Gretel (15 page)

For weeks following that night in the Klahr kitchen, Gretel was as busy as she’d ever been in her life, and that included those weeks her mother had gone to care for Deda.

Each day, except for Sunday, began at five o’clock in the morning and ended close to eight o’clock at night. Ten o’clock if you included homework. And Gretel loved it. All of it.

She was learning new things every day from Mrs. Klahr, mostly about cooking, but other, less tangible things as well. And, most importantly, Gretel was making money. Mr. Klahr paid her in cash every morning for the previous day’s work, and she was provided a meal for each shift worked, which basically meant breakfast and dinner every day, and lunch on Saturdays. Admittedly, Sundays were a blessing, and Gretel more or less stayed in her room and slept all day, but she was as enthusiastic and eager as a shrew come Monday morning, and often arrived at the Klahr house before Mr. and Mrs. Klahr had even dressed for the day. On these mornings, Gretel gave her sincere, albeit pride-laced apologies, but the Klahrs always dismissed them, rebuking themselves instead for their sluggishness.

Gretel’s only apprehension about her new job was how it would play out at home and the effect it would have on her brother. Naturally, Hansel had become both dependent on and protective of his sister since their mother’s disappearance and Gretel feared he would take her new schedule badly. He didn’t have many friends to begin with, and the last thing Gretel wanted was for her brother to experience any additional feelings of loneliness on top of those which already gripped him. But he had been surprisingly calm about the news—nonchalant even—the buckets of ripe pears and apples no doubt contributing to his casualness.

And her father hadn’t uttered a word of protest either. He was in fact relieved, both that his daughter was exerting her independence through the healthy outlet of work, and that desperately needed money would now be coming into the household. He hadn’t asked about her salary, and Gretel hadn’t offered to tell him, but the shine in his daughter’s eyes had revealed to him that their worries could subside for a few weeks. In this exchange, which Gretel was determined to keep fresh in her mind for as long as possible, Gretel saw a glimpse of the man her father was before their mother went missing, before his injury even, and she laughed boisterously in his arms as he hugged her and told her how proud he was.

Gretel didn’t know what would happen when the harvest eventually ended, or how they would continue to survive, but she wasn’t ready to submerge herself into that concern just yet. She had done as she set out to do that night in the canoe: feed herself and her brother. Certainly, her goal hadn’t been realized quite the way she’d intended, but that’s how it usually went. Knowing what you wanted and then doing something—anything—about it was a big part of the battle.

And in this case, it turned out a hundred times better than she’d ever dreamed. She was now able to feed her entire family, keep some of her family’s creditors at bay, and, since most of her meals were provided by the Klahrs, which meant less money was needed for food, she could even buy a few ‘luxuries’ like new dinner plates for the house and shoes for Hansel. To Gretel, it was all a miracle; two weeks ago such a scenario seemed far beyond impossible.

Even Gretel’s school work had improved. Her grades, which had been dropping steadily, quickly began to trend upwards, and the combative behavior which had shortened so many of her school days over the past couple of months suddenly became agreeable and helpful. Gretel even became somewhat amicable with her classmates, and though her schedule allowed little time for outside socializing, she had made one or two friends.

Of course, she recognized many of these changes were due to her fear that any news of mischief in school might find its way back to the Klahrs, but it was also more than that: for the first time in months, Gretel felt happy. And it wasn’t that fleeting kind of happiness which arrives seemingly from nowhere and then evaporates with the same lack of reason. It was a consistent happiness—that underlying peace that seems always to flow beneath the surface of certain people, subliminally repeating to them throughout the day that everything is okay. That no matter what happens, everything is okay. Those people who have never been without the feeling might label it ‘contentment,’ but Gretel was new to the feeling, and it was one she was now dedicated to for life.

“Gretel, the pies!” Amanda Klahr barked her raspy command at Gretel as she carried the oversized platter of biscuits out the front door to the waiting table of hungry pickers.

The men were mostly quiet and undemanding, particularly when it came to Mrs. Klahr, but she was as adamant as any city restaurant manager about having their meals to them hot and on time. Gretel surmised this came from a combination of pride and motivation, figuring the men would work hard for her if she worked hard for them. Plus, as far as Gretel could tell, the picking months were the only time of the year the Klahrs had company, and Mrs. Klahr enjoyed the entertaining part of the whole thing.

The Klahrs had long ago moved the daily meals of the workers outside where cleanup would be easier and space wouldn’t be an issue. Georg Klahr had constructed a large wooden table for the purpose, with permanent benches on either side and a flat patio area made of clay brick. The giant table ran the entire length of the patio and was quite a marvel of construction. She had never measured it, but Gretel figured the table must have been twenty feet long. It was the length of a table that kings might dine at, Gretel thought, though its impurities and unfinished design made it suitable only for the environment in which it now stood. The whole area was actually quite beautiful, though Gretel couldn’t imagine that the space was used much at any other time of the year. But it served its purpose well, and the scene of men seated around the table resembled something closer to a family reunion than a migrant worker lunch hour.

“I’ve got them, Ma’am! I’m right behind you.” Gretel slipped on the oven mitts and took two pies from the oven, setting them on the stove top and grabbing the remaining two from the back of the rack. She placed the four pies on a large serving board and followed Mrs. Klahr through the door which, mercifully, she had left open.

Saturday: Gretel’s favorite day of the week. And her busiest. She’d been at work for five hours now and it was only eleven a.m.

Gretel set the first pie at one end of the huge table and continued down toward the other end, spacing the remaining pies evenly so as to make them accessible to everyone. Gretel could feel the eyes of the men—not on her, but on the food. With great restraint the men sat sturdy, watching, waiting for the women to finish their roles and signal for them to begin. And when the signal came, the men wasted no time moving in.

They were courteous, of course, taking one biscuit at a time, or one spoon of potatoes or chili, and then passing the dish on. But when they began, they ate everything. Soup pots were bone dry when the hour was up. The boards of roast beef or game hens or whatever main course was served that day were cleaned by the workers as if they had come from the wash bin. The tea pitchers, the greens, and the seemingly never-ending bowls of apples and pears were drained without pause.

And then there were the pies.

Amanda Klahr’s pies were staggering and had become so popular among the men that Gretel had suggested to Mrs. Klahr they be served first. Mrs. Klahr put up a mild protest at first but came around after testing the idea and receiving applause from the men when she placed them on the table at the beginning of the meal. From that point on, pies had been the appetizer at each lunch and dinner, whether they were made with fruit, meat or potatoes.

Gretel placed the last pie on the table and stepped back, placing her hands properly in front of her, waiting as a servant in a mansion might for any further requests. Gretel loved to watch the men as they began the feast. She reveled in it. There was such joy in that first moment, and the moments just after the first bites, from men who spent most of the day looking stoic and grim. The ear-touching smirks and agreeable nods that sprang up around the table when Mrs. Klahr finally said ‘enjoy’ in her ironic, understated manner made Gretel glow inside. She wanted to clap for the men, encourage them to ‘take more, there’s plenty!’

Of course, she said nothing and waited for Mrs. Klahr to flap her back to the kitchen for the next task.

“They’re not children,” Mrs. Klahr scolded amusingly. “You shouldn’t watch them like that.”

Gretel smiled, nodding toward the table. “I don’t think they mind. In fact, I don’t think they would notice if I was standing here naked.”

Mrs. Klahr laughed and put her arm around Gretel, leading her back to the house where, once inside, Gretel went right for the kitchen and began cleaning the floors and range top. She worked fast, knowing that the dishes that awaited her after the men finished would take up most of her time until dinner, which she would need to help Mrs. Klahr prepare.

“Pace yourself child! My goodness! You’ll be an old woman before you become a young woman!”

Gretel smiled conspiratorially and continued scrubbing. “With all the food I eat now, I’ll get fat if I don’t move this fast.”

“Well I can’t afford you getting sick, so don’t overdo it.”

And this was a truth Gretel had come to accept.

For the Klahrs, Gretel had evolved from a charity case to a necessity in only a few short weeks. She didn’t know how they ever got through a harvest without her, though Gretel assumed they must have hired some kind of temporary helper, perhaps the wife or daughter of one of the pickers. The fact was: this day was a typical day for Gretel, and Mrs. Klahr’s cautions to take it easy were simply courtesies. The work Gretel had been given was hard and heavy, and the pace at which she moved was what was required for it to get done. And Gretel was naturally suited for it.

At first, of course, the hours and work seemed impossible, particularly during those first two or three days; but Gretel’s body adjusted quickly, not just in terms of her stamina, but also in her physique. The carrying of pots and baskets, as well as her newly-discovered love for rowing (the Klahr’s had gifted Gretel a set of old oars), had quickly transformed her biceps and shoulders and thighs into those of an athlete. Gretel was accustomed to hard work on her land and household, but those duties had mostly been limited to feeding livestock, cleaning stalls, and mopping floors. The work she was doing now had made her lean and wiry, and she even seemed to have grown an inch or two.

She was becoming the woman her mother had always envisioned.

“Hi Gretel.”

Gretel paused at the sink, trying to place the voice before turning around. It was young, male, and definitely one she had heard before. Not one of the workers—they rarely spoke to Gretel except to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’ Certainly never to engage in idle kitchen talk

Gretel flipped the dishtowel across her shoulder and spun toward the voice. A smile reflexively spread across her face at the sight of the boy in front of her. It was Officer Stenson’s son.

For the moment, Gretel couldn’t recall his name, which was odd considering she had replayed her encounter with the boy virtually every night for almost a month following their whirlwind meeting.

But so much had changed since then. She’d quickly began to rebuild her life—thanks almost entirely to the Klahrs—and had spent as little time as possible on the ‘what ifs?’ of the past few months. What if The System had found her mother? or What if Petr was her boyfriend? There was no room for fantasy in Gretel’s life right now. Her actual life was working, and she wasn’t going to waste it wishing she were somewhere or someone else.

Even with her mother, whom she still thought about several times a day, Gretel refused to descend the path of ‘if only Deda hadn’t gotten sick and mother hadn’t gone to take care of him and…’ She had learned at fourteen what most people never did: regrets were a waste of time.

But now, months later, here was the mysterious son of The System officer. Petr Stenson. That angelic face from the window was now appearing to Gretel in the center of the Klahrs’ kitchen, as if in a dream, looking as beautiful as she’d remembered him.

Gretel forced down her smile and shook her head quickly, blinking in confusion. “Hi,” was all she could manage.

“It’s Petr,” he said, recognizing that perhaps his name had escaped her.

“Right, Petr. Are you…here with your father? Is there news about my mother or something?” There was only the hint of hope in Gretel’s voice, mostly the tone was bewilderment.

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…I’m actually working here during the final weeks of the harvest. The academy agreed to accept me for the fall, with the condition I enroll immediately. They wanted to see if I’m suitable, I suppose. Anyway, the spring session has ended and the summer session doesn’t start for a few weeks, and my father wanted me to work during my time off instead of staying home. I guess he thinks it will keep me out of trouble.”

“So your father knows the Klahrs?” Gretel asked.

“I don’t think so. But my roommate this spring at Hengst worked for them last season, and he told me they always need workers to finish up the season.”

None of this sounded plausible to Gretel, but she continued with the conversation. “This isn’t too far out for you?” she asked.

Petr laughed, “Of course it’s too far, but what am I to do? I don’t make the decisions.” He bounced his gaze around the kitchen before his eyes landed back on Gretel. “Besides, I kind of like it out here.”

Gretel blushed and looked away, swallowing hard, the sting of the boys piercing blue eyes lingering on hers. She composed herself and met the boy’s look again, quickly running through the circumstances of this meeting, none of which added up, of course. That she had met Petr at all that first day was unlikely—he’d happened to be with his dad, and his dad had happened to leave his notebook behind in her living room?

And now she was expected to believe that this same kid had been referred to the Klahr orchard by a schoolmate at some snooty academy? Most of the workers in the orchard had never made it past grade school, let alone been to private secondary schools.