Somewhere to Belong Read online

  “No. The school is located in her home in Iowa City. Her husband teaches at the university, and she has decided the area is in need of a finishing school. She is seeking pupils.”

  I didn’t believe a word he was saying. “And how did you happen to discover Mrs. Harwell and her finishing school? A strange coincidence?”

  “No coincidence at all. I’d been looking to locate a place even before we arrived in Amana. One that wasn’t too far away. I saw an advertisement in the Iowa City newspaper.”

  “And where did you see a copy of the newspaper?” I folded my arms across my waist, pleased I’d been able to catch him in another lie.

  “You’ll find a stack of old copies in my office. And before you rush to conclusions, I have the Bruderrats’ permission to have them. Go on.” He nodded toward his office door. “I can see you don’t believe me.”

  I considered saying I believed him, but I simply had to look for myself. Diverting my gaze, I walked past him and entered the other room. In the far corner I spotted a pile of newspapers, and I shuffled through them. Although I saw one or two from Chicago, the rest were copies of the Iowa State Press, the Iowa City newspaper. I returned to the outer office.

  We both turned when the bell jangled and the front door opened. Johanna stood framed in the doorway. After a quick greeting to my father, she waved me forward. “We need to return.”

  My father managed to get to his feet, his complexion still pale. “Give us just a minute longer, Johanna.”

  She nodded and closed the door.

  “We don’t have much time. We’ll take a walk after prayer service, when we can talk, but say that you believe me, Berta. I’m telling you the truth. This is the first time I’ve ever seen Mrs. Harwell, and I don’t know her first name.”

  “Even if I believe you about the finishing school, that doesn’t explain Caroline or your plans for Chicago.” I took a step toward the door and then stopped. “Does Mother know about the finishing school, or is that another one of your secrets?”

  “She knows, but she doesn’t agree that you should attend. Her preference would be that you remain here in Amana.”

  “And what do you think Caroline would prefer? That you have no wife or daughter at all?” I turned and ran from the room, tears forming in the corners of my eyes before my feet hit the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER 18

  Dark splotches dotted the front of my dress where my tears had fallen. Swiping fingers beneath one eye and then the other, I sobbed as Johanna drew me into an embrace.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I glanced toward my father’s office and could see him looking out the window. He was watching—probably worried I’d tell Johanna about that woman.

  While keeping one arm around my shoulder, Johanna urged me forward. “Let’s go down the street a distance. We’ll sit down under the trees, where you can have a good cry.”

  “I’m not going to cry anymore!” I sniffled and wiped my nose on the handkerchief I’d removed from her pocket. “But he better not try to send me off to any finishing school. I’ll run away and they’ll never see me again.”

  Johanna lifted my chin with the tips of her fingers. Concern shone in her eyes. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  Between sniffles, I sputtered the story of Mrs. Harwell, her finishing school, and the questions that still remained unanswered— ones about Caroline and whether my father planned to remain in Chicago. “I still believe Mrs. Harwell is Caroline.”

  “But you saw the newspapers from Iowa City, didn’t you?”

  “What does that prove?” I snatched loose from Johanna’s hold. Couldn’t she see that my father’s mention of the newspapers had been a feeble attempt to wriggle out of his lies? “Just because he read about a finishing school in Iowa City doesn’t mean that the woman in his office was the owner, or that she even knows the finishing school exists. Why are you defending him?”

  “I’m not, but I think you need to give him the benefit of the doubt. You still have as many questions as you had before you walked into his office. Maybe more.”

  I jammed the handkerchief into my pocket. “You’re right about that.” We circled toward the rear of the house. “Are my eyes puffy?”

  Johanna laughed and shook her head. “No. You’re perfectly beautiful—as usual.”

  What would I ever do if I didn’t have Johanna? She never failed to say a kind word or compliment me when I most needed encouragement. “I’m so thankful I have you, Johanna. You’re the only person who even tries to understand me.”

  “God understands you, Berta. He created you, and He loves you. You must always remember that.”

  I clasped her hand. “I’ll try. And I’m sorry I snapped at you before. Please forgive me.”

  Her face brightened, and she sniffed the air. “I think I smell Sister Muhlbach’s honey cookies.”

  Since my first taste of honey cookies, I’d developed a special fondness for them. I sent a fleeting glance in Johanna’s direction.

  She laughed and nodded, already knowing I was hoping she’d give me her cookie. “Yes, you can have mine,” she said.

  I grabbed her around the neck and hugged her. “Oh, thank you, Johanna. You are so good to me. I know I can always count on you.”

  “God is the one you can always count on,” Johanna called to me as I made a pell-mell dash for the kitchen door.

  Deep inside I knew God was out there somewhere, but Johanna was far more real to me. It was her shoulder I cried upon, not God’s.

  For the remainder of the day I pushed thoughts of the woman and the exchange with my father to the back of my mind. I had no choice. Sister Muhlbach decided this would be the day I would learn to make the filled noodles I’d tasted only once since we’d arrived in Amana. On that occasion there had been visiting elders in the village who’d chosen to eat in our Küche. A special honor, I’d been told at the time, but I hadn’t understood why having extra plates to fill could be an honor. And though I still didn’t understand every event that signified importance within the community, I had learned that visiting elders always called for a special meal.

  After Sister Muhlbach sent Johanna and Sister Dickel to the other side of the kitchen, where they would chop and mix the filling, she carried two large mixing crocks to the table and smiled. “One for you and one for me.” Her smile disarmed me. “Do not worry. I will lead you through the process, and when we are done, no one will be able to tell my noodles from yours.” She laughed. “Except maybe for me.”

  Her pleasant demeanor and kind assurance were enough to make me think she’d taken leave of her senses. “How is that possible? You’ve been making these noodles for years. I’ve eaten them only once. I don’t think mine will compare—except in a bad way. I should watch you make them.”

  She shook her head. “We learn by doing. First you must break your eggs in the crock and whisk them with the water. Like this.” She completed the task and then pointed to the eggs. “Now you.”

  One by one I cracked the eggs on the edge of the crock and emptied the slippery contents into my bowl. I was on the last egg when part of the shell dropped into the crock. I gulped and glanced at Sister Muhlbach. “Now what?”

  She shrugged. “Take it out.”

  I’d expected her to shout at me, but she handed me a spoon and patiently watched while I chased the piece of shell. Each time I thought I had it captured, it slipped away. “I can’t get it,” I said and thrust the spoon toward her.

  With a gentle push she guided my hand back toward the bowl. “Work it toward the edge of the bowl and then slide it up the side.” After two more attempts, I caught the eggshell, and she gave me a satisfied nod. “Gut. Now beat the eggs with the water, and then we will measure the flour.”

  Once we’d finished mixing, she covered my bowl with a cloth. “You watch while I roll out my dough. Then you will roll yours. This is the hard part. The dough must be thin enough to make it tender but thick enough that it won’t tear when
we put the filling inside and seal the edges.”

  The very thought made me quake. I watched intently, certain I would fail. When she finished rolling, she had me touch the dough to feel its thickness. “Now we cut the dough into squares.” Her knife slid through the dough in straight lines that created perfect four-inch squares. She covered the squares with a damp cloth and motioned me toward the other table. “You will roll your dough here. We will wait to fill the noodles until you have your dough ready. Johanna can help you, and Sister Dickel will assist me.”

  I swiped my moist palms down the front of my apron before picking up a portion of the dough. After patting it onto the board, I took up the rolling pin and pushed first one way and then the other, flattening the dough into a giant square.

  “Put the kettles of water on the stove to boil,” Sister Muhlbach called to one of the kitchen workers while she continued to watch my technique. “You are doing fine.” She leaned forward and lifted one corner between her thumb and forefinger. “Needs to be a little thinner, and then you can cut your squares.”

  My lines weren’t nearly as straight as Sister Muhlbach’s, but she laughed and showed me how to push the dough together and cut again. I thought I might burst with satisfaction when the older woman gave a nod of approval. “Do you think they’ll hold together?”

  “Ja! If they are made in my Küche, they will be perfect.” She motioned Johanna to bring her bowl of filling to my table. “You help Berta. Sister Dickel will work with me.”

  The procedure proved time-consuming, and my first attempts at sealing the filled squares of dough were less than perfect. Johanna came behind me and made certain all the edges had been properly sealed. By the time the first batch was completed and ready to boil in the large kettle of salted water, I’d improved my technique.

  “You did gut work today,” Sister Muhlbach said as she placed browned bread crumbs atop the boiled puffed squares and motioned for the servers to pick up the platters and take them to the tables. “Our people will leave our Küche with happy stomachs tonight.”

  As the women placed the platters on the dining tables, fear replaced my earlier excitement. I nudged Johanna. “What if my noodles are tough and Sister Muhlbach receives complaints?”

  “You have no reason to worry. Sister Muhlbach tasted a noodle from each of your batches before they were served.” Johanna chuckled. “She tastes all food before it goes to the tables. If she has declared them worthy to be served in the Muhlbach Küche, there will be no complaints.”

  Indeed there were only compliments, and for our work, Johanna and I were relieved of any cleaning duties. “Go on and enjoy some time before prayer service,” the Küchebaas instructed. “And return ready to work in the morning,” she added as we hurried out the door.

  I picked a handful of blooming wild flowers as we proceeded toward home. “Sister Muhlbach seemed like a different person today, don’t you think?”

  “She’s always more strident when someone new begins work in her kitchen. I think she wants to be certain each worker understands that she is in charge.”

  Johanna’s explanation caused me to giggle. “Well, she does a good job. I think we all know she commands the Küche.”

  We continued on in silence, and the thoughts of the finishing school and Caroline that had fled my mind while I worked in the kitchen once again haunted me. A bank of darkening clouds hovered on the horizon. “I hope it doesn’t rain. My father promised we would go for a walk after prayer service. Alone.”

  “Gut. I’m glad you’re going to have time to talk some more before he leaves for Chicago.” Johanna tapped my shoulder. “Be careful that you don’t say anything you’ll regret. Try to think before you speak. Even though you are angry with him, your father deserves your respect.”

  I murmured my assent, but in my heart I didn’t agree. How could I respect my father after what I’d learned about him?

  Most of the clouds had disappeared by the time we left home to attend prayer service. I uttered a silent, fleeting prayer of thanks for the clearing skies. Although not completely successful, I’d been trying to remember to pray more often. Usually my prayers were about the things I wanted to do, and I did my best to thank Him when things went my way. But mostly I remembered Him when He didn’t answer the way I wanted. On those occasions He was always scheduled to receive one of my “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have denied me what I wanted” prayers. Early on I’d discovered that tack didn’t work as well with God as it always had with my parents, but it hadn’t stopped me from trying.

  Even though I attempted to remain quiet and prayerful, I fidgeted throughout most of the meeting. In truth, I thought it would never end. The moment we were dismissed, I hurried outdoors. When my mother approached, I glanced at the cluster of men. “Father said he would go for a walk with me so we could talk.” I hesitated a moment. “Alone.”

  My mother patted me on the hand. “So he told me. I hope his answers will ease your mind,” she said before turning toward home.

  His features somber, my father joined me a few minutes later. “I believe I’m ready for our walk.”

  From his glum appearance, he wasn’t looking forward to our time together. Neither of us spoke again until we’d distanced ourselves from our neighbors. I didn’t want our conversation to be overheard. Doubtless my father concurred, for he escorted me toward the cemetery.

  “I know you have many questions, Berta, and I’m willing to answer them. However, there is no way I can make you believe me. I cannot prove the truth of my answers.”

  He didn’t carry himself with his usual crisp vigor, and I discerned sorrow in his voice, but I wasn’t going to let him off so easily. “I want to know about Caroline.”

  His shoulders slumped forward, but he didn’t avoid the question. He admitted what the letter had already told me—Caroline was more than a friend or acquaintance. She was the reason my parents had moved to Amana. My mother hadn’t believed his promise that he would stop seeing her. “Not that I can blame your mother. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve broken that same promise on several occasions.”

  “Then why doesn’t she object to your trip to Chicago?”

  He shrugged. “It would give rise to questions from the elders if I refused to go. She doesn’t want them to know about our past—my past.”

  “She probably didn’t want them to know that I’m a headstrong, willful daughter, either, but I took care of that.”

  “I don’t think you’ve caused her undue concern since we’ve come to Amana.” He turned toward me and smiled, but his smile lacked its usual charm. “I want to assure you that the woman you met in my office this morning was not Caroline. I’ve told your mother about the incident, and she knows the schoolmistress was in my office. She can confirm that Mrs. Harwell looks nothing like Caroline.”

  I tried to remain calm, but I was incredulous. “Mother has met Caroline?”

  “No, but she has seen her. She can attest to the fact that the two women don’t resemble each other in the least.”

  He grasped my elbow, and we continued to stroll along the outer edge of the cemetery. A perfectly aligned white headstone perched over each of the graves like a ghostly sentinel.

  “You may ask her if you don’t believe me.”

  I wondered where the two women had encountered each other, but there were other questions of greater importance. I wanted my father’s assurance he would return to Amana, and I wanted a promise he wouldn’t send me to Iowa City. Without mincing words, I told him so.

  His hurried response of “I’ll do my best” was followed by a question of his own. “When I was packing my bag for the trip, I noticed something missing from one of my drawers. Would you know anything about the contents of a leather pouch that I’d placed in my dresser?”

  I swallowed hard. “What did it look like?”

  He frowned. “It’s brown leather, and it has a tie at the top. It looks like a leather pouch. Were you in my dresser for any reason?”


  I shook my head back and forth. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? What kind of answer is that? Either you were or you weren’t. It isn’t a difficult question, Berta.” He clenched his jaw and stared at me.

  I met his anger head on. “No! I wasn’t in your dresser, and I don’t know anything about your leather pouch.” The only reason he would want the contents of that leather pouch was if he wasn’t returning to Amana, and I wasn’t going to assist him with his plan. He’d have to discover some other means of financing his escapade. Surely God would overlook a lie in this circumstance.

  “I’m not sure I believe you,” he said.

  “And I’m not sure I believe you, either.” I wrenched my arm from his grasp and ran home.

  CHAPTER 19

  Johanna Ilg

  Even Berta’s dour countenance wasn’t enough to allay my excitement. Wilhelm and Larissa were due to arrive at any moment if all went according to plan. Sister Muhlbach had agreed I could take the evening meal to our house and join the family. Though the practice of eating at home was common when relatives came to the village for a visit, I needed the older woman’s permission to be away from the kitchen. Berta had agreed to assume extra work both this evening and tomorrow while I visited with my family.

  Berta stood nearby while I lined the basket with a linen towel. “I hope they’ve arrived. I don’t want the food to be cold for them.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine. They won’t care if the food isn’t hot. They’ve come to see you, not to judge our food.” She wrapped thick slices of bread in a cloth napkin and handed it to me. “I’m going to miss having you here in the kitchen.”

  “It’s only for this evening and tomorrow.” I knew my answer didn’t help. Since her father’s departure two days ago, Berta had been despondent. Nothing I said or did persuaded her he would return. She remained convinced she’d never see him again. Though their time together in Amana had been limited by work schedules, from what she’d told me, they had seen even less of each other when they’d lived in Chicago. And her mother hadn’t proved much help, either. Sister Schumacher seemed even more withdrawn since Dr.