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

by Serena B. Miller

  “That’s just it,” Rachel said. “I think he might be very good, indeed. He thinks Anna needs to be outside in the sunshine. He says taking slow walks will build up her stamina, and if she walks every day, the weight might begin to come off, which would be so good for her heart.”

  “Is it possible for her to go to Pinecraft?” Joe said.

  “It’s very possible,” Rachel said. “We have a cousin, Rosa, who lives nearby. She’s recently widowed, and she would love to have any of us come stay with her.”

  “With our new baby and Bobby in school, you aren’t thinking of taking them, are you?” Joe said. “Couldn’t we hire someone?”

  “That’s an awfully long trip. It’s hard to imagine Bertha and Anna agreeing to go with anyone except me,” Rachel said.

  “Lydia isn’t going, too, is she?” Darren sounded worried. “We can’t keep the restaurant open without her pies. I think our customers would revolt if we ran out of Lydia’s pies.”

  “He’s got a point,” Joe said.

  “Aunt Lydia never enjoyed the beach,” Rachel said. “She won’t want to go.”

  “This restaurant can do without me for a few days,” Darren said. “I wouldn’t mind a change in scenery for a bit. I’d be happy to drive Bertha and Anna down.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Rachel said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” Darren said.

  “Wait,” Joe said. “You will come back, won’t you?”

  Darren laughed and clapped Joe on the back. “Don’t worry, brother, I have too much invested in this place to wander off. I’ll take Anna and Bertha to Pinecraft, stay long enough to see them settled and then come straight back. What could go wrong?”

  Joe and Rachel shared a glance. The thoughts of free-spirited Darren driving for two long days with Anna and iron-willed Bertha struck both of them as comedic. Rachel could see the corners of Joe’s mouth twitch as they shared the same thought.

  “Nothing at all,” Joe said. “I’m not worried about a thing. It should be a breeze.”

  Chapter 32

  “Of course you can come,” Rosa said. “I’d be thrilled to have you. It’s been lonely with Don gone. I would love it if you and Anna moved in with me permanently! Lydia, too. Sell the Sugar Haus Inn. Come live with me! I’m serious. I have plenty of room. You would love Florida. No more of those nasty Ohio winters.”

  Bertha was grateful for Rosa’s enthusiasm for their visit, but sell their beloved Sugar Haus Inn? Move to Florida? Never again experience the beauty of an Ohio winter in Amish country?

  “That’s not going to happen,” Bertha said, politely. “But thank you.”

  “Well then, don’t forget to pack some shorts and your bathing suits,” Rosa trilled. “It gets so hot down here. You’ll be happy you have them.”

  Bertha, standing in their phone booth at the end of their driveway, rolled her eyes. That wasn’t going to happen, either. Her in shorts? Rosa must have lost what sense she had back when they were girls and moved further away from her Amish roots than Bertha would ever have dreamed. Being married to Don must have thoroughly addled Rosa’s mind over the years!

  However, being given a free place to stay while Anna soaked up some sunshine and walked on the beach was very welcome.

  “I have plenty of sunscreen,” Rosa rambled on. “And a beach tent to keep the sun off of us when we take Anna to the ocean. And I have lots of beach towels. Oh, Bertha, I’m so glad you two are coming!”

  Bertha heard the loneliness in her cousin’s voice and chastised herself for having any negative thoughts about her. Rosa was a good and kind person. It was just that she’d always seemed a little bit silly.

  Still, the shorts and bathing suits comment was a surprise. To Bertha’s knowledge, the Beachy Amish didn’t dress immodestly, but perhaps the ones in Florida were different. It would be good to know what she and Anna were getting into.

  The only way to find out was to ask.

  “Are you still Beachy Amish?” Bertha asked.

  “No,” Rosa said. “Not anymore. There’s a wonderful Mennonite church up the road.”

  Well, that explained the shorts and bathing suits. The Mennonite church Rosa attended must be one of those liberal ones. When Bertha was a girl, shorts and bathing suits would never have been allowed in any self-respecting Anabaptist church community, whether it be Beachy Amish or Mennonite. Things were changing, though. Of course, none of that was her problem, although she did hope that Rosa wouldn’t take it into her head to have any wild parties while they were there. With Rosa, one never knew.

  After working out the details of when they would arrive, Bertha thanked her cousin and disconnected. As Bertha plodded from the phone shanty back into the inn, the sick feeling of apprehension she’d carried with her ever since Anna’s visit with the doctor grew stronger. Florida was so far away, and Anna’s health so fragile. The drive would be stressful, but the decision had been made and she would have to see it through. Bertha considered it one of her few strengths. She always saw things through, no matter how difficult.

  Chapter 33

  Haiti

  1963

  The morning after Dr. Lawrence dropped Bertha off at the children's home, she awoke early, stretched, yawned, then stared at the ceiling a few moments thinking about and planning the day. She could not remember experiencing such a bright feeling of sheer happiness ever before.

  Her life had, indeed, begun, and she couldn’t wait to start making changes. Oh, the things she was going to do to make the lives of her small staff and children better!

  Although she knew nothing about running a children’s home, nor had she ever taught a class, she was confident she would sort everything out in no time. Mimose was a jewel. Haiti was certainly different, but not quite the culture shock she had been dreading.

  The structures that made up the children’s home were shabby, of course, as was her own small room, but she hadn’t expected to live in a sturdy farmhouse like her family had back in Ohio.

  If there was one thing the Amish were good at, it was in their ability to build homes and barns and outbuildings that were strong.

  The home her parents owned had been constructed in such a way that she would not be surprised if it still stood one hundred and fifty years from now. The room in which she and her sister slept was a marvel of near-perfect craftsmanship. Although quite plain, the woodwork was beautifully made. The bed they shared as girls was so strong it didn’t even creak when they climbed in.

  She knew building materials were at a premium here, lumber-producing trees were rare. It was probably a small miracle that these buildings were here at all. She wondered what missionary had sacrificed, coerced, and argued enough to get the funds and volunteers to build the place, but she guessed that lumber—assuming one could get some—did not last as long in the tropics as back at home in North America.

  Staring up at the roof, laying on her narrow cot, she marveled at the twisted grass that comprised the roof over her head. She now realized that the rusted corrugated tin roof that the Lawrence’s had—far from being a sign of poverty—was a bit of a luxury in Haiti.

  As the dim early morning light began to slant into the room, she could see more clearly. To her surprise, she saw a glimpse of bright yellow up in the rafters directly below the grass roof. Why would that eye-catching color be way up there? Had the former headmistress left something behind? And if so, why had she secreted it in the grass roof?

  Then the yellow began to move and unfolded into a fat boa constrictor that flashed across the grass ceiling. It caught a rat that had been using one of the rafters as a highway.

  The rat struggled, the boa somehow lost its grip on the rafter, and both fell to the dirt floor in a deathmatch.

  Bertha did not scare easily, but she sat up, her back pressed against the headboard, her legs and feet pulled up beneath her, terrified that the boa would lose interest in the rat, and come after her.

  She knew ho
w to deal with the various farm animals and wildlife back in Ohio, but she had no idea what to do with a boa constrictor. She only knew what it was because of a picture she’d seen in a handbook while trying to familiarize herself with the creatures of Haiti.

  She bit the back of her hand, trying not to scream as she watched the boa thresh about on the floor. She did not want to awaken Mimose or some child who might come into the room, unaware of what was going on. They might inadvertently step on the thing. How dangerous were boas anyway? She didn’t know, but she didn’t want to accidentally find out.

  The threshing stopped, and the boa began the slow process of swallowing the now-dead rat. Unwilling to disturb its breakfast, Bertha remained in bed, wondering how long this would take, wondering if the boa would be satisfied or if its appetite would be large enough to eye her as a potential meal as well. She would have fled the room except it had managed to start its digestive process directly between her and the only door.

  As the boa concentrated on its breakfast, Bertha focused on the sounds of children awakening and of Mimose’s voice responding to various childish requests. They would soon be wondering why she wasn’t up already. She might even get an undeserved reputation of being lazy if she didn't get dressed and out there soon.

  Had the room been larger, she might have attempted to by-pass the snake, but it was small, and the snake took up a rather large part of it. There wasn’t room to walk around it. She would have to step over the thing. Never mind the need to move about the place to get dressed.

  There was a quick knock on the door. Before Bertha could call out a warning, Mimose opened it, smiling.

  “I have some breakfast for you…” Her attention dropped to the snake. “What are you doing here?”

  The snake did not answer. Its mouth was full of rat.

  There was a broom just outside the door that Mimose grabbed. She began to use it as a shovel as she tried to get the boa to move. It was reluctant.

  “Get out of here!” She shoved at its heavy body with the well-worn broom. “I told you before, this is not your home!”

  At Mimose’s urging, the snake began to slowly slither across the floor and finally disappeared through a hole and was gone.

  “You need to get up now,” Mimose smiled at Bertha, cowering in the bed. “The children will begin their classes soon.”

  “You weren’t afraid of that snake?” Bertha tried to keep her teeth from chattering

  “I am a little afraid of that snake,” Mimose said. “Although it is a gentle animal that helps keep the rat population down. But if you will forgive me for saying this, you need to learn that it is a mistake to show fear in Haiti. Ever.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there is too much to be afraid of,” Mimose said. “You must not appear to be weak. It will make you a target.”

  “A target of what?”

  “Practically everything,” Mimose said. “Now, let’s get busy with the children. Knowledge is as important to giving them a good life as the food we give them.”

  A shy teenage girl brought a pan of warm water into Bertha’s room just as Mimose was leaving. After washing up in it, and then a quick breakfast made up of a small portion of rice and beans that Mimose brought to her room, she followed the sounds of children singing from the open windows of the schoolhouse.

  All sound ceased as she entered from the front side door. Mimose paused in her teaching, and a room filled with small black faces stared at her. Some open-mouthed.

  Mimose said something in what Bertha assumed was Creole. The children said something in unison, and Bertha thought she had probably been introduced and greeted. Her ignorance appalled her. How on earth was she going to teach these little ones? Why had she not studied Creole before she came?

  The answer was simple. There had been no one to teach it to her.

  “Excuse the children’s manners,” Mimose said. “You are not the first white person they have ever seen, but you are probably the whitest person they have ever seen.”

  “Excuse me?” Bertha said.

  “It is your blonde hair,” Mimose said. “To our eyes, used to many different varieties of skin color, you are so extraordinarily white, you look strange.”

  Bertha had never given any thought to her whiteness. But now, dressed in her light tan cotton dress, she felt self-conscious and out of place.

  “What would you like for me to do?”

  “Take my teacher’s seat and simply observe,” Mimose said. “That’s about all you can do for now. You will have to listen to Creole and French, but we will have an English lesson in a bit, perhaps you can help with that.”

  The teacher’s seat was not much, a wobbly straight-backed chair behind a makeshift desk of concrete blocks and some boards. But watching Mimose teach was a revelation. As a whole, the Amish children she had known back home had been fairly obedient, but they were children after all. They had trouble sitting still through their extended church services and trouble leaving one another alone. But these children’s eyes never left Mimose’s face. There was little extra movement. They sat on the benches, the youngest and smallest feet did not touch the ground but dangled. The children did not have books or paper and pencils of any kind. Their lessons were learned by rote for the most part.

  It pleased her when Dr. Lawrence showed up. He carried with him a large bag of rice, which she saw him drop off at the kitchen.

  She left the classroom momentarily to go speak to him.

  “How are things going?” he asked. “Do you think this is going to work out for you?”

  “Everything is fine,” she lied.

  “What do you think of the children?”

  “I’ve never seen children so well-disciplined,” she said. “They seem content to just sit still and learn.”

  Dr. Lawrence looked at her with something like pity in his eyes. “What you see is not discipline. It is a lack of calories. Children who don’t get enough food do not have the energy to wiggle or squirm. What you see is the listlessness that comes from hunger.”

  “But I thought the children had just had breakfast,” Bertha said.

  “They are on short rations for now,” Dr. Anthony said. “The truck that usually brings their allotment of food is several days late.”

  “But I had breakfast this morning,” Bertha said, confused.

  Dr. Lawrence said nothing as Bertha realized that the small portion of food she had consumed without much thought this morning had been given to her at the expense of others’ hunger. This could not go on. Children needed to be fed.

  Almost as though it was in connection to her brain, her stomach gave a low growl that was audible. Embarrassed, Bertha quickly put her hand on her stomach.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “No need to apologize,” Dr. Lawrence said. “I am well acquainted with growling stomachs.”

  “What can I do to help?” Bertha said.

  “Not much,” Dr. Lawrence said. “Not until the supplies are freed up. There is some sort of issue with the government I need to go check on today. Papa Doc and his minions are more money-hungry at some times than at others. Often yet another bribe must be given before they will allow us to take the food that is waiting at the dock for the children. That’s where I’m headed now. The rice I brought this morning is from our pantry at home. I hope it will be enough to tide you and the children over. Pray that everything will go as it should, and we can prepare full meals again by tomorrow.”

  Mimose released the children for a short recess, and as she was walking over to join Bertha and the doctor, she overheard his last comment.

  “And we will pray that Papa Doc will not take offense at some small thing,” Mimose said. “Be very careful, Dr. Lawrence.”

  When he had left, Bertha turned to Mimose. “How much danger is he in?”

  “It is complicated,” Mimose said. “Our president, Papa Doc, kills many people he does not like. There is a death squad called the Tonton Macoute, who do his bidd
ing. It is best in Haiti today to live in such a way that one is never noticed by Papa Doc. It is best if he does not pay attention to your existence.”

  Bertha felt sick to her stomach, thinking of Dr. Lawrence having to put himself in danger to free up the food meant for the children.

  “What can we do?” she asked.

  “What we always do when this happens,” Mimose said. “We pray without ceasing.”

  The rice Dr. Lawrence brought was cooked and parceled out to the children for their noon meal. Bertha chose to eat nothing.

  There was nothing for supper for anyone. Some of the smaller children cried. The older children were more stoic and comforted the younger ones.

  That night, as Bertha went to bed hungry, knowing there might not be anything for breakfast tomorrow, she gave thanks for her hunger but begged God to supply food for the children. For the first time in her life, the words from the Lord’s Prayer about giving thanks for one’s daily bread took on weight and substance.

  And yet, for the first time in her life, she found herself fantasizing about how a few bites of bread would taste awfully good right now. Especially from one of the loaves Lydia made twice a week. Whether eaten with butter and jam or torn into chunks with cold milk poured over it for a quick supper, Lydia’s bread was delicious. Especially if one came in from the outdoors to a kitchen filled with the scent of baking bread.

  The next morning, Dr. Lawrence did not arrive with the supplies—he explained he was still wrangling over them—but he did bring enough cooked beans and rice from the hospital kitchen to put some warm food into the children.

  Bertha refused to have any. She couldn’t stand to think of eating something when the children needed food so badly.

  For three days and three nights, Dr. Lawrence was barely able to scrape together enough to keep the children and staff alive while he pleaded with those who would not allow the American church-donated supplies to come through. He was putting himself at considerable risk, Mimose told Bertha.