Her Mother's Hope

  Papa sputtered. Coughing, he put down his knife and fork and took a gulp of water. “A job!” He coughed again. “What are you talking about? A job!”

  “We can talk about it later.” Mama cut up meat loaf for Rikka.

  Papa glowered at her through dinner. Mama cleared dishes and told Hildemara to keep out from underfoot. “Go and sit with Papa. He’ll want to read to you.” Papa always read the Bible after dinner. Tonight, he told them all to go to bed. Hildie watched and listened silently from her cot.

  “Let me do them. You’re going to break something.”

  “You’re not going to work,” he said in a low, hot voice.

  “I’m already working. This way I’ll get paid!”

  He grabbed a wet dish from her hand, dried it, and shoved it in the cupboard. “We need to talk. Now!”

  She wiped off her apron and tossed it on the counter, marching into the bedroom. Papa closed the door firmly behind him when he followed.

  Clotilde started to cry.

  “I’ve never seen Papa that mad.” Bernie flipped over on his cot. “Shut up, Cloe.” He put his pillow over his head.

  Hildemara listened.

  “What about Rikka? She’s still nursing!”

  “She’ll come with me. I can nurse her as well in a bakery as I can at home. Hedda Herkner has a playpen she used for her son, Fritz.”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  “Ask you?” Mama’s voice rose. “I didn’t ask because I knew what you’d say. I talked to Hedda the day after Mrs. Miller told me she expected me to cook and clean for her. I told her I worked for a bakery in Steffisburg. I can make tarts and beignets and—”

  “Make them for your family!”

  “I’ll be paid by the hour, and we’ll have as much bread as we need.”

  “No, Marta. You’re my wife! You didn’t even consult me before you went off and—”

  “Consult you? Oh, you mean the way you consulted me before you left for the wheat fields?” Mama’s voice kept rising. “You never thought enough of my opinion to ask for it! You thought nothing of signing my life away, first to Madson, and then to Mrs. Miller and her good-for-nothing daughter!”

  “Keep your voice down! You’ll wake the children.”

  Mama lowered her voice. “We need another way to bring in money besides farming. We all have to make sacrifices.”

  “Who’s going to do the washing, the cooking, the sewing, the—?”

  “Don’t worry. The work will get done. The children are going to learn to pitch in. Bernhard, too! Just because he’s a boy doesn’t mean he can go off and do as he pleases while the girls do all the work. Someday he’s going to be on his own. Until he finds a wife to take care of him, he’ll have to cook his own meals, wash his own shirts and underwear and pants, and sew on his own buttons!”

  “My son is not doing housework! You leave Bernhard to me. Do what you want with the girls.”

  “Isn’t that always the way?” Mama’s voice had a strident edge Hildemara had never heard before. “The son always comes first. Well, so be it, as long as Bernhard learns how to be a man and not a master!” Mama came flying out of the bedroom, throwing her shawl around her shoulders. The front door closed firmly behind her.

  Hildemara sat up. “Go back to sleep, Hildemara.” Papa went out the front door after Mama.

  Hildemara chewed her lip, listening. She didn’t hear footsteps going down the stairs, but she heard voices again. Papa spoke low. He wasn’t angry anymore. She crept out of her cot and went to the front window. Papa sat beside Mama on the steps.

  Hildemara crept back to bed and prayed until she went to sleep. When she awakened, Papa sat at the table, reading his Bible. He got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. Hildie shivered as she sat up. “Where’s Mama?”

  “She had to be at the bakery before dawn. She took Rikka. When you have your lunch hour, Mama wants you to come to the bakery. She’ll have something for the three of you.”

  When they arrived, Mrs. Herkner called out to Mama. Hildemara saw Rikki asleep in a playpen behind the counter. Mama came out of the back of the bakery wearing a white apron with HB embroidered on a pocket. “Oh, heavens, Hildemara! Didn’t you bother to brush your hair this morning?” Mama waved them behind the counter and into the back workroom. “Sit right there.” She gave them each a thick slice of fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, and an apple, then found a brush in her purse. Planting a hand on top of Hildemara’s head, she brushed hard and fast while Hildemara tried to eat her lunch. “Hold still.” Hildemara’s scalp burned, but when she put her hands up, Mama rapped her knuckles with the brush. “How on earth can you get so many knots in your hair?”

  “I’ll do better tomorrow, Mama.”

  “You sure will.”

  When Hildemara arrived home from school, Mama got out her scissors. She took a chair and set it on the porch outside. “Sit down. I’m cutting your hair short. You can’t go to school looking like you did this morning.”

  “No, Mama. Please.” What would the other students say if she showed up with short hair?

  “Sit down!”

  Mama started cutting, and Hildemara started crying.

  “Stop blubbering, Hildemara. Hold still! I don’t want to make any more of a mess of it.” Hunks of dark brown hair fell on the floor. Frowning, Mama looked her over and decided to cut bangs. “I need to even this side up.” After a few more snips, Mama pressed her mouth tightly and fluffed Hildemara’s hair on one side and then the other. “That’s the best I can do.”

  When Mama turned to put her scissors back in her sewing box, Hildemara felt her hair. Mama had cut it all the way up to her ears! Sobbing, Hildemara fled to the barn and hid in the back stall. She didn’t come out until Mama called her to dinner.

  Bernie looked horrified when Hildie came in the back. “Holy cow! What did you do to your hair?”

  Mama scowled. “That’s enough, Bernhard.”

  Clotilde giggled. Hildemara stared at her resentfully. Clotilde still had long, curling blonde hair. No one would laugh at her at school.

  Papa sat at the head of the table, staring at her. “What happened to your hair, Hildemara?”

  Hildemara couldn’t hold the tears back. “Mama cut it.”

  “For mercy’s sake, Marta, why?”

  Mama’s face reddened. “It’s not that short.”

  Clotilde giggled again. “She looks like the little boy on the paint cans.”

  Mama served Hildemara after Papa. “It’ll grow out in no time.”

  Hildemara knew it was as close to an apology as she would ever get from her mother. Not that it helped. Her hair wouldn’t grow out in time for school tomorrow.

  Just as she feared, the students laughed when they saw her. Tony Reboli asked if she had put her head in a lawn mower. Bernie punched him. Tony swung and missed. They started shoving each other around the playground. Miss Hinkle came outside and told them to stop at once. “What started it?”

  Tony pointed. “Little Sis’s hair!” He laughed. So did others.

  Miss Hinkle turned to Hildie. She looked shocked for a second and then smiled. “I think it’s very becoming, Hildemara.” She leaned down and whispered, “My mother used to cut my hair short, too.”

  Hildemara took last place in the line of girls. Elizabeth stepped out of line and waited for her. “I like it, Hildie. I like it very much.” Hildemara felt a wave of relief. Anything Elizabeth said she liked, everyone else liked, too.

  When break came, Clotilde went off to play on the bars with her friends. Hildemara sat on the bench and watched Elizabeth playing hopscotch with several other girls. Gathering her courage, Hildie walked across the playground. Heart thumping, she clasped her hands behind her back. “May I play, too?”

  Elizabeth smiled broadly. “You can be on my team.”

  That night, Hildemara lay awake, feeling euphoric. Mama sat at the kitchen table, the kerosene lamp burning, the stack of books on American history that she’d bor
rowed from the library sitting in front of her while she wrote a letter. Papa had gone to bed an hour ago. Bernie snored softly. Clotilde lay curled on her side, facing away from the lamp. Mama looked sad as she wrote.

  Hildemara got up and tiptoed to the edge of light. Mama raised her head. “How was school today? You didn’t say much at dinner.”

  Bernie and Clotilde usually dominated the table conversation. “I made a friend.”

  Mama straightened. “Is that so?”

  “Elizabeth Kenney is the prettiest and most popular girl in class. You can ask Clotilde.”

  “I believe you, Hildemara.” Her eyes shone.

  “Elizabeth said she’s always liked me. She wants me to go to church with her sometime. Would that be all right?”

  “Depends on the church.”

  “I told her we were Lutherans. She didn’t know what that was and I didn’t know how to explain. Her family goes to the Methodist church on Elm Street.”

  “They probably think we’re heathens. I think you’d better go.”

  “I’ll tell her tomorrow.” Hildemara climbed back onto her cot. Mama took up her fountain pen and began writing again, more quickly this time. “Mama?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Elizabeth said she liked my hair.”

  Mama’s eyes glistened moist in the lamplight. “Sometimes all you need is one true friend, Hildemara Rose, just one you can depend upon to love you no matter what. You did well in finding one.”

  Hildemara snuggled down under her blankets, feeling for the first time as though she had Mama’s approval.

  * * *

  Dear Rosie,

  After two years of hard work and living in a dusty tent, we finally have a place of our own. Mrs. Miller couldn’t cheat us out of the profits because I was on hand when the crops were sold and collected Niclas’s share before she could find a way to spend it on her worthless daughter.

  Our place is two miles outside of Murietta, which is not too far for the children to walk to school. We have twenty acres of almond trees and twenty acres of wine grapes with an irrigation canal running along the back of the property. The house and barn are in need of repairs, but Niclas is already at work on fixing the roof. He fixed the windmill yesterday. I couldn’t watch, worried the whole thing would tumble down, him with it.

  Hildemara is very excited about running water inside the house. She won’t have to tote water anymore. She gained some muscle from the work, which is good. She never complains. I push and she always yields, unlike Clotilde, who sticks out her chin and argues over everything. Even Rikka knows how to get her way. I hope for more fight from Hildemara. She must learn to stand up for herself, or everyone will walk all over her. Niclas thinks I am harder on her than the others, but for her sake, I must be. You know what I fear the most. . . .

  * * *

  Hildemara learned Mama was not one to let any opportunity pass by. After six months at the Herkners’ bakery, Mama knew most of the people in town. But she took time on the long walk into Murietta to get to know people along Hopper Road.

  “These people are our neighbors, Hildemara. And it pays to be neighborly. You listen, too, Clotilde. Always keep your eyes and ears open to learn whatever you can. If they need help, we’ll extend a helping hand. It’ll come back someday if we ever get into trouble.”

  Clotilde stopped kicking up the dust. “What kind of trouble, Mama?”

  “You never know. And never visit empty-handed. Remember that most of all.” One day she would drop off a loaf of bread to Widow Cullen, the next a bag of rolls to the Aussie bachelor Abrecan Macy, or a jar of strawberry preserves to the Johnsons.

  “You need to get to know people, Hildemara. You can’t be hanging on to my skirts forever. You, too, Clotilde. Let the neighbors get to know you.”

  “They know Bernie!” Clotilde grinned.

  “Well, you and your sisters aren’t going to be athletes. Rikka, stay with us.” Rikka was hunkered down, studying a flower. She picked it and carried it along after them. “Everyone has something to teach you.”

  Mama tried to make friends with everyone, especially the immigrants. Greeks, Swedes, Portuguese, and Danes, even the scowling old Abrecan took time to talk with Mama when she came by. After the first few meetings, she bartered and bargained with every one of them. She traded chickens for cheese with the Danes and Greeks. She traded shelled almonds and raisins for lamb from the Aussie. When the milk cow dried up, Mama traded vegetables for milk from the small Portuguese dairy just down the road and traded the cow to the butcher as credit for meat.

  Mama liked the Johnsons best of all. Swedes from Dalarna, they had hospitable ways, always offering a cup of coffee and a sweet while passing time. Mama liked their cozy red house with white trim. Clotilde and Rikka liked the profusion of blues, reds, yellows, and pinks surrounding it. Hildemara just liked to sit by Mama and listen to the conversation between the two women. Carl Johnson and his two sons, Daniel and Edwin, tended the orchard of peach trees. Mama traded quince jelly for preserved peaches. One jar of Mama’s quince jelly yielded four mason jars of Anna Johnson’s peaches.

  Hildemara always slowed when walking by the Johnsons’ place, drinking in the rose scent. Mrs. Johnson was as fussy about deadheading her flowers as Papa was about getting rid of every weed on their property.

  “Hello, Hildemara.” Mrs. Johnson stood from where she had been thinning marigolds and brushed off her skirt. “Your mama already came by this morning. I was just putting on the coffee when she went by.”

  “Yes, ma’am. She goes in early Tuesdays and Thursdays to make the beignets and Torten.”

  “They’ll all be gone by noon. She brought me cardamom bread last week. Your mama is a good baker. Is she teaching you?”

  “I’ll never be the baker Mama is.”

  “Mama’s teaching me to sew.” Clotilde leaned over the fence and pointed. “What are those, Mrs. Johnson? They’re so pretty.”

  “Sweet Williams.” She plucked a stem of bright pink and white flowers and handed them to Cloe. “Wait just a minute and I’ll bring you some seed packets. You can start a nice flower garden for your mama, ja? If you plant the seeds now, you will have a nice summer garden. In fall, I will give you bulbs.”

  Mama had Bernie turn the soil around the front porch and prepare it for planting. “Not too much manure. It’ll burn the seedlings.” She and Clotilde planted lady asters, pink and white carnations, marigolds, hollyhocks, coneflower, and bachelor’s buttons all around the farmhouse on Hopper Road.

  Rikka liked to follow Mama around the house, holding the flowers Mama snipped. Mama would fill a mason jar with water and let Rikka arrange the flowers. Mama said it had symmetry, whatever that was. “I think Rikka could be an artist,” Mama told everyone. She came home one day with a box of color crayons and let Rikka draw on old newspapers.

  Bernie wanted to be a farmer like Papa. Clotilde wanted to be a dressmaker. At three, Rikka could already draw pictures that actually looked like cows and horses and houses and flowers.

  Everyone assumed Hildemara would grow up to be someone’s quiet, hardworking wife. No one thought she had any ambition to do more than that, especially Mama.

  * * *

  Days passed in a blur of chores, school, study, and more chores, but every Sunday, Papa hitched up the horse and wagon and they all went into town to attend services at the Methodist church. Most of the parishioners had known each other all their lives. Some didn’t like Mama because she worked for the Herkners, who had taken business from the Smiths, bakers who had been in Murietta for years.

  “I wouldn’t work in the Smiths’ bakery if they paid me twice what Hedda and Wilhelm do. I went in there once and never went back again. The place is filthy, flies buzzing everywhere. Who’d want pastries from that place?”

  Many of the men didn’t like Papa either. Some called him a Hun behind his back. Those who had hired him the first year as a day laborer thought better of him, though. A quiet man, Papa didn’t tr
y to press his way in among people who viewed him with suspicion. Mama, on the other hand, lingered after services, talking to as many members of the congregation as she could.

  Papa wasn’t as easy with people as Mama. He didn’t like answering personal questions, or mingling with people who liked to ask them. After a few months of trying to break into the tight circles, Papa gave up. “I won’t stop you, but I’m not going back to church, Marta. I’ve got too much to do to stand around talking to people. And I can spend time with the Lord out in the orchard or vineyard.” Papa flicked the reins.

  “Even God took one day off a week, Niclas. Why can’t you?”

  “I’ll rest on Sundays. But not there. I don’t like the way people look at me.”

  “Not everyone thinks of you as a Hun, and those that do would change their minds if you’d make an effort to talk to them. You know more about the Bible than the pastor.”

  “You’re better at making friends, Marta.”

  “We need to get to know people. They need to know us. If only you’d—”

  “I’ll stay home with you, Papa,” Bernie volunteered a little too brightly.

  “No, you won’t. You’ll go to church with your mother.”

  During lunch that day, Clotilde frowned. “What’s a Hun, Papa?”

  Mama put more pancakes on the table. “It’s an insulting name for a German.”

  Bernie stabbed two pancakes before anyone else could get to them. “Who would want to insult Papa? He helps everybody who needs it.”

  “Fools and hypocrites, that’s who.” Mama leaned over and forked one of Bernie’s pancakes onto Hildemara’s plate. “Try sharing once in a while, Bernhard. You’re not king of the roost. And put your napkin on your lap. I don’t want people thinking my son is a complete barbarian.”

  Bernie did what Mama told him. “How long has the war been over, Papa?”

  “It ended in 1918. You tell me.”

  “Six years.” Hildemara answered with scarcely a thought. “I wonder whatever happened to Mrs. Ransom.”

  Mama gave her an impatient look. “Why would you care what happened to that woman?”

  Hearing the anger in Mama’s voice, Hildemara shrugged and said no more. But Mrs. Ransom stayed on her mind for the rest of the day. Hildie prayed her teacher’s grief had eased by now. Every time Mrs. Ransom came to mind, she prayed again.