Bertha's Resolve: Love's Journey in Sugarcreek, Book 4

by Serena B. Miller

  “Ja,” Bertha said, nodding, remembering. “Our ways are better. Children should never have to go hungry.”

  Chapter 5

  Sugarcreek

  1959

  Bertha was nineteen and reading aloud from The Budget, a Sugarcreek-based newspaper with news from Amish and Mennonite communities from around the world. Her seventeen-year-old sister, Lydia, was piecing together a quilt from carefully chosen squares of lovely fabric as she listened.

  It was Saturday night, and they both had washed their hair earlier to give it time to dry overnight before church in the morning. The back of Bertha’s nightgown was damp from her freshly shampooed hair. She had one other nightgown that was still dry, into which she intended to change right before going to bed. Her hair was thick, blonde, and it fell past her waist. Many of her friends admired Bertha’s hair, but they were not envious of how long it took to dry.

  Both she and Lydia sat near the fireplace to help hasten the drying process. She shrugged her shoulders against the uncomfortable feeling of her damp nightgown clinging to her back as she read a letter from the wife of a Mennonite missionary doctor in Haiti that had recently been printed in The Budget.

  “Many of the mothers here in Haiti are so poor,” Bertha read. “They are forced to make dirt cookies in a desperate attempt to fill their children’s hungry bellies.”

  Lydia’s hand, busily pushing a needle through a dark blue quilt block of fabric, paused and looked up. “You are not serious!”

  “I’m afraid so,” Bertha said. “The doctor’s wife, Charlotte, even included the recipe.”

  “There is a recipe for such a vile thing?” Lydia shook her head.

  “Listen to this,” Bertha said. “’ Mothers knead one part salt into one part fat. Then they mix that with five parts water and ten parts of dirt. When it is smooth, they measure out flat dollops to bake in the sun. When the mixture has hardened, they give the cookies to their children to eat. It is the only way some of them have to keep their children from crying from hunger.’”

  Quilt block forgotten Lydia’s hands dropped to her lap as she tried to comprehend what Bertha was reading. “Can such a terrible thing be true?”

  Bertha quickly scanned the next paragraph. “Charlotte says she didn’t believe it at first either, but yes, it is true.”

  “A mother so desperate to fill the ache in her child’s belly that she has to resort to dirt?” Tears filled gentle Lydia’s eyes. “The very thought breaks my heart!”

  “Charlotte says the mothers also eat the cookies, especially the pregnant ones who get so hungry.”

  They stared at one another, aghast.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Lydia asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bertha said. “Let me keep reading.”

  “Although we cannot feed the whole nation, at our Mennonite-run children’s home, the food is simple, but they usually do not have to go hungry. If there is anything left at the end of the day, we feed any street children who are around. They have learned to look for this, and when we walk outside, we are often swarmed by hungry children.”

  “I wish we had money of our own to send to them,” Lydia said.

  “Money is an issue, but it doesn’t seem to be their biggest problem.” Bertha stared at the pages in her hand, transfixed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Although money is welcome,” Bertha read again from the letter. “It is volunteers we need the most. People who are willing to help. Trained nurses are especially in short supply.”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that,” Lydia said. “It isn’t as though either of us are nurses or could ever become one—that takes more education than we are allowed. But maybe I could sell some of my quilts and send them the money. It might help. It is not much, but it is better than nothing.”

  Bertha nodded, but she was barely listening. She felt such a stirring in her soul about the plight of the Haitian mothers and children that she found herself longing to go there immediately to help in any way she could. But that was impossible. Riding in an airplane, even for something as crucial as helping feed and care for hungry children, was strictly forbidden by their Ordnung. She would never get permission.

  “I’m sure any quilt you made would bring a good price.” Bertha, distracted by her thoughts, tried to focus on what her sister was saying. “In fact, I think the one you’re making right now would be perfect.”

  “This is for our cousin, Eli’s wife. She picked out the colors and bought the material, but as soon as it is finished, I’ll start making one to sell for the Haitian children.”

  “I’ll ask our Daett if he will allow me to use a portion of my pay from working at the grocery store to help you purchase quilting material.”

  “I doubt he will agree to do that,” Lydia said. “He is depending on your salary to purchase that new strain of field corn he wants to try this spring.”

  Bertha, her chin resting on her fist, gave it some thought. As a single daughter still living beneath her parent’s roof, she was expected to turn her salary over to her parents, just like all other Amish sons and daughters were expected to do. Her parents, in return, gave a small portion back for pocket money, but it wasn’t much. This was not something she ever questioned, nor did Lydia, nor did any of their friends. Their parents had provided for them during their early years, and it was an accepted custom for Amish children to give their parents whatever pay they received after they graduated from the eighth grade and found a job.

  On the other hand, if a son or daughter were willing to do extra work in the evenings after their other work was completed, or if they worked a second job on Saturdays, sometimes the parents would allow them to keep that money for their own.

  Bertha had an idea.

  “Yesterday,” she told Lydia, “as I was walking to work, the Englisch woman who just moved in down the road was getting her mail. She asked if I knew any girls willing to clean house for her once a week. I told her I would ask around. If I took on that extra job, maybe Daett would allow me to use that money to purchase material for your quilts.”

  “Oh!” Lydia said. “That would be wonderful. Then we could have quilting frolics with our friends every time I finished a quilt top. Everyone would pitch in. We would be able to donate all we make from the sale to Charlotte and her husband to use for the children’s home!”

  “I’ll help with the quilting, too!” Bertha said.

  “That’s all right,” Lydia said, a little too quickly. “Purchasing the material is enough. I’ll take care of the rest. A quilt has more value if the stitches are uniform and yours are sometimes…well…”

  “I understand.” Bertha was not hurt by Lydia’s evaluation of her sewing ability. She rarely had the patience required for the intricate work of piecing and quilting. She tended to work better on a larger scale.

  As Lydia happily chatted on about what kind of pattern she would use for the quilt, Bertha’s mind kept churning. Working a second job to purchase fabric and thread was not a sacrifice. She was strong and healthy and had more than enough energy for whatever she wanted or needed to do. Shopping for the fabric would be enjoyable. Even though they were required to dress in plain clothing, they were not forbidden to use patterned material in their quilts. It would be so much fun spending a day fingering and choosing pretty fabric from the dry goods shop in Sugarcreek.

  But Bertha could not get the nagging feeling out of her mind that it was not enough. Not nearly enough. Earning money for quilt material was one thing, but she kept wishing she could do more.

  Dirt cookies, of all things! How could she look the other way and enjoy her relatively easy life when desperate mothers were forced to feed their children dirt! How could anyone? She wanted to experience the satisfaction of helping those women and children first-hand.

  But how?

  Hidden deep in her heart was another wish she could never fulfill. She wished to become a nurse and have the knowledge to make people well. That
desire had taken root when her little brother, Frank, got ill, and the doctor taught her how to care for him. When Frank got better, the doctor had praised her for being a “good nurse.” The desire to become a real nurse had secretly burned inside her heart ever since although she tried to ignore it. Lydia was right. More formal schooling than the prescribed eight years of elementary school that Amish children were allowed, was strictly forbidden.

  The lack of further education didn’t seem to bother Lydia, but it constantly niggled at Bertha. How wonderful to possess the knowledge and skill to save a life or help alleviate someone’s pain!

  But this, alas, was not something she would ever get to experience—not if she were to remain Amish, and she would stay Amish. It was all she had ever known. It was the narrow path she would need to walk to get to heaven.

  Chapter 6

  Calvin ran as fast as he could for as long as he could after he escaped from the woman cop and the two old Amish ladies. By the time he got to the rented house where he lived, he was out of breath and had a stitch in his side. During his flight, he had also managed to lose the warm hat the church people had given him.

  After hiding behind the house, panting, and peering around the corner to see if the cop was chasing him, he thought he might have calmed down enough to go inside without raising suspicion. He tried to act nonchalant as he sauntered into the house he shared with Alex.

  His heart sank when he saw his guardian in the kitchen, stirring something in a big pot on the stove. Life was better when Alex didn’t try to cook. Calvin hoped he would give up and order pizza or go pick up chicken nuggets from the McDonald’s up the road. It didn’t happen all the time, but it happened often enough that he was forever hopeful

  “Hey there, buddy,” Alex said, as Calvin sneaked inside. “Something happen today? You’re kind of late.”

  “I met up with some kids,” Calvin lied. “We played kickball.”

  “So you’re making friends? That’s good.” Alex’s words didn’t match the tone of his voice.

  Calvin wandered over to see if he could figure out what Alex was trying to make. He was grateful his cousin and guardian had been willing to take him in. The alternative would probably have been the foster care system, so he was grateful Alex had agreed to the arrangement.

  Still, Alex wasn’t Grandma, and he never would be.

  “What are you making?” Calvin asked, without much hope.

  “Beef vegetable soup,” Alex said. “I found an old recipe left behind in a drawer. I figure it’s time we ate something healthy for a change.”

  Calvin did not reply. In the past three months, since his grandma died, every time Alex attempted to cook something “healthy,” it had turned out especially badly.

  The soup smelled pretty good, but it was hard for Calvin to work up any enthusiasm for it, what with the biggest part of a cherry pie residing in his stomach.

  “Let’s give this a try,” Alex said, with forced cheerfulness. “I tried to follow the recipe exactly, but we’ll have to see if it worked.”

  There were two soup bowls already laid out on the small, bare kitchen table. One spoon sat beside each bowl. A glass of water as well.

  Somehow, those two bowls looked so much lonelier and less appetizing than when he’d been living alone with Grandma. She would have used a fresh tablecloth and maybe even decorated the table with flowers. If she made soup, there would be bread and butter or crackers and peanut butter to go with it. And there would be the knowledge that some sort of dessert lay in wait in the refrigerator.

  Dessert was always a surprise. Grandma wouldn’t let Calvin even peek in the refrigerator until he’d eaten enough of his dinner to warrant something sweet.

  A boy’s need for dessert never seemed to enter Alex’s head. As far as he could tell, his guardian considered any form of sugar to be next-door to poison. So, sweets were entirely off the table. It made life hard.

  Alex ladled the healthy-looking soup into mismatched bowls, sat down and, without another word, dipped his spoon into the soup and started to bring it to his mouth. Calvin sat with his hands in his lap.

  “What’s wrong?” Alex asked, spoon suspended in the air. He nodded toward Calvin’s bowl. “Go ahead and eat.”

  Calvin couldn’t talk around the lump in his throat. Grandma always wanted a prayer said before every meal. Sometimes she would say it. Sometimes she’d ask Calvin to bless the food for both of them. Come to think of it, if Grandma was still alive, not only would there be a good meal on the table, he wouldn’t be in trouble right now with the police for having stolen a pie. Really. He wouldn’t.

  Unable to verbalize the sadness and turmoil going on inside his heart, he didn’t answer. He just sipped a spoonful of soup.

  It was so salty, he nearly spit it out.

  He watched as Alex came to the same realization, sat his spoon down, and pushed back from the table. “Pizza?”

  Calvin nodded.

  Alex sighed and stood up. “Okay. Go get your coat.”

  Calvin obeyed, but his stomach felt funny, and it wasn’t all from a stolen pie. He was worried. What would happen if they accidentally ran into that woman cop while they were out getting pizza? For all he knew, she would arrest him and put him in jail!

  If that happened, Alex might decide not to keep him anymore. He might not be as nice to live with as Grandma, but he was a whole lot better than nothing—even if he did act sad all the time.

  Calvin was pretty certain that the reason Alex acted sad was because he had been saddled with a ten-year-old boy who had nowhere else to go.

  Chapter 7

  Sugarcreek

  1959

  Bertha approached her father with her plan early the next morning over breakfast.

  “Lydia and I are hoping to make and sell quilts so we can donate the proceeds to a mission work in Haiti,” she said. “I will continue to bring you my salary for working at the grocery store, but if I take on extra work, may I use that money for our project?”

  “You are planning on making quilts to sell?” Her father’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “This is a surprise. I was not aware that you had mastered that craft, Bertha.”

  His voice was gentle, but Bertha knew he was gently poking fun at her, and she blushed. It was a well-known fact in her family that she was no seamstress. Lydia had been born with a gift for it. Bertha had not.

  “I will provide the extra money to purchase material and quilting thread,” Bertha glanced at her sister. “Lydia and her friends will be the ones making the quilts.”

  Lydia, sitting beside her, nodded in agreement.

  “Will this extra work prevent you from helping with gathering in the hay?”

  “No, Daett.”

  Her father gave it some thought, then he turned to her mother.

  “Do you see any problem with it?” he asked.

  Her mother finished slicing a fresh loaf of bread onto a plate, and then passed it around the table before answering. Bertha noted that Frank took three slices before passing the plate on. He was growing so fast!

  “If the girls are willing to work extra for such a good cause,” her mother said. “I see nothing wrong with allowing them to do so.”

  “Then that is your answer, daughter,” he said.

  “Thank you, Daett.”

  Her father was not a hard man, but it was not an easy task to make a living as a farmer. He needed all the help he could get. It was merely a fact that the person most capable of farm chores was his oldest daughter. He had worked her hard over the years, but she was not resentful. The endurance and heart to work hard was a valuable thing. It always paid off, and she expected it to pay off now. Not for her, of course, but for the children who were forced to eat dirt cookies. To keep that from happening, she was willing to do whatever she must.

  Her father would have preferred God give him a son for his first-born, but that didn’t keep him from using Bertha and Lydia in the fields during plowing and harvesting season. The work was ha
rd on Lydia, she tended to wilt if she spent too much time in the fields, so as Bertha grew stronger, he allowed Lydia to stay inside and help their mother with domestic chores. Sometimes that included taking in occasional boarders for extra income. He relied more and more on Bertha to take on the work of a son.

  Bertha’s little brother, Frank, tried to help, but he was still too young to do much besides get in the way. She kept him with her from an early age, though, because it was vital for him to learn how to work the land as well. She spent a large part of her time in the field keeping an eye on him, making certain he didn’t get hurt.

  Lydia was apologetic about being the one who helped their mother indoors, but Bertha assured her she would rather work outdoors than be cooped up in the kitchen. Lydia accepted her reassurances with relief. At seventeen, Lydia was already a better cook and baker than their mother.

  Taking on the once-a-week cleaning job for the Englisch neighbor would not be a hardship. She had plenty of energy. Sometimes on the alternate no-church Sundays, when they stayed at home and rested, she felt like she might burst if she didn’t find something to do.

  She intended to talk to their neighbor soon and find out how much housework the woman had to give her. It would be such a blessing knowing that her extra labor would go to help feed hungry children.

  Chapter 8

  “Are you sure you are feeling up to caring for Holly this evening?” Rachel asked as they entered the inn’s kitchen. “From what I hear, you had a pretty long day teaching school.”

  “Of course, I’m feeling up to caring for the baby,” Bertha said. “But how did you know about me teaching school?”

  “Have you forgotten the power of the Amish grapevine?”