“I will Vater, thank you.”
Michael raised his glass toward his son. “A toast, then, to a safe future without war; a future of prosperity, good health, and a bountiful family!”
Each man drank the last mouthful of brandy. Gerhard felt the warmth of it bloom and trickle down his gullet.
The next morning, Gerhard set off in search of Farmer Schmidt, who received him in the farmhouse study. As Gerhard had hoped, Farmer Schmidt was enthusiastic and agreeable to his proposal. He excused himself from the parlour and went off to find Emma, leaving Gerhard to wait alone.
Emma entered the study moments later. “I was in the garden with Mama, pulling winter vegetables,” she said, as if an apology was warranted. “Papa said you were here and asked to see me?” Her last words were more of a question than a statement.
Gerhard took her hand. It was cool and soft. Soil was embedded under her nails, and she tried to withdraw her hand.
“My hands, they are dirty,” she stammered. “I should have washed before I came, but … well. It sounded important.” She tried to hide her hands under her apron, but Gerhard grabbed the one that had just escaped his grip.
“No. Please. It, it doesn’t matter.” This isn’t going how I thought it would. Flustered, he held Emma’s hand firmly, searching her eyes for any sign of understanding.
She tugged at her hand. When it did not come free, she waited.
When she raised her eyes to meet his, as if to question his actions, he blurted, “Willyoumarryme?”
The rushed question hung in the silence of the room for a brief moment.
“Uh. I mean …” he said.
Before he could recover from his discomfiture and try again, Emma stepped toward him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Of course I’ll marry you, Gerhard Lange! Heaven knows I’ve waited long enough for you to ask! Kiss me quick, before the others show up.”
“Truly?” he asked in disbelief. That was easier than I expected!
She gave an eager nod, her face turned up to him. Hazel eyes—not cornflower blue—glassy with tears. Her flushed cheeks, fair skin, pink lips—slightly parted—all indicated her willingness, and an awareness crept into his foggy brain.
Of their own accord, his arms embraced her, his body awakening in response to his caress of the curves he admired. He kissed her then, first a chaste kiss on her forehead.
She closed her eyes and waited. Then one on each smooth cheek. She leaned toward him and opened her hazel eyes.
He found her mouth, soft and willing, and vowed never to think of cornflower blue again.
Moments later, they were interrupted by a firm knock on the open door, accompanied by the sound of Herr Schmidt clearing his throat.
Otto and his parents stood in the doorway, grinning. Otto wobbled as he struggled to find balance on his crutches. Behind them were Marie and his parents. Marie jumped up and down, trying to see over Otto’s shoulder.
The young couple flushed at being caught in a heated embrace.
“Pardon me, sir.” Gerhard took a side-step to put space between him and Emma, but kept his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. Another curve to be appreciated.
“We shall have a toast!” Farmer Schmidt declared. “To the marriage of two very fine young people. Two well-matched young people, if I say so myself!”
As he spoke, he poured eight glasses of a sweet Spanish sherry and passed them about the room.
Together, the two families raised their glasses to Herr Schmidt’s next words. “May you always find happiness. May your troubles be evasive. And”—he grinned mischievously—“may you bless our families with a multitude of grandchildren!”
Gerhard and Emma blushed amid cheers of well-wishes and congratulations.
Given the chaos in the community and the overall shortage of goods, the families decided to take advantage of the Christmas celebrations. Emma and her mother joined Marie and Anna, and together they worked diligently to fashion wedding clothes and organize their men and the nuptials.
Gerhard and Emma were married Friday, December 20th, in the Year of our Lord 1918.
Anna and Marie assembled a group of townsfolk willing to help with the rejuvenation of some of the unused rooms in the Lange manor, converting them into a suite where the newlyweds could live until they were ready to live on their own.
The weeks through Christmas were a happy time for many, especially the Lange and Schmidt families, lending promise for a better future.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LIFE ON THE Lange estate and neighbouring farms became routine—a new routine—as the misery of war wound down and the country worked to recover from its losses. When Gerhard was finally discharged from the Regiment, he joined his father in the business of running the estate.
He and Emma built a house on a corner of the estate, so that they could be close to the manor and the farmhouse.
The first of a new generation of Langes arrived toward the end of 1919, and two more were added in subsequent years.
Together, the Lange and Schmidt families persevered. They overcame war, pandemic disease, poor economy, and questionable markets. Each year was a year of healing and growing for both families and the community in which they lived.
Liegnitz reinstated its annual fall fair, an event that it had hosted until the outbreak of the Great War.
During the fall fair of 1920, Otto met a Dutch sea captain who was in town visiting kin. Otto was manning the Schmidt sausage display, and business was brisk. The sea captain kept his distance, observing the popularity of and demand for Schmidt sausages.
When the din died down, the captain approached the display and caught Otto’s eye.
“How may I help you, sir? A taste of Schmidt’s famous sausage?” Otto’s grin of confidence stretched from ear to ear. He was in his element.
“I wouldn’t mind a taste,” the sea captain responded. “Injured in the war, were you?”
“Sniper got my knee,” Otto said, slicing random sausages for the sampling. “You?”
“My home is in the Netherlands. We tried to stay out of the conflict,” the captain shared.
Otto nodded his acknowledgement.
“I’ve been watching your table. You do a brisk business. Nothing seems to slow you down, either.” He reached for the wedge of waxy paper Otto offered and tasted a piece of sausage. “Mmm. Jägerwurst,” he said. “Delicious!”
“My family is always amazed, but I don’t let the lack of a lower limb stop me. It is the sum of my parts that makes me whole.” Otto continued to answer the sea captain’s previous question. “Here. Try this one. This is the sausage that everyone clamours for.”
As he accepted another small slice, the sea captain said, “Zabar Anker, by the way. I sail out of Amsterdam twice a year. I’m in Liegnitz to visit my cousin, Alexi Puchinski. Perhaps you know him?” He extended a hand toward Otto.
“Alexi! I know him well. The Grand Hotel is one of our biggest commercial customers,” Otto said. “I’m Otto. Schmidt,” he added, pointing to the sign behind him. “So … what do you think of our special sausage?”
“This is by far the best sausage I have ever tasted,” Zabar said. “What is your secret ingredient?”
“Special ingredients, plural,” Otto said, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “But they’re not for the telling. My mother would have my head, and I have no intention of parting with another part of my anatomy!”
“It matters not to me,” Zabar said. “What matters is the taste and the demand. As I mentioned … I was watching your table. Your family’s business is sausage. My family runs an import and export business … Oyster Pearl Imports.”
He paused, searching for the best words. “Would you be interested in a little off-shore business?”
“Pardon me?”
“Would you consider exporting your sausages to Amsterdam? I think together our families could make some good money.” Zabar gave Otto an inviting grin. “My brother Konstantin also travel
s to Germany twice a year. That amounts to one shipment every three months, if you can handle it. We’re always looking for import goods.”
“You want to import our sausages? To Amsterdam?” Otto asked in amazement.
Zabar nodded.
“Well, I’ll be …”
He studied Zabar for a moment longer. “Your suggestion certainly has merit, but it also raises a lot of questions. Why don’t you stop by the farm tomorrow? I’d like my parents and my wife to be involved in the discussion. We’re not set up for export, but that doesn’t mean we’d decline. Just need to think things through.”
“Certainly,” Zabar answered.
The men exchanged personal information and shook hands. “I’m having dinner with Cousin Alexi this evening. I hope he has enough sausage on hand to meet my hunger! Until tomorrow.”
Zabar disappeared into the throng of fairgoers.
Otto’s eyes followed him until the sea captain disappeared from his view. He scratched his fingers through his silvering blond hair, a look of wonderment on his face.
The following day, Captain Zabar Anker arrived at the farmhouse mid-morning. As Otto had promised, he had invited his parents and his wife, Hildegard, to join them.
While Otto made introductions, they were interrupted by a light rap on the study door. “Gerhard! Right on time. Come in. I am just introducing Captain Anker to the family.
“I hope you don’t mind, Captain, but I invited our neighbour, Gerhard Lange, to join our discussion. Our families work closely together, and I thought it would be important for him to be involved.”
“Not at all,” Zabar responded. “My brother, Konstantin, and I work together as well. I regret only that he is not here, but I am confident that, in time, you will meet him.”
Once they were seated, Otto’s wife passed around cups of coffee and the meeting began. They discussed how the two businesses could work together for a profitable result, and a few hours later were satisfied with their arrangements.
Hildegard appeared to sense that the meeting would run into the lunch hour and excused herself. With her usual efficiency, she arranged for a hardy luncheon to be prepared.
By the time the meeting concluded, a meal showcasing some of the goods proposed for export to Amsterdam had been laid out on the dining room table. Captain Anker was encouraged to sample it all.
As the meal concluded, Zabar rubbed his belly and savoured a mouthful of ale before he said, “That was a most delicious meal, Frau Schmidt. My compliments!”
Hildegard beamed at him.
“I understand now why your husband was so busy at the fair yesterday. The sausage especially was outstanding.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Hildegard said, her voice full of pride. “I personally oversee the making of the sausage!”
“And she is very particular … I insist!” Otto’s mother affirmed. “It is my recipe, after all.”
“Marvellous, indeed!” Zabar said, taking pleasure in acknowledging the tasty meal.
As they spoke, Otto’s father poured glasses of Spanish sherry and handed them around the table. “To a long and profitable relationship!” he said, raising his glass.
“Hear, hear!” the others responded.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FORAGING FOR MUSHROOMS in the fall was a family tradition that reached far back to the days when Gerhard’s family had first settled in southern Silesia, and it was one of the first traditions to be reinstated at the end of the Great War.
The city of Liegnitz had hosted a mushroom hunt annually until the outbreak of the war. The contest was the high point of every fall fair held to celebrate the harvest, and when the fair was reinstated in 1920, so too was the contest.
At the end of the first day of the fair, when most folks had had their fill of rides and games, of sausage-eating contests and tables of best baked goods and preserves, of livestock shows and horse races, they gathered together to hear who had won the ribbon for the Fairest Fungus.
The Fairest Fungus ribbon was a curiosity. The winner received neither prize money nor any special privilege—simply the honour of being known as the best mushroom hunter of the year. The winner was draped with a banner of blue, taffeta ribbon, on which was written Extraordinary Hunter of the Fairest Fungus and the year of the contest.
Gerhard slid out of bed the morning before the 1928 Fair was to start, and donned woollen stockings and trousers against the chill of the room.
Under the warm comforter that covered their bed, Emma stretched, cat-like. “Is it time already?”
“Only if you want to collect prize-winning fungus specimens,” Gerhard replied. “I’ll organize the pull-cart. You get the children ready.”
As he buttoned his shirt, he leaned over the bed and kissed her hungrily.
“Or perhaps we should just forget—”
“Although your suggestion is very tempting,” Emma purred, “you’d better go. We don’t want to disappoint the children.”
“Later, then …” he said, giving her a lustful grin before closing the bedroom door. His tuneless whistle disappeared down the hallway.
The previous year, Gerhard had extended the garden shed to twice its size, and dug the floor of the extension deeper by a metre and a half, creating a cellar that would remain cool throughout the year.
The cellar had a high ceiling, sharing its roof laterally with the garden shed. From the outside, the shed looked abnormally long, but the deception was not obvious without entering the building.
Inside, a gradual ramp sloped from the shed to the centre of the cellar, allowing hand-carts of produce to be rolled down into it. Shelves lining the cellar were slowly starting to fill with preserves, dried fruit, and winter roots. Soon, the shelves would be burdened with the bounty of another promising harvest.
By the time Gerhard had collected the necessary baskets and tools required for fungus hunting, loaded them onto the cart, and tugged it to the back door, a fire had been lit in the kitchen and smoke wafted above the chimney. His family had risen.
“Where have you been, Papa?” his youngest asked in her tinny voice. “You weren’t here when I woke.” Gerda’s large, round eyes peered up at him under questioning, straw-coloured brows.
“I’ve been organizing the cart for our mushroom hunt,” he said, hoisting her into his arms. He nuzzled her head of morning hair and inhaled the sweet scent of his only daughter. Gerda squealed with delight when his whiskers tickled her neck.
“Here’s your coffee,” Emma said, placing a steaming cup on the table, “and some bread and cheese.”
Gerhard set Gerda down, then kissed his wife’s cheek.
“Children, hurry with your breakfast,” Emma said. “If we don’t leave soon, others will have picked the best fungi.”
The children finished the last bites of their breakfast and raced to see who could be first dressed and waiting at the back door. Worn boots were pulled on over heavy socks, woollen coats were buttoned up, and hats were pulled snug on their heads.
Ten minutes later, each child assembled at the door, waiting for their father to announce their departure.
Emma pulled on her leather boots and buttoned her coat. She handed out mittens to the boys, giving each of them a stern look that told them that the mittens were to be worn.
The cook helped Gerda struggle into her mittens before putting on her coat. A long strand of wool, stitched into the cuff of each mitten, was threaded through the sleeves of her coat. Once Gerda’s coat was on, the mittens might come off her hands, but she would not lose them.
“Time to go! Ready?” Gerhard asked, his hand on the doorknob.
“Ready!” his eager family chimed.
He held the door wide while his children filed into the yard. As his wife approached the doorway, he made a small bow of mischief.
“The twinkle in your eye tells me you’re up to something,” Emma said suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Gerhard said, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“I know how competitive you are, Gerhard Lange,” Emma whispered, slapping his arm playfully.
“Is no one else coming?” he asked, changing the subject. “Vater, Mutti, your parents?”
“No,” Emma answered. “They prefer to stay home today. They’re all recovering from a cold.”
“Let’s head this way,” Gerhard said, tromping into the woods, pulling the hand cart behind him. “I found a glade a while back, and I’ve been monitoring it. I think we might have some success there.”
One of the Lange family staples was Laetiporus Sulphureous, affectionately known as “chicken of the woods.” New fungi were moist and rubbery, but the orange and yellow tubular filaments soon faded, becoming chalk-like and pungent; not unlike some people Gerhard knew.
“Chicken of the woods,” he told his family, “prefer wounded oak trees. They send their spores into the moist decay beneath the fractured wood. Early last spring, I noticed that one of the trees had been hit by lightning, right at the major fork of its trunk. Since then, the heavier piece has fallen away. The last time I passed this way, fungi were growing nicely in the wound.”
Twenty minutes later, the young family stepped into the glade and stood in awe. The colony of chicken of the woods fungi had flourished.
“Mein Gott! Look at that,” he said.
“I’ve never seen such a colony,” Emma affirmed. “And, look around, children. I’m seeing quite an assortment of mushrooms to fill our baskets. It appears that the tall trees here provide an excellent environment for mushroom growth.”
Gerhard handed a basket and mushroom spatula to each of the boys and his wife.
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