“Are you and Mama going to arrange a marriage for me like you arranged Sophie’s?”
Papa looked puzzled. “Of course,” he said after a pause.
“Why can’t I pick my own husband?”
“Well, because it’s been done this way for generations and . . .”
“Why?”
Papa steepled his fingertips together the way he did when delivering a sermon. “For several good reasons. When you’re young, it’s much too easy to look for qualities in a mate that are superficial and unimportant to an enduring marriage. Parents who understand the commitment involved are better able to judge someone’s maturity and stability.”
“But what if I don’t want to marry the man you choose?Are you going to make me marry him anyway?”
“No, of course not. But I would hope that you’d give the young man a chance and not dismiss him before you get to know him.” He bent to pick a flower off the floor, then sat down in the pew beside me. “What’s this all about, Liebchen?”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose, honest I wasn’t, but I heard Mama and Aunt Magda say that I’m supposed to marry Markus. Is that true, Papa?”
When he sighed wearily I was sorry I had quelled what little joy he had found that day. “I’ve known Gus Bauer since I first arrived in America. Your mother traveled on the boat with Aunt Magda. They’re our oldest and dearest friends, and we share a great deal in common. Family traditions and a common background provide a good basis for marriage. And Markus is a bright, hardworking boy who—”
I clapped my hands over my ears. “No! I can’t stand Markus! I’ve known him since we were little kids!”
“But you aren’t children anymore, and if you give Markus a chance, I think you’ll see how much he’s changed since he’s grown up. Neither one of you will be ready for marriage for several years, but when the time comes, I hope you’ll be as fair to Markus as you would be to any other suitor.”
“I don’t want any suitors at all! I don’t want to get married and live in Bremenville!”
Papa stared at me in silent confusion. I saw lines around his eyes and gray hair at his temples that I’d never noticed before. He looked so bewildered that I felt I had to explain what I meant. Before I could stop myself, my secret tumbled out.
“I’m going to join the Chautauqua, Papa. I’m going to travel all over the country and play the piano.”
“Emma,” he said quietly. “God didn’t give you such a fine musical talent to waste on the Chautauqua.”
“Oh, Papa . . . I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“But I do understand.” His tired eyes met mine and I saw a well of wisdom and sorrow in them. “You feel like there’s a fire burning inside you that could light up the night with its brilliance if only you could release it. Making music gives you such joy that you want to share it with everyone you meet so that others can sing the songs you hear in your heart.”
“How . . . how did you know?” I felt as though Papa had looked into my heart and read its secrets.
“Because that fire comes from God, Liebchen. Whether you burn to play the piano or to preach the Gospel, He plants the desire inside each of us to be used for His purposes.” Papa reached for my hand and took it in his. “On the night of the Chautauqua, you experienced the power of music. But you don’t have to travel the show circuit to unleash that power. There are other means of expressing the song God has put in your heart.”
“Then you’ll really let me play the piano, Papa? You won’t make me marry Markus and live in three rooms behind the Ford garage?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said with a sigh. “Finish school first, Liebchen. Then we’ll pray about what comes next.”
* * *
In 1916, a group of Germans blew up a munitions arsenal in New Jersey, and the attitude of most Americans toward the war in Europe began to shift out of neutral. A year earlier I’d learned to play the popular tune “I Didn’t Raise My Boy to Be a Soldier,” but now many Americans were eager to send their boys over there to kill those “filthy Huns.” Such talk wasn’t common among our own church members, of course—we were still a mostly German congregation. But after two more factories moved into Bremenville several years earlier, the town’s population had grown to include a large number of Irish immigrants. They had even built their own church—St. Brigit’s Catholic Church—across the river from ours. They hated Germany and all things German.
By the time I was seventeen, my figure had finally begun to fill out in all the right places. I wasn’t as pretty as Sophie and Eva, who had Mama’s upturned nose and Papa’s clear blue eyes, but I was passable. I had inherited Papa’s oval face and long, straight nose, and some unknown relative’s gray eyes. I would never be as petite and curvaceous as my sisters, but I liked my tall, willowy shape the way it was. It was my hair that I hated. It wasn’t blond and curly like all three of my sisters’, but plain and straight and the bland color of wheat toast. I didn’t have the patience to pin it up on my head and make it look good, so one day I had it bobbed, like all the city girls were doing.
“What on earth will Papa say?” Eva worried all the way home. “You look like a suffragette!”
“Good! I had to do something different to prove to him that I don’t belong in Bremenville.”
“Don’t say such things. Where else would you belong but here with your family?”
“Listen, Eva. It’s fine for you and Sophie to get married and live here, but I’m not getting married. I’m going to play the piano all over the world.”
As it turned out, Papa had just learned that morning that thousands of women and children were starving to death in Germany because of a terrible famine, so he and Mama wouldn’t have noticed if I had shaved my head bald. All the boys from church noticed, though, and they fought over my basket at the annual church picnic the following Saturday. Hilda Lang’s father auctioned off the picnic baskets to raise money for missions that year, since Papa didn’t think he could cope with a lot of foolish fun and festivities.
My basket fetched the highest price, but when the winner came to claim the privilege of sharing it with me, I was surprised to discover that Markus Bauer had bought it. I shook my head in disbelief.
“What’s wrong with you, Katze?” he asked with a crooked grin. He was tall and muscular and twenty years old, with the swarthy good looks of a movie idol.
“You could have had your pick of any girl in town!”
“I know.”
“So why did you pick me? We’re practically cousins, for goodness’ sake.”
“I saw the way all the boys fluttered around you like moths, and I made up my mind to beat them all to the flame.”
“I don’t know why they were acting like that,” I said as I bent to spread my picnic cloth on the grass beside the church. “I didn’t do anything to encourage their attentions. I don’t care one fig about any of them.”
“Not here, Katze,” Markus said, snatching up the cloth. “Follow me.” He headed toward Papa’s orchard away from all the other picnickers.
“Wait . . . where are you going?” I had to hurry to keep up with his long-legged stride.
“Considering the outrageous price I paid for this lunch, I deserve a little privacy when I eat it,” he said. He spread out the picnic cloth behind an apple tree and flopped down beside it, stretching out like a hound dog before a fireplace. “I expect to be hand-fed, you know,” he said with a lazy smile.
“Then you bought the wrong girl’s basket,” I replied. “Maybe Hilda Lang or one of your other adoring fans would be willing to feed you, but not me.” I knelt down on the opposite side of the blanket from him and began laying out plates and food from the basket.
“That’s what makes all the boys flock to you, you know . . . that saucy attitude of yours. You don’t flirt and sigh like all the other girls or act as though your main concern in life is to trap some poor fellow into proposing.”
“Of course not! I don’t inte
nd to get married until I’m much older. In fact, I’ll be leaving Bremenville one day soon.”
“Is that right?” he said with a grin.
I threw a piece of fried chicken onto his plate. “Why do I always get the feeling that you’re laughing at me, Markus Bauer?”
“I’m not laughing, Katze . . . honest I’m not.” But no matter how hard he worked to pull down the corners of his mouth, he couldn’t disguise the laughter in his dark eyes.
“You are too. You’ve been laughing at me ever since I was a kid.”
The laughter in his eyes suddenly died. “You’re Pastor Schroder’s daughter,” he said quietly, “not Gus Bauer’s. You have no idea what it’s like to be really laughed at.” He picked up his piece of chicken and began eating. I was afraid that I’d ruined the afternoon and hurt his feelings, but as he took a second bite he said, “Mmm, this is good. Did you make it yourself?”
“No, Eva did. I’m a terrible cook. If those boys who bid for my picnic basket knew the truth about me, they’d all run in the other direction.”
“They’re not after you for your cooking,” he said, swallowing a bite of his dinner roll. “They’re intrigued with the challenge of winning your cold, cruel heart.”
“Ah, so that explains it! I knew it wasn’t my looks.”
He swiped his napkin across his mouth, then laid it beside his plate. “You honestly don’t know, do you?” he murmured. I was astounded to see that Markus was even more handsome when he was serious than he was when he was smirking.
“Don’t know what?”
“That you’re beautiful, Emma.”
“I am not.” But I saw by his expression that he meant it. I looked away, afraid that I was blushing like a foolish schoolgirl. He took my face in his hand and turned it toward him again. His fingers felt rough as he caressed my cheek.
“Beauty is more than perfect features, Emma. You have an inner fire that draws everyone to you, the way flowers turn toward the sun. You walk into a room and the place comes alive at last. You sit down at the piano and there’s laughter and song. You don’t need anyone or anything because you know exactly who you are, and you’re complete all by yourself. You are beautiful, Emma. All the more so because you don’t even realize it.”
I felt as though I should say something in return, but I didn’t know what to say. I had known Markus all my life, but for the first time I caught a glimpse of how vulnerable he really was. For all his outward swagger and handsome charm, he was a hurt little boy inside, hiding his pain and his family’s shame behind pranks and laughter.
When he finally lowered his hand, my cheek felt hot where his fingers had been. Then a careless grin spread across his face as he hid himself again. “So did Eva bake me something good for dessert too?”
For the next hour, we laughed and talked like the good friends we had never been. We were comfortable with each other, our conversation flowing easily, and we shared so much in common, it surprised me. Then I recalled Papa’s words about common traditions making a good basis for marriage, and I remembered Mama’s plans for a match between Markus and me, and I became so panicky I wanted to run. When I heard Mr. Lang rounding up all the children for the games and foot races, I quickly began packing away the picnic things. Markus stopped me, covering my hand with his.
“Can I ask a favor, Katze?”
“You want to take the leftovers home, right?”
“No,” he said, laughing, “it has nothing to do with leftovers. I was wondering if you’d write to me.” His face was serious again.
“Write to you?”
“Yes. It’s only a matter of time before President Wilson declares war on Germany, and I’m going to enlist in the army as soon as he does. Will you write to me when I’m over in France and tell me what’s going on back here at home?”
“Sure, Markus . . . that is, if I’m home myself. I’m hoping to get out of Bremenville someday soon.”
“I’d be glad to hear from you wherever you are.” He released my hand and helped shove plates and napkins back into the hamper. When we were finished we stood, and I shook the crumbs off the tablecloth. Markus stared at his feet, suddenly shy.
“Can I ask another favor, Katze?”
“What now?”
“Will you give me a kiss to remember you by when I’m slogging through the trenches?” He turned his head and pointed to his cheek.
What’s the harm? I thought and stepped toward him, closing my eyes. But at the last second he whirled to face me, kissing me full on the lips! He caught my bobbed hair in his hand and held my mouth against his until he had taken his fill. When he finally released me, my head spun. I was too stunned to remember to slap him.
“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since your sister’s wedding three years ago,” he said as he sauntered away, laughing. “Now I can die a happy man.”
* * *
When the United States declared war on Germany, Markus Bauer enlisted along with millions of other American men “to help make the world safe for democracy.” He came home for a brief visit before Uncle Sam shipped him overseas, and every girl in Bremenville except me swooned at the sight of him in his uniform. The Bauers invited our family to his going-away dinner. I found myself conveniently seated beside him at the table and knew that our parents hadn’t abandoned their matchmaking plans. Mama gazed across the table at us throughout the meal, her head tilted dreamily to one side. I felt like a fly under glass. When Uncle Gus lit a fat after-dinner cigar, I used the smoke as an excuse to flee to the Bauers’ front porch. I might have known Markus would follow me.
“Don’t forget, you promised to write,” he said as he settled down on the porch steps beside me. I moved to keep a good, safe distance between us, wary of being tricked into another heart-stopping kiss.
“I’ll write . . . but don’t expect a lot of sentimental mush. You’ll have to write to Hilda Lang if you want that kind of nonsense.”
He leaned back on his elbows and laughed, stretching his long legs straight out in front of him. His army boots were brand-new and spit-shined to such a high gloss I could almost see myself. They seemed out of place on Markus, who had always run all over Bremenville barefooted.
“Would it bother you if I wrote to Hilda Lang?” he asked.
“Not in the least,” I said with a wave of my hand. “I wouldn’t care if you wrote to every girl in town.”
“Brr!” he said, feigning a shiver. “You’re still as cold and cruel as ever, Emma. Promise me you won’t change while I’m away, okay? I’ll look forward to thawing your frozen heart when I get back.”
“You’ll have to find me first,” I said. “I’m planning to leave Bremenville as soon as I finish school and the war ends.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know yet . . . but far away from here!”
“You’ll be easy to find,” he said with a lazy grin. “I’ll just follow the music to where the fun is. You’ll be right in the middle of it all.”
The next day I waved good-bye to Markus and a whole trainload of local boys as they set off to “kill the Kaiser.” It gave me a funny feeling to think about them shooting at my German cousins. I only knew my relatives from photographs, but they didn’t look any different to me than the American boys who were so intent on killing them. No wonder the war had shattered Papa. If he could have stood in no-man’s-land between the two armies and shouted at them to stop the slaughter, he would have done it gladly.
Every time they published pictures of the war in the rotogravure section of the newspaper, Papa would shut himself up in his study alone. The pictures horrified all of us—hospitalized soldiers, blinded by mustard gas; a landscape of blackened stumps in what was once a German forest; mangled corpses lying heaped in a muddy trench. For some reason, I never worried about Markus. I knew he could take care of himself. He’d done it all his life. I envied him for traveling so far beyond Bremenville, even if the journey had taken him away to war. He wrote to me faithfully, des
cribing the queasy voyage across the Atlantic on a crowded troop ship; the frenzied greeting the doughboys received in Paris; the blood-chilling sound of mortar shells exploding at close range. I answered barely one out of every three of his letters.
After most of Bremenville’s work force left, I wanted to apply for a job at the woolen mill to do my part like all the other girls my age. But when Papa learned that the mill had a government contract to make Army uniforms, he refused to let me work there. He was so adamantly against the war, he even forbid twelve-year-old Vera to buy liberty stamps because the money went toward the war effort. “I’m the only girl in school,” she complained, “who can’t ‘lick a stamp and lick the Kaiser.’It’s unpatriotic!”
Papa did allow us to participate in voluntary rationing programs, such as “wheatless” Mondays and “meatless” Tuesdays. On “gasless” Sundays, all our parishioners hitched horses to their cars for the ride to church. When the Red Cross converted an empty storefront by the train station into a canteen, Papa reluctantly allowed Eva and me to do volunteer work there, since the Red Cross had a reputation as a neutral organization. We decided not to tell him that all the socks we volunteers were busy knitting were sent to our American troops.
Along with knitting, another of our jobs was to collect peach pits, which the army used to make charcoal filters for gas masks. It took seven pounds of pits to make enough charcoal for one mask, and since Uncle Sam needed one million masks, gathering pits kept Eva and me pretty busy. I held the record for collecting the most pounds in a single week—three-and-a-half. Hilda Lang tried to beat my record, foolishly eating an entire bushel of peaches herself, and spent a day and a night in the outhouse with dyspepsia. I remained champion.
But my favorite job at the canteen was entertaining the soldiers who came through Bremenville on the train from all over the country. If I couldn’t travel to interesting places, meeting interesting people would have to suffice. While the soldiers ate free sandwiches and cookies and drank gallons of coffee, I played popular tunes on an old upright piano to boost their morale. Sometimes their spirits soared so high we would push all the tables and chairs against the wall and start dancing. Of course, Papa knew nothing about this side of Red Cross work.