside her. “What is it?”
“We need to go check on Russell. Mutt is here. Perhaps something is wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mrs. Goetz.” Russell brushed past Lorelei.
Her mother threw her arms around him and burst into tears. “I was so worried for you!”
“Shh,” he murmured. Lorelei watched as he awkwardly embraced Mama. Seeing Mama’s stark fear and how his tender nature surfaced touched her deeply. After a few minutes, Mama calmed down, and he announced, “Enough of this. I’m worried about the two of you, and you’re worried about me. My cooking is so bad, I’m likely to kill myself with something I fix. I’m moving you into my house.”
“You can’t mean it.” Lorelei stared at him in shock.
Crafty as a fox, he ignored her and spoke to Mama. “Lorelei can share my workroom downstairs to do the windows. It will make it easier than creating them here and moving them.”
“This would be good.”
Lorelei slipped an errant hairpin back into place. “I can’t finish this window or start on more until I have my supplies.”
I lost the battle but won the war. Russell shot Lorelei a surreptitious look as he drove the buckboard toward town. Her mother stayed home to pack up their necessary belongings. “This is a short trip.”
“You’ve said that twice since we left home.”
“I mean it.” As they reached the edge of town, Russell felt her stiffen. “What is it?”
“The cemetery.”
He leaned forward to look past her. Perfectly manicured grass normally graced the lot, but now it was pockmarked with multiple new graves.
“Mrs. Sweeny has black crepe on her door, but the stars on her flag are still white.” Lorelei grabbed his arm. “Everyone is wearing masks.”
Russell grimly hitched the horses outside the mercantile. “Stay put, and don’t visit with anyone.” He tied a bandana over the lower portion of his face and went inside. Moments later, he emerged with an entire bolt of cotton gauze. Hastily, he hacked at it with his pocketknife and folded the freed portion into a mask that he secured over her nose and mouth.
“Russell, look around us. There are posters in the windows, warning of contagion and how to battle it.”
“It’s bad, Buttercup.” He squeezed her hand. “Give me the list. I’ll leave it with Mr. Sanders. He’ll fill the order while we take care of everything else. I want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
At the hardware store, they found everything they needed for her windows and the repairs Russell was making. The china shop was closed, and a black wreath hung from the door. Lorelei’s eyes filled with tears. “I used to walk down the street and see the star flags in the window. Now there is black crepe everywhere.”
Just then, a wagon started down the street. Two plain pine caskets rattled on it, and Mr. Sweeny sat in the back with them as the preacher drove the team.
“What time does the funeral start?” Lorelei asked in a subdued voice.
The pastor shook his head. “New orders are out. Family only. No church services—only fifteen-minute graveside commitments.”
Russell reached around and tugged Lorelei into the lee of his body. He could feel her shaking. “We’ll go home now.”
“No, Russell. We must help.”
He knew that look in her eye and the streak of stubbornness that ran straight through her. Instead of arguing, Russell let out a sigh. He searched for something that would satisfy her without putting her in danger.
“Tell you what, Buttercup. We’ll go to the butcher and the mercantile. I’ll load up and buy the biggest kettle they have and every last canning jar. You and your mother can bake bread and make soup. I’ll bring it to town.”
“Here you go.” Mrs. Goetz set one last paper-wrapped bundle in the bed of the buckboard. Flour streaked her apron, and she tried to brush it off. “You’re starting out late today. The sun is setting earlier, too. If it gets too late, unhitch the wagon and ride home. The horses know the way.”
“You go on in and rest. You’re working too hard.”
“Broth and bread are easy to make.”
“You’ve made plenty of both for the past two weeks.”
She pressed her hand to the bib of her apron. “In my heart, I make many more prayers than any loaves of bread. I pray God keeps you safe, Russell.”
He reached town and took the list of homes from the light post. The pastor had arranged to hang a roster from a string he’d knotted around the post, telling Russell which families needed bread and soup. He’d drop off the food on their porches and pick up the jars from the previous day.
Each day the list grew longer. Russell worked his way across town from one street to the next. Folks didn’t stop to visit—they scurried away, eyes big with fear above the ever-present gauze masks. At the last stop, Russell walked up to the door. To his surprise, little Arnie was sitting on the stoop. The five-year-old had been the first in his family to come down sick. He’d only gotten out of bed two days ago.
“Arnie, it’s late for you to be up.”
Arnie looked up, and Russell’s heart skipped several beats. The little boy’s face was ashen, and his eyes huge. Dried tear runnels etched his cheeks. “Mommy won’t wake up.”
Russell knocked, then invited himself inside. A quick check revealed the worst: Both of Arnie’s parents and his baby sister were dead. It would be foolish to take anything out of the diseased home, so Russell took off his shirt, wrapped the little boy in it, and headed toward the parsonage.
The pastor took one look at Arnie and bowed his head in grief. He paused a moment, then motioned Russell inside.
“No one’s left at his house.” Russell chose his words carefully as he lowered the child onto the couch. Arnie wouldn’t let go of him, though, so he sat on the horsehair-stuffed cushion and kept the boy in his lap. “What about the rest of his family?”
The pastor wearily rubbed his forehead and sat in a nearby chair. “They’ve already passed on. He doesn’t have anyone. All the families who were able to help out are overburdened. I can’t see any choice. Arnie will need to go to Tepfield.”
“Tepfield?” Russell gave the parson an appalled look. An orphanage was never a good arrangement, but in the midst of the epidemic, it would amount to cruel neglect at the best and death at the worst. Over in France, Russell had hated seeing the ragged orphans wandering about hungry, frightened, and alone. He refused to resign an American child to that fate. He took a deep breath. “I’ll take him.”
“Do you know the way?”
Russell shook his head. “No, I meant I’ll take him home with me.”
“Praise be to God!”
Russell rose. “It’s not temporary. I won’t have him relocated later. He’s been through enough.”
“I agree.” As the pastor led them back outside, he offered, “I’ll handle the arrangements so you’ll be assigned as his guardian.”
Russell nodded. The commitment he’d just ma
de ought to be staggering, but even amid the sorrow surrounding the situation, the decision felt right. He set off for home. Along the way, Arnie snuggled in his lap. “That house has a star. Daddy says they have a boy in the war.”
“Yes, they do.”
Arnie pointed out house after house, mentioning the star flags. “There’s a lellow star at that house. That means they gave a son.”
Russell wondered if Arnie understood what that meant. So much death. So much heartache. Why, God? Why?
The horses walked slowly since it had grown dark. They went past an open field. Arnie pointed up at the sky. “Look. Lots of stars. God has lots of boys like me.”
“Yes, He does.”
Arnie nudged Russell’s chin. “Lookie. A big lellow star. God gave a Son, too.”
It was all Russell could do to keep from roaring in his agony. Instead, he tightened his hold on Arnie. “What if I take you home and let you be my boy now?”
Chapter 17
Please, Lord, bring him home. It’s grown so late. Keep Russell healthy and safe. He’s been through so much, Father. Show him Your mercy and grace. The sound of the buckboard and horses jolted her. Thank You, Almighty Father!
Lorelei raced out onto the veranda. “Russell!”
“I brought home a nice little fellow.” Something about his tone and the sorrow in Russell’s eyes made Lorelei’s breath catch. “Arnie’s going to be my boy now.”
She reached up and accepted Arnie. Russell had sacrificed his shirt to bundle the small boy. “You look tired, Arnie. Let me carry you into the kitchen. I’ll make you a nice, warm snack; then we can put you to bed.”
Arnie clung to Russell while Lorelei spooned chicken noodle soup into him. Mama didn’t bother filling the bathtub; the kitchen was warm, so she pumped water into the sink, added hot water from the stove’s reservoir until it was just the right temperature, then sang quietly as she bathed the boy.