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Authors: Marie Bostwick

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BOOK: River's Edge
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The thought made me angry and dried the tears that had been threatening to well up in my eyes only moments before. Leaping up off the bed, I crossed the room with long strides, closed the door tightly, and climbed back under the covers, pulling the quilt over my head to shut out the noise of female voices. Mama came upstairs later, but I stayed still and quiet under the blankets, pretending to be asleep.
 
In spite of the culinary setback created by my presence in the Mullers' kitchen, when Saturday arrived, the ladies had finished the quilt, baked twenty-five pies, fifteen cakes, two dozen loaves of dark brown bread, another dozen loaves of white, prepared gallons of smoky-smelling baked beans, plucked and dressed and roasted three huge turkeys, an equal number of hams, and a score of stuffed chickens, all of which were accompanied by a dizzying array of side dishes, relishes, and jams. Most of the food had been transported to the church early that morning, but the Mullers' tables and counters were still crowded with platters and baskets of food waiting to be taken to the church, along with one final spice cake still rising in the oven. The kitchen was enveloped in good, warm, homey smells, and everyone was in a festive mood, rushing to get ready for the big event.
When I finally got my turn in the bathroom, the air was thick with steam and the mirror was clouded with vapors except for a clear oval in the center. I looked in the glass. My reflection peered back at me framed in mist like an old-fashioned portrait taken in a world of dreams. Cookie's reflection in the mirror, I was certain, had made her look like an illustration from a fairy tale—a sweet and pretty princess with bright blue eyes, fresh pink cheeks, and rosebud lips that invited kisses from handsome princes. By comparison, I felt my own reflection to be more in line with the poor little match girl or the ugly duckling. My eyes were too large for my face, and my cheekbones and chin were all angles and bones. My forehead was too high, my lips too curved, and my complexion was pale as parchment, with none of Cookie's rosy glow. My dark brown hair, which I'd always considered my best feature because it was just like my mother's, seemed dull and ordinary when I compared it to Cookie's bright strawberry-blond locks. I turned the knob on the faucet hard, filling the washbasin with steaming hot water that rose and fogged over the rest of the mirror, hiding my image behind clouds and mist.
 
The church basement had been transformed. The gray cinderblock walls were hidden behind false fences of white lattice that served as a backdrop for an autumn scene, complete with piles of pumpkins, bales of hay, and pots of mums in orange and yellow. In one corner a scarecrow with a mischievous-looking stuffed raven perched on his shoulder leaned lazily against a bundle of dried cornstalks. The scarecrow was dressed in one of Papa Muller's castoff shirts and stiff white collars. I supposed it was one of Chip and Chuck's creations, because I saw them standing across the room grinning broadly as they watched people's amused reaction to the straw stuffed man's clerical costume.
Along the opposite wall stood a long row of tables groaning with so much food that their red checkered tablecloths were barely visible under the serving platters crowded onto every inch of available space. A line of people snaked around the edges of the walls. After piling their plates high with mounds of food, the diners moved to the center of the hall and chose places at one of the empty tables. They sat in groups, talking and laughing and eating, and then, when their plates were empty, went back to the end of the buffet line to fill them again and find a seat with a different group of neighbors. The women seemed to take turns, some sitting and eating with everyone else, others running back and forth between the kitchen and the serving tables to refill empty platters. Even the ladies who were working had big smiles on their faces and chatted amongst themselves.
I was amazed to see how happy everyone was. Most of the people in that room had lost much, and in some cases all, of their crop to the hail, but before the meal began Papa stood at the front of the hall and said grace, thanking God for the blessings of harvest and for His generous abundance. When he finished, all the people responded with an enthusiastic “Amen!” It made no sense to me.
After a spring and summer of sweat and hope and hard work, they'd found themselves even poorer than when they'd begun. Still, they declared themselves thankful, and, as I looked around the hall at the smiling faces, I had to admit they seemed sincere. I stood, leaning against the cool cinderblock walls of the church basement, watching the scene, trying to figure it all out. My reverie was interrupted by a tug on my skirt. I looked down to see Curt gazing up at me seriously. Knowing he didn't like to speak aloud outside of the circle of the Muller family, I leaned down within whispering range of him. “What is it, Curt? Do you need help with something?”
“You better get a plate or there won't be nothing left. You don't know these people like I do,” he advised solemnly. “They'll eat it all and not leave you a bite.”
I was so amused by his concern and impressed that he had delivered his entire speech without stuttering that I didn't have the heart to correct his grammar. Grasping his outstretched hand, I followed him obediently to the end of the serving line, reflecting on the truth of his observation. I didn't know these people like he did. I wondered if I ever would.
Though I only took a small sample of each dish, carefully avoiding Mrs. Jensen's mincemeat after the alarmed look on Curt's face warned me off it, my plate was soon piled high with food. We found two empty places at the end of a long table and ate in companionable silence. Now and then Curt smiled, examining me with his bright blue eyes as though wanting to make sure I was enjoying myself. I smiled back, surprised to realize I was.
But my enjoyment was short-lived. As I bit into a piece of ham I felt a bony finger stab at my shoulder, as if someone were poking me with a stick. Curt's eyes were suddenly wide, and he slumped down in his chair, looking smaller than he had a moment before. I turned around and saw old Mrs. Ludwig staring at me.
“I heard about your mother,” she croaked, not bothering with the niceties of a greeting. “That's too bad. I'm sorry for your loss, but a girl your age ought to know her way around a kitchen, no matter what happened to her mother. You come to my house on Saturdays and help me. Eight o'clock. Don't be late. We'll start to-morrow.”
My mouth was so full of half-chewed ham that it was impossible to respond. Noticing Curt cowering in his chair, Mrs. Ludwig narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Curtis Muller, sit up straight,” she commanded. “You keep slouching like that and you'll grow up with a hump on your back!” Curt's eyes grew even wider than they had been, but he obeyed.
Before I could say anything, the old lady hobbled off in the direction of the kitchen, mumbling something about the women not watching to make sure the empty platters were refilled and having to do things yourself if you wanted them done right.
“Sh ... sh ... she sc-scares me,” Curt stuttered nervously after Mrs. Ludwig had gone. “Sh ... sh ... she looks like the p-p-picture of the witch in my
Hansel and Gretel
b ... book.”
“Don't be silly,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “There is no such thing as witches.”
Just then someone shouted, “Time to get the music started! C'mon, men! Let's get these tables pushed back!”
The hall sparked with new energy as the men and boys moved tables and chairs to the edges of the room and the women sprang to their feet to clear the last of the dishes and start setting out pots of steaming coffee.
Mr. Scholler walked by with a violin in his hand, giving me a smile and a wink as he passed. Two of his grown sons, Erwin and Jim, followed behind him, one carrying a guitar and the other a box with an assortment of tambourines, rattles, and some other instruments I didn't recognize. They set themselves up on chairs in the corner of the room and began warming up, and before long they were playing a tune in waltz time—but it didn't sound like any waltz I'd ever heard.
At first I didn't care for it. When Mr. Scholler sawed his bow across the strings of the violin, the result was raw, and grittier than anything I'd heard before, but when the high notes of the violin combined with the low bass accompaniment of the guitar and the regular thumping of a hand on the drum of the tambourine, the song took on an energy and life that seemed appropriate to the occasion. It was impossible not to tap my toes in time to the music.
Before long the floor was crowded with couples, mostly married men and their wives dancing and chatting comfortably. I also noticed one tense-looking younger man had worked up the courage to ask a blushing girl onto the floor. They seemed out of place amidst the laughing married folks that spun around them keeping perfect three-four time to the music. The ease of the husbands and wives in each other's company was in sharp contrast to the awkwardness of the young couple moving stiffly to the music and continually glancing at their own feet for fear of stepping on their partner's.
Papa and Mama Muller took the floor. Papa Muller was such a big man that I was surprised to see how well he moved. Unlike the chattering pairs of dancers around them, the Mullers were silent as they spun around the floor, smiling, with their eyes fixed on each other. They moved as one person, gracefully and harmoniously, as though they spent their lives doing nothing but dancing.
Across the room I noticed Cookie watching her parents with admiration. Her eye caught mine and I smiled at her. She smiled back.
Again I felt a tug on my skirt, and when I looked over at Curt, he whispered, “Elise, would you dance with me?”
“I don't really know how, Curt.”
“We could dance here in our corner alone. Just for practice. I never learned, either.”
“All right,” I agreed. After some trial and error we arranged ourselves with Curt reaching his hand up to put it on my waist while I leaned down a bit, grasping his left hand in my right and resting the other on his shoulder. We shuffled about awkwardly in a simple box step. I suddenly understood why the young couple kept looking at their feet. Dancing was harder than it looked, but Curt seemed to think we were doing splendidly and beamed up at me with a big grin on his face.
“I like you, Elise. I'm glad you came. Promise you won't ever go back to Germany. Junior says it's bad there and that the people are bad,too.”
It made me angry to think of Junior criticizing my country to his little brother, but I knew Curt was too little to understand.
“I like you, too, Curt,” I replied without making any promises.
I looked up to see Papa standing behind Curt. He tapped him on the shoulder and said, “May I cut in?” Curt didn't protest as Papa guided me toward the dance floor, but I did. “I can't dance!” I whispered urgently, feeling as though every eye in the room was on me, and certain that I was about to make a fool of myself.
“Nonsense!” Papa said. “I just saw you dancing with Curt.”
“That's different,” I protested. “Please! I don't want people to notice me.”
Papa smiled. “Well, that's a funny thing to want,” he said. “Elise, you are a pretty girl, and you are going to be a lovely young woman.” I blushed and felt a little pleased, even though I was sure he was just saying it to be nice.
“People are going to notice you whether you want them to or not. Before you know it, lots of young men are going to be begging you for dances. It's time you learned how to dance.”
“Ready?” he asked, and off we went. At first I felt almost as awkward as I had with Curt, but Papa guided me gently around the floor.
“That's it,” Papa said encouragingly. “Don't look at your feet. They'll move just fine without you watching. Feel the music. Try closing your eyes.”
I did, and the music washed over me like a purifying flood. Suddenly my nervousness disappeared. Suddenly I wasn't thinking about dancing, or left feet and right, or in which direction I was to move next. I wasn't thinking at all. The music led, and my body followed, while my mind sang the piano accompaniment that no one else heard.
I opened my eyes to see Papa smiling at me. “Better?” he asked. I nodded, feeling happier than I had in months. We circled to the right, and I saw Cookie standing in the corner glowering at me with Junior next to her, his face as hard and blank as a block of stone.
The day was Friday, September 1, 1939. I did not know it yet, but while I was in Brightfield, eating and dancing and wondering why Cookie and Junior disliked me so much, my father was crossing the border into Poland.
Chapter 7
I
tapped on Mrs. Ludwig's front door at five minutes before eight on Saturday morning. She answered my knock with a shout. “Come around to the kitchen! The door is open!”
The floorboards on the porch creaked as I walked around to the south side of Mrs. Ludwig's farmhouse, a house which had probably once been painted a bright and cheerful yellow but was now faded and peeling in spots. I opened the door and peered into the kitchen. A kettle whistled impatiently on the stove. There was no sign of Mrs. Ludwig. I hesitated, not sure if I should go in or not, when a loud voiced cracked behind me, giving me such a start that I let out a little yelp of surprise.
“Well, don't just stand there with your teeth in your mouth!” Mrs. Ludwig snapped. “Take the teapot off the fire. There's a potholder hanging on the hook near the sink. Be careful you don't burn yourself on the handle.” I did as I was told, not even waiting to take off my coat before seeing to the kettle whose cheerful whistle had now become an impatient shriek.
“There's cups on the shelf. No,” she said as I my hand reached toward a cupboard that held a collection of bowls, jars, and vases of cobalt blue glass, “the open shelf on the wall. Next to the plates.” I took down a white ceramic teacup and saucer.
“Get one for yourself, too,” she commanded. “The tea is in that mason jar. I don't take sugar, but if you want some, you can get it out of the canister. Not too much. It'll rot your teeth.” Then, “You don't need to put in so much tea! Do you think I'm made of money?”
I placed the cups on top of the scarred wooden table and sat down in the chair that Mrs. Ludwig, using a curt nod of her head, indicated should be mine.
“Have you seen this?” she asked, pointing to the newspaper that was spread out of the table. I shook my head no. The old woman stared at me, then looked at her lap for a moment as though considering what she should say next.
“Yesterday, on Hitler's orders, the German army invaded Poland. They haven't done so yet, but it seems inevitable that England and France will declare war on Germany. It is the beginning of a second world war.” She sat silent for a moment, allowing the information to sink in.
Of course,
I said to myself.
Of course.
I had known this could happen for a long time. That was why I was in Brightfield—because Father had said there was going to be a war. But somehow his words had not seemed credible. To me, the possibility of war seemed a convenient excuse for sending away an inconvenient daughter. I had never really thought his predictions would come true. For an instant I was pleased to know that he hadn't just invented the whole thing as a way to get rid of me, but then I remembered what this meant.
“Do you think my father is in Poland?” I asked Mrs. Ludwig, my words a bit halting from the effort of holding my emotions in check.
“If the paper is to be believed, and I think it is, the entire German army is in Poland. I suppose your father must be with them.” She searched my face with her quick, beady eyes. “The newspapers say the casualties are light so far. I imagine your father is fine, but
your
life is about to get much harder.
“I have lived a long time,” she went on, “through wars, floods, famines, and every type of calamity that can befall a woman. If you live to be as old as I am, though I don't recommend it, so will you. Drink your tea,” she commanded.
I sipped at the hot, sweet liquid. It felt soothing going down my throat, which felt suddenly raw.
“Do you understand why I say your life is about to get harder?” she asked.
“Because I will always have to be worrying about my father now,” I answered.
“Yes,” she nodded, “that's true, but there is something more. Up until now, most people in town have felt sorry for you, a poor motherless girl fleeing from a dangerous place. Folks have had nothing but good feelings toward you, or at worst, they've simply ignored you.”
Ducking my head down, I made a wry face as I took another sip of tea. She obviously hadn't talked to Junior, Cookie, Chip, or Chuck.
“Now it is going to be different. Germany is the aggressor in another world war, and that will make it hard for anyone who is German.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she barked, “Hush!” before I could say anything.
“I don't care what kind of National Socialist hogwash they taught you in Germany. Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland—these are separate, sovereign nations populated by Austrians, Czechs, and Poles. They are not Germans. They have no interest in becoming Germans. Hitler is using that as an excuse to start another war. He is making an aggressive grab for power. Hitler and his wretched army are not liberators. They are invaders bent on grabbing as much land as they can while they can. They have no purpose other than to exploit the conquered resources and peoples for their own benefit and to serve their own twisted ideas of German superiority. “
When I left the house that morning, Mama had said to be polite, but this was too much to bear. “What do you know about it?” I spat at her. “I don't like Hitler any better than you do—Neither does my father, but you've no right to say such awful things about my country. I don't care what Mama says, I don't have to sit here and listen to this!”
I leapt from my chair to grab my coat off the hook, but I accidentally knocked over my teacup and Mrs. Ludwig's. Steaming hot tea spilled from the cups onto the table and Mrs. Ludwig's lap. She gave a startled yelp and shoved her chair back from the table. She winced in pain.
Horrified, and worried that she was really hurt, I ran to the sink and started searching frantically for a towel, apologizing over and over as I opened and closed drawers unsuccessfully trying to find something to clean up the mess with.
“It's all right,” she mumbled grudgingly, her irritation evident in her tone. “It was an accident. I'm fine. Sit down. I can clean it up myself,” she said, dabbing at her skirt with a napkin.
“No,” I protested. “I'll take care of it. I just can't find—”
“Elise Braun, sit down this instant!” the old lady commanded in a tone that reminded me very much of my father.
I obeyed.
“I'll tell you what I know about it,” she said evenly, folding her tea-stained napkin into a tidy square and placing it on the table. “Everyone in Brightfield calls me Milda Ludwig, but that's not my real name. The name I took when I married my second husband is Ludwiczak, Matylda Ludwiczak. Polish. I grew up in a little village just outside of Serokomla. When I turned fifteen, just a little older than you are now, my family married me off to the local baker, who was nearly seventy. He wasn't a bad man. He was kind to me. We were married for seven years, and then he died. We never had any children. Not surprising, considering his age. Still, everyone in town thought I was barren, so no one wanted to marry me. At twenty-one I was considered a dried-up old widow. For five years I ran the bakery by myself, and I thought that was how I would end my days.”
“One day my mother came to the shop carrying a letter from her sister in Gdansk, my Aunt Grazyna, that told her about a man she knew who had emigrated to America and was writing to see if she knew of any girls who might be willing to emigrate and be his bride. Mama showed me his picture. Jozef Ludwiczak, age thirty-five. He was a nice-looking man, but I had doubts. Aunt Grazyna's letter said that he was a Protestant, and I was Catholic. I said, ‘Mama, I can't marry this man. I can't marry outside the faith. What would happen to our children?'
“ ‘What children?' Mama said. ‘You have no children, Matylda, and if you stay here, you never will. No one here will have you. Go to America, where you'll at least have a chance at some kind of life.' ”
Mrs. Ludwig stopped and sighed. She reached across the table to the teapot and poured herself a fresh cup. By this time I was completely drawn into her story, amazed to learn that this old woman had been sent away from her family, just like I had. “So you went to America?”
Mrs. Ludwig rolled her eyes as she took a slurp of tea. “I'm here, aren't I?” I blushed a bit at her reproach. She put down her cup and continued the story.
“I sent him my picture and a letter. I told him everything about me, even that I had been married before and had been unable to have children. It was important to me that we be honest with each other. Even so, he wrote back and asked me to marry him. I sold the bakery to one of my brothers and used the money to buy a passage to America. That was in eighteen eighty-five. When my ship arrived in New York, Joe was there to meet me, and we got married that same day.”
“And you loved him?” I asked anxiously.
Mrs. Ludwig gave a short laugh, and her eyes twinkled. Her already wrinkled forehead wrinkled even more as she paused to consider my question. “We built this farm together,” she said. “I gave him eleven sons. One day he was out in the barn stacking hay, and a pile of bales fell on him. He was nearly crushed under the weight of it, but he lingered on for almost a month, though he never regained consciousness. Stayed by his bedside every moment until he died. We were married forty years.” She paused, and her eyes looked past me, focusing on some image visible only to her.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I loved him. We loved each other.”
I couldn't help but sigh, pleased that the story had reached such a satisfying conclusion, which seemed to irritate Mrs. Ludwig all over again.
“But that's not the point,” she said shortly. “The point is that I've lived longer than you, and I know a few things about the world, including the fact that Poles are not now and never have been sitting around praying for some damned fool to come along and attack their country so they can be ‘reunited' with Germany. In the Great War, they played both sides against the middle, fighting and dying alongside everyone, be they German, Russian, or Austrian, in hopes of eventually gaining independence. Which they did in nineteen-eighteen, but not until over two million Polish soldiers died. You can't believe everything people tell you, Elise—not your teachers or even your father. Or even me. Someone once said that the pure and simple truth is seldom pure and rarely simple. You've got to think for yourself. Keep an open mind.”
“Is that why you wanted me to come here today?” I asked.
“No!” the old lady said with a snort. “I wanted you to come here for exactly the reason I gave you at the supper last night—I never saw a girl as old as you be as helpless around the house as you are. It's a disgrace!”
My cheeks reddened with shame. My hands twisted in my lap, and I began examining my fingernails with great interest.
“Don't be embarrassed. It's not your fault. You can't be expected to know what nobody taught you. Of course,” she mused, shaking her head as though trying to solve an unsolvable riddle, “I would have thought you'd picked up something after living five months in Sophia Muller's house.”
After considering this puzzle for a moment and finding no answer, she gave both her knees a decisive slap as though to bring herself back to the business at hand.
“Still, you're never too old to learn. That's why I wanted you to come over, so I could start teaching you your way around a kitchen. You've already mastered the art of tea-making,” she joked, displaying a grin that was minus a few teeth. Grunting with the effort, she heaved herself out of her chair, took an apron off the hook on the wall, and handed another to me, indicating that I should put it on.
“Now you need to know how to bake something to go with it. We'll start with
paczki,
a kind of polish donut. My own daughter-in-laws would kill for this recipe, but I have never shared it with anyone. Once you've got that down, we'll move on to pies, breads, and if you are good and work hard, even my special cheesecake, called
sernik babci.
It's my mother's secret recipe.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, and she looked around the room as though someone might be listening.
Clearly Mrs. Ludwig intended to confer some great honor on me by sharing her family baking secrets with me, but it was an honor I felt I could do without. The idea of spending Saturdays with the demanding, blunt old woman was not exactly appealing.
“But, Mrs. Ludwig,” I questioned, “why would you want to give me your secret recipes? You said it yourself, I am hopeless in the kitchen.”
She gave the apron strings a final and definite tug before looking up, her face sober, her gaze even and honest. “There are several reasons—three, to be precise. First, I feel sorry for you. I know what it's like, coming to a new country and feeling out of place and out of step with everything around you.
“Second, you are going to need someone to talk to, someone who can help you with more than baking. This war is going to make things difficult for you around here, especially if America gets involved like it did in the Great War.”
“And the third reason?”
“Because I am lonely,” she said and tipped her chin up toward me in an expression that was simultaneously proud and touching. “I am eighty years old. My sons respect me, and their wives fear me. They come to see me out of duty. 'Most everyone in this town is afraid of me, except Sophia Muller. I blame no one but myself for that, so don't go feeling sorry for me. I am a stubborn old woman who seems to have lived out her usefulness. Maybe I can be of some use to you and you to me. I need a purpose. You need a friend. Or at least someone who understands what you are feeling and can help you understand these people and this place. I know I'm not the most pleasant person to pass an afternoon with, and I can't promise I'll change. In fact, I can guarantee you that I won't. I'm too old for that. So I don't blame you if you decide to leave, and I won't complain to Sophia. But I hope you'll stay.”
BOOK: River's Edge
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