Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01] (8 page)

“I delivered her tray as usual. I called to her, but when she didn’t answer, I went into the bedroom.”

Silence hung between us until I poked her with my elbow. “And?”

“I thought she was asleep so I called her name again. When she didn’t respond, I grabbed hold of her arm.” She captured her lip between her teeth for a moment, and tears welled in her eyes.

“I think I pulled too hard, because she fell on the floor.”

“What?” I hadn’t meant to shriek.

Dr. Schumacher had run several feet ahead of us, but he glanced over his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” Berta said. “We’re coming.” And then to me, “Please don’t tell.”

I hastened my step. “Was she breathing? Did you check to see?”

“I . . . I don’t think so.” A gush of tears followed Berta’s stammered response.

“Stay out here,” I commanded when we entered the parlor. “I’ll go in with your father.”

Dr. Schumacher was on his knees when I stepped into the bedroom. I stooped down beside him and reached for Oma’s hand. The doctor shook his head. “She’s gone. From the appearance of her body, she probably died sometime during the night. Looks like she might have gotten up to call for help and couldn’t make it.”

“You think it was her heart?” I asked. Oma had complained of pains in her shoulder and back over the past month.

“It’s difficult to know for sure, but that might be the cause.” He lifted the old woman in his arms and placed her body on the bed. “Do you know who we should summon to prepare her?”

“She has no family members. I’ll fetch my mother. She’ll see to the body.”

I returned to the parlor and motioned for Berta to follow me. Neither of us spoke until we were outside. The budding trees throughout the village heralded a season of new life, yet Oma’s death had diminished all beauty of the season.

“What did Father say?”

“She died sometime during the night. You weren’t responsible for her death. Come on. We need to return to the kitchen.”

“You’re angry with me. I can tell.”

Mud squished beneath the soles of my shoes as I stepped off the board sidewalk and out into the street. “I’m not angry, Berta. I’m sad. I loved Oma Reich. Even though I know she’s in a better place, it doesn’t mean I won’t miss her.”

Berta clung to my side while I delivered the news to my parents. The village carpenter would be summoned to Oma’s room, where he would measure the old woman’s body before he prepared a simple pine box for her burial. The wood shavings would be saved and used in Oma’s coffin pillow. My mother would wash the woman’s body and dress her in a white muslin gown, a shawl, and knit stockings. Oma’s gray hair would be tucked beneath a finely knitted white cap and then covered with a plain white muslin cap before the silk ribbons were tied beneath her wrinkled chin and she was placed in the wooden box.

The ritual remained the same for each member of the community: White clothing for both the men and women, burial in a plain wooden box that was neither too large nor too small, a place in the ground next to the last person who had died, and a simple headstone with the name of the deceased and the date of death. Just as the community had provided equality in life, it provided parity in death.

By the next morning our parlor had been cleared of all furniture save a small doily-covered table, the casket, and a clock with the hands stopped at midnight to signify Oma Reich’s approximate time of death. Though the weather was not yet overly warm, my mother had placed canning jars filled with ice inside and beneath the coffin—just in case. “You never know. It could turn hot,” she said when I questioned her. “Better safe than sorry.”

Since there were no surviving relatives, my parents greeted the visitors and accepted condolences on Oma’s behalf. One after another families appeared, walked to the casket, offered a brief prayer, and departed. Everyone was now gone except Berta. She’d been standing in a far corner of the room for over an hour. She’d neither approached the casket nor said a word to anyone.

I padded across the multicolored wool carpet. It seemed strangely out of place on such a somber day as this. “Would you like me to go with you to the side of the casket, Berta?”

“No. I can see from here.” Her gaze drifted toward the pine box. “She doesn’t look very good, does she?”

I forced a smile. “She’s dead, Berta. No one looks good in death. Why don’t you go back upstairs with your parents. There’s no reason for you to remain down here.”

After one final glance at the coffin, Berta shuffled from the room. Clearly the girl still believed she’d played some part in Oma Reich’s death.

Berta and her parents attended the funeral service the next day for Oma Reich. Following our custom, Berta and her mother had made their way to the cemetery with the women while her father took his place with the men. She remained silent, quietly observing the ritual—at least that’s what I thought until I observed her slowly working her way to the rear of the crowd until she stood next to Rudolf. Though their exchange was brief, my stomach lurched at the sight. Berta was up to something.

CHAPTER 6

Berta Schumacher

Throughout the days following Oma Reich’s funeral, Johanna guarded me like the village watchman who protected the town against fire. Rudolf and I had arranged to meet after the funeral, but Johanna foiled any opportunity to sneak away. Though I’d done my best to shake her from my side, she hadn’t been deterred. Instead of sneaking off to enjoy Rudolf ’s company, I’d been forced into the frenzy of spring cleaning. Since we already cleaned every day, I didn’t see the necessity of spring cleaning, but my opinion wasn’t considered.

After scrubbing and scouring every inch of the kitchen and its contents, I learned the same was expected in our rooms at home. The very idea of more cleaning set my head spinning with fresh thoughts of escape. Beating rugs, carrying out mattresses, washing windows, and pressing freshly washed curtains was beyond what anyone should expect from me. Yet my mother and father ignored my complaints. By the time we’d completed the cleaning, my hands were raw, and I’d discovered muscles I didn’t know existed. And all of them ached.

Finally Monday arrived to signal the beginning of Holy Week. I looked forward to helping prepare for Easter, but my excitement waned at the prospect of attending yet another church service each day at noon. Had there not been other excitement within the Küche, I would have sorely protested. I hoped the fun of dying Easter eggs would outweigh the boredom of the extra church meetings.

“If you would listen to the elders during the church meetings, you would learn a great deal. And you would grow closer to the Lord, which would be a very good thing,” Johanna said when I lodged yet another complaint on our way to the kitchen. “Besides, I thought you were the girl who enjoyed any escape from work.”

Rubbing my arms, I crossed the street alongside Johanna. “Escape from one confinement to another isn’t escape.” The cold March wind whistled through the tree branches, and I shivered beneath my heavy shawl. I hadn’t totally adapted to rising at this early hour, but I did derive a small sense of pleasure from the silence that cloaked the village before it bustled to life each day.

“You can rest your feet while you worship the Lord. At least you must admit there is a bit of pleasure in that,” Johanna said.

“I think I will find more pleasure in dying eggs for the children. Sister Muhlbach said I could help if I didn’t get in trouble the rest of the week.”

Johanna patted my shoulder. “That’s quite an order, isn’t it?”

“I made it through yesterday without any problems, but she said we wouldn’t boil and dye the eggs until Friday and Saturday. I wish it could be sooner.”

“Good Friday is the best day. We won’t be preparing much food, so there will be more time.”

More time because Good Friday would be a day of fasting—a concept I didn’t understand in the least. Although bread and water could be consumed, very little food would be prepared in the Küche on that day. What would it be like to smell cookies in the oven and be unable to taste them? Maybe baking cookies wouldn’t be so much fun after all.

Very few eggs had been cracked during the past week. Each Küchebaas had to have enough dyed eggs to fill the baskets of the children who were served in her kitchen. Sister Muhlbach took that message to heart and had been abundantly clear: There would be more than enough cookies and eggs to fill every basket.

With all the chickens at each kitchen house, I didn’t see how there could possibly be a shortage, but Sister Muhlbach had ordered that eggs would be used only for baking coffee cakes and other desserts. The excess were stored in large crocks in the basement, where they would remain cool. I had been assigned the task of carrying the eggs to the basement every afternoon.

With each passing day, I’d performed my tasks and kept my lips sealed. I wanted to help with baking the cookies and dying the eggs, and Sister Muhlbach knew it! When Friday finally arrived, I knew I’d passed the test. After early morning church we returned to the kitchen.

“First we must boil the eggs. While they cool, we can begin work on the cookies.” Sister Muhlbach waved in my direction. “Go to the cellar and bring up the eggs, Berta—one crock at a time. We don’t want any broken eggs.”

I would have preferred to remain in the kitchen and watch how the water was prepared for the eggs, but I didn’t argue. Any disagreement and Sister Muhlbach would surely ban me from the kitchen. Lantern in hand, I descended the stairs and entered the cavernous cellar. After making my way across the room, I counted the crocks. My legs would be aching by the time I completed the task.

With each trip to the kitchen, I’d peek to see if the onion skins had been added to the boiling water or the flour measured for the cookies. But if I lingered for even a few seconds, Sister Muhlbach waved me out the door. Once again, I descended the steps and lifted the lantern high. Four crocks remained. I now wished our two hundred chickens hadn’t been quite so productive. None of the crocks was quite full. I might be able to rearrange the eggs and reduce the number of containers to three. After a hasty attempt, I gave up on the plan. The eggs simply wouldn’t fit. But if I ignored Sister Muhlbach’s warning and carried two at a time, I would only need to make one more trip. I could place them outside on the porch and then carry one crock at a time into the kitchen.