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 mome
nt 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.”
“I don’t think I can. My tossing would only disturb you, and you need your rest.” He climbed out of bed and pulled on his trousers, then disappeared into the darkness. Once my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw the pale outline of his naked shoulders as he moved ghostlike around the cottage. I waited for him to return, but he never did. Eventually I dozed.
As the light of dawn lit the room, I awoke again and slipped into my dressing gown to go in search of him. I found him slumped on his knees, his forehead on the floor. At first I thought he was ill, then I saw his Bible lying open in front of him. I turned to tiptoe away. When the floor creaked, he lifted his head.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“It’s all right.” He slowly pulled himself to his feet, as if stiff from his cramped position. “Come here,” he whispered. He drew me into his arms, holding me so tenderly I might have been made of glass and would shatter if he held too tightly. His hands gently caressed my shoulders, my hair, my face, as if trying to memorize my form. I felt him shiver, but when he kissed me, I knew by the delicate brush of his lips that it was from sorrow, not longing.
“Friedrich, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“But you won’t. I’m right here.”
He rested his cheek against my hair. “Louise, I think my dream was from God.”
“You mean like the dreams in the Bible?” When he nodded I almost laughed aloud. “You don’t really believe God still speaks to people in dreams, do you? And even if He did, why would He pick you? Maybe you should talk to Reverend Lahr—”
“No, I need to talk to you.”
“But I don’t understand anything about . . .”
“Then I need to make you understand. Otherwise I might lose you, just like in my dream.”
You’re talking in riddles. You didn’t get enough sleep last night.”
“No, listen to me.” He tightened his grip on my arms. “I know you don’t want to leave Germany, and I’ve searched and searched for a way to obey God without moving, but there just isn’t one. There’s going to be a war in Europe—maybe next year, maybe not for ten years, I don’t know—but the fuse has been lit and sooner or later it’s going to explode. I can’t be part of it. I can’t kill and destroy and conquer for the sake of national pride and greed. And I want you and our child to be safe from it. We’re surrounded by enemies, Louise—Russia on the east, France on the west, Great Britain . . .”
“It was only a dream, Fritz.”
“No, it was more than that. I’ve been praying about what to do ever since Kurt was drafted, and I think my dream was a warning that . . . You don’t believe me, do you? I can tell by your face that you think I’m crazy.”
“I think You’re upset, that’s all. A nightmare can seem very real, but you can’t make important decisions based on a dream.”
“I’m not. I already knew in my heart what I needed to do. The dream showed me that I need to make you understand why we can’t stay in Europe.”
“Because you think there will be a war.”
“I know there will be a war. Our leaders know it too. Why do you think they’re drafting more men?”
“Then shouldn’t our families leave too?”
“Yes, of course, but they don’t want to believe it’s going to happen any more than you do. I just hope and pray that if we go to America first and get settled over there, I can persuade them to join us later.”
“You know they’ll never leave Germany. If we move to America, we’ll never see any of them again.” My knees felt too wobbly to hold me any longer. I had been confined to my bed for more than a week. I pulled away from Friedrich and sat down at the kitchen table. That’s when I noticed for the first time that Friedrich’s new bookshelf was empty. I glanced around the room, but didn’t see his books.
“Fritz, where did all your books go?”
“I sold them.”
“Sold them? But they were your most precious possessions!” I waited, hoping he would tell me why.
“I needed the money for my passage to America,” he said at last. “Besides, it would be too costly to ship them.”
I turned my head so I wouldn’t have to look at the empty shelf. Was this just the first of many losses we would be forced to endure until we were finally stripped of everything we loved? A moment later he moved behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. His next words came out in a rush, as if he wanted relief from their awful burden.
“I’ve decided to go to America alone, to get settled over there, then send for you and the baby when I’ve saved enough money. In the meantime, I thought you’d be happier living with your family than staying alone here in town, so I’ve made all the arrangements with your father. He has agreed to move you and the baby back to the farm after I’m gone.”
His words seemed unreal, like his nightmare. We were leaving Germany and moving to America. I could no longer deny the truth or pretend it would never happen. Each time I saw the empty bookshelf, I would be reminded. Our departure had begun.
“I’ll fix breakfast,” I said.
“No, let me. You’re supposed to stay off your feet.”
“Please, Fritz. I’m sick and tired of staying in bed.” I stood and began rummaging in the pantry for potatoes and eggs. My distress was made worse by a nagging pain in my back, and the aching, cramping feeling that usually came with my monthly curse.
We had just finished breakfast when I heard the postman outside, dropping several letters through our slot. Friedrich rose to retrieve them. I watched his face as he sifted through them, then saw his expression change when he came to the last envelope. I knew without being told that his draft notice had arrived. He stared at it for a long time, then laid it on the table.
“Don’t open it, Louise.” His voice sounded hoarse.
“Is it really worth risking prison for, Fritz? What will become of the baby and me if you get caught? Why would you take such a chance? I still don’t understand!”
He opened his mouth as if forming his answer, then clenched his jaw and closed his eyes in despair. When he opened them again he wouldn’t look at me, but he snatched up his hat and left the house without a word, closing the door gently behind him.
I glared at the envelope for a long time, as if it were Pandora’s box and would unleash disaster upon us if opened. But hadn’t disaster already been unleashed when the draft law changed? Friedrich’s books were gone. He was leaving for America. There was no way I could stuff everything back into the box.
I left the breakfast dishes where they lay and crawled back into bed, too numb to cry. What if I could go back and change everything? Would I have agreed to marry Friedrich if I had known he would ma
ke me move to America? Would I have chosen him before my family, my homeland? No, I decided as the cramping grew worse. No. I would rather have married Klaus Gerber, the town drunk, than move away from everyone I loved.
As I tossed on the bed in misery, it slowly occurred to me why I felt so sick—the baby was coming. And I had no idea where Fritz had gone or when he would be back. I couldn’t bear the thought of starting my labor all alone, so I decided to go next door for my neighbor, Mrs. Schmidt. She’d given birth to five children and had offered to help when my time came. But first I would have to get up and get dressed. It all seemed so impossible with my swollen ankles and aching back.
I managed to change into a housedress, but then I saw what a mess the kitchen was, with unwashed pans on the stove and our dirty breakfast dishes still on the table. I couldn’t let anyone see my home in such a state. I hobbled to the sink and worked the hand pump but nothing came out. Then suddenly there was water everywhere, running down my legs, soaking my clothing, spreading in a puddle around my ankles. My baby would be born today. Friedrich’s baby. She would grow up in America, never knowing her grandparents, her aunts, her cousins. I sank onto a kitchen chair and wept.
It took me a long time to clean up the dishes. I was on my knees with a bucket and rags, mopping the floor when Friedrich returned.
“Louise! What on earth are you doing!” He pulled me to my feet and steered me to the nearest chair. “You’re not even supposed to be out of bed, let alone working and . . . and your dress is soaked! What on earth—?”
“Please go get Mama and Oma.” I couldn’t stop sobbing.
“Is it your time? Should I fetch the doctor?”
“I want Mama. She’ll know when to send for the doctor.”
Mrs. Schmidt stayed with me while Friedrich rode out to the farm. I don’t remember seeing him much after that. Oma probably shooed him out of the way. Delivering babies was women’s work. Later I learned that Friedrich had spent the entire day praying. His prayers didn’t help.