Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01] (34 page)

He tapped one of the rounds. “That one’s got more mold on it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barton. You may go and finish your chores.” Sister Muhlbach straightened her shoulders and rested her fists on her ample hips. “Well, Berta? Do you admit that you didn’t scrub the rounds in that crock?”

“It would appear that I didn’t.” All thought of trying to do better fled from my mind as I attempted to contrive an answer. And then it came to me. “I see that there are six crocks of cheese. I must have missed one when I carried them upstairs. I thought there were only five.”

“Don’t compound your bad behavior with a lie, Berta. You are only making matters worse.” She waved Sister Dickel toward the back porch. “Go inside. I want to speak to Berta alone.”

“I don’t care if she stays out here. I’m not changing my story,” I said.

Sister Muhlbach ignored my remark, but Sister Dickel slowed her departure, obviously eager to hear the rest of our conversation. “Go on, Sister Ursula. You can finish washing the dishes,” the older woman said.

Once we were alone, Sister Muhlbach urged me to tell the truth, but I held fast to my lie. She gazed heavenward and shook her head. “I’m going to go speak with Mr. Barton and ask him how many of these crocks he carried to the cellar for you the other day.” She turned on her heel and huffed across the yard. I hoped Mr. Barton wouldn’t remember, or that he would be willing to tell a small untruth to protect me. When I saw the self-satisfied look on Sister Muhlbach’s face as she marched toward me, my hopes faltered.

Though my insides churned, I did my best to appear confident. “Shall I go back to my dishwashing?” I longed to escape the angry diatribe that was sure to come my way.

“No, you shall not! You stay right where you are.” She planted her feet firmly in the soft grass and looked me directly in the eye.

“Mr. Barton tells me he carried
six
crocks to the cellar.”

“Does he? Then he must be mistaken, for there were only five. I don’t think his memory is very good.” I leaned a bit closer. “He drinks while he’s supposed to be working.”

“I can see that you’re unwilling to confess the truth, so you leave me no choice. I’ll be forced to speak to the elders about your recent behavior.”

“Do what you must.” I truly didn’t care if she talked to my mother, the Bruderrat, or even the Grossebruderrat. No punishment they would mete out could compare to my loneliness and concern for Johanna and my father. Johanna said God would bring me comfort, but that hadn’t occurred.

Apparently Sister Muhlbach considered my remark a sign of defiance rather than one of resignation, for she stomped up the back stairs with me following slowly. She untied her apron, shouting that she would return in short order, before continuing through the dining room and departing. When the front door closed the women turned to look at me, alarm evident in their eyes. It was obvious they would be mortified to be in my situation. But then, none of them ever broke the rules.

After the women returned to their work, I marched outside to locate Mr. Barton, who had disappeared from sight after his betrayal. Hoping to catch him by surprise, I circled to the side of the chicken coop and peeked inside. He wasn’t there. I glanced at the tool shed, then dashed across the expanse and yanked open the door.

“Taking a nap, are you, traitor?” I spat the words into the shed as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Shuffling sounds were enough to confirm the handyman was hiding here.

“Why you callin’ me a traitor? Didn’t I warn you about that cheese?”

Plunking one fist on my hip, I leaned forward and pointed my other finger under his nose. “You have no loyalty, Mr. Barton. I would have come to your defense, but you can be certain I won’t help you in the future.”

“I’m as loyal as they come, Berta, but you shouldn’t expect me to defend you when the lie you’re telling is as plain as the nose on your face. I never promised to keep your secret. Sister Muhlbach woulda sent me packing without a second thought. And I need this job.”

“I didn’t realize hobos held their jobs in such high esteem.”

He chuckled. “You shouldn’t lump us all together. I work all summer and make enough money to enjoy winters down south. When my money runs low, I know it’s time to head north. I might not be your typical hobo, but you’re not a typical Amana sister, either.”

That much was true. I couldn’t be easily lumped together with the other women in the village. And I hadn’t asked him to lie for me. Still, any fool would know that’s what I’d expected. Only the future would tell if Mr. Barton could be trusted.

Upon her return, Sister Muhlbach took me aside and explained she would meet with the Bruderrat on Saturday morning. “You are welcome to come along and state your case. In fact, I would suggest that you do so. It’s always best for the elders to hear both sides of any controversy.”

“No thank you. You can tell them whatever you want, and they can make their decision based upon your report. I have nothing to say.”

I’d arrived at my decision without hesitation. If I attended the meeting, I’d need to confess that I’d been lying. Or I’d have to tell additional lies to support my earlier fabrications. I knew the elders would believe Sister Muhlbach, for she’d be the one speaking the truth. I did wonder if Mr. Barton would be called upon to repeat his story. Probably not. They wouldn’t need a hobo to confirm my misdeeds. Besides, it mattered little what the elders said. Their punishment wouldn’t change my behavior.

I was surprised when Sister Muhlbach ordered me to deliver the afternoon repast to the garden. She knew I enjoyed the task, and I’d expected her to permanently assign the deliveries to Sister Dickel. “I’d tell you to hurry back, but I’m certain you’ll do as you please.” She shrugged and shook her head, obviously resigned to the fact that nothing would change until I’d been properly punished.

Basket in hand, I hurried out the door before she could change her mind. On the way I decided she’d sent me because I’d been of little use in the kitchen. Either way, I was glad to be outdoors. Maybe Sister Muhlbach would ask the elders to assign me to the garden or the calico mill. Or maybe they would send me to work with my mother at the Kinderschule. I wouldn’t mind that so much. Playing games with the children would be fun, and I could go visit Rudolf whenever I wanted. Mother wouldn’t care.

I stopped by the dairy barn after I’d handed over the basket to Sister Nusser, but Rudolf hadn’t returned from his afternoon deliveries. My stop at the general store was as brief as the one to the dairy barn. No mail for me or for my mother. A weight settled in my stomach. Why didn’t Father write? Couldn’t he take a few minutes to pen a note to us and tell us all was well and he missed us? I wandered aimlessly down the sidewalk, unwilling to return to the Küche just yet. When nothing of particular interest came to mind, I decided to go home and rest for a while before returning to work.

It wasn’t until I entered the front door and glanced toward the Ilgs’ apartment that I knew what I would do with my time. After tapping on the door to make certain no one was home, I entered the parlor. “Sister Ilg?” I hadn’t seen Johanna’s mother at the garden, and I wanted to be sure she hadn’t taken to her bed with an illness of some sort. I tried to remember if I’d seen her at breakfast, but I couldn’t recall. Better to be safe.

“It’s me, Berta Schumacher.” I tiptoed through the parlor and peeked into the bedroom. Empty. I heaved a sigh and opened the door to Johanna’s bedroom. A nagging guilt tiptoed into the room behind me, but I pushed it aside. Johanna wouldn’t mind if I borrowed her magazines. After all, I’d given her the poetry book before she left for Chicago. She’d think it a fair exchange. I carefully examined her wardrobe and dresser, but a search of both revealed nothing. Perhaps she’d taken them with her.

My excitement plummeted. I was about to leave the room when I spied the small trunk at the foot of her bed. The chest was filled with mementoes from Johanna’s childhood. A few hand-carved toys, a doll, an old blanket, and a flour sack. My breath caught in my throat the minute I saw it. Even before I shoved my hand inside, a piece of the pink silk escaped the bag’s opening. Johanna had never destroyed my skirt. She’d either forgotten about it or she’d intentionally decided to keep it. Either way, I was pleased. I dug a little deeper, but still no magazines.

I stood in the doorway and studied the room. Where would I hide magazines in this room? I’d checked in each piece of furniture, looked behind the wardrobe, and under the bed. Where else could they be? My gaze settled on the carpet. I dropped to my knees alongside the bed and then lay down on the carpet. Reaching beneath the bed, I traced my palm over the rug until I felt an unexpected rise in the carpet. She’d shoved the magazines beneath the rug so that if anyone looked under her bed, the magazines wouldn’t be detected. My delight mounted when I lifted the edge of the rug and was able to retrieve them. I tossed the magazines atop the bed, patted the edge of the rug into place, and got to my feet, pleased with my success.

I rolled the magazines and tucked them inside the flour bag with my pink silk skirt. After one quick glance to ensure all was in order, I exited the bedroom, crossed the parlor, and peeked out the door before making my final escape into the foyer and up the stairs. My palms were damp with perspiration, and my breathing came in rapid spurts as I pushed open our parlor door.

“Is that you, Berta?”

I clapped my hand over my mouth to force back the shriek in my throat.

“Berta?” My mother’s voice drifted from the bedroom.

“Yes, Mother. Are you ill?” Panic held me captive as I heard her approaching footsteps. I needed to hide the bag, but before I could force my feet to move, she was in the room.

She pointed to the cloth bag held tight in my arm. “What do you have there?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s an old flour sack that I use when I take food to the garden workers.”

She nodded as though what I’d said was entirely believable. There was no reason for her to think I would lie about a flour bag. She continued toward the door and then stopped. Her brows pulled into a frown. “Why are you at home?”

My thoughts swirled. “I need to change my shoes. This pair pinches my toes.” I took a step toward my bedroom. “Have you heard anything from Father?”

She shook her head. “No, of course not. I’ve told you, Berta, that your father has never been a man to write letters. If I received any word from him, I’m certain it would be bad news. When he is away from home, I know that no news is good news.” She pointed toward the bedroom. “Don’t take long. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

I didn’t know if I believed her, but she waved and was out the door. I could only wonder what she would think when she discovered I was already in trouble. I expected Sister Muhlbach or one of the elders to mention the meeting to my mother. Then again, I didn’t really know how such matters were handled. Maybe Mother wouldn’t be advised until the elders rendered their final decision.

I tugged and wiggled one of my dresser drawers until it had opened wide enough to shove the flour sack inside, but then I stopped. There was no reason to hurry back to the kitchen. I was already in trouble, so why not relax at home awhile longer. I dumped the contents of the bag onto my bed, reveling in the color and feel of the pink silk. Lifting the fabric, I draped it over my head and let it fall over my face, enjoying the feel of the soft, cool silk against my skin. Could I possibly repair it?

Jumping to my feet, I spread the skirt across the bed. My hopes deflated as I traced my fingers along the jagged rip. I had hoped for a split seam that could easily be repaired, but the rip was four inches above the hem and right in the center. I doubted even a practiced seamstress could repair the frayed fabric to its previous glory. I stood back and took stock of what could be salvaged.

Making a decision, I retrieved Mother’s sewing box, removed the scissors, and set to work. The first cut proved the most difficult, but after that initial snip I sliced through the fabric with ease. Had I been more talented with a needle and thread, I would have developed a more intricate plan, but this would have to do. Besides, no one would see my slipshod handiwork. After separating the upper portion of the skirt, I set it aside and cut the ripped portion from the lower half. Feeling satisfied with my plan, I retrieved a muslin petticoat from my dresser and arranged the pieces of pink silk over the muslin. I stood back and studied the effect. The wide strip of white muslin between the two pieces of silk would do nicely.

After I’d stitched the silk to the upper portion of the petticoat, my concentration waned. Even this mischievous project couldn’t increase my interest in sewing. I didn’t understand why so many women claimed handwork a pleasurable activity. Sewing would never rank high on my list of favorite pastimes.

My conscience began to prick a bit, and I thought I’d better return to the kitchen. I could finish the sewing that evening. After tucking my project into the dresser drawer, I scurried downstairs. A fleeting remembrance of my promise to Johanna flashed to mind, but I pushed aside the twinge of guilt and thought about the pink silk instead. How could something so lovely be considered improper?

CHAPTER 26