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

by Serena B. Miller

  “Did you forget to take one of your doses of Chloroquine?”

  “I ran out.”

  “And you were too busy to come to me for more?” Dr. Lawrence’s voice was stern. “Even though it is the rainy season and mosquitos are breeding like crazy?”

  “Some of the children have been ill…”

  “I know. An even better reason to keep yourself well.”

  “I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

  “You never lived in Haiti before,” Dr. Lawrence’s voice was uncharacteristically bitter. “Apparently illness is what we do.”

  For the first time, Bertha noticed how weary he looked.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Dr. Lawrence shook his head. “I’m just tired. I’ve been helping with the boys as much as I can. All three are home with diarrhea. Keeping them hydrated has been an issue. Neither Charlotte nor I have gotten much sleep.”

  “And I added to your burden,” Bertha said, miserably.

  He didn’t bother to say that she hadn’t. That wasn’t the kind of man he was. Instead, he took her hand in both of his.

  “Just remember to wear your mosquito repellent, continue to sleep beneath the netting and take your Chloroquine,” he said. “We desperately need you to stay well.”

  After he left, she marveled over how warm his hands had felt as they clasped her cold ones. She wished he had held them for a few moments longer. Perhaps then she wouldn’t feel so weak and disheartened.

  Bertha vowed never to forget to take a dose of malaria medicine again. The one thing she never, ever, wanted to do was become a burden to Dr. Lawrence and her good friend, Charlotte.

  Chapter 39

  “It is very dark out,” Bertha said after they got back on the road after their McDonald’s break. “It must be hard to drive in the dark. I have enough money to pay for two hotel rooms if they are not too expensive.”

  “Funny thing about cars.” Darren took a gulp of fresh hot coffee. “They have headlights, and I am wide-awake. I can drive all night.”

  Anna happily licked a McDonald’s ice cream cone she had insisted on getting.

  “You are sure you can do this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The car created a sort of private cocoon around them as they hurtled through the night. This was not something Bertha had ever experienced before, but she rather liked the sensation. Especially when Darren, without asking, turned the radio on and found a station that played lovely soft music. Although radios were forbidden in her sect, she secretly enjoyed hearing a little music now and then.

  “So, as one black sheep to another,” he said, “What is it that makes you think you are such a bad person?”

  Bertha was silent.

  “Oh, come on, Bertha,” Darren said. “What commandments have you ever actually broken?”

  Commandments? The question took her by surprise. She had memorized the Ten Commandments many years ago as she taught them to the Haitian children under her care. As the road spun beneath the wheels of the car, thrusting them through the night, she examined each one.

  “Most of them,” she confessed.

  “You can’t be serious.” Darren sounded shocked. “I was joking.”

  “I am not joking.”

  “You took God’s name in vain?”

  “A couple of times when things did not go my way,” she said. “I am very ashamed of that.”

  “You didn’t honor your mother and father?”

  “I couldn’t help it if I was to become a nurse. I broke their heart with my choice.”

  “Covetousness?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I have often envied other women for having their very own children.”

  “Remembering the Sabbath?”

  “I’ve not always gone to church every time I could.”

  “So, you’re human,” Darren said. “It’s not like you’re a murderer or anything.”

  Silence.

  “Bertha?”

  She still did not answer. Instead, she glanced into the back seat to see if Anna was listening and discovered that Anna had fallen asleep with a half-eaten ice cream cone melting in her hand.

  “Can you pull over?” she asked Darren. “I’m afraid there is a bit of a mess getting ready to happen.”

  He pulled over, Bertha got out, threw away the soggy ice cream cone, wiped off Anna’s sticky hands, reassured her little sister that she hadn’t done anything wrong, and then they continued their journey with Anna drowsing in the back.

  “So,” Darren cleared his throat. “About that fifth commandment. You never actually killed anyone, did you?

  “I thought I had no choice,” Bertha said. “I’m afraid at that time in my life, I was not as good of a pacifist as I had been taught to be.”

  He stared at her. “Does anyone else know?”

  “A few,” Bertha said. “I doubt many of them are living anymore.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “I’ve not discussed it with anyone since I left Haiti. It is a complicated story that would take much time to explain.”

  Darren turned off the radio. “I don’t have a lot of talents, but one thing I seem to be good at is keeping secrets. Maybe it’s because I’ve had to keep my own for so long.”

  Bertha found herself actually contemplating telling Darren one of the two darkest secrets in her soul. Maybe it was because his own failures had been legion, and yet he never stopped trying. Perhaps it was because she did feel a bond with him over being the black sheep of the family. Maybe it was because she had come to a point in her life when she simply didn’t want to be silent any longer.

  To explain to Darren what it had been like, she allowed herself to sink back into that dark time when, because of Papa Doc’s reign of terror, resources were sparse, and everyone was looking out for themselves…

  Chapter 40

  Haiti

  1963

  Bertha awoke from a deep sleep and bolted upright, listening. She had not dreamed that sound. Someone was trying to batter their way through the barred gate of the Haitian children’s home compound.

  It would not be the first time someone had tried to gain access, nor the last. The Haitian people were hungry.

  She kept all the children’s food securely locked in the supply room in the building they used as a kitchen and dining room. The key hung on a leather cord around her neck. If anyone wanted it, they would have to fight her for it. The few staples she’d managed to lock away was the only thing standing between full little bellies for her children and starvation.

  The crops, such as they were, had not done well this year. Not that Haiti ever had a surplus of food, but this year had been worse than most. Were it not for the support of the Mennonite Central Committee and the sacks of beans, rice, and canned meat they brought over from the United States, her children would be in desperate need.

  So far, her height and loud indignation had been enough to scare the would-be thieves away—but she wasn’t sure how long that would work.

  Grabbing her flashlight off the rickety nightstand, she scanned the floor of her room. Good. It was clear. Experience had taught her not to assume she could leap out of bed without the possibility of an unwanted surprise. A painful encounter with a brown scorpion had made her cautious.

  Again—that sound of someone trying to break in. They must either be stupid, desperate or entirely fearless to make so much noise. The other two thieves she had faced had been more cautious.

  She ran outside just in time to see the wood of the barricaded gate give way. Of course, it hadn’t been all that strong, to begin with. Boards were hard to come by in Haiti, good, thick oak boards like her people used back home were nearly impossible to find.

  The night sky was clear, and a full moon illuminated a large man stumbling through the broken gate and into the open area between them. Bertha played the flashlight over him and took a step back. His eyes were wild. His face was a grimacing ma
sk. He looked stronger than most Haitian men.

  Bertha’s first instinct was to run, but she couldn’t run. She was the only one standing between this intruder and the children.

  “You need to leave.” Bertha stood her ground, her voice strong and steady. “There is nothing here for you.”

  He plunged past her, headed straight for the building that functioned as the girls’ dormitory. That was a surprise. She would have bet her nearly nonexistent pay that he wanted food.

  “Please stop!” Bertha called. “There is no food in there.”

  The man ignored her and continued to stalk toward the building where seventeen precious and innocent girls slept.

  Did he think that was where the food was kept? Or did he have something more sinister in mind?

  His hair was long and tangled. He was ragged and barefoot, but he had a powerful stride, and Bertha, encumbered by the unforgiving skirt of her long, cotton nightgown stumbled as she tried to keep up with him.

  “Please don’t go in there,” she begged. “The children are asleep.”

  His hand was on the doorknob. Thankfully, it was locked. Widelene, the elderly Haitian widow who helped Bertha and Mimose with the children, slept in the girl’s dormitory. It was her job to keep the doors locked at night.

  Bertha caught up with him just as he grabbed hold of the doorknob and rattled it.

  “Please!” she shouted in Creole. “Please don’t hurt my children!”

  He began to heave his shoulders against the door. Bertha grappled at his arm to hold him back, but he shook her off.

  Her righteous indignation, her tall, strong body, the desperate prayer running in her mind—nothing was holding him back.

  The door began to splinter.

  Bertha, like all Amish and Mennonites, believed sincerely in pacifism. It was her lifelong desire and intent never to hurt or cause pain to another person. It was practically bred into her DNA to turn the other cheek.

  But her great fear for her beloved children created a blaze of anger that she could not see past. Her visual focus had narrowed down to one item—a Louisville Slugger, made from hardened maple, leaning against the side of the building. She had asked her sister to send it so she could teach the older children how to play baseball. The game quickly became a favorite. The baseball bat was in daily use. Both she and Mimose played it with the children frequently. She had never thought of using it as a weapon, but now she grabbed it and threw herself between him and the door.

  “Leave my girls alone!” She brandished the bat.

  He paused, seeming to truly notice her for the first time. Then with one quick move, he grasped the bat and tried to jerk it out of her hands, but Bertha held on. He was bigger and stronger, but she felt an almost supernatural strength as she fought him—a force drawn from her love of the children and her fear for them if he got past her.

  Unable to wrestle the baseball bat out of her hands, he gave a mighty heave and shoved her away from him. She stumbled backward, fell to the ground, and the baseball bat skittered away across the bare earth.

  She could hear the girls crying and whimpering from within the dormitory. He had already managed to do a great deal of damage to the door. It was nearly off its hinges. This time, nothing significant would be in his way.

  Unless she acted.

  It was at that moment, sprawled in the dirt, the last dregs of Bertha’s firmly held pacifist beliefs drained away.

  Baseball was a favorite sport among Amish boys and girls alike, and they played it often. During teenage games, there were always several farm girls who could knock a baseball out of the ball field just as well as a boy. Bertha had been the strongest of those girls. Helping her father on the farm had made her able to pluck a sixty-pound bale of fresh hay out of the field, lift it above her head, and toss it onto the wagon for her father to stack.

  “Lord, forgive me,” she said aloud as she rose to her feet.

  Bertha scooped up the wooden bat, ran toward the man, and swung at his head with a strength fueled by anger and desperation.

  She did not miss.

  Chapter 41

  The man crumpled to the ground and lay there unmoving. Mimose, who had been awakened by Bertha’s shouts, came running.

  “Oh!” Mimose said when she saw the man lying there in the dirt. “Who is this?”

  “I don’t know.” Bertha dropped the bat and rubbed her hands on her nightgown as though trying to wipe them clean of her violent act.

  Time stood still as the two women stood watching, still as statues, holding their breaths. Would he arise?

  He still did not move. It appeared he had also stopped breathing.

  Cautiously, she approached him.

  “Be careful,” Mimose said.

  Bertha knelt and felt his neck for a pulse. There was none. She felt his wrist. Nothing. She moved his head, saw the damage the bat had done to it.

  “I just wanted to stop him—to knock him out.” Bertha felt a roiling in her stomach. “I never intended to kill the man.”

  Mimose took a step backward, as though trying to distance herself from the act.

  As the magnitude of what she had just done hit with full force, Bertha ran to the fence, braced her hands against it, bent over and threw up violently and repeatedly until her legs could no longer hold her. She fell to her knees.

  Through the roaring in her ears, Bertha could hear Widelene inside the bunkhouse calming down the girls.

  “Everything is fine,” Widelene kept saying. “Go back to sleep now. There is no danger.”

  Mimose brought a wet washcloth from somewhere and gently wiped Bertha’s face.

  “We need to call the police,” Bertha said.

  “That would be foolish,” Mimose said. “Even though you are an American, they will take you to jail. Bad things happen to women in Haiti who are taken to jail. We must call Dr. Lawrence. He will know what to do.”

  Of course. Anthony always knew what to do.

  “Call him.” Bertha’s aching heart was grateful there was someone as competent as Anthony to come to her rescue.

  Chapter 42

  “It was a terrible time in Haiti,” Bertha told Darren. “People were hungry. The government—well, it was a dangerous time for everyone. Even at the children’s home, we did not always have enough to eat. Without the food supplies that the Mennonite Central Committee sent, we would have been desperate, and those supplies were often withheld by dishonest custom officials. Bribes for necessities were an everyday reality.”

  “But you survived,” Darren said.

  “We did.” Bertha realized she was unconsciously pleating and un-pleating the skirt of her dress. This was something she tended to do only when she was extremely nervous. She forced herself to stop.

  “How?” Darren asked.

  “Lydia’s husband had a good job and a generous heart. They frequently sent small packages to me, usually containing tins of commercially canned meat. Many of them got through to us. We hoarded them for the children. I also wrote letters to friends from nursing school and at home. They sent money with which I bought whatever I could find that was edible in the markets in Haiti. I became obsessed with collecting food that would keep well. Eventually, I had gathered what I believed was enough to sustain the children for two weeks without any outside help.”

  “Did you have any staff, or was it all you?” he asked.

  “I had Mimose, a young woman who had grown up at the home and came back to teach. She and I shared much of the care of the youngest, and the older children helped as well. Widelene was an impoverished widow who offered to work in return for room and board. She slept in the girl’s building with them. At the time, two of the girls were prone to sleepwalking, and she made certain they didn’t accidentally go outside in the night. She was also skilled with a needle once we got her some eyeglasses. She helped keep the children’s clothing repaired. Two women from the church came every day to cook and clean up afterward. They received a pittance, but they w
ere grateful to get it. From time to time, Dr. Lawrence would pay a man to do repairs and whatever other work needed to be done.”

  “So, money was an issue. Food was an issue. The political situation was unstable,” Darren said. “It was a desperate time. Things happened that might not have otherwise. I’m starting to get the picture.”

  “I had such grand ideas.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “One month in, I decided to put my training as an Amish farm girl to good use. I asked Lydia to send seeds, and she did. We had enough space within the compound and enough willing hands to plant and tend a large garden. The seeds came and we had a marvelous time planting them. Our hopes were so high. I felt like I might be able to save Haiti all by myself with what I considered my superior knowledge about gardening. Amish women are noted for their gardens. We learn it from our mothers. I had no doubt my garden would be a success.”

  “I take it that things did not turn out as you’d hoped?”

  “The seeds were good, our care was meticulous, but the garden did not grow a tenth of what the same work and seeds would have produced back in Ohio.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “The earth was different, the sun was hotter, the children, fascinated with the plants that did manage to grow and hungry for fresh things, couldn’t wait long enough to allow the vegetables to get fully grown. They were constantly picking and eating the unripe tomatoes, corn, and beans. Even the root vegetables were dug up and consumed before anything could reach full maturity.”

  “I’m sorry, Bertha,” he said. “That must have been so demoralizing.”

  “It was. I’d had such hopes of recreating the abundance of my own childhood table. I dreamed of platters piled high with sweet corn, bowls of fresh-picked peas, creamed new potatoes, and radishes freshly washed and mounded in a bowl. It nearly broke my heart when I realized none of it had a chance of becoming a reality. At least not that first year. Eventually, I figured things out, but it took a while.”