More Than Words Page 5

  I gasped and clutched Stefan’s hand. “Did they hurt you?”

  He shook his head and yanked his hand away. “No, but you’re hurtin’ my hand. They were nice to us—even let me pet that big white stallion.”

  “You are going to be in trouble when Vater finds out what you’ve been up to. What if those Gypsies had decided to keep you there and never let you return home? Then what? We would have never known what happened to you.”

  Stefan tightened his lips in a smirk. “You’d probably have the hardest time, ’cause then you wouldn’t have anyone to holler at.”

  “I do not holler at you. Only once in a while do I raise my voice—and only when it is needed. And I think Vater will do more than raise his voice once he knows what you have done.”

  “Please don’t tell him, Gretchen. You can tell him I saw Gypsies, but don’t tell him Freddie and me went down to their camp.” He grabbed hold of my hand and looked up at me with pleading eyes. “Ple-e-e-ase. I promise I won’t go down there again if you don’t tell him.”

  “For sure? You promise?”

  He bobbed his head until his hair tumbled forward. “I do, I do. Thank you, Gretchen.” He pecked an unexpected kiss on my cheek.

  Before he turned away I caught sight of the heightened color in his cheeks and was glad one of his young friends hadn’t stepped inside the store. Poor Stefan would be teased for weeks if his friends thought he got along with his older sister.

  He shifted and looked over his shoulder. “Where is Vater?”

  “He took a shipment of calicos over to the train depot. He hoped you’d be home to help him after school, but when you didn’t come straight home, he went on without you.”

  Stefan’s eyes clouded. “Did he think I was in trouble with Brother Ulbricht and had to stay after school?”

  “He didn’t say, but I’m sure he will have some questions for you when he comes home.”

  Stefan shuffled back to the counter. “Still promise you won’t tell?”

  I met his worried gaze. “I doubt Vater will ask me. His questions will be for you. And remember, it is not proper to tell a lie.”

  “I know. I know.” He turned away and trudged to the far side of the room and began to unload a crate of salves, ointments, and tonics, careful to place each one on the proper shelf. I wasn’t certain if he thought his good behavior would erase his earlier misdeed, but I didn’t ask. I was pleased to have him do his work without an argument.

  The sight of my brother bending over the crates without complaint stopped my Vater in his tracks when he returned to the store a short time later. “Hard at work you are, ja?” He strode to where Stefan was stooped down beside a crate. “Where you were after school? I waited and waited for you. I needed strong young arms to help me with the bolts of calico, and the other men were busy in the warehouse.”

  Stefan stood and placed several bottles on the shelves. “Freddie asked me to go with him after school. I know I should have come home and asked first. I’m sorry, Vater.”

  Stefan’s back remained turned toward my father while he gave his explanation. I thought he probably was afraid his eyes would give him away. Any time my father thought we were telling a lie, he would make us look at him so he could see if there were any yellow spots in our eyes. Stefan still believed Father could tell if he wasn’t being honest. Though Father couldn’t really see yellow spots, he could look into our eyes and see if we were telling the truth. Stefan’s story today was half true. He had gone with Freddie after school; he hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t told the whole truth, either.

  My father ruffled Stefan’s hair. “You are doing a gut job. There are three more crates in the back waiting for you. And from now on I expect you to come straight home after school. If there is not work waiting for you here, you have your school lessons to keep you busy, ja?”

  Stefan groaned, but he didn’t argue.

  “Gretchen, we will be busy tomorrow, so I will need you in the store most of the day. There are orders coming and going on every train arriving and departing this week. You will need to keep a sharp eye, for I hear tell there are Gypsies headed our way. They may already be camped outside of town.”

  Wide-eyed, my brother turned and looked at me.

  “Stefan, you need to hurry or you won’t have all those crates emptied by suppertime.”

  He took my cue and turned back to his work. “Who told you about the Gypsies, Vater?”

  “A man on the train. He said he saw two on horseback. Then later he saw a whole caravan of them headed in our direction. If they come into the store, you should be careful they don’t take anything, Gretchen. Too many things they stole when they were around here last summer.”

  “Not all Gypsies steal. Some are gut,” Stefan said.

  “That may be, but I know they took much from us last year.” My father wheeled around to face Stefan. “Is one thing if we choose to give help to those in need, but I do not want them to think they have a right to come and steal from us. Sometimes I think they would rather steal than ask for help.”

  “I think these Gypsies are nice.” Stefan’s lips smacked shut, and his eyes widened until they were the size of two giant walnuts.

  “And how would you know about these Gypsies?”

  Too late he’d realized his error. “I’m … I’m n-not sure.” He swallowed hard. “But wouldn’t that be the same as saying everyone who lives in the Amana Colonies is perfect?” He blinked several times. “Wouldn’t it?” His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

  My father stared at him for a long moment. “Maybe you are right, but still we cannot take chances.” He tapped his finger alongside his right eye. “We must keep a good watch over our goods when they are in the store. It is the wise thing to do.”

  Three days passed with no sign of the Gypsies, and I’d almost forgotten about them when Mina entered the store.

  I glanced up from the ledgers. My friend’s usual smile had been replaced by a deep frown. “Mina! It’s good to see you. I’m surprised you’re back so soon. This isn’t your regular shopping day.” I slipped from the stool and embraced her.

  Impatience shone in her eyes. “Ja, well, I did not expect to return so soon, either. Do you have any eggs? All of our eggs and three of our chickens were missing from the henhouse this morning. Sister Marguerite is in a dither. She’s sure it is the Gypsies who have taken them. But no matter who has taken them, we need to replace the eggs. I offered to change the menu, but she wouldn’t hear of it. The older she gets, the more hardheaded she becomes. I tried to reason with her, but she only became more upset. It’s easier to purchase a few eggs than have her in a flurry for the rest of the day.”

  I followed her toward the back of the store. “You are in luck. I have plenty of eggs from Sister Helen and Sister Wilma.”

  Basket in hand, Mina marched to the egg crates, picked up an egg, and examined the shell.

  “Maybe it was some of the hobos. They’ve been known to steal eggs from time to time.”

  One by one Mina examined the eggs before placing them in her basket. “Could be, but ever since word spread that the Gypsies were camped outside of town, Sister Marguerite has blamed them for everything from the lack of rain to bugs on the lettuce.”

  “Three days have passed, and I haven’t seen any of them in town. I thought maybe they had already moved on. Has anyone seen them?”

  “I don’t think so, but with so many women at the Küche, there’s lots of time for chatter and guesswork. And the Gypsies make for exciting talk.” She placed an egg in her basket and picked up another. “You may be right about them. The store is usually the first place they visit. I’m surprised they haven’t been in here.” After selecting a dozen eggs, Mina covered them with her cloth. “I think that will do. Unless the thieves visit us again tonight.” She strolled down the aisle and settled the basket on the counter. “Where have you been rushing off to after prayer service the last few evenings? Each night I think we can visit for a little while
, but poof.” She gathered her fingers together and opened them in a quick explosive motion. “I look around, and you are gone before I can catch up to you.”

  I couldn’t deny Mina’s assessment. After prayer service, I couldn’t get away fast enough to return home, closet myself in my bedroom, and pore over the magazines Mr. Finley had left with me. The stories between the pages spoke to me in ways I’d never imagined. And the fact that they’d been written by women made my interest run even deeper. Each evening after I read one of the stories or poems, I would spend another hour writing my own poetry or working on a story. Not only had I found pleasure reading the magazines, they’d given me encouragement to continue with my own writing.

  “I’ve been doing more writing in the evening.”

  Mina perked to attention. “I would enjoy reading some of your work. You haven’t shown me any of your poems for a long time.” She glanced toward our attached rooms as if she expected me to go and return with my journal.

  “You want to see them now?”

  “Why not? Your Vater isn’t here, and I have time before I must return to the Küche. And if Sister Marguerite complains, she can send someone else to fetch eggs.”

  Though I wasn’t eager to share my recent work, Mina wouldn’t be easily deterred. Once she made up her mind, it would be difficult to change. “I won’t be long. If anyone comes into the store, tell them I’ll be right back.” I hurried from the store but slowed my pace once inside our apartment. After I removed the journal from the drawer at the bottom of my wardrobe, I sat down on the bed and waited for several minutes. With any luck, a customer would be waiting for me when I returned and Mina would need to return to her work at the Küche.

  “What took you so long? I was thinking maybe you stopped to take a nap while you were in there.”

  “I’m sorry I was so slow.” I flipped through the pages of the journal and opened to an entry I’d written several weeks earlier.

  Without so much as a glance at the page, Mina thumbed to the last entries. “I want to see this writing that keeps you from having time to visit in the evening.”

  I waited, perspiration beginning to form on my upper lip. I watched her gaze travel back and forth across the lines of writing. Occasionally, she glanced up, but I couldn’t determine if I saw admiration or censure in her eyes. She gave a backward flip of the page and read what I’d written the previous nights.

  Finally she closed the journal and slid it across the counter. “Your writing has changed. It’s different.”

  “Better?”

  “Different. The last pages don’t sound like you.”

  “Maybe they are just a different side of me—one you haven’t seen before.”

  Mina pinned me with a steady stare. “I have known you since you were a little girl, Gretchen. There is no side of you I do not know. Something is different, and I can think of only one thing that has happened to cause this change.”

  “And what is that?” I wondered if she’d somehow found out Mr. Finley had given me the magazines. If she had, I wanted her to tell me.

  “Mr. Finley. You think you’re in love with him, don’t you?”

  My breath caught in my throat. “What? No! Of course not. I spoke to him for only a short time. How could I be in love with him?”

  “Nothing else has happened that would change the way you’ve been acting or would change your writing. I believe I am right.”

  I hadn’t planned to reveal my secret, but I didn’t want Mina to think I was in love with Mr. Finley. I certainly admired him. He was a nice man and would be a fine addition to our community, but I barely knew him. How could she believe I cared for him?

  “I have something to show you. Wait here.” I hurried to my bedroom, removed the magazines from beneath the mattress, and returned to the store. I held the periodicals in front of me. “This is what has created the change in my writing. Mr. Finley gave these to me. I’ve been coming home each night so I can read them.” I pushed one of them toward her and flipped open the pages. “Look at this, Mina. These poems are all written by women. And the stories, too. And they’re good, every one of them.” I hesitated a moment. “At least the ones I’ve read so far.”

  “So now you try to write like these women. This is not gut.”

  “Why? They are much more talented than I am. If I can write like them—”

  “If you can write like them, then what? Why would you want to write like anyone else, Gretchen? So you can get your poem in a magazine? That is not why you write in your journal. Now you are trying to be someone else. These things you have written the last few days, it is not gut like the rest of your journal.” She slapped her palm on the magazine and pushed it away. “Better you be yourself. Those magazines are not gut help for you.” She picked up the basket of eggs. “It is getting late. I need to return to the Küche.”

  I gathered the magazines and my journal and shoved them beneath the counter, disappointed at Mina’s comments. I thought she’d be pleased that I wanted to learn more about writing; I thought she’d applaud my efforts; I thought she’d tell me to keep on improving my work. I was wrong, and I was startled by the depth of my disappointment. Since my mother’s death, Mina had been the one person who lavished me with approval and understanding.

  Mina glanced over her shoulder when she neared the front door. “I told you Mr. Finley was trouble.”

  CHAPTER 6

  A group of shoppers from Iowa City arrived on the early train the following day. I smiled my brightest smile, directed them to the most recent calico prints, and told them we’d soon be receiving a shipment of fine imported laces and trims. “The most gorgeous I’ve ever seen,” I told the ladies. They purchased calicos and woolens for their summer and winter wardrobes, along with a variety of threads, and seeds for their flower gardens. They departed with a promise to return within the month to purchase some of the promised frills. “Unless you plan a trip to Chicago, you’ll find nothing to compare,” I said as I bid them good-bye.

  They’d been gone only a few minutes when the door opened. Thinking one of the ladies had forgotten a needed item, I turned around with a broad smile, but my smile immediately disappeared. “Oma! What are you doing?” I gave her my sternest look while I waved her forward. My stomach churned up enough fear to send bile racing to the back of my throat. Only moments ago she had been sweeping the wooden sidewalk in front of the store. Now she was clinging to the arm of a swarthy dark-eyed Gypsy. I tried to control my mounting fear. “Come over here, Oma. I need to talk to you.”

  “Pretty boy,” Oma cooed, still clutching the man’s arm. The Gypsy’s shaggy hair, tied with a string at the back of his neck, hung oily and limp. Food and drink stained the front of an unbuttoned once-white shirt that lay in an open V, exposing the man’s chest. His calf-high boots displayed mud instead of a shine, and even at a distance, my nose alerted me the man needed a bath. Both his appearance and his odor offended, but I dared not look away and searched my mind for some way to entice Oma away from him.

  My grandmother’s fingers tightened on the Gypsy’s arm, and he swaggered toward me, confidence glistening in his eyes. “She loves me,” he said, his eyelids lowered to half-mast. “She wants to come and live with me and travel the country, don’t you, Helga?”

  Strands of white hair danced in a curious rhythm as she bobbed her head. “Ja. See the country,” she repeated.

  Anger replaced my fear, and I clenched my jaw. “Turn her loose right now. She is an old woman and sometimes loses touch with the real world.”

  His smug grin revealed a row of uneven stained teeth. “But she likes me. And I like her, too.” He patted Oma’s hand, and she batted her eyes like a young woman in love. “You see?”

  I stomped my foot and raised my voice. “I want you to leave here right now. Without my grandmother.”

  “What’s all this shouting? You are causing trouble, Zurca?”

  I turned toward the door. More of them! Panic seized me in a stranglehold that lef
t me speechless as I watched more Gypsies enter the store. The tall one who had spoken had the same dark eyes and olive complexion. Unlike his friend, this one’s ebony hair shone as though freshly washed, and his clothing, though odd, looked clean. Several heavy chains hung around his neck, and he wore a colorful sash at his waist.

  “There is no trouble. The grandmother brought me here. She wants to give me a present.”

  “A present, ja.” Oma finally turned loose of the man’s arm and ambled toward the shoes and boots. “We will find some special boots for Zurca.”

  I glared at the man my grandmother referred to as Zurca. “So you have convinced her she should give you a new pair of boots? Well, she is not in charge of this store, and she can’t give you anything. You must leave.”

  Oma shrieked at me as though I’d plunged a knife in her heart. “Not until he marries me.”

  “You need to take a rest before the marriage, Oma. Let me take you to your room. After your nap, we’ll talk about the wedding.” Using my body to block any view of Zurca, I gathered my grandmother by the waist and moved her toward our apartment. When we were within earshot of the taller man, I said, “Please don’t steal from us while I care for my grandmother.”

  He gave an indiscernible nod of his head. “You have my word.”

  Though I remained uncertain whether the Gypsy’s word meant anything, I led Oma to her bedroom. To have her safe in her room was more important than the goods in our store, but I knew I couldn’t linger until she was asleep. I covered her with a sheet and backed from the room. As I closed the door, I prayed she would soon drift off to sleep. If my father returned and discovered the store filled with Gypsies and me missing, he’d be angry for sure. And if I told him of Oma’s antics, he would use it as yet another reason why she would be better off at Mount Pleasant. That thought alone caused me to quicken my step.

  I reentered the store, my eyes darting in all directions. The two men had taken up a position near the shoes, and the three women who had followed the taller Gypsy into the store now wandered the aisles. They wore full colorful skirts, and bright scarves covered their loose dark hair. Vater said they sewed big muslin sacks inside their skirts to hold the many things they stole from the shelves and counters. There was no way to be sure that was true, but one look at the billowing skirts made the story easy to believe.