Beneath the Apple Leaves(38)
Heinrich turned serious eyes on his neighbor. “Vhy you come this time, Vilhelm? To the land, I mean. Spring much better, no?”
Wilhelm didn’t answer at first. Chewed the question along with the blue-veined cheese. “You find trouble in Pittsburgh?” Heinrich asked. “Vith the German var?”
The man’s thick accent was getting easier to understand or maybe the stout helped translate. “No, had nothing to do with the war.” He didn’t want to share the details and glanced at the kitchen. “My wife. Been wanting to move from the city since we married. But you’re right about poor timing. Spending a small fortune bringing in supplies.”
“Ja, ja,” he agreed. “Land is poor, too. But few years of thick manure in the fields, the soil be good again. Plant corn in the high fields and hay where ground is clay. Will break it up over time. Plus, hay sells. Good hay, poor hay. It sells.” He nodded knowingly. “Sweet potatoes, too. Can grow through rocks.”
Wilhelm didn’t want to talk about the land that mocked him, told him he was a fool. He wanted to drink beer and eat smoked sausage. He didn’t want to think about the outpouring of money that had outpaced even his most inflated planning. Didn’t want to think about the animals and the human mouths that had to be fed or the house that he should have inspected before buying but was too ill in spirit to do so.
Heinrich observed him, read his thoughts. “Hard times, no?” The man smacked him on the knee.
Wilhelm stared at the dark liquid and nodded.
“I know this. I know this vell, my friend.” He winked like a wise sage. “Vhen Gerda and I come here, ve don’t have nothin’. Less than nothin’.” His hands opened widely with an empty expanse. “Then the babies come. I vas like a lost man. I did any job to find work. Plowing, seeding, thrashing, milking. It vas a very hard time for me. For us. But ve vorked hard. I vork very, very hard.” He waved out his hand and displayed the comfort of the sitting room proudly. “I vork hard to provide fer my family, and I did.” He winked again and drank a large swig of beer. “You’ll get there, too. Long as you can vork, you can get there.”
The alcohol and sentiment warmed, thickened his bones and muscles again, pushed the gray out. The farm would be there tomorrow. Today, he would drink and listen to an old German’s stories; he’d debate about the state of the war and listen to the hooting and yelling of children playing outside. He would not think of the winter that loomed or the emaciated figures of his accounts. Wilhelm found the dry bottom of the stein and held it out. “May I?” Heinrich laughed happily and refilled each of their mugs.
Next to the kitchen stove, Gerda checked on the roast, ladled the juices over the giant slab of meat. Eveline’s mouth watered with the smell. Gerda peeked at the men in the other room and made a light-sounding click with her tongue. “Your husband a drinker?”
The question surprised her. “No. Hardly at all.”
Gerda chuckled and raised her eyebrows. “Vell, he might be sleepin’ late tomorrow. Heinrich’s beer stronger than it looks.” She fluttered suddenly and went to the cupboard and took out a tall glass bottle without a label, the syrupy liquid holding a tint of yellow. She poured two small glasses and handed one to Eveline.
“Oh, I don’t drink,” she said, and pushed the glass away.
“No, you’ll like this one,” Gerda insisted, and pushed it back toward her. “Pear schnapps. Ever try?”
“No.”
Gerda watched her with widening eyes as she gave the daintiest taste to the liquid. It smelled like a dream and tasted like sweet sugar fire. She touched her lips, giggled. “It’s quite good.”
“Ja!” Gerda put the glass rim to her lips and drank it clean, poured another. “Men don’t need to have all the fun, no?” She smiled, sisterly, and Eveline saw the beauty of the woman beyond the large features. There was a strength to her, a beauty that came from confidence and sureness of something akin to power and she was envious.
Gerda sipped this one slowly, tilted her head to the other room again. “Men talkin’ about vork and var. Men always think the world rests on their shoulders, that they run it. But ve vomen know, don’t ve, Eveline? Ve know that vithout the vomen, there are no men. Vithout the vomen, the men be sittin’ in the outhouse sucking their thumbs and cryin’ into their dirty undershirts.”
A sudden burst of laughter escaped from Eveline and she covered her mouth.
“The men be sitting on that privy sucking thumbs and starving,” Gerda managed between bouts of laughter. “Eating raw onions from the fields and shitting themselves because they don’t know how to butter their own bread.”
Eveline rocked and held her belly, giggled until tears sprung to her eyes.
“Vhat you hens cackling about?” Heinrich called with amusement from the next room.
Gerda put her finger to her lips secretly and calmed her tittering. “Lady stuff. Talkin’ babies and hairpins, my sveet.”
Two loud humphs echoed in response and the women held their mouths.
“Speakin’ of babies. Let’s have a good look at these two.” Gerda reached to the basket on the floor and pulled each baby to her lap expertly, supporting the heads in the corners of her arms.
Eveline turned away and drank her schnapps. She had a hard time looking at her own babies. Couldn’t even enjoy their little faces for fear the mouths would open in howling and begging.