Eve's Daughters (7 page)

“What a stupid, ridiculous waste!” he shouted, pounding the table. “Why can’t they leave Kurt alone to farm the land he loves? Why can’t they let Emil study engineering instead of teaching him how to shoot a gun? Why can’t I be free to live in peace with my wife and child? can’t any of our nation’s leaders see where this insanity is leading us? Can’t they see the carnage and destruction that’s going to result from their greed? What a waste! What a terrible, tragic waste!”

In the silence that followed Friedrich’s outburst, I could hear the crackle of flames in the stove as the wood caught fire. The baby tossed and squirmed in my womb as if responding to the turmoil in our lives. I gently rubbed my stomach to soothe him. Then I noticed Emil, standing by the door like a beaten dog. This should have been one of the happiest days of his life, and we had ruined it for him. I crossed the room and gathered my brother in an awkward hug, the baby an ungainly lump between us.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said, “and I know Papa is too. He’ll find a way for you to go to school next year, even if it means hiring extra workers or leasing the land for a year or two until Kurt comes back.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so.” I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek.

“She’s right, Emil,” Friedrich said. I heard a note of forced cheer in his voice. “Maybe you can squeeze in a few years of college before it’s your turn.”

Emil gave him a puzzled look. “Have you decided to serve after all, Friedrich? I thought you said . . .”

“One step at a time. I haven’t been notified yet.” He wouldn’t look at either of us as he arranged his school books into a pile on the table with deliberate care. “How is Kurt handling the news?” he asked.

“He was upset at first—especially since Papa took it so hard. But now he’s more or less resigned to going—as long as they don’t ship him to one of the colonies.”

“Is that a possibility?” I asked.

“I guess so,” Emil said with a shrug. “Personally, I’d jump at the chance to travel.”

“What is Gerda going to do when Kurt leaves?” asked.

Emil sighed, as if weary of all our questions. “Why don’t you and Friedrich come out to the farm on Sunday and you can talk to everyone yourselves. Should I tell Mama to expect you?”

“Would that be all right, Fritz?” I looked at him hopefully, but he didn’t respond right away. I realized that he was reluctant to go because he would have to answer all of my family’s questions, and they didn’t understand his strange convictions any more than I did.

“We can go if you want to,” he said eventually.

After Emil left, I busied myself with the dinner preparations. Friedrich sat at the table in glum silence, kneading the worried frown on his forehead. More than anything else, I longed to ask him what he planned to do, but a good wife didn’t pry into her husband’s business. He knew how I felt about leaving Germany, and I had no right to discuss it with him further, much less nag him or plead with him. He would tell me when he was ready to. Besides, I was terrified to hear his answer.

Where is God in all this
? I wanted to shout at him as I banged pots and pans on the stove.
I thought you said we could trust Him. I thought we could leave everything in His hands. Now look at this mess!
But I didn’t say any of those things. Instead, I silently beat flour, milk, and eggs together to make
dumplings, then spooned them on top of the stew.

When I approached the table to set it for dinner, Friedrich reached for my hand. “Everything is moving too fast, Louise. I never dreamed the army would start conscripting men my age so quickly.”

“Is this the way it’s going to be from now on? Waiting for the mail to come every day? Wondering if you’ll be called up next?”

“The Lord taught us to pray, ‘Give us
this
day our daily bread.’ We’re supposed to live one day at a time, not borrow trouble from the next.”

I bit my lip, torn between the desire to submit to my husband and the urge to argue the impossibility of fulfilling such a stupid request. In the end, duty lost the battle, and the words rushed out of my mouth before I could stop them. “It’s very hard not to think of the future with the baby coming so soon.”

He didn’t react to my anger but gently touched my bulging stomach, tracing small circles with his fingertips. “I know,” he said. “But we never
really
know our future, Louise, only what our hopes for it are. All we can do is put our faith in God, then live . . . just live . . . one day at a time.”

July grew hot. I grew enormous and miserable. I wasn’t sure which was worse—waiting for the baby to arrive or waiting for the dreaded draft notice. I was restless and irritable, especially with Friedrich, who was home on school holidays. He fled outside for most of the morning to labor in the vegetable garden I’d asked him to plant. I knew Papa would give us plenty of produce from the farm, but the sight of my own garden, slowly ripening in the hot July sun—green beans and kale, cucumbers for pickles, cabbages for sauerkraut—offered the illusion that we would still be living here when winter came.

In August, my ankles began to swell and the doctor ordered me to stay off my feet. “Fritz, please take me home to the farm,” I begged. “It’s so much cooler out there than in town, and Mama and Oma will know what to do better than the doctor does.”

“You shouldn’t ride that far in a bumpy carriage. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I always thought my babies would be born on the farm,” I said tearfully, “with Mama and Oma there.”

“Louise, I promise that the moment your time comes, I’ll ride out to the farm and bring both of them back here—after I fetch the doctor, of course.” His smile seemed strained, and I realized that he hadn’t smiled much lately or tried to make me laugh, as he used to do. Suddenly all my anxiety about
the future boiled over. I couldn’t stand the uncertainty a moment longer. I unleashed a flood of tears, the only weapon I had against my helplessness.

“Oh, Fritz, please tell me what’s going to happen. I can’t stand not knowing what you’re thinking or what you’re going to do if that draft notice comes. Are you really going to leave Germany like you said and make us move to America?
Please
tell me.”

“Louise, stop . . . You’re upsetting yourself. . . .” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into my hands. “I haven’t told you anything because I was afraid this would happen.”

“But not knowing upsets me just as much . . . maybe more!”

“Shh . . . don’t cry. Don’t cry. . . .” He gathered me awkwardly in his arms, but his skin was hot and sweaty, his shirt damp, his beard itchy against my neck. I pushed him away.

“What are you going to do, Fritz?”

“If the draft notice comes . . .” He closed his eyes. “
When
it comes, I’ll have to leave Germany. I would have left months ago, but—”

“But the baby and I complicated your life.”

“That’s not what I meant to say at all. I want this child more than you’ll ever know, Louise.” He tried to rest his palm on my stomach, but when I felt the damp heat of his hand through my dress I shoved it away. He looked wounded. “The only reason I haven’t left Germany already is because I know you don’t want to go. I thought that if I waited something would change—the Kaiser would raise his army without me, or they’d overlook my name somehow and we’d be able to stay after all. . . .”

“Do you really think that might happen?”

“No. Not anymore. Not since Kurt got his notice. I’ve looked into every avenue of escape I could think of, from a teaching exemption to applying for conscientious objector status, but I’ve exhausted all of my options.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks again. I would have begged at his feet, pleaded with him not to tear me from my home and my family and make me move to America if I thought it would do any good. “When are you planning to leave?” I asked instead.

“Not one moment before I have to. They gave Kurt three months to report, so I assume they’ll do the same for me. I hope to have saved enough money for my passage by then.”

I had no idea how much money Friedrich had, or even how much money he earned as a teacher, let alone what the boat fare for all of us would cost. It wasn’t my place to ask.

“I might have to go to America first and get settled,” he continued, “then send for you and the baby after—” He stopped when I started weeping again. “Please don’t, Louise . . . this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you any of this.” He wore such a pained expression that I regretted asking questions. Friedrich had been right to shield me from the facts. They were upsetting both of us.

“Listen,” he continued, “some men I know were going to come here tomorrow night to talk about what’s involved in getting across the border, but if you’d rather we met somewhere else . . .”

“What do you mean? I thought you had all the documents you needed to cross the border.”

“They may not be valid anymore now that the conscription laws have changed. Once my draft notice comes—”

“You’ll be leaving the country
illegally
?”

He tugged at his shirt collar, as if it were suddenly too tight. I‘m not sure. That’s what I need to find out at this meeting.”

I didn’t understand my husband at all. How could he claim to love God, yet be willing to break the laws of Germany to escape the draft? And how could he be so concerned for my welfare one moment, then announce that he was emigrating to America against my wishes the next? I wanted to know and understand him, but now it seemed that what was most important to each of us would be lost if the other got what he wanted.

“I’m sorry, Fritz,” I said, wiping my tears. “I shouldn’t have forced you to tell me all this. I want you to have the meeting here. I’ll be all right.”

I allowed him to hold me in his arms in spite of the sticky heat, but I drew no comfort from his embrace.

The following evening, I poured glasses of cider for his friends when they arrived for the mysterious meeting. I saw by their clothing and beards that some of the men were Mennonites, including the one named Rolf, who was supplying Friedrich and the others with information. I retired to our bedroom alcove with my knitting as I’d promised, but I listened to every word they said as they huddled around our kitchen table.

“The authorities have begun patrolling the borders for draft dodgers,” Rolf warned. “If you haven’t received your draft notice yet, I advise you to leave immediately, before it arrives.”

“What if that isn’t possible?” Friedrich asked. “Our child will be born later
this month. I won’t leave my wife before then.”

“If you wait, you’ll have to leave the country illegally.”

“Even if I have immigration papers?”

“They’re not valid once you’re drafted. The army takes priority over the immigration office.”

The room grew very quiet. The only sound was the rhythmic clacking of my knitting needles. I stopped, unwilling to disturb the silence. One of the Mennonite men finally spoke.

“In that case, can you advise us how to cross the border illegally?”

Discipline and obedience to authority were solemn virtues to most Germans. I couldn’t comprehend why my husband and these other men were willing to risk prison to avoid the law. They bent closer to Rolf, eager to hear his advice.

“You’ll need to make a copy of this map. I’ve circled several border villages and marked some little-known trails into Switzerland that avoid the main roads. I recommend that you cross after dark.”

“What about the Swiss authorities?” Friedrich asked. “Will they deport us if we’re caught?”

“They’ll honor your American visa papers once you make it across. You are fortunate to have them, Friedrich.”

I wanted to snatch them from our bureau drawer and toss them into the stove, but I couldn’t will my body to move.

“One final warning,” Rolf said. “Be very careful as you travel to the border. The authorities are searching any men who look as though they might be draft age. If they find this map or your emigration papers, or see that you’re carrying all your personal effects and large sums of money, they can arrest you for draft evasion. I advise you to have your belongings shipped after you’ve made it safely across. And be ready with a cover story when you travel. You’ll need a legitimate destination and a reason for traveling.”

“But I won’t lie,” Friedrich said.

“Then God help you if you’re caught.”

FIVE

One hot day followed another. There was a terrible drought that summer. When Friedrich stopped watering our garden for fear our well would go dry, our vegetables shrivelled and died beneath the sun. The Rhine River was so low in places you could see great stretches of riverbed along both of its banks. The air stank of dead fish. As more and more men Friedrich’s age received their draft notices, my hope and joy ebbed along with the river.

One night a heartrending moan awakened me from a deep sleep. It took me a moment to realize that it had come from my husband.

“Fritz . . . Fritz, wake up . . . you’re dreaming.” He opened his eyes when I shook him, then lay panting as if he’d run a long distance. Sweat soaked the sheets beneath him. “Fritz, what’s wrong? What on earth were you dreaming?”

“It was terrible. There was a flood and the water was rising higher and higher, and I couldn’t find you . . . you were lost . . .” Sweat trickled down his face. I pulled him into my arms and felt his heart galloping like a runaway colt’s.

“I’m right here, Friedrich. It was only a bad dream.”

“There was a horrible war and you . . .”

“I thought you said it was a flood?”

“It was both, somehow—a flood . . . and yet I knew it was a war. I can’t explain it. Everything was destroyed—the villages and farms, all the buildings and trees. I called your name over and over, but you were lost to me.”

I smoothed his damp hair off his forehead, remembering how irritable I had been with him for the past few weeks. “I’m not lost. I’m right here.” But the discovery that it had been only a dream seemed to give Friedrich no comfort. My words, my touch did nothing to soothe the troubled look from his face. “Let’s go back to sleep, Fritz.”