Beneath the Apple Leaves

by Harmony Verna

  “I won’t let you fall, Lily girl.” He clutched her fingers.

  She jumped across and held his hand. He wiped a hair away from her cheek. “I won’t ever let you fall. Not ever.”

  * * *

  The fragile plant shoots uncorked, pale and feeble, finally relieved from the suffocating burden of dead maple and oak leaves. Grass and weeds birthed from the blank land, an immaculate conception. The farm animals lit up. The runts had grown into strong pigs that now rolled in the soft mud, the only ones in love with the piles of liquid dirt that beleaguered the human inhabitants. And the pigs rolled in it, grunted wet noses through it, bowled their scaly skin within its depths while filling the farm with humorous squeals of ecstatic pleasure.

  The cows sniffed for fresh vegetation, batted long eyelashes under the bright sun, their soft fur slick and clean and untwitch-ing, knowing that in a few months the flies would hound them to no end. And the chickens flapped wings and danced with bobbing necks, picked at the ground, flung small rocks while searching for seeds and ticks.

  Wilhelm and Eveline decided that little Will would start school with the spring despite coming into his studies midyear. The boy’s grammar was slipping to the simple tongue of Fritz Mueller and his reading fell in favor to stick whittling and sling shooting acorns. And on that first day of school, poor Will disappeared in the woods in rebellion, hiding until he was assured that Anna and Fritz Mueller would walk with him every day. Fritz didn’t go to school, but he had always escorted his sibling, never letting his little sister out of his protective sight.

  Over the last few weeks, Andrew split his time between the farm and Mrs. Sullivan’s house. He assisted the woman’s favorite mare with her birth, delivering a healthy and wobbly-legged foal. With the help of Will’s hands, Andrew cleaned and trimmed all the hooves of the widow’s beloved horses. The tasks were small and the pay little, but it meant more than gold. He was working with animals and beginning to save money to bring his mother home.

  At the farm, Andrew helped Eveline tackle the old garden, nearly a quarter acre in size. The fence and chicken wire lay tangled amid old fallen tree limbs and the rectangular space was so thick with leaves that one had to dig half a foot down through the dry leaves to the layer of black moldy leaves until the dirt could be found. Edgar raked and sulked without his brother by his side and stuck out a puffy bottom lip as he carried the rotted leaves to the wheelbarrow. Slowly, the old wood of the raised beds was uncovered, the slats broken and the rusted nails bent, pointing to the sun or to the earth in odd angles.

  Eveline Kiser’s dress was soiled to the hips, and with each inch of black loam exposed the life of the earth rose rich and full to her nose. She did not wear gloves, let her nails scrape upon the dirt as she lifted the dead leaves to her chest and flung them into the pile. She exhumed the earth, enlivened it again. And they worked together, this open, dark land and her pale white hands—together— and they saw the life that would bloom in the summer and feed them through winter.

  Once the leaves were cleared, Andrew set to work repairing the raised beds, tearing out the old wood and resettling the planks upright or replacing the worst of the beams with new wood cut from the broken piles of barn slats. Edgar held the corners steady while Andrew hammered in the nails.

  By supper, the garden had been tidied, the beds open and ready for planting. Eveline and Andrew stood in silent reverence at the open plot. In the black soil, they saw the hope, envisioned the growth that would come, and the pride calmed them both.

  Eveline turned to her nephew—her blood. The contours of his Dutch features, infused with a tired respect for the land, held a terrestrial love that mirrored her own and she hoped to her soul that he would never leave them. Andrew turned to her then and smiled peacefully. And the air caught in her lungs at the sight of this young man, the indigo eyes and handsome face that no longer carried the remnants of insecurity. Perhaps he was finally ready to leave the scars behind. She leaned her head against his shoulder gratefully and he hugged her with his right arm—the solid arm of a man.

  * * *

  The letter arrived late afternoon, tucked between the Pittsburg Press, a notice from their Germania Savings Bank stating the name change to Citizens Savings Bank of Pittsburgh and a copy of Volksblatt und Freiheits-Freund, the only German American newspaper left unbanned.

  Eveline opened the soiled and flimsy envelope, already fondled and resealed by the censors. Inside, her sister’s letter was succinct and brittle, five curt lines drafted one on top of the other instead of flowing in a paragraph. At first glance the design appeared to be poetry, but there was no rhyme, no poetic sentiment.

  The grandfather clock ticked behind each word. Two birds fought at the kitchen window and charged each other in a flurry of harsh chirps and rustled feathers, a battle of love or of defense. Through the clatter, Eveline read the slanted writing, each blunt statement a small punch to the stomach. Her hand yearned to crush the paper into a ball, but there were other eyes that needed to read it first.

  Outside the porch window, Andrew and her sons had the pigs, a few of the saved runts from the Muellers, in the front yard. The boys took turns hiding old potatoes in various spots and waited to see which pig could root it out first. With the game, the pigs sniffed like hound dogs, playful with the boys, as comfortable with the children as they were with their own species. And the pigs grunted and searched while Will and Edgar chortled and Andrew stood amid them all, a solid figure around which all the laughter and squeals revolved.

  The porch screen bounced as the door closed behind her. “Will, Edgar,” she directed, “time to put the pigs in the pen.”

  “Ah, Ma!” Will’s nose scrunched in complaint. “We just started.”

  “You heard me. Gather them up.”

  “But—”

  Eveline’s face pinched and stunted any argument.

  “All right,” Will said grudgingly. “Come on, Edgar.”

  Andrew watched the interaction, circumspect until the boys and hogs were out of earshot. Eveline handed him the envelope and folded letter. He met her eyes for a long moment before turning them to the words on the paper. The wooly clouds floated easily in the sky ahead. The apple limbs swayed in the pained pause.

  “She remarried.”

  “Yes.”

  “Says I shouldn’t plan to come to Holland.” Andrew bit his lip. “Says it would be better if I stayed on here.” He had written his mother that he was going to save money to visit her, to bring her home, and told her about the special woman he wanted her to meet.

  “We have no idea what’s going on overseas, son,” Eveline justified. “Have no idea what she’s seeing and living with every day.”

  He glanced at the envelope. “She didn’t even write me,” he added bitterly. “The letter’s addressed to you.”

  The anger toward her sister ignited fresh, the slight to her son unforgivable. “She blames herself for what happened, Andrew,” she defended weakly. “For sending you on the railroad. It’s her own shame, her own guilt.”

  He wasn’t listening. “She remarried,” he repeated.

  “Women have a hard time on their own.” She clenched her jaw, dug for comfort. “With the war—”

  “Don’t defend her.” He handed the letter back. “Just don’t.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Posters from the U.S. Food Administration lined the butcher shop and general store—the decrees for a rationed nation. Schools and churches sent pamphlets, drilled reminders in voice and verse:

  Save a loaf a week—help win the war.

  Eat less, save more.

  Avoid wheat on Mondays, meat on Tuesdays and pork on Saturdays. Clean plates and avoid snacks between meals.

  Eat more corn. Save wheat, red meat, sugar and fats for the troops.

  And the farmers ate fine on what they could raise, while those in the city found pantries shrinking and bellies rumbling in patriotic servitude.

  * * *

  The first l
oad of eggs, milk and butter was ready for market, stacked and packaged in wooden crates painted with the Kiser name. Andrew and Wilhelm and the two boys piled on top of the old wagon along with their wares and left before dawn for the East Liberty open market in Pittsburgh. They followed in a trail behind the Mueller sausage wagon and the Stevens bread truck, said good-bye to the open land and headed into the hungry smog pits of the city.

  The three Plum farmers parked next to a litany of other wagons, a few motorized, on the perimeter of the market square. One after the other, they opened their wagons, stacked their crates and boxes, propped up wooden, hand-drawn signs that listed their products. But there would be no worry of competition. The market was packed, drawing in patrons from all sides and angles of the great city, searching for fresh food from the farm, for butter hand churned, for milk squeezed that morning, eggs that still had tiny feathers stuck to their shells, trout from small lakes, butchered chickens, lambs, cows and pigs. The people from Pittsburgh flocked for unblighted potatoes, beans that were fresh and not woody and cabbage heads still intact without wormholes.

  Trams dropped off a steady stream of customers while a motley crew of vehicles, of rusted Lizzies and new Fords and horse wagons and buggies, lined the parking field. The divide between the old and new as clear as worn serge against fur-lined cuffs.

  City boys in knickerbockers and short jackets and flannel caps darted between stands of popped corn and gingerbread cookies with burnt sugar and cinnamon drops; gambled in shell games, nearly feral in their excitement. Farm boys with dirty overalls leaned against splintered wagons, posing in mirrored posture to their leathered, chapped-lipped fathers. Women with long skirts and high collars, with ostrich plumes in their hats, kept tabs on the girls near their sides in clean and pressed pinafores.

  In the middle of the market, vendors set up stands. There were jams and honey. Crates of asparagus, rhubarb, lettuce and peas. The smell of funnel cakes and fried dough filled the air, competed with the scents of roasted peanuts and chestnuts. Pickles soaked in brine in enormous barrels. Salt rock ice cream dripped down the chins of children. Smoked fish and smelly triangle blocks of cheese called forth tornadoes of flies. Candles of beeswax and tallow sat in front of an obese woman who did not smile. Hard sausage, smelling woody and gruff, hung from string tied from sloppily made awnings.

  And the market burst with sound that made one feel at a great event, the clatter vibrating between the ribs. Banjoes played on a makeshift stage. Boxes of puppies and kittens barked and whined; canaries chirped in metal cages. Hens and roosters clucked and crowed in wire mesh squares. Children laughed. Vendors shouted prices. Young men whistled at pretty girls.

  A swarthy dark man in a satin turban promised fortune-telling and horoscopes. A J.R. Watkins salesman sold salves, ointments, liniments, soaps, shampoo, spices, cocoa, flavoring extracts, baking powder, toothbrushes and toothpaste.

  The milk and butter, hand-wrapped by Eveline, sold out within the first hour of the market and Wilhelm held on to the money as if it were glued to his fingers. They were the first dollars coming forth instead of going out and his voice deepened with dignity. And with each accruing cent, his manner became more open to the customers, his expression more pleasant. He moved out of the shadows, nodded to some, began to smile at others. The money was coming in. The flow was back. And when the first crate of eggs was purchased, he proudly gave Will and Edgar a few pennies to buy candy at the taffy stand.

  Andrew took a break and walked around the stalls, eyeing the goods that went on as far as the eye could see. “You there!” shouted the dark-skinned man in Indian garb. “Want to know your future, young man? Come, come! Let me see your palm.”

  Andrew stopped at the man’s booth out of curiosity, but on closer inspection he saw the shabby stitching at the shoulders and collar of the costume. The guru’s made-up face revealed he was no more Indian than Andrew was. “I think I know what the stars have in mind for me,” Andrew said. He and Wilhelm would start on the fields tomorrow and for the next six months Andrew’s future would keep him knee-deep in dirt and behind a plow.

  Along the fake Indian’s table, among ivory and rosewood boxes, silver trinkets and a crystal ball, were lines of colorful gems presented on black velvet. Andrew picked up a round green stone, held it up to the sun, the color pale green but dark when shadowed.

  The man nodded wisely. “Beautiful as a woman’s eyes, no?” His voice rose and fell like a rubber ball, his head jostling from side to side. Andrew squinted his eyes at the fortune-teller, wondered if he could really read minds.

  “What kind of stone is this?”

  “Emerald.”

  Andrew’s laugh was quick and immediate. “And I’m guessing the glass pieces next to it are diamonds?”

  “You insult the great Babija!” The man recoiled painfully, his face stretching in shock. “It’s emerald! I make an oath.” With that, he put his hand on his heart and bowed.

  “Nice try.” Andrew grinned and put the stone back in its space, began to turn away. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Wait! Wait!” the man beseeched, bustled around the front of the table. “All right, maybe not an emerald, but it’s pretty, no?” The accent vanished. The glue under the man’s mustache glistened in the sunshine.

  Andrew inspected the stone again, the color curving his lips into a smile. He rubbed the smooth edge of the gem. “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  Pieter Mueller snaked through the crowd, plowed forward and grabbed Andrew’s elbow. “Come on.” The young German’s face was resolute, stern. Together, they flowed into a stream of other men until the confines grew a current unto themselves and carried them all to the edge of the market square.

  A young man in flannel shirt and dropped suspenders pulled up an empty produce crate and stood on top, stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, then waved his hands for silence. “Listen up!” he hollered. “It was just announced that the second draft registration is on June fifth. All men who turned twenty-one since last year’s draft are required to sign up.”

  A hush settled over the previously distracted men, the words descending like a fine mist upon the crowd. Pieter stiffened. He turned twenty-one two weeks ago.

  “The generous people of Pittsburgh have opened their wallets to the cause, sent the best nurses and doctors to help our brothers overseas,” the man droned. “But it’s not enough. We need men. And as everyone knows, the bravest, strongest men live right here in this city!” He clapped his hands and the men followed, the tenor of applause growing and competing with the speaker. “It’s time we teach those Germans a lesson, eh?” he shouted. “Show the Kaiser and his baby killers you don’t mess with America! You don’t mess with Pittsburgh!” Men cheered; some whistled and hooted. Furtive glances shot to those who stayed silent.

  “But!” The man on the crate raised a pointed finger, paused for silence. “But you don’t need to wait to June fifth to show your loyalty. You can do what the rest of us just did and sign up now!” The young men roared again. And the joy of war sapped the strength, left the body dense like a scourge, played out in a way that could not be stopped.

  Pieter had black in his eyes. “I’m packing up.”

  “Market doesn’t close for another four hours,” Andrew said.

  Pieter drew daggers at the men handing out sheets of propaganda to the patrons, his shift in demeanor a storm cloud over the sun. “I’m packing up, and if you’re smart you’ll do the same.”

  The edge seeped into the crowd and spread. Men walked harder now, shoulders stooped forward. Children raised worried eyes to adults speaking loudly, looked to mothers who had turned away from the talk. Andrew trusted Pieter, had never heard this tone in his friend’s voice before. “I’m going to find Will and Edgar.”

  Andrew weaved through the bodies toward the sweet stands, which meant crossing through the line of young men handing out flyers. The speaker stood on level ground again, spoke to whichever ear was close enough to blab
ber in.

  As Andrew passed, a man tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey,” he said amiably. “Joinin’ us against the Germans, brother?” But then Andrew turned and the young man saw the other half of his body. “Sorry.” He turned his eyes away. “Well, guess you can be there in spirit, eh?”

  Andrew blocked out the reference, pushed past the papers in his face and scanned the crowd for his cousins. His neck muscles stiffened as his vision filtered over the swarm of people and the little heads could not be seen. He pushed through the flood of men to the vendors, finally finding the children huddled between stands. Will’s fingers clutched Edgar’s brown hair.

  “Ow!” Edgar screamed.

  Andrew knelt down, tried to figure out who was tangled into whom. Will pulled again and sent Edgar whining. “Will got taffy in my hair!”

  Will looked desperate, held out his hands, his fingers latticed and joined together with stringy strands of pink taffy and brown hair. A wad had lodged in Edgar’s hair, and the harder Will tried to pull it out the louder Edgar screamed.

  “Just hold on a sec.” Andrew inspected the pink-globbed hair and tried not to laugh. “Going to have to cut it out. Have to wait till we get back home, I reckon.”

  Will licked at his fingers, chewed the sticky remnants. “And you,” Andrew directed, “don’t touch anything till we get those hands washed.” He plucked the boy’s fingers from his mouth. “And don’t eat it, either. Got more hair and grass there than taffy.”

  The boys nodded, forlorn and in despair with having half their candy wasted. As they followed Andrew back to the stand, Edgar snarled jealously at Will as he continued to lick the dirty candy from between his fingers.

  The crowd mutated to tentacles, the lines branching off in different directions, some darker than others. Andrew slowed his steps, motioned for the boys to stay behind him. A group had formed at the Kiser stand. “Look.” Will pointed. “We got a line of customers waiting.”

  But they weren’t buying eggs. Andrew felt the tension in the crowd, taut as sinew as he approached. And they moved for his entrance, fanned and parted with downcast eyes. Directly in front, there were three young men. A burly one with soiled overalls that rose past his ankles took a handful of eggs. His steely eyes did not leave Wilhelm’s face. He raised the eggs in his palm, stretched his arm to the sky and watched Wilhelm’s gaze for any trace of defense. As if satisfied, he smashed the eggs to the ground, one by one.