More Than Words (5 page)

“You’re quite a fighter, Miss Kohler,” he said with a grudging smile. “It wasn’t a contest.”

He was absolutely correct. Attempting to read my journal wasn’t a game: It was more a matter of life and death to me. Along with poetry and meandering prose, my journals were filled with my deepest thoughts. And though I aspired to one day see some of my writings in print, my personal thoughts weren’t meant to be read by anyone.

“I do a bit of writing myself and was hoping you might share something with me.”

My stomach roiled, and the acidic taste of the sauerkraut I’d eaten at the noonday meal burned in the back of my throat. “I don’t share my writing, Mr. Finley. It is very personal.”

“I understand. My actions were rude, and I apologize. But as someone who enjoys writing, I’m always drawn to those who share my passion.”

“You write?” I couldn’t hide my interest. None of the men I’d ever known enjoyed either reading or writing. Throughout my years in school, it had proved a chore for most of the boys to complete their writing assignments. Nowadays, my brother, Stefan, would rather sweep the floor of the shop three times over than write an essay for English class.

“You appear astonished. Most poets and authors are men, so why does it surprise you when I reveal I find pleasure in writing?”

“Sister Mina says some of those writers are really women who use men’s names so they can be published.”

He chuckled. “And who is this Sister Mina?”

“She is a dear friend. And whether you agree or not, I believe what she says.” I hadn’t meant to sound quite so strident, but his laughter left me somewhat annoyed.

“Once again, my apologies. Though it isn’t my intention, I seem to continually offend you, Miss Kohler. Your friend Sister Mina is correct. There are some ladies who write under a pseudonym in order to have their work accepted. I don’t think that’s fair, but until the world changes a bit, I fear it will be true for some. There are, however, a few publishers willing to set aside the prejudice against women.” He bent forward and leaned on the counter until we were eye-to-eye. “If you should happen to glance through those periodicals I left with you, you’ll discover there are some stories and poems written by women. I’ve read some of them, and they are excellent. Unless you have already destroyed them.”

His tone carried a hint of amusement as a smile played at the corners of his mouth. There was no doubt Mr. Finley knew I would devour every word of those magazines. And they would remain in my possession for years to come. “I will be certain to look for those pieces.”

“I happen to have a poem that I wrote not long ago. I’d be pleased to have you read it and give me your opinion.” He opened the lid of his case and ruffled through the contents. “Ah, here it is.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his case and slid it toward me. “You may read it once I’m gone. I don’t know if I could suffer the embarrassment of watching while you read. I am, after all, an amateur.”

I glanced down at the precise handwriting. Much bolder than my own but neat nonetheless. No doubt Mr. Finley had applied himself to his studies. No doubt he’d received an excellent education. And no doubt his writing would put my own to shame. “I’d be honored to read your poetry, Mr. Finley. I shall protect it until you return to Homestead.”

He leaned even closer and whispered, “Perhaps once you’ve learned to trust me, you’ll permit me to read something you have written?”

At the sound of footsteps I jerked back. Conrad stood in the doorway staring at us. His dark blue eyes flashed an undeniable warning at the salesman. “If you truly want to learn more about our society, Mr. Finley, you’ll need to seek information beyond the limits of the general store.”

CHAPTER 4

Conrad accompanied us home after prayer service, and when my father mentioned Mr. Finley’s name, Conrad didn’t hesitate to voice his opinion. “I don’t like that man.”

“For any reason other than the fact that he took an interest in my daughter?” My father tamped down the tobacco he’d placed in the bowl of his pipe while Oma took up her knitting and Stefan settled on the floor beside my father’s chair.

I dropped to the divan. “Mr. Finley didn’t take an interest in me. He expressed his interest in the society and asked me questions about our way of life. His interest seemed genuine.”

Conrad shook his head. “I don’t trust him. He said he wanted to learn about the society, but he didn’t bother to talk to any of the men. Instead, he stood around the store talking to Gretchen.”

“That’s not true. He talked to Vater.” I thought about the poem Mr. Finley had given me to read. The gentle words within the poem had resonated as genuine and kind. A man who could write with such beauty couldn’t be untrustworthy.

Oma’s knitting needles clacked at a steady rhythm. “Conrad is right. A man who reads ladies’ magazines we cannot trust.”

I jerked so quickly the cords in my neck cramped, and a sharp pain raced downward into my shoulder. “The magazines are for his business.”

“Ja. He must see what the competition has to sell.” My father struck a match and held it to the bowl of his pipe.

Still rubbing my neck, I said, “You see? Vater agrees with me. A gut businessman must always keep informed about his competition.”

Conrad leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. “Thank you for the good advice, Gretchen. I will do my best to keep informed about my competition.”

His eyes glimmered in the fading light, but I couldn’t be certain if they shone with anger or humor. Conrad hadn’t been acting like himself ever since he’d first met Mr. Finley. I’d never before seen him act in such an unkind manner. His compassion for others had been one of the many things that made him such a dear friend.

My father grabbed a tight hold on Stefan’s shoulder. “Your sister tells me your math is not so gut. I think this would be a gut time for you to go through your book so you can make some improvement, ja?”

Stefan’s dagger-filled look annoyed me. He was to blame for his bad grades and the constant visits from the schoolteacher, yet he didn’t want to spend any time studying.

“I wish I could go to school in Iowa City,” he said.

“And why is that?” Conrad asked.

“Because they go to school only in the fall and winter. They get to stay home during the summertime and enjoy themselves.”

“From what your teacher tells me, you already enjoy yourself far too much.” My brother’s attitude irritated me. I longed to return to the days when I sat in a classroom and had no other concerns. “If you would use your time to advantage, you could learn a great deal, Stefan. Brother Ulbricht says you show gut skills with the machinery. He says your math could help you work with machines in the future.”

Stefan curled his lip. “I don’t need math to fix broken equipment. He thinks if he tells you that, you’ll make me do my homework.”

“That is enough, young man,” Vater said. “We will go to the bedroom and work on your numbers.” Turning to me, he said, “I will leave Oma here to chaperone the two of you while I oversee Stefan’s schoolwork.”

My father’s interest in my brother’s math came as a complete surprise. Since my mother’s death, he’d shown little interest in the boy’s schoolwork. Perhaps Brother Otto had spoken to the elders. The harried man had made visit upon visit to the general store. Yet each time the schoolteacher appeared at our door, my father sent the complaining man to talk to me—as though I were Stefan’s parent.

I didn’t complain to my father—only Sister Mina heard my complaints. And occasionally Conrad. But he usually sided with Stefan. “Boyish behavior.” That was Conrad’s answer to everything concerning my brother. Well, I disagreed. Stefan would soon be a young man, and it was time for him to grow up, whether he liked it or not. When our mother died, I’d had no choice but to grow up. He’d had far more time to adjust. And that’s exactly what I’d written in my journal the other day.

Setting pen to paper and letting my feelings spill out in my journal helped with most everything. I only wished writing about my problems would make them disappear. How wonderful that would be. And how wonderful if it would make my anger disappear. Though the writing helped, sometimes the anger still rose to the surface. Much like my father’s tobacco, it had to be tamped down, forced into the tiny spot deep inside that I reserved for it. I suppose that’s the one thing Stefan and I shared: the forced change our mother’s death had inflicted upon us. And if I was honest with myself, it had forced terrible change upon Father and Oma, as well. Father had physically and emotionally retreated from Stefan and me, while more and more often Oma retreated into her make-believe world.

“I think your grandmother has fallen asleep.” I glanced up to see Conrad smiling at Oma. The yarn remained wrapped around her fingers, but the sweater she’d been knitting had settled in her lap. “It was never my intention to make you angry with my comments about the salesman, Gretchen. But I did not like the way he was acting when he was around you.” He tapped his fingers on his cheek. “Touching your face with a towel and leaning across the store counter talking to you in such a familiar manner. Such behavior isn’t gut.”

“You judge him harshly. He doesn’t understand our ways. Until he learns, you can’t expect him to react to situations the same way you would.” I motioned for him to move to the chair beside me so our conversation wouldn’t awaken Oma.

“And you are too trusting. I am a man, and I could see his intentions were not honorable. His interest was in you, not our society.”

When I tried to offer an objection, he held up his hand.

“Tell me, how many questions did he ask you about our community?”

I hesitated, trying to remember my conversations with Mr. Finley. I wanted to defend him, but the memory of his hand on my journal kept flitting to the forefront of my mind. “He asked about reading periodicals, and Oma told him we read the Bible. He said he thought that was a gut thing. And … and … he didn’t have any objection to attending prayer service each night.”

“That doesn’t seem like much for the amount of time he spent with you.” Conrad reached for my hand and covered it with his own. “We have been friends since we were children, Gretchen. You know how much I care for you—my feelings run much deeper than friendship. I don’t think this Mr. Finley will ever want to live by our rules. And I don’t want him to hurt you—or me.”

“And you know how much I care for you, as well. Mr. Finley will not hurt either of us. His interest is in living here—not in me.”

Conrad leaned over and brushed a fleeting kiss on my cheek.

“The last I knew, kissing was against the rules,” I whispered.

Conrad grinned. “But my intentions are honorable.”

With a loud cough and a snort, Oma’s eyelids opened, and her gaze settled on the clock. “Time it is for bed. Go home, Conrad.”

He laughed and shook his head. “I think it is still a little early, but I will not argue with you, Sister Helga.”

Oma dropped her knitting into the basket beside her. “Gut, because you would not win. See Conrad to the door and then go to bed, Gretchen.”

One minute she was the adult in charge of everyone and the next she was a toddler getting into trouble. It was difficult to know which Oma would appear. While she waited in her rocker, I bid Conrad good-night and then returned to kiss Oma on the cheek. “Rest well, Oma. I love you.”

Once in my room, I lit the lamp and prepared for bed. Before slipping beneath the covers, I knelt beside my bed and prayed. The minute I said amen, I slid my hand beneath the mattress and withdrew the magazines. I didn’t pause to look at the latest fashions or advertisements for beauty creams or face powder. Instead, I turned to one of the stories Mr. Finley had mentioned. Sure enough, the author was listed as a Miss Emily Wilson. I settled against my pillows and began to read. The time slipped by much too quickly, and it was very late when I finally closed the magazine and turned down the wick of my kerosene lamp.

I fell asleep with thoughts of Mr. Finley and his beautiful poem drifting through my mind.

“Mina! How gut to see you.” I stepped forward to accept her embrace. “I’m surprised to see you so early in the day. How did you manage to prepare next week’s menu before you’ve even served the noonday meal?”