Eve's Daughters (3 page)

“You’d better not let Amy and Melissa see them, or they’ll swipe them for their Barbie dolls.”

Grace laid the cigar box aside and reached for another empty carton, filling it with books from Emma’s shelf. Emma caught her breath when a worn, pocket-sized leather book fell out from where she had hidden it behind the others. The black leather cover curved slightly from the years it had spent inside a breast pocket, conforming to the swell of a man’s broad chest.

“Is this a Bible?” Grace asked. Before Emma could stop her, Grace opened the cover and read the inscription on the front page. “‘Presented to Father Thomas O’Duggan, June 5, 1923.’” She gazed at Emma in astonishment. “Mother, why on earth do you have Father O’Duggan’s prayer book?”

“I . . . I have no idea where it could have come from. Let me see it . . . I suppose I should give it back to his family or someone from his church.” The book seemed to burn in her hands like the lies burning in her heart. The pages rustled like dry leaves as Emma fumbled through them, searching for the place marked with the faded purple ribbon.

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions. Wash me
thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me
. When the page blurred, Emma closed the book.

The doors and drawers of her curio cabinet stood open, ready to be emptied so that she could move on to the next stage of her life. Emma longed to do the same with her past—to empty it of all its secrets so that Grace and Suzanne could move on with their lives—but that was impossible. If only she hadn’t made such a mess of things. She carefully laid the book down and picked up a framed photograph of Suzanne and Jeff with their two girls.

“‘For I the Lord your God, am a jealous God,’” Emma recited, “‘punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation . . .’”

Suzanne gazed at Emma curiously. “What did you say, Grandma?”

“Nothing . . . just something Papa once told me years ago.” She turned the photograph around so Suzanne could see it. “Your mother is right,” she said softly. “What you and Jeff do will affect these children for the rest of their lives. Don’t base your decision on the choices your mother made. She was influenced by the wrong choices I made. And my decisions were based on my own mother’s mistakes. And so it goes, on and on. We’re like those wooden dolls that nest inside one another, each taking the shape of the one that came before it. Someone has to open the last one, someone has to break the pattern. Learn from the past, Suzy, don’t repeat it.”

“But Grandma . . .”

“Did you ever hear my mother’s story?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe years ago.”

“Then perhaps it’s time you did.”

ONE

THE RHINE VALLEY, GERMANY, 1894

It had seemed like any other Christmas Eve at first, with laughter drifting through Papa’s sturdy farmhouse along with the aroma of roast goose and apple strudel. I was home again, spending Christmas with my family after becoming Friedrich Schroder’s bride only four months earlier. My sisters, Ada and Runa, had come home with their families, and our brother Kurt, who farmed with Papa, had crossed the fields from his cottage with his wife, Gerda, and their children. Emil, who still lived at home, bounded around all of us like a puppy dog, delighted to have the farmhouse bursting with loved ones once again.

I spent all morning in the kitchen, of course, bumping elbows with three generations of Fischer women as we hurried to put the finishing touches on dinner. Toddlers balanced on my sisters’ hips or clung to their skirts as we worked, adding their sniffles and whines to the clamor of banging pots and bubbling kettles. I reveled in every noisy, chaotic moment as I sat at the table peeling potatoes. The four miles of pastures, farmland, and forests that lay between Papa’s farm and my new home in the village hadn’t broken the link that forged me to these other women. That bond was the “three k’s”—
kinder, kuche
, and
kirche
. Those three—children, cooking, and the church—defined the life of every good German wife. Like all the other women in my family, I found my duty, my identity, in them.

“You’re risking a swat with this wooden spoon,” Ada warned as her two children scampered through the kitchen with their cousin, trying to steal a sweet gherkin from the dish on the sideboard.

“Oh, let them be,” Mama said. “One little pickle isn’t going to spoil their appetites. Besides, it’s Christmas.” As she held the forbidden relish tray within their reach, I marvelled at how my mama, who had raised five children with stern discipline and rules, had transformed into another woman altogether once she became a grandmother.

“That’s all now! Stay out of the kitchen!” Ada shouted as the children
skipped away, licking sweet pickle juice from their fingers. “At least the men have sense enough to stay out from underfoot,” she grumbled.

“Where did they all disappear to?” I asked.

“They’re in the parlor,” Mama said, “discussing politics and farm prices, I suppose.”

Runa shook her head. “Don’t believe it, Louise. They’re in there smoking fat cigars and drinking schnapps. And I’ll bet my egg money they’re teaching your Friedrich all their bad habits too.”

“Uh oh,” Oma said,“I’d haul him home fast if I were you, Louise.” Everyone laughed. Being teased by the other women was the price I paid for being the newest bride. I was probably in for a lot more of it before the day ended.

My grandmother, Oma Fischer, presided over the kitchen full of women, her gray eyes shining in her wrinkled face, a strand of wool-white hair sliding loose from its hairpins as she bustled around the hot stove. She finished basting the Christmas goose and closed the oven door, then paused beside the table to caress my cheek. I loved the touch of her soft, plump hands. They smelled of cinnamon and cloves.

“How pretty you look today,
Liebchen
,” she told me. “And so grown-up with your hair fixed in a French bun.” I had never thought of myself as pretty until Friedrich began telling me I was. And even though I was nineteen and married now, I barely thought of myself as grown-up. Whenever I studied my face in the mirror, hoping to see a woman gazing back at last, I was always disappointed to see the full, innocent face of a young girl, with freckles on her nose and lips that pouted like a child’s. Instead of the slender, high cheekbones I yearned for, my cheeks dimpled and blushed like a schoolgirl’s when I smiled.

Oma bent to kiss my forehead. “What gives you such a rosy glow and sweet smile?”

“It must be her handsome new husband,” Ada said with a wink. “She and Friedrich are still newlyweds, you know.” I felt the color rise to my cheeks against my will.

Runa, who was eight months pregnant, smiled knowingly. “Could it be the glow of motherhood, baby sister?”

I attacked the potato skins as I felt my blush deepen, wishing I could run away and hide with the children. I was fairly certain that I was expecting, but Friedrich and I had agreed not to share the news with anyone yet. It was still our own special secret, to be savored and treasured for a while between the two of us.

“Don’t listen to my silly sisters, Oma,” I said. “If I have a glow, it comes from the coal stove. The goose isn’t the only one who’s roasting.” I chopped the last potato and dropped it into the water with the others, then carried the pot over to the stove to boil. The kitchen was steaming hot, and I wiped the moisture off the window to gaze outside.

Beyond the foggy glass, the farmyard lay beneath a covering of fresh snow, Papa’s cattle a stark contrast against it as they huddled together beside the creek. I smiled to myself, remembering how those witless animals had brought Friedrich and me together—his father owned the butcher shop where Papa sold his beef. As lifelong friends, Papa and
Herr
Schroder thought it only natural to arrange a match between the butcher’s fourth son and Papa’s youngest daughter.

I turned away from the window as Mama paused from her labors to gaze around the cluttered kitchen. “Now, what have I forgotten?” she murmured.

Everyone laughed. Mama prepared so many different dishes at family gatherings that she always forgot to bring one of them to the table. We would invariably find it long after the meal was finished, still sitting in the pantry or the warming oven.

Our laughter transformed to murmurs of sympathy as Runa’s three-year-old daughter stumbled into the kitchen in tears. “She pinched her finger in the door,” an older cousin reported. Tired and overexcited, the girl wailed loudly. Runa couldn’t console her.

“I know just what she needs,” Oma said. She reached up to the shelf in the crockery dresser and fetched the white porcelain cup that I remembered so well from my own childhood. Painted on the front, the delicate girl in the pink dress hadn’t aged a day. Oma filled the cup with thick buttermilk from the pantry.

“There, now,” she soothed. “A few sips from Oma’s crying cup should put things right, eh, little one?”

I watched the cup perform its magic. By the time the milk was gone, all of my niece’s tears had disappeared as well. Laughter and tears . . . then laughter again. The words embroidered on Oma’s favorite sampler were true:
Joy and sorrow come and go like the ebb and flow
.

“It’s time for the presents,” Mama whispered to me. “Since you’re not busy, go light the tree candles for me. Get Friedrich to help you with the highest ones. Tell Papa to ring the bell when everything’s ready.”

I felt a shiver of excitement as I untied my apron and slipped from the kitchen. Not too many years ago, I had been among the children who would
soon enter the parlor, gaping in awe at the glittering tree, wondering how all the presents piled beneath it had magically appeared. Now I was one of the adults, helping to create the enchantment. I couldn’t have said which role I preferred.

The parlor door was closed to keep out the curious children, but I could hear the men’s voices on the other side, even before I opened it. Unlike the laughter and harmony in the kitchen, the atmosphere in the parlor was tense, the voices loud and strident. Embroiled in their argument, the men barely noticed that I had entered the room.

“No, I can’t agree with you,” Friedrich was saying. His brow furrowed as he pushed his sandy hair off his forehead. “It isn’t necessary at all.”

Papa gestured forcefully, using his cigar for emphasis. “Russia and France are allies now. We would be forced to fight a war on two fronts. Our military must be stronger than their combined armies.”

“But where will it end?” Friedrich asked. “If we increase our military forces, they will also increase theirs. Europe is already an armed camp, waiting for a spark to set off a war.”

“A strong military is the best deterrent against war,” Kurt insisted.

I crossed to the freshly cut pine tree in the corner and began checking the candle clips, making certain they were firmly in place, the candles not touching any other boughs. As I listened to the argument, I was horrified to discover that Papa, my brothers, Kurt and Emil, and my two brothers-in-law, Ernst and Konrad, all agreed that Germany needed a strong military. And they all agreed that it was both a duty and an honor to fight and die for the Fatherland. My husband did not agree.

Glancing at them, I saw that he looked different as well, standing among my brawny family members. He was the only one wearing a vest beneath his suit coat instead of braces, the only one sporting a neatly trimmed Belgrave beard instead of a handlebar mustache and muttonchops. But then, Friedrich
was
different from the others, the only one with a university education. My father had been so proud to have a man of learning in the family—a schoolteacher, no less. Now Papa struggled out of his armchair to stand and join the argument against his new son-in-law.

“You expect Germany to wait helplessly,” he asked, “while France starts a war on one front and the czar starts one on the other?”

“I’m only saying that the money the
Kaiser
is spending to arm Germany would be better spent fighting the poverty in our own industrial centers.”

I had never heard Friedrich raise his voice before. I stopped what I was
doing to stare at him. He was taller than my brothers but leaner; Kurt’s and Emil’s muscles were the product of years of farm work. When I first learned that Papa had made a match for me with the butcher’s son—who had been away at the university for four years-I was terrified that Friedrich had changed, that he might now resemble his father, who was as fat and pink as the sausages hanging in his shop window. I had been relieved to find that Butcher Schroder’s son, who was five years older than me, was slender and fair-skinned, with deep-set eyes as pale blue as the winter sky. His eyebrows and beard, a shade darker than his sandy hair, were the color of nutmeg, with brown and auburn and golden hairs all mixed together. His features were too angular to be considered handsome, but his quiet strength and the way he took an interest in people had attracted me to him immediately. After only three months of courtship and four months of marriage, I still barely knew him. And I had never really noticed the stark contrast between him and my family members before. Now it worried me. Why couldn’t he be more like Papa or Kurt?