Eve's Daughters (6 page)

“I guess this Sunday is as good a time as any to tell your parents what we’ve been up to here in town.”

The way he phrased it made me blush again, but I hugged him impulsively. “Oh, thank you, Fritz! Emil can let them know we’re coming.”

“Ah yes. Good old Emil. You’ve been in my arms for a full five minutes now—I imagine he’ll start pounding the door down soon. May I steal one last kiss from you before he does?”

I laughed and lifted my lips to his.

We went out to the farm the following Sunday, and my family greeted the news that I was expecting with such joy it might have been their first grandchild instead of their eighth. The men lit thick cigars and toasted Friedrich in the parlor with clinking glasses of Papa’s best schnapps while the women shared home remedies for morning sickness with me as we washed dishes in the kitchen. Becoming a mother forged a wonderful new bond between Mama and me, strengthening a love that was already strong and deep. It seemed to me that motherhood—even more than marriage—marked the dividing line between being a child and becoming a woman.

Later that afternoon, when Runa climbed the stairs to nurse her squalling baby in the bedroom under the eaves, I followed her, remembering the whispered confidences we’d shared in that room as children. I sprawled comfortably at the foot of the big feather bed with my chin propped on my hand as I watched my sister put the baby to her breast. I wondered what it would be like, nursing my own child like that, but when I finally spoke, my thoughts were on my husband. He always seemed like a stranger to me again whenever we visited the farm. I was at home here, I belonged here—Friedrich didn’t.

“Runa, what did you think of Ernst before you married him?”

Runa leaned against the headboard, her baby making contented sounds as he suckled. “I thought he came from a good family, that he earned a good living . . . he would be able
to
provide a nice life for our children and me.”

“Did you think he was handsome?”

Runa smiled, shaking her head. “Ernst isn’t handsome. But he isn’t Klaus Gerber either.” I laughed as I pictured the bedraggled town drunkard.

“Do you love him?” I asked a moment later.

Runa grew flustered, red-faced. She rocked the baby a little faster in her arms. “Goodness, Louise, where are all these silly questions coming from? He’s my husband.”

“Does that mean that you do love him or you don’t?”

“It means that I don’t have time to dither about such nonsense. We’re married. I do my part—cooking his meals, bearing his children, keeping his home—and he provides a living for us.”

“You make it sound like you’re his servant and the house and your food are your pay.”

“For heaven’s sake, that’s what marriage is. We’re women in a man’s world. We’re his rib—his helpmate.”

“Are you fond of him, then?”

“Of course I’m fond of him. He treats me well, he’s a good, hard-working man—what more could I want?”

“I don’t know . . . love?”

Runa stopped rocking and studied me curiously. “Are you and Friedrich having problems? It’s quite normal the first year or two, but if you give the marriage time . . .”

I sat up and squeezed my sister’s hand. “We’re not having problems—didn’t we just announce that we’re having a baby this summer? I’m very happy with Friedrich. He’s kind and thoughtful and—” I almost said passionate but changed my mind, too unsure of Runa’s reaction to confess how much I enjoyed sharing Friedrich’s bed. If women spoke of the marriage bed at all, it was usually in terms of duty or childbearing. And judging by the conversations I had overheard, only immoral women admitted to being eager to sleep with a man.

“I’m very fond of Friedrich,” I said, “but sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be in love and how you can tell if you are. You’ve been married five years—I just wondered if it took that long for love to grow. That’s all.”

“That’s all, she says! Do I love Ernst after five years, she asks!” Runa
laughed and lifted the baby to her shoulder, patting him gently on the back. “I know what size to knit his socks without measuring his foot. I know the sound of his tread on the stairs, how thick to make his gravy, and how shiny he likes his boots. I could probably pick out his shirt with my eyes closed because it would smell like he does. Isn’t that what love is? Knowing everything there is to know about the other person and being content with it?”

“Oh, Runa, that can’t be all!”

“What more do you want?”

“Something deeper, more beautiful, more . . . more exciting! I want my heart to be moved. I want to be changed inside from knowing him.”

“Romantic love is for fairy tales, Louise. You’re married, and that means being content with the ordinary, day-to-day giving and serving. It means giving up what you want and putting your husband’s needs first.”

I remembered Friedrich’s immigration papers lying in his dresser drawer, and the room suddenly seemed colder, the afternoon sky outside the window darker. We would have to start back to our cottage in town soon.

“You’re right, Runa,” I said, climbing off the bed. “I sometimes forget that fairy tales are just that—fairy tales. I’d better go downstairs so you can get the baby to sleep.”

In the kitchen, Oma was shoving her tiny feet, shoes and all, into a pair of Papa’s old boots. She had her egg basket slung over one arm. “Time to put my chickens to bed,” she said as she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

“I’ll come with you.” I grabbed Emil’s jacket off the hook near the door and linked my arm through my grandmother’s as we followed the path to the chicken coop. The hens scratching around the yard fluttered toward Oma with a raucous greeting. I watched her fill a bowl with feed.

“How long were you and Grandpa married?” I asked.

“Let’s see . . . more than forty-three years.”

“Did you love him?”

“Humph . . . that stubborn old man?” she asked with a snort. Then she smiled and her voice grew soft. “Yes, I loved him.”

“When did it happen? How long after you were married did you fall in love?” I followed her into the tiny coop and helped her sift through the straw for eggs in each of the roosts.

“I don’t exactly know when it happened . . . we never thought about love, years ago. We were too busy, too down-to-earth when we were your age to waste time thinking about such frivolous things.”

“But do you remember the day you knew for sure that you loved him?”

Oma set the basket on the roosting ledge as if it had suddenly grown too heavy. Her eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the fading light. “Yes, Liebchen. It was the day that he died. I knew by the measure of my grief what the measure of my love had been. But by then it was too late to tell him.”

“He knew, Oma. Don’t you think Grandpa knew?”

“Yes, maybe so. But still, it would have been nice, I think, to say the words just once, and to watch his face when he heard them.” She turned back to her chickens, gently pushing a plump hen aside to reach into the nest. “Move,
Frau Huhn
. Let me see what you’re hiding under there. Ah, a nice brown one. Louise can take it home for Friedrich’s breakfast.”

“He’ll be thrilled. He loves fresh eggs.” I carried the basket as we ducked out of the chicken coop. Oma shooed all the stragglers inside and latched the door for the night.

“Your Friedrich is a good man, Louise. And I can tell that he’s very content with his new wife.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The nice way he treats you and watches out for you. The way his eyes follow you around the room. The way he gazes at you when you’re not looking.”

I hoped it was too dark for my grandmother to notice my flushed cheeks. “Oma, how will I know when I’m in love?” I asked at last.

“I can’t answer that, Liebchen. It’s different for each person, I think.”

“What was it like for you?”

“I knew I loved your grandfather because when he died, part of me died too. And the part of me that was left felt like something was missing—like apple strudel without the cinnamon. I’ll see something he would have liked and I’ll turn to say, Oh, look at that.’ But he isn’t there to enjoy it . . . and so I don’t enjoy it either.”

“I didn’t realize you missed him so much, Oma.”

“Mmm. I never dreamed that I would.”

When we reached the back door, I saw Friedrich through the kitchen window. He was probably ready to leave and had come searching for me. Oma took my arm and paused before going inside.

“When that day comes for you, Louise, when you know that you love him, don’t wait until it’s too late. Tell your Friedrich. Let him hear the words. That way you’ll have no regrets.”

I wrapped my arms around my grandmother. “You’ll see Grandpa again in heaven, Oma. You’ll have all of eternity to tell him.”

“Yes, Liebchen, I’ll see him again . . . but the Bible says there are no marriages in heaven.”

FOUR

Spring edged toward summer. Our baby grew strong and vigorous inside me. As my time drew nearer and none of the men had been drafted, I was almost lulled into believing that nothing had changed except the seasons and my waist size. Then Emil burst through our backyard gate one warm June afternoon as I was removing laundry from the clothesline.

“News, Louise! Have I got news!”

“Don’t startle me like that, Emil! Do you want me to go into labor?” He laughed, gripping the clothespole with one hand and swinging in a circle around it.

“So . . .?” I prompted. “Is it good news or bad?

“Some of each. Where’s Friedrich?”

“He’ll be home from school any minute.” I folded a linen towel and placed it in the laundry basket, waiting. “You aren’t going to make me wait, are you?”

“Of course!” Emil smiled mischievously, and I caught a glimpse of Papa in his wide, lopsided grin.

“I know! You must have heard the results of your university entrance exams!”

“I’m not going to say . . .”

But I thought I saw a glint of triumph in his eyes before he spun away from me and strolled into the house to wait. As the sun disappeared behind a cloud for a moment, I wondered what Emil’s bad news was.

By the time I finished folding all of the laundry and hoisted the basket to my hip, Friedrich arrived. He had his usual armload of books and papers, but he transferred them to one hand and took the basket from me with the other.

“Here . . . let me help you. You shouldn’t be lifting heavy burdens.”

“Is that right, ‘Doctor’ Schroder?” I said, smiling. “That will be good news to expectant mothers everywhere. We can just lie back with our feet up from now on.” He laughed and leaned forward to kiss me but I stepped aside, blushing. “Emil’s here.”

“Ah. I might have known.”

“He has some news,” I explained as I opened the back door. “Good news and bad, he says.” Emil sat at the kitchen table, a broad grin illuminating his face.

“You’ve passed the exams, haven’t you!” Friedrich guessed. He dropped the laundry basket on the floor and dumped his books on the table so he could pump Emil’s hand. “Congratulations, brother!”

“Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without all your tutoring.”

“Were you accepted into the engineering program too?”

“With flying colors.”

“That’s terrific news, Emil. I’m proud of you.” Friedrich finally released Emil’s hand and circled his arm around me, pulling me close.

“What’s the bad news, Emil?” I asked. “That you’ll be leaving all of us and going away to university next year?”

His smile vanished abruptly. “No, not exactly . . .” He glanced at Friedrich with a strange, worried look.

“Then, let’s enjoy the good news,” Friedrich said quickly, “and let the bad news wait for another day. Can you stay for dinner, Emil? We should celebrate.”

“Thanks, but I can’t tonight. I have to get back to the farm. Papa is—” He stopped, the odd look crossing his features once again. He stood to leave. “We’ll celebrate another day. I just stopped by for a minute to tell you the news.”

I twisted out of Friedrich’s grasp and blocked Emil’s path to the door. “What happened? What about Papa? Tell me, Emil.”

He lifted his shoulders as if trying to shrug off his uneasiness. “Papa’s a little upset, that’s all.” He tried to edge around me.

“Why? Not because you’re going away to school. Papa wants you to go.”

“No. Not because of me, Louise.” He paused, and it seemed to take forever for him to find the words. “Kurt received his draft notice yesterday.”

“
What?
Who will help Papa run the farm?”

“Exactly,” Emil said softly. “I told Papa I would wait two years until Kurt gets back, but you know how proud Papa is to have a son going to university. He won’t listen to reason. He’s cursing the Kaiser and the army generals and everyone else he can think of.”

“But they
can’t
draft Kurt!” I cried. “He has a family and . . . and responsibilities! How can they do such a thing?”

Friedrich gripped the edge of the table and slowly lowered himself into a
chair. It took me a moment to realize why the news had upset him so much. He and Kurt were the same age.

Emil exhaled, as if even the air he breathed was weighted with doom. “Some of Kurt’s friends received notices too. I’m sorry, Friedrich. I know what this means for you.”

“No . . .” I whispered. “This can’t be happening.” The room felt as if it were spinning. I moved to the stove and stirred the pot of chicken stew that was simmering for dinner. “We’re having a baby in two months. They have no right to disrupt our lives this way.” My hands shook as I opened the grate and shoved a piece of firewood into the stove. Ordinarily, Friedrich would have been on his feet by now, helping me, but he remained slumped in the chair as if all of his bones had dissolved.

“How long until Kurt has to report for training?” Friedrich finally asked.

“Three months. But don’t worry . . . ‘Fischer’ is near the beginning of the alphabet. It might take a few more months for them to get to ‘Schroder.’ By that time your baby will be born.”

“What about your teacher’s exemption?” I asked in a quivering voice. Friedrich lifted his head to meet my gaze.

“It seems there is a surplus of teachers at the moment,” he said. “Besides, all the new June graduates will be looking for work soon . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked shaken, as if he might be sick, and I realized that underneath his calm assurances that God would provide, he was as distraught and unsure about our future as I was. I watched his hands slowly tighten into fists as anger, a rare emotion for Friedrich, gradually replaced his paralysis.