Helen

By Beverly Westman

As Helen Marshall grows up the eldest in her family, she is mentored by her mother who talks to her often about becoming a woman while preparing her for the life that lies ahead of her. But when Helen is promised at a young age to marry a local man, Gustav Krueger, she is overwhelmed by an agonizing fear of the unknown.

After Helen marries Gustav despite her lack of feelings for him, she embarks on a journey into the future where she meets many people who influence her life in diverse ways. As she comes to know illness, devastation, hardships, and separation from her family, Helen ultimately loses her courage and will to go on. But it is not until she finds unexpected love and then sadly loses that love that Helen becomes determined to persevere. No matter what life gives her, Helen must find a way to move into a new future through the strength found in a love that, although it can never be, will always be.

In this historical novel, a determined girl betrothed to a local man at a young age begins a journey into the unknown where she must face many challenges she never expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480883246

Beverly Westman

Beverly Westman grew up in a small town in North Dakota where she relied on her active imagination to create stories from a young age. Throughout the years, she has also used the visual medium of oil painting to tell stories. Now retired, the mother of four adult children and grandmother of seven spends her time volunteering and writing. Helen in America is the second book in a series.

Book preview

Prologue

T he tiny figure of a woman stood alone at the railing. As she was no more than five feet tall, the top rail hid her face. As the ship moved slowly through the gentle waves, splashes of seawater surrounded her small feet, which were clad in black high-button shoes. Some of the salty water made its way through the buttonholes. The bottom of her long black skirt waved in the wind, while her pristine white petticoat became soaked by the splashing waves. She shivered as she pulled her fur-lined coat closer around her. The mantle shrouded her head, hiding the tears flowing from her huge brown eyes. As she clutched the rail, her mind filled with thoughts of home.

1

The Birth of a Woman

T hree young girls sat quietly on the hooked rug before the flickering fire in the huge rock fireplace. The glow illuminated their sweet faces as they listened to their father read from the Bible. His ample body filled the high-backed chair he sat in. His round hands held the worn Bible the same way he had held the book hundreds of times. The cover bore marks where his hands had rested all those times. Gold-rimmed glasses sat on the tip of his nose as he read in rhythmic tones.

Seated beside him, a dark-haired woman smiled slightly as she gently rocked back and forth in the small armless rocking chair. She looked down on the baby boy in her arms. Pride filled her as she looked at him. Her first son, bearing his father’s name, Henrick Marshall II, would carry on the family name. They had doubted there would ever be a son after the family had been blessed with three daughters. The oldest of the girls, who was small in stature and had dark hair, moved closer to her mother and carefully gripped the baby’s hand in hers. Helen, being the oldest, had been given the responsibility of helping her mother care for Henrick. Even though she was but fourteen years of age, she felt an overwhelming motherly love for the child. As her father’s voice rose over the sound of the crackling fire, the baby cooed sweetly. She was lost in her thoughts of the day when she would become a mother herself.

Her sisters sat together, holding each other’s hands while gazing fondly at their father as he finished the reading. Let us pray, their father said. He then asked God to watch over them and keep them safe through the night.

Afterward, he rose from the massive chair with his arms extended to the girls. Come now, Inga. Come, Anaka. You will now go to bed. Turning and walking through the tall arch leading to the staircase, he said, Helen, help your mother with the baby now. He went up the stairs while holding a hand of each girl.

Helen took the baby from her mother’s lap and held him close as her mother unfastened the buttons of her high-necked dress. When her breast, heavy with milk, was exposed, she said to Helen, as she did at each feeding, You see, child? You must remember for when your day will come. When drops came forth, she reached for Henrick. You must help the baby to find the milk, she said, guiding his mouth to the flowing nipple.

Helen watched as the boy suckled heartily at their mother’s breast. She wiped bits of the warm milk from his chin.

Her mother handed the baby to her again as she prepared the second breast for feeding. Seated on a softly cushioned high stool beside her mother, Helen held the boy at her shoulder and tapped his tiny back until a sound emerged from him. She gave the baby back to her mother, and he continued his feast.

When the feeding was finished, Helen’s mother again handed her the baby to tap his back while her mother buttoned herself.

Mother, is the task finished? Helen’s father asked as he entered the room.

Na, her mother answered. He has yet to release.

Helen continued the tapping. She cuddled the baby, secretly hoping he would not sound for a long time, but all too soon, he burped, and her job was done.

Father took Henrick from her arms and held him tightly to his warm, soft chest.

Mother rose from the rocking chair. We go up now, child.

The three of them went up the stairway together.

First, they opened the heavy wood door of her mother’s bedroom. The light from the oil lamps sent a soft glow across the big room, showing the massive bed with posts rising from all four corners. Under a yellow-flowered coverlet, a soft feather mattress waited to snuggle her mother. Father placed the baby in the small cradle at the foot of the four-poster bed. He covered him tightly and then nodded to Helen and her mother as he left the room while saying, I will wait beyond for you, girl.

Helen knelt before her mother, using a hook to unbutton the rows of gleaming black buttons on her shoes. She collected a long white nightdress from the hook on the wall and buried her nose in the garment as she walked to her mother. She lost herself in the aroma of sweetness unique to her mother. After Mother removed her dress and undergarments, Helen put the nightdress over her mother’s head. As she did so, she gazed upon her mother’s unclothed body. Her breasts hung slightly with the heaviness of a mother’s milk toward a waistline still bearing the fullness of having had a child grow inside her. Helen secretly wondered why her own breasts, which had been but a small raise on her chest a year ago, had come to look more like her mother’s. Remembering how she had helped her father bring her brother into the world, she wondered, Is the hole my brother made in Mother when he was born still there?

It had been but four weeks since the birth. It had been a frightening time of the unknown for her. The birth also had occurred during the first of many storms to come to the county.

68319.png

The wind blew strong, and the dust rose high into the dark skies. Because of the storm, there would be no midwife to tend to Mother. There was a scurry in the house that early morning. A maid brought kettles of boiling water to the bedroom, prepared the bed with burlap sheets, and tied strips of braided cloth to the posts of the bed. She laid small clean blankets on a chair beside the fireplace and placed the small baby bed in front of the fire. Piles of cloth boiled in a pot over the fire.

With the room readied, Father carried Mother to the bed. The maid stayed with Mother while Helen and Father sat on straight-backed wooden chairs beyond the door. The time was long. The night passed, and sounds of anguish came through the wood door as sunlight started to stream through the large window at the end of the hall.

The door opened. The time is now, the maid said.

Father reached for Helen’s hand. You will be needed now, child, he said as they rose to enter the room.

Helen’s wide eyes took in the sight of her mother’s massive exposed belly, face soaked in sweat, and mouth tightly clenched. Fear rose within Helen. What was happening to her mother? Why was her belly so big? Why did she cry out? Helen began to sob.

Father came to her. Come, girl, he said. It is her time.

He guided her to the foot of the bed. She stared at a part of her mother she did not know. Mother’s legs were tied securely to the posts with the knotted rags, and her inner self was exposed. It looked to Helen like a large, gaping dark hole that poured bright red blood. Again, she cried, sure that her mother must be dying.

An ear-piercing scream interrupted her thoughts. Mother pulled at the knotted ropes, her body thrashing about as she continued to scream. Then, all of a sudden, there was silence and stillness.

Helen cried loudly, Has Mother died?

You must still yourself, child, her father said sternly.

Then, as quickly as the silence had come, the screaming and thrashing began again. Relieved to know her mother had not died, Helen watched the scene before her. The dark hole in Mother seemed to grow larger and larger. Was the hole going to swallow all of her mother?

Then silence fell again. Then screaming that matched the screaming of the wind outside went on for what seemed to Helen many hours. The maid wiped Mother’s face with cool water, and Father kept the fire under the boiling water pot roaring. Father then guided Helen to Mother’s side and placed her hand upon Mother’s bulging belly. It was hard. Her mother was usually soft. Why was she so hard now? The belly began to move under her hand, pushing against her palm with even more hardness. As the hardness increased, Mother screamed and moved about on the bed. Mother’s small, soft hands tightly clenched the braided loops. She pulled with might against them.

It will be soon, Father said.

What will be soon? Helen wondered, but she knew she was not allowed to ask. Soon Mother will die?

Father guided her to the foot of the bed. It is time now, he said.

Her mother’s face was wet and red. Her sounds became unbearable—they were sounds Helen had never heard. Father turned Helen’s head toward her mother. The hole was redder with blood; a dark roundness was coming from the hole as it grew and grew. What was it? Surely demons possessed her mother!

Father put a hand on each side of the dark roundness coming from Mother. He turned his hands round and round the shape as it grew bigger in his hands.

Helen heard a scream that surely opened the heavens, she thought. Father was holding something small and red in his hands. He pulled it up and held it by the bottom in the air; it was attached to Mother by a rope. Mother lay silently as blood came from where the thing had come out.

Get it away! Get it away from Mother! Helen said.

Silence, girl! Silence! Father shouted.

Father dipped a pair of large scissors into the hot water and cut the rope, and then he took a poker from the fire to touch the ends of the rope. Mother was free from it.

What is happening? Something awful must be happening, for Father never raised his voice to me before. Na, na, na, this is a terrible happening.

Father, who had never raised a hand to her or her sisters, then whacked the thing—again and again. His face was wrinkled and hard; his eyes held fear. Helen wept. Then the thing emitted a tiny sound. Father must be trying to stop the sound, she thought as he put his fingers in the thing and then bent and covered the top with his mouth. She could hear her father breathing into it. It moved with a jerk. Father moved his mouth, and the thing made a sound much like the sound of her little sister when she cried.

It is good, Father said. It is good. He wept.

The maid gathered the thing, took it to the water, and started to wash it. Father put hot rags from the water on Mother where she bled. He took Helen’s hands and said, Hold these here. Push with your entire might, girl.

Helen pushed and pushed as the rags became soaked with blood.

Father took them away and then brought more. Again, girl. Push hard.

Mother lay still, moaning softly.

Time passed. The sun rose high into the sky, sending light into the room through the lace curtains on the windows. Helen could see the frightening sight of her pale mother more clearly now, and she saw her father’s blood-soaked red hands and grim face. She looked down at her own small hands, which were also red, as she continued to push against mother. She heard tiny sounds from in front of the fireplace, along with the maid’s skirt rustling with her quick movements.

Away now, child, Father said as he took her hands from Mother. Helen stood silently by the bed. Father and the maid wrapped wide strips of cloth about Mother’s belly, which now was flatter and looked soft again. Around and around went the strips until Mother was tightly wrapped. They removed the blood-soaked burlap from underneath mother. Father gently raised Mother as the maid put a sleeping robe on her. They pulled the warm quilts on the bed over Mother, and the awful sight of the hole and blood was gone. Mother seemed to be sleeping.

Helen thought, She is not dead. She did not die. She was glad Father had saved her from the thing.

Again, there was silence in the room but for the maid moving about. Father sat quietly, staring into the fire. Helen stood in the same place by the bed as if nailed to the wood floor. The maid brought Helen a pan of warm water and washed her hands. She raised her apron to dry Helen’s hands and then placed her hand on Helen’s shoulder.

Daylight streamed into the room; the silence went on and on. Father went from the fireplace to Mother to wipe her brow with cool water again and again. No one spoke. Helen was blank, her mind frozen. Never had she known time to linger with such length; never had she heard such silence. Then, as if the rooster crowed to welcome the morning, her mother spoke.

Henrick, the child. The child!

I come, Father answered from his place by the fire. He lifted a tiny bundle from the small wood bed and crossed the room to Mother. Lucinda, your son. He laid the bundle in Mother’s arms.

Tears streamed down Mother’s cheeks, and Father bent to kiss Mother’s head, mixing the tears from his eyes with hers. For some time, they stayed touching their cheeks together. Father straightened, looked at Helen, and motioned with his hand for her to come to his side. Helen walked slowly to his side.

Mother, he said, your daughter has now grown in the greatest lesson in life. She was of great help in the birth of our son. He pulled the wrap slightly from the bundle. Helen, look upon your brother.

My brother! That thing that caused Mother to cry in pain, came from her insides in blood, and refused to let go of her until Father burned it loose? Na, na, na, it can’t be! I will not look! It is not a brother; it is a demon. She backed away in fear.

Softly, Mother spoke. Come, my grown daughter. It is not to fear. Come to my bed.

I cannot. Na, na, I cannot. Minutes passed as Helen stood in the dark corner of the room. The bundle made a sound again, sounding like her little sister crying. Can it be? Is it a brother? It is not a demon?

Father looked kindly on Helen. You helped Mother birth this child; you are part of the child. You will be a helpmate for your mother. You will tend to the child; you will learn. You will learn for when your day will come.

What does Father mean? My day? For what? Her whole world as she had known it was gone. What was all this unknown she was to face?

Finally, she walked to the bed, moving as slowly and carefully as if she were walking the rock fence around Father’s land. Mother patted the bed beside her. Sit, my daughter, she said.

Helen stood on the small stool at the side of the bed and boosted herself onto the high bed beside her mother. Father took the bundle from Mother, telling Helen to hold out her arms. Ever so gently, he placed the warm bundle in her arms. Looking down, she saw a tiny pink face with a mouth, a nose, and closed eyes. Aye, praise be. She took the wrap away to reveal a breast, two little arms, and tiny wrapped fingers. Exposing more of the baby, she found there were two little legs and feet with toes that looked like buttons. Helen stared at the baby in wonder. How could this be? How did this come? Where did the demon go? Did the maid change it into a baby in front of the fireplace? She said nothing, not daring to ask those questions of her parents.

Father put the wrap about the baby again, took him from her, and handed him back to Mother. The baby began to cry. My, my, he is a healthy boy, Mother said, smiling at Father.

He is hungry for you, Father said.

Still sitting on the bed, Helen watched as Mother opened her robe and took out her breast. She placed the tip in the baby’s mouth. She worked her hand on her breast much as the farmhands had shown Helen to do with the milk cows. But Mother is not a cow! What is she doing, putting that in the baby’s mouth?

Helen, Mother said, this is the way to feed a baby. Just like you have seen the calves feed from the mother cow, I have milk for the baby in me. He will drink it from me as he suckles. See? There is a drop of milk on his chin. Get a rag, and wipe the drop, Helen.

Helen scurried to the stack of clean rags the maid had left and then rushed back to wipe the drip. It did not look like milk; it was not white. She held the rag to her nose. It did not smell like milk. Why would Mother have lied to her and said it was milk? The only sound in the room was that of the baby suckling. Mother moved the baby to her other breast, and as she moved him, the breast spouted out the liquid.

Wipe, Helen.

A drip of the liquid was on her finger. Helen licked it. It was sweet on her tongue.

Once more, the room became quiet. Mother closed her eyes; Father sat by, watching. Helen still sat on the bed, drowning in her thoughts and questions. They must have all fallen asleep, for a knock at the door startled them. Father opened the door; the maid had with her Helen’s two sisters.

Come, children, Father said. See your brother.

As they tiptoed into the room, their eyes were big with wonder. Father held little Inga up, while Anaka climbed onto the stool at the bedside. Mother opened the wrap so they could see the baby boy’s face. Neither of the girls spoke. Neither reached out to touch, for the maid had told them to be silent and not touch the baby. Inga clapped her hands in delight.

Mother smiled. You may take them now, Leonne, she said to the maid.

Father followed them toward the hall. He sat in the chair by the bedroom door, taking each of the girls onto a leg. Be still now, my girls, so Mother and your brother can sleep.

Nodding, the girls hugged Father’s full neck before going to the kitchen with Leonne for their evening meal.

By then, the window showed the dusk sky outside. Sounds from the kitchen filtered up the stairs: pots being stirred, china plates tinkling together, and milk delivered from the barn by the manservant being poured into cool crocks. Smells of the evening meal wafted to the upstairs bedroom. Helen’s stomach growled in the quiet room.

Leonne knocked at the door and entered with a tray of broth and a cup of milk for Mother. Father motioned for Helen to sit in the rocking chair in front of the fireplace. The soft needlework cushion offered her comfort. Father crossed the room with the baby and put the little one in Helen’s arms, saying, Tend to him now while Mother eats her meal. He put the small stool from the side of the bed under Helen’s swinging feet. She pushed with her feet to rock slowly. The chair creaked as she moved back and forth. Helen looked at the baby in her lap. She looked and looked. An overwhelming feeling crept over her—a feeling she did not recognize. It was not fear, happiness, or madness. What was this feeling she did not know? She bent her head and gently kissed her brother on his forehead. The feeling became so strong she could hardly bear it. There was a tugging at her heart—a pulling, a swelling, a fullness. It beat slowly and strongly with a new feeling. Helen liked the feeling. She was still unsure what it was, but it was good.

Father took her brother from her and laid him in the small bed by the fire. Come, my daughter. We will eat now. After taking the empty tray from Mother, he led the way to the kitchen. Tonight we will eat here. He pulled two wood stools to the heavy plank table.

The younger sisters, finished with their meal, were contently sitting at the hearth of the huge kitchen fireplace. Inga was playing with hand-carved wooden animals Mother’s brother had made for them, and Anaka was reading a book. Leonne took warm plates from the warming oven at the right side of the fireplace and put them on the table. Ravenous with hunger, Helen picked up her pewter spoon. Her father took the spoon from her hand and put it back on the table. We must pray, he said as he looked at her sternly.

As they lowered their heads, Father prayed, Dear Lord, we thank you for the table you have prepared for us. May we use the bounty of your goodness to your favor today; we praise you for your blessings upon mother and son. We thank you for sparing Mother’s life and giving life to my son. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.

At that point, Helen’s stomach growled loudly.

Father smiled. Amen. He handed Helen her spoon. You eat, child. It has been a very long time since you took nourishment.

Before Father finished eating, Helen had gobbled the boiled potatoes, cabbage, and venison, leaving not a crumb. Leonne put a bowl of rice porridge sweetened with raisins and fresh cream in front of her.

Father smiled again as Helen spooned huge helpings of the sweetness into her mouth. He stood. Come, my daughters. You will sleep now. He took Inga in his arms and grabbed Anaka’s hand to go up the back stairway leading from the kitchen to the bedrooms.

Helen followed. She helped him put the nightclothes on the girls, as Mother would have done. The girls said their nighttime prayer and were tucked into their soft feather beds.

Father and Helen walked down the hall to Mother’s room. When they quietly opened the door, the young house girl who had been left to tend to Mother and the baby looked up from her knitting.

Father took the baby from his bed. See, Helen? He has wet himself. To the house girl, he said, Gather a napkin for him.

The girl folded a cloth into a triangle and laid it at the foot of the bed. Father unwrapped the baby boy and took the wet napkin from his body. Helen gasped. What was that? There was a tumor on the baby. He had wrongness above his legs. Why does Father not seem to see it or care that it is there?

As Father tied the dry napkin over the tumor, Mother asked Helen, Did you watch Father to see how the napkin is changed?

Yes, Mother, Helen replied in a whisper.

You will help tend the baby while I am in bed, so you must watch closely how these things are done.

But, Mother! Helen cried. He has something wrong with him! He has a tumor on his body.

Mother’s eyes twinkled as she and Father exchanged a knowing look. Bring the boy to me, Mother said. She took the baby and untied the napkin.

There! See? Do you see it? Helen exclaimed in a worried voice.

Come, Daughter. Sit by us. Father, you may go to your duties now.

Father winked at Mother as he left the room.

But, Mother, should not Father stay to tell you what to do about the tumor?

Shush now, my daughter. You have become an adult girl today; you have witnessed the birth of a child. You were very brave and of great help. I will tell you more now that you are of an age to know. See here? She pointed to the baby boy. This is not a tumor; this is his male organ. Just as the mares and bulls have male organs that protrude from their bodies, such has a man. A girl does not have an organ. You saw today where the baby came out of my body. That is how a woman is made. It is only big when it needs to open to allow a baby to come out. It is the same place where your water is released from when you sit on the porcelain pot in the hall closet. Only the water now, mind you—the mass comes from another opening. Do you understand?

Helen shrugged.

Mother went on. Listen closely, my daughter; these are things you will need to know and understand.

There it is again! Things I need to know when it is my time, Father said.

I will start from the first of this lesson, Helen. A boy and a girl are different in many ways. The body is just part of that difference. When people grow up, they come to see each other in ways not known to youth. It is called love. Not love as your father and I have for you and your sisters and brother but a deep, exciting love. It comes from inside your heart. When a boy and a girl have the same love for each other, they will marry and become one. Your father and I love like that, so many years ago, we married in God’s house. This you must do to become one in God’s eyes. He must bless the union of two. They then go to the house of the man to live together. In this marriage, the man and woman come together. They fit together as a puzzle fits to each piece.

Mother pointed to the baby. "This organ on your baby brother will grow as he grows. It will hold the power of giving a woman a child. There will be pain for the woman. This pain is slight and must be borne in silence. She must open herself to the man as often as needed to make a child. Remember, Helen, this is a duty of the woman; you must not turn away from this duty. The woman’s body takes what the man has given to her, which grows into a child. You held your hand on my belly when your brother was grown and ready to come out. The woman’s belly gets very big to make room for the baby in her body.

It takes many months—nine, to be exact—for the baby to grow big enough within the mother to have life when it is born. The rope you saw attached to the baby from me is the life-giving cord for the baby until it comes out. Then the baby is set free to take life on its own by cutting that rope. You witnessed great pain within me as I labored to give birth to your brother. God gives a woman the strength to bear this pain so children can come into his world. The union of a man and woman is blessed by God with a child according to his choosing. Not every time the man and the woman come together is a baby started. You must come together often and willingly to get the blessing of a child. Once a child is made, the father will retire into a separate bedroom. The father and the mother do not come together again until the child is out of the mother’s body and becomes one year old.

Oh, Helen thought, that is why Father retired to the room across the hall from Mother. Her mind whirled with the things her mother had told her. It was all a mystery. She was but a girl—why had Mother told her such things? She did not want to know. She did not want to be a woman. She yawned deeply.

Take your brother to his bed now. You will sleep on the cot in my room to be close if your brother needs us.

The house girl had moved Helen’s nightdress to the room. Helen moved to the dark corner to remove her garments. As she slipped the nightdress over her head, she looked down at her body. Na! She would never have breasts that were large and dripping with liquid; she would never have a baby bulging in her belly.

She lay on the small cot and covered her body with the heavy quilt made of many colorful pieces. An oil lamp glowed low in the room, and the fire crackled with warmth. Sleep came quickly.

She was not sure how long she slept before a startling sound awakened her. Gathering herself from her dreams, she heard her mother’s voice: Your brother cries. Bring him to me now.

Helen’s bare feet touched the cool wood floor with swiftness. She lifted her brother to her chest and carried him to the big bed.

First, Mother said, you must change the wet napkin and wrap him in a clean, dry blanket.

Helen’s mind tried to gather what Father had shown her. Lay him down, untie the wet napkin, fold the dry one—na, that is not right. How did the maid fold it? She struggled with the cloth, afraid she would harm the baby if she didn’t do it right.

Mother guided her. Make the fold on the opposite corners, Helen.

Once she’d accomplished that, Helen put the napkin under the baby and tied it securely and then wrapped him in the blanket. Once again, Mother opened her robe and guided the hungry mouth to her. Helen lay by her mother. She slept until Mother nudged her to take the baby to his bed.

Once in her small cot again, Helen stared at the ceiling, studying the intricate details of the shapes pounded into the shiny silver tin tiles. What had happened to the little girl who only yesterday had skipped along the rock path to the summer kitchen to play with her sisters?

68331.png

It was late fall now, so the summer kitchen the maids used had been moved to the big house in readiness for the winter months. The girls were allowed to play in the summer kitchen. They would pretend to be mothers, stirring pretend food in empty pots and caring for their dolls, mimicking how Mother cared for them. They sang the songs Mother sang to them. It was a happy world.

As the days grew cooler, the stone walls of the summer kitchen added a chill to their play, forcing Father to lock the double doors to end the play in their pretend house. In the big house, their large open playroom was on the third floor. A narrow stairway opened to a room flooded with sunlight from the four gable windows on each side of the roof. A black heater glowed in the corner, spreading warmth throughout the room. They lacked nothing in play things. There were wooden rocking horses, small rocking chairs, tables, side chairs, and tiny china plates and cups. Small beds held pretty dolls with china heads and soft cloth bodies. Mother had sewn many dresses for the dolls, along with colorful little blankets to wrap them in. In the shelves lining the walls, boxes of wooden and cardboard puzzles were stacked, along with books to read and draw in with black pencils.

Helen loved to read the books. She often gathered her sisters around her on the rug made of colorful braided rags to read to them. Mother had taught Helen and Anaka to read at an early age; now it was Inga’s time to be Mother’s student. Knowing the words in Inga’s books well, Helen pretended to be Mother, having Inga read the words on the pages to her. Looking at the pictures on the pages, Inga exclaimed in recognition of each thing pictured on a page—a top, a tree, a bird. She went on through the pages with knowing pride. Anaka sat by quietly, reading the words in her study book.

On the floor beyond the rug, by the windows, a maze of chalk-drawn squares made for skip play. They skipped a small rock across the squares, and when it stopped, the girls skipped that box, trying to miss the one the rock had landed in. Giggles of delight traveled to the floors below as the play went on.

Some days, at teatime, the house girl would bring trays of milk and gingerbread to the playroom. It was a special treat time. Often, Martha, the house girl, who was not much older than Helen, would be allowed to stay with the girls to play. Martha would have them hide their eyes with their hands as she quietly went about the room, hiding a red wood block. Ready? Go! Martha would cry out, and the three girls would scurry around the room, looking inside, under, and on top of things to find the red block. The one who found it would excitedly announce the find. Martha would reward the winner with a piece of rock candy from her apron pocket. It was a good life in the home of the Marshalls.

The days of Mother’s confinement were over. Helen was allowed to move back to her own bedroom. She, being the eldest, had a room to herself, away from her younger sisters. It was her special place. The same shiny silver metal blocks adorned the ceiling. The rock walls were washed in a pale blue. On the floor was a soft square rug woven with bluebells and flowing green leaves. The edges of the rug had a yarn fringe that Helen would sit and count from end to end. Her high feather bed sat on posts as high as her waist. A stool with two steps sat by the towering bed to allow her to crawl under the quilt decorated with small bluebirds.

Playthings were not to be in the sleeping rooms. The only piece Helen was allowed to have was a china-head doll, which was propped against the plump pillows on the high bed. The doll’s long white lace dress spread over the bed like an angel’s wings. Two doors on a wardrobe opened to show the many items of clothing that were hers. The wood rod was low, allowing Helen to reach her dresses off the carved wood hangers. Below, drawers that pulled open held rows of twisted white stockings. The white stockings were for special days only; she wore the brown stockings at the front of the drawer the rest of the time. Lace-trimmed petticoats lay on top of each other in the largest drawer. Helen loved lace; she often ran her fingers over the delicate rows of thread that made intricate designs. She was happy to be back in her special place.

Mother’s confinement had lasted four weeks. During those weeks, Helen and her mother had spent many quiet hours reading books. Helen had learned the art of lace making with a tiny loom. Mother talked to her often about becoming a woman, preparing her for the things that lay ahead of her and somewhat calming her fears of the unknown. The sisters were allowed two visits to Mother’s room each day. Father spent many hours in the chair by the fireplace, gazing at his son while speaking to his wife about things of importance. As she helped care for baby Henrick, Helen came to love the baby with her whole heart. The day after Henrick was born, Mother and Father had decided on what his name would be.

68329.png

Helen listened from the stool by the fire. It is of tradition, Father said, that the firstborn son in the Marshall family will bear the name of the father, for he will carry the name to the next generation.

Ya. While your son was still in my belly, I thought of him as Henrick, Mother said. It is of tradition in the Shilling family that my father’s name will become the child’s second name.

Ya, it is right to do, Father said. It is done then. He stood and left the room.

He came back a few minutes later, carrying the worn Bible, a quill pen, and ink. He laid the open Bible on the table by the window. After dipping the feather pen into the black ink, he began to write. Helen went to his side to watch. He wrote on a line under her little sister Inga’s name in the book. The pen moved with quick, fluid motions, leaving fine marks with curls and curved forms. It fascinated Helen to watch her father write with the pen. The marks she made when using her pencil were hard and straight-lined, not at all like the pretty marks Father made.

Father bent to blow on the wet ink. He carried the Bible to his wife, turning it so she could see his marks. He stood proudly by her and said, It is written in the Book of God: my son, Henrick Millherh Marshall II.

It is written so, my husband, Mother replied while tears streamed down her cheeks.

Father then took the Bible to the small bed where Henrick lay. It is now written, my son, he said. You will from this day be called Henrick Millherh Marshall. I am proud to give you this name on this day. You will bear the name well. Closing the book, Father turned again to Mother. The boy grows. You have nourished him well, my wife. Soon we should need a bigger bed, I think.

Ya, Mother said. He is weighty and full-bodied like you, my husband. They exchanged smiling glances.

Father left the room, carrying the Bible with the new entry proudly written. He came back carrying a bag of flour, followed by the manservant, who was toting the large scale from the grain house. Place it on the hearth, Father said to the servant. The servant set down the object, which had two large brass plates hanging from three linked chains on either side of a heavy metal post shaped like a T. The plates hung on the ends of the top cross. Father placed the flour bag on one of the big brass plates; its weight sent the empty brass plate high as the other plate lowered with its burden. Then Father picked up baby Henrick from his bed. He unwrapped the baby and carefully laid him on the empty brass plate. Be still, my son, he said softly.

As the weight of the baby rested on the plate, the plate with the flour bag rose. Up and up it went, stopping just short of being dead even with plate that held Henrick. Father stood proudly over his son, shouting across the room, Mother! He is just even with the ten pounds of flour!

Mother nodded. Ya, Henrick, it was a near-grown baby boy you gave me to deliver. Mother had known the child was big when she labored; it had been a difficult birth. At points during that night, she had given up hope of bringing the huge child into the world. Dare she tell her husband that this might be his last child? She’d felt her insides rip apart; she had let an enormous amount of blood; and to the day they talked now, she still bled onto her bed. She was weak and tired, even if the flow was much less every day. She felt the healing of her parts was not as it had been when she’d birthed the girls. Na, she thought, it is best not to say such to my husband. The good Lord would decide if she were to be with child again. It was not for her to say.

Father put the now warmly wrapped boy in his crib. The baby had not uttered a sound during the weighing. Father said that showed he was strong of nature as well as strong of body. The manservant took the scale from the room, and Father followed. Helen asked, May I come with you to return the flour, Father?

Come quickly then, girl.

Helen had seen her father use the scale many times in the grain house. Grain was brought to the sturdy block house that sat next to the towering block silo. In the house was a machine called a flour mill. It was made of wood, with a large opening at the top of a box that narrowed to the bottom. It had a heavy round crank on the side and heavy square pedals at the bottom of the sturdy metal holding legs. On a crude, heavy wood block on the side wall stood the scale Father had brought into Mother’s bedroom. Many stacks of creamy white burlap bags were beside the scale on the block. Hanging from a metal stake pounded into the block wall above the scale was a large cone of dingy, twisted gold baling twine; a sharp long-bladed knife was stuck into the wood of the block table beside the scale. Everything in the house was covered in a fine layer of light brown, almost white, powder.

2

The Harvesters

I n the fall of the year, harvesting of the fields of ripened grains began. Farmers, their wives, and their children went from farm to farm to gather the grains, working together on each farm until the harvest of every farmer was done. The men used heavy, long tools with curved cutting blades at the bottom to cut down the dry stems of the grain stalks. Moving in a rhythmic fashion, back and forth, they swung their blades, cutting the fine stalks from the earth. The women followed down the rows to gather the cut stalks into large bundles. When the entire field lay in bundles, the men would return to where they’d started to carry the bundles to the sides of the fields. Waiting to accept the bundles were tarps of heavy canvas lying on the ground. The men laid the bundles on the tarps, and the women began to beat the ends of the stalks. The tiny kernels of creamy gold fell from their protective shells as the women lifted small bundles of stalks and slammed them again and again against the tarps. The children gathered the kernels in their small hands and dumped them by handful into metal-strapped wood buckets. The men would dump the buckets full of kernels into the farmers’ grain wagons to let the grains dry in the hot sun of the day. The task was a grueling one. They toiled day after day just to complete one farmer’s fields.

Once the grain fields were done, the farmers went on to the fields standing with tall green-brown corn. At the head of each tall, hard stalk was a large cob of yellow kernels shrouded by drying layers of crisp husks and a top of feathery, hairlike follicles. Once again, the men chopped the stalks from the ground. The women followed to tear the cobs from the stalks and lay them in the outstretched arms of the children, who piled them by the waiting wagons. Once all the cobs had been gathered, all the workers sat in the shade of the wagons to pull away the husks and silken hair from the yellow-kerneled cobs. Lying in the wagon beds, the cobs sparkled with wet freshness like glittering gold. The stalks were gathered to grind for feed for the livestock. Nothing was left to waste. Even the husks and corn hair were gathered for feed and to make corn-husk dolls for the little girls in the families. The workers did not leave the fields from early sun to setting sun.

The last three years had given the harvesters great challenge. There had been a drought upon the countryside. The winters had been barren of snow, and there had been no rain in the spring. The only moisture had come in a great thunderstorm, but the small amount of moisture brought by the storm had evaporated quickly in the hot sun of the day. It had been hot for so long, all of the spring, summer, and fall for those three years. The soil they seeded would fly into the sky with the working of the plows; the grains grew short and dry, with only half of the kernel husks filled with a grain; and the corn grew short and dried before producing many cobs. It was a time of great concern.

Harvest days were of unbearable heat. Yet they worked on, helping each other, until they’d collected all the fields. On harvest days, each family came to the fields with tin pails of thick slices of bread spread with bacon grease; strips of dried beef; and some late radishes, turnips, or carrots from the garden. The mothers packed the pails in the early morning hours, along with rag-wrapped crock jugs of water and milk and pails of coffee, which were set in the sun to warm for the noon meal.

During the hours of labor, some of the older girls were left in the shade of the wagons to tend to the babies and young children. The hours were filled with telling stories and stacking hard clumps of field dirt into a variety of shapes. Using small twigs, the older girls would fashion forms from the clumps—dolls, animals, houses, and the like. Quilts spread under the wagons provided a cozy nap-time place.

Mothers with heavy milk-laden breasts would make their way to the wagons when their spewing let them know it was time to feed their babies. The time for feeding frequently happened to several of the mothers at the same hour. It was a time of social rest for them. They sat cross-legged together in the welcome shade from the hot sun. The men workers did not dare to approach the wagon during that time, for all of the women sat with their breasts exposed during the feeding time. It was proper for the women to expose themselves to each other but never to the men, other than to their own husbands. Because it was improper to expose themselves to a male of any age, the older girls would take the young male children to the field to play.

The women chattered among themselves, telling secrets to each other. Most of the time, a secret was of when the next child would arrive. Giggles would pass among them as the youngest wives hung their heads and announced their secrets. The wise older mothers would nod with approval at the young wives. Still, shame hung over the heads of the young women, for the older wives knew how they’d come to be with child. The act was often a shameful experience for a new bride. Most mothers prepared their daughters as best as they could, but no woman ever knew just what the act of making a child was until it happened. It was shameful and not something some young wives wished to continue. First-time mothers-to-be were relieved to be with child, so as not to be approached again by their husbands for many months to come.

That day, one young wife dared to share that joy with the other women. It is good, as he will not come to me now that I am with child.

Aye, responded a mother of eight, that is proper. With a twinkling smile, she remarked that her husband was not proper.

Many of the other older wives nodded, and they too gave knowing smiles, admitting to the improper ways in their beds.

Wide-eyed with disbelief, a young wife exclaimed, But na, it is not right! I am to be open to this even with a child in my belly? Na, na, it will not be.

Two of the other young wives repeated her sentiments. Na, na, na, not in my bed will this happen, one said.

Frightened eyes looked into those of the older wives, demanding more of the terrible secret they told. The young wives believed the act was specifically for them to accept from the men that which made the children. Once a child was conceived, the husband would leave the wife alone—was that not why she tolerated the act? Night after night, she had to wait in the marriage bed for him to come to her, each night praying that would be the night a child would be made to release her from the horror. Those thoughts came out of the young wife’s lips, and then she said to the older women, Na, tell me it is not so. Tell me he will not come to me while the child is in me. Tears rolled down her blushing red cheeks.

The other young mothers-to-be cried too. The older mother of eight looked sternly at them and said, You must not linger in this self-pity. You are a wife of a man. What he brings to you is the blessing of life given to him by God. It is to be of you to welcome this; it is the will of God.

Another young mother-to-be asked through her tears, Is it the will of God that I must tolerate such shame?

Another young mother nodded, saying, I would not have married this man I am with if I had known what was to be of me. My mother told me nothing of the shame I would endure.

The older woman answered, Do you not have a feeling in your heart for your husband? Do you not welcome his tender kiss in the morning? Do you not wish to become a mother of the child given to you by this man?

Na, answered a young woman. He has not come to me since the time of my last bloodletting. I will never have him again!

Shaking a firm finger at her, the older woman said firmly, You must, and you will. It is the way of marriage to a man. You will never hold yourself from him. That is the way of the devil. Then, with a smile, she looked at the other older mothers. My dears, in time, you will come to welcome this act.

Another older woman added, Do not turn away from him.

Another young woman spoke with her eyes lowered. I do not dislike when my husband is with me. I cried and felt great shame that I liked it. It was not known to me that the duty would bring pleasure to me. That was not told by my mother. It is a curse from the devil that I feel this, I think.

Another young mother, her eyes now wide and dry, admitted to feeling the same way.

Another young wife finally spoke. "I am not ashamed of what my husband does to me. I welcome it. Sometimes I ask him to do it. I fear I learned the way of this wrong. I am not proper. I will tell you of my brother’s teaching now.

"It was well into his eighteenth year that Father took him to the big town—not to get supplies. Father said his son was to become a man. My mother hung her head as they rode down the lane together, saying to me, ‘Come now. It is not for us to know.’ For two days, I waited for their return. At dusk on the second day, they rode up to the stable. Mother prepared a waiting meal for them. She said nothing as they entered the house. I wondered why she did not welcome them home, as she had always done. They washed themselves in the basin by the door and came to the table. There was not a word said during the meal. My brother sat with his head lowered so as not to look into our mother’s eyes. As the night was upon us, I heard my brother stirring about the house. In the morning, again, there was silence at the morning meal. My father and my brother went out to tend to the chores. I dared not ask Mother why this was so with them. I wondered in silence. The silence among them continued well into the next week.

"On the second day of the next week, when we were raking fresh hay into the stalls of the barn, my brother said to me, ‘Come. I will tell you about the trip Father and I made to the big town.’ He led the way up the sturdy wood ladder to the loft. We sat on the pile of hay, and he spoke. His voice made a choking sound as he told me of what he’d done. Father had taken him to the very edge of the big town, by the river, where women and girls live without husbands in canvas huts. My brother told me all of what had happened. He said the women wore but undergarments over them, and their lips were painted bright red. They stood outside the open flaps of the canvas tents with their hands on their hips and their breasts spilling over the tops of their undergarments. He and Father walked among them, with Father looking at each one. My brother said not a word. They turned at the end of the rows of huts and walked by them all again. Finally, Father stopped at a hut and said, ‘This one.’ He walked to the woman, took pence from his pocket, and put it in her hand. Then he came to my brother and said, ‘Son, you go now into the hut. You will now become a man.’

"My brother looked at him and said, ‘But, Father, what is to be done?’

"He answered, ‘You will know, my son. You will know through the teaching of this woman.’

"My brother looked at the woman, who was smiling through red lips, tossing the coin into the air and catching it again. She nodded at Father as he walked away. He said, ‘I will return in the morning sun.’

"My brother thought, The morning! Was he to take a bed in this woman’s hut for his sleep? She went behind him and gave him a push through the open flap of the hut. Once inside, she closed the flap and secured it with a clamp. He looked around the hut. There was a very low cot on one side, a bench on the other, and a stack of boxes at the end, which held some plates, cups, and bottles of some sort of liquid. When he turned from his survey of his new surroundings, the woman had removed her undergarment and stood without garments on her in front of his eyes.

"He turned away. She came to him and turned his head, saying, ‘Look at me.’ He tried to turn away, but she would bring his eyes back to her, making him look at her. He said it was as if he were frozen in a block of ice; he could not move. She turned then and walked to the cot. She lay on the cot. Looking at him, she said, ‘Come to me, boy.’ She unbuttoned his shirt and discarded it like garbage on the floor. She then sat in front of him, and again, he stood frozen without the will to move. She unbuttoned the front of his pants and let them fall to his knees. She sat his unclothed backside on the cot, kneeling in front of him to remove his boots and pants, and tossed them into the corner. She came close to him. He told me, ‘I knew I would surely die of this. What she did with me was not known to me. She taught me all of being a man then—at least I thought surely I must know all now. It was becoming dark outside. She lit a whale-oil lamp on the bench and put her undergarment on; she unfastened the tent’s clamp, opened the flap, and went out. I lay there, so tired that I slept.’

"At that point in his telling, my brother took a deep breath and said, ‘This is a hard telling I do, Sister.’ But he went on telling.

"After he fell asleep in the woman’s tent, he awoke as she hit his belly hard and said, ‘You will eat now.’ He sat up and reached for his pants. ‘Sit here,’ she said. He went to the bench, and she handed him a bowl of fish pieces and a hunk of coarse bread. She stood before him with her bowl and bread in her hands. She took pieces in her hand and fed herself. He ate the entire bowl with such hunger. She took the empty bowls, tossed them onto the bench beside him, and returned to stand in front of him. ‘We have much more to do now,’ she told him.

"She guided him to the cot. She went to the bottles on the shelf, pulled the cork from one, and brought it to the cot. She tipped it, drank several swallows, handed him the bottle, and said to drink. He did. ‘It was strong,’ he told me. ‘It hit my belly like fire. I coughed. Again, she drank, and I did the same, until we had emptied the bottle. My head was in a fog; I had a fire in my belly. Then she lay on the cot with me again. The night went on. The oil lamp had burned out, and the hut was in total darkness, but I did not sleep. I could not sleep. I was unaware of anything or anyplace beyond the cot. I could hear my own voice crying out in the darkness.’

"Now there were tears in my brother’s eyes. He went on to tell that there seemed to be brightness against the canvas of the hut. It was morning. She went to the shelf, reaching for another bottle. This time, they did not drink, but she poured some onto a rag and told him to clean himself. She threw his clothes at him and said, ‘Your lesson is done.’ She opened the flap to reveal the sun high in the sky; it must have been noon, he thought.

"She came to him and put her hand on his back, pushing him toward the flap. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I will not go. I wish to stay with you.’ She gave him a push out through the open flap. His mouth came open as he saw Father sitting on a box outside the hut.

"‘It has been long,’ Father said to the woman.

"‘Aye,’ she said, ‘he knew no more than a milk baby.’

"Nodding to her, Father reached into his pocket and put another coin in her hand, and then he started to walk away. My brother stood there as if molded to the mud under his feet. Father turned