Beneath the Apple Leaves(37)
“What for?” Pieter scrunched his face as if Andrew had made a sick joke, like he worried Andrew might do something cruel.
“Might be able to save a few.”
Relief flooded the man’s face. “Be pleased to. Nobody likes to see the runts die slow like that; don’t want to drown them, either. Squealing too much for the heart.”
Andrew threw the empty bucket next to the barrel. “Nursed calves before, can’t imagine piglets are too different.”
“Bit flat chested, I think,” Pieter crooned, and smacked him in the ribs. “Tell you what, come over and grab the runts and if they live they’re yours. Course, your nips might never be the same again.”
“Very funny.” Andrew laughed. Pieter reminded him of his friends at the mine, good-natured and quick, easygoing.
“Between you and me, we’ve been mighty relieved knowing Germans moving into this place.” Pieter looked around. “War making people itch like they got fleas. Looking for someone to blame for all that itching. Guess it’s us getting the brunt.”
Pieter scanned the fields. “Jesus Christ, you don’t got more than a heap of weeds and crabgrass trying to grow out there. Frank Morton swindle you into this place?”
“Far as I can see, my uncle went in with eyes wide open.”
“He needs glasses then,” cackled Pieter. He slapped Andrew on the back. “You come for dinner tomorrow night, all right? Ma make you the best goddamn sausage you ever ate. I’ll get those piglets ready, too.” He suddenly dropped his tone and pointed his chin at Andrew. “How’d you lose your arm?” The question fell out as easily as if he inquired about the rain.
“Fell off a train.”
“Ouch!” Pieter gritted his teeth. “Well, we all got something to live with, don’t we?” His eyes took on a hint of remorse as he looked at his brother playing hide-and-seek near the chicken coop. “Let Fritz clean out the coop for you. Take that ox an hour with those muscles. Teach him a lesson to not throw rocks at little kids.” He started to walk backwards. “Just send him home when he’s done.”
Pieter walked forward and then swiveled, hollered back, “Kiser, huh?” He gave a robust laugh. “Thought we had it bad. One hell of a name, my friend. One hell of a name for sure!”
CHAPTER 23
The residents of the Kiser farm made the long walk to the Muellers’ and each ached at the sight of the newly painted farmhouse with wide porch and perfect fence. Edgar jumped from the road into the wide front lawn. “They have grass!” And in those simple three words, the young child summed up the vast lack of their own homestead.
With the sound of guests walking the even lane, two men appeared from the high red barn. One a reflection of the other, a future aged imprint. Pieter Mueller approached from the gate and Wilhelm stuck out his hand. “Pieter and Heinrich Mueller, I’m guessing.”
The older shook hands greedily. “Ja! Good t’meet you. Velcome!”
Andrew and Pieter nodded to each other in the casual way of young men.
“Come, come!” The man hurried and waved them to the house where they were greeted by an enormous Gerda Mueller, who hugged them with arms as large as thighs. She had yellow-and-white-streaked hair piled high into a bun on the back of her head and a spirit and voice to match the body. The difference between the figures of the married Muellers could not have been more extreme.
Gerda grabbed the twins from Eveline and rocked them gently, whispered German words into their ears. A pounding on the stairs above gave way to Fritz and soon, behind him, a little girl. Gerda explained that their older children were spread out in Indiana and Jefferson Counties, while Pieter, his younger brother, Fritz, and eight-year-old Anna still remained at home.
Minutes after arriving, the groups branched off into tributaries of commonality. The younger children and Fritz ran off to the outdoors, sharing that secret laughter of searching for an adventure that an adult would never understand. Pieter took Andrew to the barns to show him the piglets and the other animals. Eveline took back the twins and followed Gerda into a kitchen that smelled of hot bread, potatoes and peppercorns.
Gerda Mueller placed a spread of cheeses and hard sausage, pickled cucumbers and onions at the table. Then added loaves of brown bread with a bowl of butter. She brought steins, three in each enormous hand, each nearly big enough for a quart, and set them next to the worn cask on the side table. Heinrich poured the liquid, dark as molasses, into two steins and handed one to Wilhelm. “I brew myself,” he said proudly. “Grow the grains. Everyt’ing by hand. Made here by me.”
The beer was rich and strong and cold. With that first taste Wilhelm relaxed, couldn’t remember the last time he had a real drink, hadn’t realized how stiff he had been. His muscles melted like warm butter under the sun.
Mr. Mueller watched him expectantly. “You like?”
Wilhelm smiled and wiped the froth from his lips. “I like.”
Heinrich Mueller wrestled a hand to Wilhelm’s shoulder. “Course you like!” He opened his arms wide and then thumped his chest. “Everyt’ing I make here. Beer. Sausage. I don’t need not’in’ from out there no more. Got twelve children an’ six grandchildren.” He thumped his chest again. “More Muellers in Pennsylvania than veevils!” He guffawed richly and it took a minute for Wilhelm to understand the accent. Weevils. More Muellers than weevils. Wilhelm laughed hard, a good, deep laugh of a man, and it felt good. He took another deep gulp of beer. It was good to be a man, feel like a man again.