More Than Words (29 page)
Mina slapped one hand to her forehead. “Ach! I hope she hasn’t been back there again.”
“Nein. At least if she has been there, I didn’t find out.” I forced a weak grin. “It is hard to keep a constant watch over her.”
“And that is why we are here today.” She hesitated. “At least part of the reason. I will be praying that your meeting goes as well as mine. Let us hope that Mr. Harper’s demands don’t displease the Grossebruderrat too much. It would be better if they were still in good humor when you spoke to them.”
No doubt Mina hadn’t meant for her comment to create more concern, but it did. Unlike Mina, I hadn’t considered the possibility that their meeting with Mr. Harper could influence their disposition when they met with me.
Mina pointed toward the meetinghouse. “Look! Already Mr. Harper is leaving. That talk didn’t take long.”
My stomach lurched when I spotted the gangly horseman stride past my father and Conrad without even a tip of the hat. His earlier friendliness had disappeared. I feared Mina’s prediction had come true. After a quick embrace I bid Mina farewell, hiked my skirt, and hurried to my father’s side. I didn’t want to keep the elders waiting, especially if they were in a bad mood. Conrad waved as I approached.
I greeted him before searching my father’s face. “Are they ready for us?”
“I think so. You should go to the women’s door. I will signal you when they call for us.”
Conrad stepped close and bent his head. “I will be praying for you.”
“Thank you, Conrad.” At that moment I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and cling to him, but I pushed the foolish thought from my head. Instead, I ran the short distance to the women’s door. After a final wave Conrad strode toward the wooden sidewalk and my father pointed for me to enter the women’s door. My heart thumped in my chest, and though I’d eaten hardly anything at mealtime, my stomach clenched until bile rose in my throat. I swallowed hard as I walked to the front of the room with my father by my side.
Before either of us could speak, Brother Stresemann pinned me with a hard stare. “So you have come to talk to us about the article in the magazine, Sister Gretchen.” I glanced at my father. He shrugged one shoulder and gave a slight shake of his head. Apparently he hadn’t given the elders prior notice. Seeming to note my surprise, Brother Stresemann waved toward the other men. “We know about the story. I have read it.”
“You have?” The words sounded as if they’d been croaked by a frog. I cleared my throat. “How did you happen to see the magazine, Brother Stresemann?” The old man’s bushy white eyebrows rose high on his forehead. He obviously considered my question quite bold.
“The wife of a local farmer brought a copy to High. She thought I might be interested in what was being published about the colonies.” His eyebrows dropped into a tight line that matched the creases of his forehead. “I open this magazine, and what do I see?” He glanced down the line of brothers who were staring at me. “I see it is written by one of us—by Sister Gretchen Kohler, the daughter of our Homestead storekeeper.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the beads of perspiration from his creased brow. “Imagine my surprise.”
“I am certain you were all astonished. Please believe that I was horrified, as well.”
Brother Stresemann jerked to attention. “Are you saying you did not write those stories, Sister Gretchen?”
“Nein. I wrote them, but I did not ask for them to be in that magazine. And I did not give my permission, either.” I inhaled a deep breath, and while the men sat straight-faced, I explained.
“I received a copy of the magazine from Mr. Finley. That is the first I knew of what he’d done.”
Brother Stresemann held up one hand. “You will wait outside while we discuss this matter in private.”
“But—”
They shook their heads in unison, and I knew further explanation would not be heard—at least not now.
I paced back and forth until my father pointed to the ground. “Sit down before you wear out your shoes.” His lips tipped into a lopsided grin.
“If only they would have let me finish all I had to say. I was going to show them Mr. Finley’s letter.”
My father dropped down beside me. “I think they heard all they wanted to for right now. Maybe after they talk awhile, they will give you a chance to say more. It has been a long day for them with the traveling and all these meetings.”
I understood that, but it had been a long day for me, as well. And I’d had to cope with fear and anxiety during that time. I shoved my hand into my skirt pocket to make certain the envelope remained inside and leaned back against the tree. There was nothing more to say to my father. Now we must wait.
A short time later Brother Stresemann exited the door. He motioned for us to stay by the tree. After lighting his pipe, he ambled toward us and came to halt a short distance from my father’s feet. He took a deep draw on his pipe, and soon the scent of cherry tobacco mingled with the breeze. Moments later the rest of the elders exited the meetinghouse. My heart hammered in my chest. Surely they weren’t going to leave without calling me back to speak with them again. I wanted to nudge my father, but Brother Stresemann would likely notice and disapprove. Hoping to prod Father to action, I cleared my throat.
“We need some time to refresh ourselves.” Brother Stresemann lowered his eyes and turned toward me. “When you see us returning inside, you may enter the women’s door and rejoin us.” He glanced at my father. “You are welcome to come inside, as well, Brother George.”
Their time of refreshment took longer than I’d expected because Sister Marguerite and Mina appeared with jars of iced lemonade and thick slices of buttery pound cake. While Sister Marguerite served the elders, Mina hurried over to speak with Father and me.
“You have not gone in yet?” She handed my father a jar of the lemonade and a tin cup.
“Ja, but they dismissed me before I finished all of what I had to tell them.” My father handed me the cup of lemonade and took another empty cup from Mina. “We will go back inside after they have rested a short time.” I shook my head when Mina offered a piece of cake, but my father didn’t refuse.
“They showed no reaction to anything you said?”
My father pointed to the basket. “I’ll take Gretchen’s piece of cake if she doesn’t want it, Sister Mina.” After she handed him the basket, he wasted no time removing the cake.
“They already knew.” I leaned a little closer. “A farmer’s wife had given a copy of the magazine to Brother Stresemann.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I warned you that Mr. Finley was trouble. You should have listened.” When I nodded in agreement, her features softened, and she grasped my hand. “I’m sorry, Gretchen. You don’t need me waving an I-told-you-so flag in front of you.”
“But you’re right. I should have listened. I wish I knew how many times I’ve told myself that, but it changes nothing. Now I can only hope that the Grossebruderrat will listen.” One of the elders motioned for Mina to bring more lemonade, and she scuttled away.
I watched the men down their refreshments and chat among themselves. Silently I promised God that no matter what happened when I went before the elders, my gift of writing would be used only to compose poems or prayers of praise to Him and record thoughts about my life in Amana. Never again would I permit an outsider to look at my journal, and never again would I send my writing to anyone without permission from the elders. I made sure I told God I wasn’t trying to bargain with Him, for even if the elders severely punished me, I would keep my pledge.
The elders stood and wiped the crumbs from their pant legs. Brother Stresemann glanced in our direction—my cue that I should join them. “I must go back inside, Mina,” I said when she returned to my side. “Please continue to pray.”
She offered a fleeting embrace. “You know that I will. I am glad your Vater is there to stand alongside you.”
Chair legs scraped across the oak floor as the elders took their seats. Father and I stood in front of them and waited while Brother Stresemann shuffled through papers and withdrew a copy of the periodical along with the plan for the Älterschule. “Before we discuss the magazine, I want to tell you that we were impressed with the plan you wrote for the Älterschule. Sister Mina explained that you provided a great deal of help and that you organized and wrote the material she submitted to us. I trust you didn’t send a copy of this to Mr. Finley?”
“Nein. He has nothing else that I have written.” I could only imagine the fodder a story about the Älterschule would have provided for a cartoon in the magazine.
Brother Stresemann pushed aside the plans for the Älterschule and withdrew his copy of the periodical. “We have gone over every line of this story.” He glanced up at me. “It is very long, Sister Gretchen.”
“It was written as a number of stories, but Mr. Finley combined them without—”
He signaled for silence. “I will tell you when I want a response, Sister Gretchen. As I was saying, we have gone through each line of the story. Everything you have written is true, and there is nothing we can find that reflects poorly upon the colonies.”
“Except those pictures,” one of the elders said. “Those drawings …”
Brother Stresemann glanced down the table and silenced the brother. “We find the cartoons offensive in every way. They are intended to make us appear like oafish drunkards and fools.” He lowered his head and looked at the men sitting to his right and to his left. “We do not care what others think. It is not as though we have ever attempted to convert outsiders to our beliefs. We want only to please God, and we hope you feel the same way, Sister Gretchen.” He lifted a sheet of paper. “We do have some questions.”
They’d obviously written out a list. My temples pulsed with sharp stabs of pain as I waited to hear the first question and prayed I’d have an adequate answer.
“Did your father give you permission to write these stories?”
“I did—”
My father touched my arm gently and interrupted me. “I will answer, Gretchen. My daughter has my permission to read books and to write stories as long as it does not interfere with her Bible reading and prayers. Mr. Finley did not gain permission from anyone to print those stories. Not from me and not from Gretchen. He is not the man he pretended to be. He told me he was a salesman. He sold me many varieties of lace and trims for the general store.” My father motioned to me. “Show him the letter, Gretchen.”
I handed the letter to Brother Stresemann, who said he would read it aloud in the interest of saving time. Once he’d finished, the men murmured their distaste for what Mr. Finley had done.
“But the truth is that none of this would have happened if Sister Gretchen hadn’t given him those stories,” one of the elders remarked.
Brother Stresemann rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “It has been a long day with many problems and few solutions.”
Gathering courage, I stepped forward. “If I may speak, I believe I can solve one problem, Brother Stresemann.”
The elder traced his fingers through his gray thatch of hair. “And how can you do that, Sister Gretchen? Are you going to tell us what punishment we should mete out to you?”
I shook my head. “I am going to give you more than enough money to pay for the increased fees Mr. Harper wants to charge you.”
Brother Stresemann’s hands dropped to the table with a thud, and weariness settled in his eyes. Two of the other elders coughed. I thought they were trying to hide their laughter, but I couldn’t be certain. I withdrew the bank draft from my pocket, stepped forward, and placed it on the table near Brother Stresemann’s folded hands.
He stared at the draft before lifting it for a closer look. “They paid you
this
for those stories?”
“Ja. Mr. Finley’s letter said this was the payment for what they printed in their magazine. At first I was going to return it, but then I heard talk that Mr. Harper planned to raise his fees and decided to wait until my meeting with you.”
Brother Stresemann pushed the draft down one side of the table and then the other. For a brief time the men appeared bewildered. “Does not seem possible they would pay such a large amount of money for stories,” the elder at the far end of the table said.
His comment was met by several bobbing heads and a chorus of “ja’s.” Their features molded into a strange mixture of disbelief and delight.
“Mr. Finley’s letter proves it is true. If you would like me to return the draft to him, I have no objection.”
The man at the end of the table shook his head until I thought his hair would fall from his head. “Nein. We have been praying to God for an answer to Mr. Harper’s demand for more money, and God has provided.”
Another elder held up his hand. “I am not so sure. This money is tainted.”
My father straightened his shoulders. “How is it tainted? My daughter did nothing immoral. She wrote gut stories about our people and how we live.”
“Brother Kohler is right. Sister Gretchen did not write the stories seeking money or fame, and the stories speak well of our people.” Brother Stresemann looked at me. “Her error was in trusting an outsider rather than seeking guidance from the elders.”