I talked, and Eva stopped crying and fell asleep on my shoulder. I told about opening presents in the parlor on Christmas Eve, and for a while Sophie and Emma forgot that they were wet and cold and frightened.
An hour later, tired and drenched to the bone, we arrived at Magda’s door. Only then did I realize that the rain had stopped. And that my face was wet—not with rain, but with tears.
ELEVEN
* * *
In the morning, Gus Bauer left with one of the rescue parties to look for survivors—and to help bury the dead. We learned that some homes along the river had washed away during the night and several people were missing. We didn’t know yet if our home was among them. Gus made no mention of Friedrich, but when he tipped his hat to me in farewell, I knew it was his promise to find him.
“Be careful, Gus,” Magda pleaded as she said good-bye. I saw something in her eyes that I’d failed to notice before—she was in love with him. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t hold a job or that they had very little money or that she was pregnant again with their eighth child. She loved him. For better or for worse. For richer or for poorer. Until death parted them.
Later, as I stood at Magda’s sink washing the breakfast dishes, I remembered how Friedrich would sometimes wander up behind me and encircle me with his arms, resting his head against the back of my shoulder. I wondered if I would ever feel his arms around me again, and I couldn’t stop my tears.
“I know it’s probably useless to tell you not to worry,” Magda said as she wrapped her sturdy arms around me. “I’d be worried sick if I were in your place.”
“All I’ve ever thought about for the past several years was how much I hated it here in America . . . how much I wanted to return to Germany. And now . . . if my house is gone . . . if Friedrich is gone—”
“Don’t even think such a thing! Friedrich will be fine. Gus will find him, you’ll see.”
I stared out of the grimy kitchen window at the rain that continued to fall. “But what if he isn’t fine? I’ve been trying to imagine my life without him and I can’t do it. I suppose I could move back home to Germany again with Mama and Papa and my sisters and Kurt . . . but there would be a huge hole in my life. Part of me would be missing . . . like apple strudel without the cinnamon.” I glanced at Magda, afraid she might think I was rambling crazily, but I saw that she understood perfectly. “I love him,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said simply.
“But I’ve never told him.”
She pulled me into her arms again and held me tightly. “Then I’ll pray that you will get a chance to tell him.”
Gus returned at noon without Friedrich. “We haven’t been able to get much news from your side of the river, since the bridge was washed away,” he told me. He spoke quietly so that the older children, who were eating picnic-style on the floor in the parlor, wouldn’t overhear us. “But if he went to the Schultz farm, he should be okay. They live a little ways back from the river.”
“Any news about the dam on Squaw Lake?” I asked.
“The dam is still holding, but I guess we won’t be completely out of danger until the water levels go down. Some men worked all night long sandbagging it. And I heard that two volunteers were drowned in the process. One of them lost his footing and fell in, and the other jumped in to try to save him. They haven’t found the bodies yet.”
“Did you hear who they were?” I could barely force the words out.
“No, I didn’t, but—” Gus stopped chewing. A stunned look froze on his face. “You . . . you don’t think Fred would have gone to help out at the dam, do you?”
I could only nod.
Gus groaned. “You’re right. He would do some fool thing like that.”
And Friedrich, who was a strong swimmer, would also leap in to save a drowning man. Gus pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and shoved his arms into his oil slicker.
“I’ll be back just as soon as I find something out for you . . . one way or the other.”
I sat stitching beside the parlor window all afternoon, helping Magda catch up with her endless mending. Baby Eva was sick and cranky, having caught a cold in the wind and rain, so I laid her down on Magda’s bed for a nap after lunch. Sophie disappeared somewhere with two of the Bauers’ daughters, but Emma sat on the floor by my feet with a pencil and a scrap of used butcher paper, drawing a picture.
“All done,” she finally announced. I laid the mending aside as she crawled onto my lap to show me. Five stick figures of varying sizes stood beneath the arch of a rainbow, holding hands. “That’s Papa, that’s you, that’s Sophie, that’s Eva, and that’s me,” she explained, pointing. All of the figures wore curving smiles on their round faces except me. My mouth was fixed in a short, straight line, giving me a vacant, dazed look.
“Why aren’t I smiling?” I asked. Emma looked at me and shrugged. The gesture spoke for her—my daughter didn’t understand why I never smiled.
“Do you like my picture?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s beautiful.”
“You can keep it forever,” she said, sliding from my lap to go in search of the other children.
Emma had never seen me hold Friedrich’s hand either, but I was clasping it tightly in the picture, linking myself to him and to our three children. I could picture Friedrich’s hands so clearly in my mind—broad and strong and tanned, with veins like cords of twine. I saw them raised in benediction over his congregation, glistening with water as he baptized a child into God’s covenant family, folded in prayer as he knelt in his study every morning. I had loved Friedrich’s hands ever since we were first married, when I had watched him grade papers each night in Germany.
The clamor and commotion of children continued in the other rooms, but for the moment I was alone in the parlor. I folded my own hands together like Friedrich always did and closed my eyes. I wanted to pray like I had last night during the storm—to the God Friedrich talked with every day and preached about on Sunday, the God he loved and worshiped, the God I’d been angry with. But without my children to lead the way, I scarcely knew how to begin.
Almighty God . . . That’s how Reverend Lahr back home began his prayers, and it had seemed right in the hush of that quiet sanctuary with its carved wood and stained glass. But that wasn’t how Friedrich prayed. I began again.
Heavenly Father . . . Tears sprang to my eyes as I remembered running to my father’s arms when I was a child. It was the way my girls ran to Friedrich. Now I ran to God.
Heavenly Father, I pray that you would spare my husband’s life. Fritz loves you and serves you and obeys you. I know I don’t deserve to ask anything of you. I’ve been angry with you and with him for so long. But please . . . if our house is still there, I promise I’ll plant flowers, I’ll make it a home, I’ll be the wife Fritz deserves.
I wanted to do and to be all that the Bible asked of a wife. The Scriptures listed those requirements somewhere. I opened my eyes and took Magda’s huge old family Bible from the shelf where she kept it and began to page through the New Testament, searching for the verses that would tell me what to do. I knew from my childhood catechism classes that the verses were in there.
The Bible was in German but was very old, the faded Gothic lettering hard to read. I persevered, scanning all the headings, page after page, with the same will to succeed that had helped me survive last night’s storm. I found what I was looking for in the book of Ephesians, under the heading “Christian Duties.”
Wives submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.
I was surprised to find only three verses. But as I continued reading, I discovered that the duties of a husband were much longer—nine verses.
Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it
. . . . So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself. For no man ever yet hated his own flesh; but nourisheth and cherisheth it. . . . For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall be joined unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh.
Those words described my husband. Friedrich had labored in a coal mine and cut ice in the river so that I wouldn’t have to travel in steerage. He had hauled loads of lumber and bricks at the mill for two years to furnish my home with everything I needed. Husbands were to give their very lives—a much greater sacrifice than what was required of their wives.
Friedrich had shown Christ’s love to me through his own, and I knew instinctively that God had heard my prayer, that He loved me just as Friedrich did, even though I had treated Him so coldly. God was patiently waiting, just as my husband was, for me to return His love. Friedrich’s God was a Father who loved me. And as I prayed for His forgiveness, I found I could also believe in Jesus, who loved me enough to lay down His life for me.
* * *
Gus still hadn’t returned when Magda and I fed the children their supper. Later, we tucked all but her two oldest boys into three overcrowded beds and turned a deaf ear to their whispers and giggles. Together, we waited for our husbands in the parlor.
It was dark when we finally heard voices outside. I peered through the parlor window and saw a knot of men moving toward the back door—gray, hunched figures without faces. A shrouded form lay in the back of a wagon. I heard their stamping boots and muffled voices as they came through the kitchen door and felt the same fathomless dread I’d felt the day the telegraph had arrived with news about Emil. Magda got up quietly and hurried into the kitchen, but I couldn’t move. I would wait in the parlor for the news to come to me. Even when I heard footsteps approaching in the hall, I couldn’t face the door.
“Louise . . .” I whirled around at the sound of Friedrich’s voice. He stood in the doorway, hat in hand, as if unwilling to enter the parlor in his muddy boots. I ran to him, clung to him. He was soaking wet and coated with mud—reeking of it. I didn’t care.
“Oh, Louise! I was so worried about you! Thank God you and the children are all right . . . I don’t know what I’d ever do without you!”
We were one flesh, our arms encircling, our lips joining. One. I thanked God for my husband.
“I’m getting you all wet!” he said when he could finally speak.
“It doesn’t matter. I want to hold you forever.”
“I know. Me too. But I have to go back out again for a little while. Do you mind? I want to offer what comfort I can to those who have lost loved ones. I won’t be long.”
As I brushed a streak of mud off his forehead, the dam I’d built to hold back my emotions suddenly burst, flooding my heart, bringing the burnt stubble to life.
“I love you, Friedrich.”
He went utterly still. “What . . .?” he whispered.
“I do. I love you.”
He went limp, staggering against me as if he lacked the strength to stand. He buried his face on my neck. Then, clutching each other tightly, Friedrich and I both wept.
* * *
It took more than a month to clean the muck and debris from our yard so that I could plant flowers in front of our house and around the church. The floor of the sanctuary had been ruined by the flood and would have to be replaced. Maybe the musty smell would finally go along with it.
I was rinsing my hands in the sink after planting some rosebushes when Sophie came into the kitchen with Eva in tow. The baby was wailing loudly and I could see that they’d had more than enough of each other.
“Eva is crying for no reason, and I can’t get her to stop, Mama,” Sophie said with a sigh.
I scooped Eva up in my arms. “Ja, little one. I know just what you need to make your tears go away.” I dug Oma’s cup out of the drawer in the sideboard where I’d hidden it four years ago.
“What is that, Mama?” Sophie asked, trailing behind me.
“It’s my grandmother’s very special crying cup. Whenever you drink from it, all of your tears will magically disappear.” I filled it with milk and held it to Eva’s lips. “I used to drink from this cup when I was a little girl in Germany. You’re named after Oma, Sophie. She loved you very much, and she wanted you and your sisters to have her magic cup so that you would always be reminded of her.”
As I watched Eva gulp the milk I wished I could talk to Oma one last time and tell her all that I’d learned in America. I would tell her that I’d finally learned not to smother my feelings to avoid being hurt but to embrace life and love, giving and forgiving. I’d learned that having faith doesn’t mean giving up my life, but putting it into God’s hands, allowing Him to mysteriously weld two together into one. I’d learned that true power doesn’t lie in making the outward choices, but in making the inward ones—choosing to love and to nurture, choosing to trust God. I’d tell Oma that she was right when she gave me the crying cup—the power to find joy isn’t in the cup, but within my own heart. But maybe Oma knew all of these things, after all.
Eva finished drinking her milk and pointed to the little girl painted on the cup. “Baby!” she said with a grin. A creamy band of milk spread across her lip.
Sophie stared in surprise. “It worked, Mama! She stopped crying!”
“Of course, sweetheart. Oma’s crying cup always works.”
Outside the kitchen window I heard the creak of a rope against a tree branch as Emma played on the swing that hung from one of the apple trees. She was singing a hymn in her sweet, clear voice—the hymn I’d come to think of as my own:
I do not know how long ’twill be, nor what the future holds for me, but this I know, if Jesus leads me, I shall get home someday . . .
TWELVE
* * *
1980
Suzanne closed the flaps of the box she had just packed and stacked it against the living room wall with the others. “That was a great story, Grandma, but what does it have to do with me?”
“Honestly, Suzanne!” Grace was trying to dry her tears without smearing her makeup, while Emma searched in vain for the box of tissues.
Suzanne ducked into the bathroom and retrieved a roll of toilet paper. “Here, use this. I don’t want to start another fight, Mom, but if you think about it rationally, you’ll see that there are several important differences between Great-grandma’s situation and mine.”
Grace blew her nose. “Maybe, but the point is the same.”
“Right. And what is the point? Great-grandma adjusted to her new life and so will I? Humbug! Great-grandpa and Jeff both had to make a tough decision? Double humbug! Great-grandpa was following his conscience, but Jeff’s decision was just plain selfish! Maybe husbands didn’t have to consult their wives in the nineteenth century, but this is the twentieth century, and they should know enough to consult us today! We’re not just another possession anymore! And you’re forgetting another big difference too—Great-grandma’s identity was defined by ‘children, cooking, and church.’ I’m the assistant editor of New Woman magazine. I love my job! I have an identity apart from my husband and children, and no one has a right to make me give that up!”
“Suzy, Suzy . . . why are you shouting at us?” Emma said. She caressed Suzanne’s back to soothe her. Suzanne stopped, surprised by her own outburst. Why was she so angry? Had Louise’s story affected her more than she cared to admit?
“Let’s face it,” Suzanne finally said, “times change, roles change, expectations change. What’s right for one generation isn’t necessarily right for the next one.”
“But there are some things that shouldn’t change,” Emma said quietly. “You told me you didn’t want to be like your mother. She chose to give up her career for her husband’s sake, and so you’ve decided not to make the same mistake. But don’t you see? You’re still reacting to the choices she made. That’s what I did. My marriage to Karl was a mistake because I was reacting to my mother’s choices
. We’re supposed to learn from our mother’s mistakes, not react to them. That’s the pattern you have to change.”
“I gave up my career because my marriage was more important,” Grace added. “Isn’t yours important? Marriage involves sacrifice. Your great-grandmother’s story should have told you that, if nothing else.”
Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Well, in my case, all the sacrifices are one-sided.”
“But that’s the definition of a sacrifice,” Grace said. “Think of Christ’s sacrifice—”
“Oh, please don’t drag theology into this conversation,” Suzanne said, groaning. “It’s getting maudlin enough as it is.”
“She’s right, Gracie,” Emma said. “We don’t need a sermon. But, Suzanne, just suppose for a moment that my mother had the same choices you do. Suppose she’d had a career back in Germany and had decided to divorce Friedrich and stay there. What then?”
Suzanne gave a flippant laugh and raked her dark hair from her eyes with one hand. “Then none of us would even be here arguing about this.”
“Yes, exactly.” Emma smiled knowingly and Suzanne saw she had been trapped. “If you don’t heal this rift—if you let Jeff walk out of your life—you might lose something very, very precious that you can never retrieve again.”
For a moment the room was silent. Suzanne was aware of the many sounds of life outside her grandmother’s apartment—doors slamming, children squealing, the hiss of air brakes at the bus stop, the steady mumble of traffic and airplanes like a distant river. Unable to bear the scrutiny of her mother and grandmother, she glanced at her watch.
“You know what? We need to leave. I promised to pick up the girls before supper, and the expressways are going to be jammed if we don’t get going.”