Beneath the Apple Leaves(74)
At the farm, Andrew helped Eveline tackle the old garden, nearly a quarter acre in size. The fence and chicken wire lay tangled amid old fallen tree limbs and the rectangular space was so thick with leaves that one had to dig half a foot down through the dry leaves to the layer of black moldy leaves until the dirt could be found. Edgar raked and sulked without his brother by his side and stuck out a puffy bottom lip as he carried the rotted leaves to the wheelbarrow. Slowly, the old wood of the raised beds was uncovered, the slats broken and the rusted nails bent, pointing to the sun or to the earth in odd angles.
Eveline Kiser’s dress was soiled to the hips, and with each inch of black loam exposed the life of the earth rose rich and full to her nose. She did not wear gloves, let her nails scrape upon the dirt as she lifted the dead leaves to her chest and flung them into the pile. She exhumed the earth, enlivened it again. And they worked together, this open, dark land and her pale white hands—together— and they saw the life that would bloom in the summer and feed them through winter.
Once the leaves were cleared, Andrew set to work repairing the raised beds, tearing out the old wood and resettling the planks upright or replacing the worst of the beams with new wood cut from the broken piles of barn slats. Edgar held the corners steady while Andrew hammered in the nails.
By supper, the garden had been tidied, the beds open and ready for planting. Eveline and Andrew stood in silent reverence at the open plot. In the black soil, they saw the hope, envisioned the growth that would come, and the pride calmed them both.
Eveline turned to her nephew—her blood. The contours of his Dutch features, infused with a tired respect for the land, held a terrestrial love that mirrored her own and she hoped to her soul that he would never leave them. Andrew turned to her then and smiled peacefully. And the air caught in her lungs at the sight of this young man, the indigo eyes and handsome face that no longer carried the remnants of insecurity. Perhaps he was finally ready to leave the scars behind. She leaned her head against his shoulder gratefully and he hugged her with his right arm—the solid arm of a man.
*
The letter arrived late afternoon, tucked between the Pittsburg Press, a notice from their Germania Savings Bank stating the name change to Citizens Savings Bank of Pittsburgh and a copy of Volksblatt und Freiheits-Freund, the only German American newspaper left unbanned.
Eveline opened the soiled and flimsy envelope, already fondled and resealed by the censors. Inside, her sister’s letter was succinct and brittle, five curt lines drafted one on top of the other instead of flowing in a paragraph. At first glance the design appeared to be poetry, but there was no rhyme, no poetic sentiment.
The grandfather clock ticked behind each word. Two birds fought at the kitchen window and charged each other in a flurry of harsh chirps and rustled feathers, a battle of love or of defense. Through the clatter, Eveline read the slanted writing, each blunt statement a small punch to the stomach. Her hand yearned to crush the paper into a ball, but there were other eyes that needed to read it first.
Outside the porch window, Andrew and her sons had the pigs, a few of the saved runts from the Muellers, in the front yard. The boys took turns hiding old potatoes in various spots and waited to see which pig could root it out first. With the game, the pigs sniffed like hound dogs, playful with the boys, as comfortable with the children as they were with their own species. And the pigs grunted and searched while Will and Edgar chortled and Andrew stood amid them all, a solid figure around which all the laughter and squeals revolved.
The porch screen bounced as the door closed behind her. “Will, Edgar,” she directed, “time to put the pigs in the pen.”
“Ah, Ma!” Will’s nose scrunched in complaint. “We just started.”
“You heard me. Gather them up.”
“But—”
Eveline’s face pinched and stunted any argument.
“All right,” Will said grudgingly. “Come on, Edgar.”
Andrew watched the interaction, circumspect until the boys and hogs were out of earshot. Eveline handed him the envelope and folded letter. He met her eyes for a long moment before turning them to the words on the paper. The wooly clouds floated easily in the sky ahead. The apple limbs swayed in the pained pause.
“She remarried.”
“Yes.”
“Says I shouldn’t plan to come to Holland.” Andrew bit his lip. “Says it would be better if I stayed on here.” He had written his mother that he was going to save money to visit her, to bring her home, and told her about the special woman he wanted her to meet.
“We have no idea what’s going on overseas, son,” Eveline justified. “Have no idea what she’s seeing and living with every day.”
He glanced at the envelope. “She didn’t even write me,” he added bitterly. “The letter’s addressed to you.”
The anger toward her sister ignited fresh, the slight to her son unforgivable. “She blames herself for what happened, Andrew,” she defended weakly. “For sending you on the railroad. It’s her own shame, her own guilt.”
He wasn’t listening. “She remarried,” he repeated.
“Women have a hard time on their own.” She clenched her jaw, dug for comfort. “With the war—”
“Don’t defend her.” He handed the letter back. “Just don’t.”