More Than Words (19 page)
I turned my sheet of writing paper over and continued. I wanted to tell how the three successive batches of wine were made, so I carefully listed how the first-run wine was made from the first-run juice and how we performed three runs on our grapes with the most robust wine coming from the third run. This wine was the least sweet, the driest, and the darkest in color. From the harvesting of grapes to the final step of storing the vats of wine in the church basement, I’d written out the process. Now I wondered if anyone would truly be interested in this custom of ours. Without further guidance from Mr. Finley, it was difficult to know what kinds of stories I should write. He’d said he wanted to hear about life in the colonies, and winemaking was an important part of our life. We used the wine in our church services, and each family member received a ration of it, with the men receiving the greatest portion. In particularly good seasons, we even sold our wine to outsiders, just as we sold our sauerkraut and onion sets.
I hoped that my story wouldn’t read like a boring schoolbook, but the hour was late, and I couldn’t take time to ensure my words would prove engaging. I would read the story again in the morning. Right now I needed to sleep.
Morning arrived far too soon, and every movement proved an effort. Had I been able to remain abed an extra half hour and skip breakfast, I would have done so. But Father would have wanted a prolonged explanation, and I wouldn’t have gained the extra sleep I desired. I wouldn’t remain awake tonight, of that I was certain. I could only hope there would be few customers and no arriving shipments that would require my attention.
Conrad signaled to me from across the dining room. I gave a slight nod in return. If one of the elders took note, his behavior could draw unwanted attention and the elders wouldn’t hesitate to question him about his failure to adhere to the rules. Even worse, they might question him about our relationship. He couldn’t lie. He’d be required to tell them he’d asked permission to court me. Then Father might have to answer questions. It could become a thorny issue. I would speak to Conrad the next time he came to the store. He should be more careful. There was no need to take such risk when he could walk the short distance from the barbershop and talk to me most any time.
After we’d recited the morning prayer, Oma settled on the bench beside me and passed the bowl of fried potatoes. “Conrad waved to you,” she hissed. “You should not ignore him.”
“I didn’t ignore him, but he needs to be careful or the elders will question his behavior.”
“Ach! They have more important things that need their attention.” She helped herself to a slice of dark rye bread.
I didn’t argue. We weren’t supposed to be talking. Of course Oma didn’t abide by the rule of silence during meals unless she wanted to—she said being old gave her special privileges. I wasn’t sure the elders agreed.
We stood and recited our final prayer before departing the dining room. Oma clung to my arm as we made our way back to the store and said, “My head is hurting a little. I think I should rest for a while.”
She’d been doing well of late. There had been no more episodes of senility since she’d been to the Gypsy camp and given Lalah her black cap, and I was hoping there would be no more. “I don’t think we will be busy today, so if your head is hurting, you should rest. I can manage without you.”
“What about the trims that came in last week? I was going to sort those this morning.”
I shook my head. “Those can wait. If I have time, I’ll work on them. Ridding yourself of a headache is more important than sorting lace.” She readily agreed, a sign the headache was worse than she’d indicated. When we arrived at the store, I walked her to her room and removed her shoes. She refused my offer of headache powders but permitted me to pull back the quilt and cover her with a sheet. “You rest, and I’ll come check on you in a little while.”
She mumbled her agreement and closed her eyes. In a few minutes she’d be asleep. How I wished I could join her. Instead, I stopped in my room long enough to collect my story. If time permitted, I would read it, make any necessary changes, and then put the most recent stories in the mailbag this morning.
When I returned to the front counter, my father grabbed his hat from a peg near the door. “I am going out back to the warehouse. I don’t know if a new shipment will arrive today, but the store is quiet and I need to prepare the boxes we will be shipping out in the morning.”
I waved to him as he departed. At the moment, there was little work in the store that required his attention. He’d rather be at the warehouse or the train station, where he could visit with the men. Unless a customer arrived, I would have ample time to read without interruption.
Pen in hand, I read through the story. On several occasions I stopped to make changes from one word to another or to simplify an explanation, but overall I was pleased with what I’d written. I hoped Mr. Finley’s friend would agree. Together with a recent poem, I folded the pages of my stories and tucked them into an envelope. With a careful hand, I penned Mr. Finley’s name and address. I hoped I would receive a favorable response.
I was sealing the envelope when Sister Marguerite strode into the store, carrying a large wicker basket. Had I confused the days of the week? She waved, and her cheeks plumped like two ripe apples when she smiled.
Before I slipped from the stool, I shoved the envelope beneath a stack of mail to be placed in a mailbag when the next train arrived. “Have you changed your shopping day?”
“Nein, but the Grossebruderrat will be arriving for a meeting and will eat at the Küche tomorrow.”
She didn’t need to explain further. Having the elders from all of the villages eat in one’s kitchen was an honor for any Küchebaas. Such an event was not taken lightly, and only the best meal would do. Sister Marguerite was obviously on a mission to make certain she had every item available to prepare an unforgettable meal.
Most of what she needed for the meal would be items from the garden, chickens from the henhouse, or meat from the butcher. Her food would be seasoned with herbs from the garden, but a few items, ones to make the meal extra special, such as spices or extra sugar, could be purchased only from the store. Once I’d filled her order, I turned back toward the front of the store.
My stomach lurched when I spotted Conrad standing at the counter sorting through the stack of mail. I started toward him. “That is the outgoing mail!” I hadn’t meant to shout, but I hoped to stop him before he discovered the letter addressed to Mr. Finley. My eyes darted from his face to the stack of mail and back again. His expression remained fixed—no smile, no frown. A blank slate. Blank enough for me to feel certain he’d seen the envelope. It wasn’t until I drew near that I could see the disappointment in his eyes. Or was it pain? If he would give me an opportunity to explain and would act in a reasonable manner, everything would be fine. At least I hoped it would. I must convince him to keep my secret, for Father would not understand.
“I can explain,” I whispered as I settled Sister Marguerite’s basket on the counter. He didn’t respond. While I calculated the cost of Sister Marguerite’s merchandise, Conrad strolled through the store as though seeking some special item. I didn’t think Sister Marguerite was fooled by his behavior, but she didn’t say a word. Any other time, she would have quizzed me, but today she was more intent upon the meal she would prepare tomorrow. The minute I’d added her total and entered it on the ledger sheet maintained for her Küche, she hustled from the store with the basket swinging from her arm.
She’d barely cleared the threshold when Conrad reappeared from the back of the store. I slipped the stack of mail beneath the counter. I decided it best to take the offensive. “You should be more careful in the dining room. One of the elders might see you signal to me. It could cause problems.”
“And you should be careful where you place the letters you are writing to an unmarried man who is not a member of our community.” He pointed at the counter. “No need to hide the mail. I have seen the letter.”
“You had no business going through the United States mail. Only those who work in the store are permitted to handle the mail.”
“Ach! Everyone who lives in Homestead has looked through the unsorted mail from time to time. It is your guilt that causes you to say such silly things.”
I wanted to argue that only rarely had I seen anyone sift through the mail, and they had asked permission. But I knew such a comment would only make matters worse. “Would you like to know what is in the envelope?”
“I’ve already seen that it is a letter to Mr. Finley,” he said.
“It isn’t a letter. The envelope contains two stories and a poem. Mr. Finley has a friend in Chicago who is a poet, and Mr. Finley offered to have him read some of my writings.”
“Strange that he would offer to do this, I think. And strange that he is in our village for only a few days and already he knows about your poems and stories.” His lips tightened into a thin line. “You think this is proper, that you contact this man?” He lifted the envelope and waved it in the air. “I do not like this, Gretchen.”
“There is no reason for concern. What I am sending is no different than submitting a lesson for a teacher’s correction.”
“Ja? Then why didn’t you give it to Brother Otto? He is a teacher, and I’m sure he could correct your mistakes.” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me.
“It isn’t the same. Brother Otto doesn’t even like poetry. I want someone to read my work who is a skilled writer. Is that so wrong?”
“I do not know why it matters what someone else thinks of what you write. If he dislikes your work, you will be discouraged.”
Although I’d already heard that Mr. Finley liked my stories, I couldn’t divulge that information to Conrad—at least not now.
“And what does your Vater think of this? He does not think it foolish?”
“He does not know.”
Conrad bowed his head closer. “Did you say he does not know? So you are doing this without his permission?”
“Promise you won’t tell him, Conrad. If not because you care for me, then because it is unfair to Mr. Finley. He does not understand our rules. He offered out of kindness and nothing more. If you make an issue of this, I fear it would influence the elders when he returns.” I reached across the counter and grasped his sleeve. “It is not fair to punish him because you question my decisions.”
“You have sent him other mail?”
“Ja. Nothing personal. Just poems and stories. I will open the envelope and show you if you don’t believe me.”
“That is not necessary. I will not tell your Vater if you agree this will stop. Even if you are not writing him letters, we both know that for a single woman to keep such contact with an outsider is against our rules.”
Relief flooded over me as a local farmer and his wife entered the store with their two young children in tow. For now, further talk would be impossible. “I must help the customers,” I whispered.
“Ja, but we will talk more later.”
The train whistle sounded, and a short time later my father entered the store. He dropped the mailbag on the counter, and after I had removed the arriving mail, I slipped the stack of letters into the canvas bag—including the envelope addressed to Mr. Finley. Guilt nagged me for the remainder of the day, and when I slipped into bed that night, sleep eluded me. Well into the night, I continued to weigh the consequences of my decision, attempting to overcome my feelings of remorse for what I’d done. As daybreak dawned, I had another thought—a thought that I liked, a thought that told me I’d spent far too much time on my stories to simply tuck them away and forget they’d been written.
When I arose that morning, I promised myself this would be the last of it. I wouldn’t send anything else to Mr. Finley.
During the past week I had hoped for an opportunity to go and search for Lalah at the Gypsy camp. Each time I thought I could sneak away, something or someone had interfered. Finally I created my own opportunity. Today the onion harvest would begin, and Mina had requested my assistance in the Küche. To my relief, Sister Marguerite had agreed. I much preferred preparing food rather than harvesting in the fields in the hot sun. Since I would be helping in the Küche now, I was certain I’d be assigned to help dig the onion sets in August—especially if any of the regular kitchen workers complained.
