Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01] (16 page)

Selfish? There was that word again. Had she and Sister Muhlbach been discussing me? “I’m sorry, but it took longer than—”

She waved me to silence. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. I wouldn’t believe you anyway. Get busy with the potatoes. They need to be peeled and shredded.”

In a valiant effort to locate the shredder from among the variety of gadgets and tools that hung on the racks, I scanned the hanging metal equipment. There might be a shortage of workers in the kitchen, but there was no lack of tools. Since my arrival, Johanna had attempted to teach me the name and proper usage of each item, but the lessons held little interest. The only part I’d enjoyed had been a trip to the tinsmith’s shop to deliver several items that had required repair. I’d been amazed at the items the man created, but I still didn’t know the difference between a cheese mold and a pudding mold or a cheese grater and a potato shredder.

I’d almost gathered my courage to ask which one of the graters I should use when Johanna reached overhead and yanked the utensil off the hook. She held it in front of my nose. “Potato grater.” She thrust it toward my hand. “Don’t cut your finger. Sister Muhlbach might take pleasure in seeing you bleed a little.” She swiveled on the heel of her well-worn shoe.

“And you?” I asked.

Her features softened. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Berta, but I do want you to act like a responsible young woman. We’ll talk later. After the work is completed.”

Like it or not, I was in trouble. Even Johanna was unhappy with me. Maybe I should present her with the book of poetry when we get home from work. I wouldn’t even try to bribe her for the magazines—unless I change my mind by the time we get home. After tying the apron around my waist, I set to work peeling the potatoes. One look at the tub of vegetables and my shoulders sagged. Why hadn’t someone else started this job an hour ago? I couldn’t possibly finish in time, but I dared not complain. It seemed the others were hard at work, though a quick head count revealed several of the ladies were missing.

A short time later Johanna dragged a chair beside the table and picked up a potato. “You’re going to have to work faster.”

“I’m working as quickly as I can. Where are the sisters? Can’t they help?”

“Sister Dickel is ill, and Sister Bader was called to the school. Her son fell from one of the trees, and the teacher feared the boy broke his arm. They took him to your father for treatment.”

Both of the women had been in the kitchen earlier. No wonder Sister Muhlbach was in a sour mood. “Maybe Sister Muhlbach should have been peeling potatoes instead of standing on the porch watching for me,” I whispered.

Johanna clucked her tongue. “And maybe you should have been back here in fifteen minutes instead of an hour.” She lowered her head and leaned close. “I know how long it takes to get to our house, and so does Sister Muhlbach. Fifteen minutes would have been ample time to go home and change your skirt.”

I pointed the tip of the paring knife at my shoes. “I had to clean my shoes, too.”

“Then twenty minutes. That doesn’t account for the rest of the time. Did you take a nap?” Johanna leaned back in the chair and pierced me with a fierce glare. “You went to visit Rudolf, didn’t you?”

Finally an accusation I could deny—and I wouldn’t be telling a lie. “No! How could you think such a thing?”

She arched her brows. “Then where were you?”

Should I tell her the truth? If she promised not to tell anyone, it would be the best possible solution. “Promise you won’t tell?”

After a moment of hesitation, she agreed. While we continued to peel and grate the potatoes, I explained what I’d done. “If only you’d agreed to let me see your other magazines, I wouldn’t have gone running off to the general store to purchase you a gift.”

“Once again you are placing blame where it doesn’t belong. This is not my fault, Berta. You are an impetuous girl who is determined to always have her way. One day you are going to have to admit that your actions are solely your responsibility, not the fault of others.” Johanna reached for the grater and forced the potato along the uneven metal. “There are things I’d prefer to do, places I’d like to see, people I want to meet, but I can’t simply give in to my own selfish desires.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with living your life in a manner that pleases you? Isn’t that why this community was formed? So the members could live in a way that pleased them? Why can’t you do the same? If you want to see what’s beyond Amana, why not do it?” I stopped peeling the potatoes and scooted to the edge of my chair. Maybe I could convince Johanna she should follow her heart instead of the rules. The idea excited me.

She sighed and shook her head. “Even though I’ve tried to explain, you still don’t understand why we came together in this communal living situation. Though I long to visit my brother in Chicago and maybe see more of the world, I find comfort in my life here. Where else is there more opportunity to seek and find Christ through prayerful fellowship with like-minded believers? Remember, time is a gift. Wise people do not—”

“Squander their gifts.” I’d heard that from Sister Muhlbach at least once a day since I’d arrived in her kitchen. “If time is a gift, and you want to see other places, aren’t you squandering your gift?”

“The allotment of time on this earth is given for us to draw closer to Christ—not to fulfill our own desires.” Johanna motioned toward the knife. “Keep peeling, Berta.” She continued grating another potato. “I’m curious about this book you mentioned. I’m surprised Brother Kohler would permit such a purchase.”

“I think he liked the idea of keeping the change from my gold coin.” The moment the words had slipped off my tongue, I wanted to take them back. But it was too late. Johanna’s eyes shone with interest.

“I’m somewhat fearful to hear your answer, but how did you happen to have a gold coin in your possession?”

Deciding upon my answers had become a balancing act: truth or lie. This time, truth would win. I needed to tell someone about the letter. While we continued to pare and grate, I divulged the information. Johanna appeared aghast that I would enter my parents’ room without permission, and I thought she might faint when I admitted to taking the coin from my father’s drawer. She stared at me, her mouth wide open. Had a fly been in the room, it could have taken up residence.

“Close your mouth, Johanna,” I hissed.

Her lips snapped shut, but her focus remained fixed upon me.

“It isn’t like I stole the money. It belonged to our family.”

“It belonged to your father, and you didn’t have his permission.

If it isn’t stealing, what do you call it?”

At this rate I was never going to get around to telling her about the letter. “I borrowed it to purchase a gift for you. I’ll tell him I used the money to purchase a book. He won’t care in the least.” I carefully avoided any reference to when I might tell him and pressed on before she could stop me with another question or condemnation. “But here’s the important part.” I sucked in a gulp of air and explained the letter Brother Kohler had given me. “What do you think I should do?”

Her brow crinkled and a V formed between her eyebrows. “Don’t try to shift blame by saying you stole the money to purchase a gift for me. I would never accept a gift that was purchased with stolen money, so you can keep the poetry book or return it to Brother Kohler at the store. As for the letter, it isn’t a difficult decision. You need to hand it over to your father.”

That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “But what if—”

“If the contents were meant for your eyes, the letter would be addressed to you. It wasn’t.” She shoved the grater and knives into the crock of mounded potatoes. “Let’s get these drained.”

I grasped one of the large sieves made by the village tinsmith, my wrists aching by the time we’d completely squeezed all of the liquid from the potatoes. While I beat the eggs, Johanna mixed flour, salt, baking powder, and pepper. “Eggs are ready,” I said.

She dumped the flour mixture into the potatoes and motioned for me to add the eggs. “Go ahead and stir them. I’ll heat the skillets.” When the lard was sizzling in the skillets, she motioned for the bowl of potatoes. “Be certain to set out bowls of applesauce. Potato pancakes are not their very best without applesauce.”

I thought applesauce on top of the potato pancakes ruined the flavor, but I kept that thought to myself. Right now I didn’t need another disagreement with Johanna. For the next hour I scuttled about the kitchen and performed my duties as best I could and received a favorable nod from Sister Muhlbach when the meal had been delivered to the tables. Good job or not, I was the one who remained late to clean the kitchen.

“It’s the right thing,” Sister Muhlbach said. “While the others worked, you were sitting at home. Now they will rest while you work.”

There was no need to argue. I wouldn’t win. Besides, I’d come to a decision. Once the others were out of the kitchen, I would steam open the envelope and read the letter. I’d never before tried such a thing, but when we lived in Chicago, John Underwood had told me of steaming open letters his sister had received from a beau. From what he’d told me, it didn’t sound all that difficult.

The letter proved an incentive to perform my tasks with haste. Sister Muhlbach would have been stunned to see how quickly I could scrub pots and pans and set the kitchen aright. I placed a kettle of water atop the stove while I scrubbed the wooden floor—an effort in futility as far as I was concerned. It would only get dirty again. But I knew Sister Muhlbach would return and examine my work before morning, so I scrubbed—except for the far corners of the dining room. Nobody walked there anyway.

By the time the floor was cleaned, steam was rising from the kettle in a swirling pattern that twisted toward the ceiling. I removed the letter from my pocket and reexamined the lovely script. My palms turned damp, and I swiped them down the front of my apron. I dared not wait too long or Sister Muhlbach would return and interrupt me. Any attempt to explain would surely fall upon deaf ears.

Keeping my fingers free of the steam, I held the envelope above the boiling water, but my first attempt to open the missive failed. Undeterred, I returned the envelope to the warm mist and slowly moved it back and forth. This time, using the tip of a knife to aid in my effort, the glue released and the envelope popped open. My fingers trembled as I removed the pages and dropped to a chair near the kitchen door. From this vantage point I would gain the most daylight and could also hear if someone approached.

My stomach clenched into a knot as I scanned the rows of neat script.

My darling Herman,

How I have missed you, my love. My heart aches for you, and I don’t know how I shall survive until you return to me. For more than a week I have been expecting to hear your familiar knock on my door but have been sorely disappointed. When you departed, you promised you would return once Helen and Berta were settled in Iowa.

If you truly love me—as you so often have said—then why do you linger? Know that I love you, but I will not wait forever.

My stomach roiled, and I swallowed hard. I couldn’t bear to read any more of this painful entreaty. I turned to the last page and looked at the signature.
Lovingly yours, Caroline
. I rubbed my forehead, hoping to relieve the pressure that pounded behind my eyes. So many questions, but who would answer them? Not my father. And I couldn’t ask my mother. Anger mixed with fear as I considered the letter’s contents. I wanted to believe the woman didn’t exist, but memories of arguments between my parents and the many nights my father had been absent from our home in Chicago paraded through my mind. And then I remembered the leather pouch.

Was that why he had the money hidden away? So he could return to her? Did he care so little for Mother and me? I folded the letter, returned it to the envelope, and dipped my finger in a pitcher of water. With a light touch, I daubed the water onto the seal and pressed it back in place. Once I was certain it held fast, I tucked the letter into my pocket and walked out the kitchen door, down the street to our house, and up the stairs to our rooms.

My father was sitting on the upholstered chair thumbing through one of his medical books. He glanced up when I entered the room. “I wondered if you would return in time for prayer service.”

“Where is Mother?”

“She went back to the Kinderschule and said she would join us at prayer service.”

I couldn’t imagine why she’d go back there, but I was pleased. Without further conversation, I removed the letter from my pocket and stretched it forward. “This letter came for you in the mail.”

His complexion turned ashen. “How do you happen to have this?”

There was a noticeable tremor in his voice that confirmed my worst fears—and probably his, as well. “I was at the general store, and Brother Kohler gave it to me.”

“I see.” He shoved the envelope into his pocket.

“Who is it from, Father? I don’t recognize the address.”

“Nobody you know, Berta. Just one of my patients from Chicago.”

My heart turned cold when I heard my father’s calculated lie.

CHAPTER 13