Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt (6 page)

After Gerda died, her cooking took on legendary attributes. More than one young bride marrying into the Berg-strom family fled to her room in tears after the strudel she had labored over for hours met with approving nods from her in-laws and fond reminiscences of the far superior crust or the more sublimely spiced apples Gerda had prepared long ago. Younger generations could only listen enviously as their elders recollected the Christmas feasts Gerda had created single-handedly in a kitchen that for most of her life boasted only a wood-burning stove and a root cellar. Once Sylvia was sent to her room for wondering aloud why Gerda could not have found any more productive use for her time than to haunt the kitchen peeling apples and stretching dough day and night, for that’s what she must have done in order to produce as many pastries as family legend would have it.

But even though none could equal Gerda in the kitchen, every Bergstrom woman who learned her secret recipe had been armed with the power to win the admiration of young men, the respect of future mothers-in-law, and the envy of the other women whose family had been fortunate enough to receive a gift of the famous Bergstrom strudel.

Then a time came when so many women of the family knew how to make it that the next generation could not be bothered to learn. Why should they, when another aunt or cousin could be relied upon to make one for the family’s Christmas breakfast and the several others necessary to fulfill Gerda’s tradition of giving them away to the dearest friends of the family? It went unnoticed that, with each aged aunt who passed on or each young wife who moved away with her new husband, a little of Gerda’s knowledge vanished into history.

Sylvia’s mother was fortunate to learn from several of those who had been taught by Gerda herself: her mother-in-law and two of her husband’s aunts, Lydia and Lucinda. Eleanor must have mastered the recipe quickly, for in Sylvia’s earliest memories of watching the women of her family labor in the kitchen, her mother could handle the fragile dough as expertly as any Bergstrom-born.

Eleanor was also a talented quilter, but not only because of the Bergstroms’ tutelage. She had learned to quilt as a child in New York City, and one of her most treasured possessions was the Crazy Quilt she had made with the help of her beloved nanny. When she first joined her husband’s family at Elm Creek Manor, she had impressed the other women with her equal skill in patchwork and appliqué, whereas the Bergstrom women tended to favor one or the other. There were other differences; none of the Bergstroms had ever made a Crazy Quilt, a heavily embroidered, often delicate work created more for decoration than warmth, and they frequently knew the same patterns by different names. Over the years, they shared their knowledge and each woman considered her store richer for the collaboration.

Sylvia must have been seven or eight when Eleanor found Great-Aunt Lucinda’s Feathered Star blocks tucked away in the family scrap bag with the leftover green and red fabrics. “These are too finely made to use for scraps,” Eleanor protested when Lucinda explained that they had not found their way into the bag by mistake, for she had discarded them years ago. Her eyes were not as strong as they had once been, and she no longer felt capable of piecing together the tiny triangles as precisely as necessary. One of the aunts proposed stitching together the six blocks Lucinda had completed into a crib quilt, but after some discussion, all agreed that the eighteen-inch blocks were too large and overpowering to suit a baby’s coverlet. Eventually Eleanor decided to continue making a full-size Christmas quilt, but rather than create additional Feathered Stars that would be compared to Lucinda’s, she would appliqué holly wreaths and plumes to frame the older woman’s work.

Eleanor worked on the quilt more consistently than Lucinda had, stitching the green holly leaves and deep red berries to ivory squares of fabric with tiny, meticulous stitches throughout the year. But although she did not put away the quilt at the end of the Christmas season, she progressed more slowly than Lucinda, for she could sew only for an hour or two at a time before headaches and fatigue forced her to set her handwork aside. Her health, which had never been robust, had begun a slow and steady decline after the birth of her youngest child and only son. Her condition had worsened markedly after the deaths of her mother and mother-in-law, less than a year apart. One by one she relinquished the activities she had once enjoyed: horseback riding, strolls along Elm Creek with Sylvia’s father, picnics and games in the north gardens dens. The aunts took over her household duties without alluding to the necessity for Eleanor to rest. Her love for her family shone as strongly as ever, defying the weakness of her body, so that the children sometimes almost forgot her infirmity.

She was their beloved Mama. It did not really matter whether she played with them, or if she merely held them on her lap and told them stories. They were happy in her company.

When December snows began to fall in Sylvia’s ninth year, she offered to help her mother finish the Christmas Quilt in time for the holiday. She had recently finished a floral appliqué sampler and had improved her stitches so much that she was eager to take on a more important project. Her mother agreed, adding with a rueful laugh that without Sylvia’s help, she might be obliged to give up as Lucinda had done.

Sylvia could not bear the thought of that, not after her mother had worked so hard to create such beautiful holly wreaths and sprays, so lifelike that Sylvia half-expected them to stir in the breeze. To spare her mother the effort, she traced her mother’s leaf template onto stiff paper, cut out the shapes, paired them with pieces of green fabric, and basted the raw edges down until the fabric conformed to the paper.

To make the berries, she placed a dime on the wrong side of a circle of fabric a quarter inch larger in diameter, then held the dime in place as she took small running stitches in the fabric circle all the way around the edge, leaving longer thread tails at the beginning and the end. She gently pulled the threads, drawing the fabric circle around the dime, and pressed with a hot iron. After loosening the threads to slip out the coin, she basted the edges of the fabric into a circle the size of a dime with perfectly smooth edges. All that remained for her mother to do was baste the leaves and berries in place on the background fabric and appliqué them securely.

Even with Sylvia’s help, her mother tired easily and often rested with her sewing on her lap, watching two-year-old Richard play or supervising Claudia as she strung popcorn, berries, and nuts for the Christmas tree. Uncle William and his wife had needed four hours to choose a tree the previous year, which according to Sylvia’s father was a new record. The delay forced the family to rush to finish decorating the tree before bedtime. Sylvia had overheard some speculation that Uncle William and his bride had not spent all that time searching for a tree, but she could not imagine what else they might have been doing out there all alone in the snowy woods.

Maybe they had gotten lost. In any event, Claudia was determined to be ready for an even longer search this year by preparing the decorations in advance.

Two days before Christmas, Great-Aunt Lydia announced her intention to make apple strudel that day, and anyone who wished to help would be welcome. Despite her weariness, Sylvia’s mother took an interest. “How many do you plan to make?” she asked.

“Four,” said Lydia. “One for us and three for the usual friends.”

“Only four?” asked Eleanor. The family’s interest in Gerda’s tradition had diminished over the years as they had found other ways to express their affection and gratitude to their friends and neighbors. Quilted and knitted gifts were popular, but Sylvia had overheard Great-Aunt Lucinda tell Lydia that most families in the Elm Creek Valley would be grateful to find coal in their stockings this year. “Aunt Gerda always said the simple gifts were best,” she had added, “but this year, simple is all most folks will be able to manage, and joy and hope may be in short supply.”

They had been careful to speak of such things out of Eleanor’s hearing, and now, confronted with her surprise, Lucinda and Lydia exchanged a look and Sylvia grew still. Her father and the other adults did their best to shield Eleanor and the children from distressing news, but Sylvia had perfected the art of eavesdropping on her elders. She knew what concerned her aunts, even if she did not entirely understand the cause. In October, the First Bank of Waterford had lost all the family’s money along with the savings of its other customers.

For reasons that did not seem fair to Sylvia, a larger bank in a far-off city had called in a debt and had cleared out the Waterford bank vault in order to pay its own customers. Her father said that this was happening throughout the nation—banks failing, factories closing, everywhere men losing their means of earning a living. Rich men leaped to their deaths from skyscrapers rather than endure bankruptcy, and poor men sold apples on street corners.

Sylvia’s mother knew what was happening around the country because the family could not hide the newspaper or turn off the radio without explaining why. What she did not know—what her husband had tried to conceal from her—was how seriously their own family had been affected. Eleanor did not know that their savings had been lost, or that the family business had not generated any income for months. The wealth of most of their former customers had been wiped out in the stock market crash. No one had the money to spend on luxuries like expensive horses. The Bergstroms would get by because they were moderately self-sufficient; they owned their own land and thus did not have to pay a mortgage, and they grew some of their own food. They had ample wood from their forest to heat the home if their supply of coal ran out before spring. The manor was full of desirable possessions they could use to pay off Eleanor’s doctor bills and barter for whatever else they needed in town. But for the first time since Gerda Bergstrom’s day, the family had to watch every penny. Lydia’s expenditures on white flour, sugar, and cinnamon, a trifle any other Christmas, had already led to one argument with some of the men of the household.

“These are difficult times,” Lydia tried to explain, reluctant to burden Eleanor with worries.

“And they will worsen before they improve,” said Eleanor firmly, setting her quilting aside. “All the more reason for those of us who have been blessed to share our abundance with others.”

The look of concern and dismay the other adults shared was so obvious Sylvia did not see how her mother could have misunderstood its meaning, but of course, Eleanor had no idea how much their abundance had dwindled. When she called for Sylvia to help her from her chair, Sylvia hurried to her mother’s side and steadied her as she stood. On her feet, Eleanor looked around the circle of worried faces. “Will any of you help me?” When none of the aunts replied, Eleanor’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Very well. Sylvia, would you?” Sylvia nodded. “That’s a good girl. And you, Claudia?” More solemnly, Claudia nodded. “Good. It’s time you girls tried your hand at Gerda’s recipe anyway. You’re old enough to do more than peel apples.”

As Eleanor and her daughters left the parlor, Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but any protest she might have intended was abruptly silenced by a gesture from Lucinda. No one followed them down the hall to the kitchen, where Eleanor pulled out the bench and sat down at the table rather than standing at the counter as she used to do. She called for her mixing bowl, for flour, water, salt, and butter; Sylvia and Claudia scrambled to set everything before her. Their mother’s mouth turned in a frown when she saw the limp flour sack, and Sylvia knew she was measuring with her eyes and calculating how far it would go.

“It will have to do,” she murmured with a sigh. She ordered Claudia to fetch two eggs from the barn. She would make up the pastry dough two at a time and make as many as their larder would allow.

“Remember this, girls,” their mother instructed when Claudia returned. She reached into the flour sack and put six large handfuls into her mixing bowl. She tossed in a pinch of salt, blended the two, and made a well in the center with a spoon.

Into this she added an egg, a cup of water, and a dollop of fresh butter, which Sylvia brought to her. With both hands she mixed everything together, working in silence. Sylvia and Claudia exchanged a look, a silent warning not to speak, not to warn their mother that this was the last of the flour, that salt was scarce, that Great-Aunt Lucinda had been trading the eggs with neighboring farmers for sausage and ham. Sylvia was not sure it would have made a difference.

Eleanor turned the dough out onto a floured board and began kneading, the hard line of her mouth gradually relaxing as she worked. After a few minutes she called Claudia to take a turn squeezing, pressing, and folding the dough over and over again. Next Sylvia took a turn, kneading the dough until her hands and shoulders grew tired. Her mother took over for her, working the dough expertly with the heels of her hands.

“When I was a little girl,” she said suddenly, “my parents employed a French chef who made
bûche de noël
for our Christmas dessert. Do you know what that is? It’s a cake rolled and shaped to look like a yule log. He decorated it with chocolate frosting and meringue mushrooms. It was such a treat. My sister and I looked forward to it all year.”

“Didn’t your mother make strudel?” asked Sylvia.

Her mother laughed. “My mother? Oh, no, darling. My mother did not cook. I didn’t taste strudel until I married your father and came to live here.”

“Maybe we could make a yule log cake sometime,” said Claudia.

“Perhaps someday. I prefer Bergstrom ways.”

The dough had become a smooth, satiny ball beneath their mother’s capable hands. She divided it into halves, separated them on the floured board, and covered them with a dishtowel.

“Now we let the dough rest while we prepare the apples.”

“We’ll get them,” said Sylvia quickly, motioning for Claudia to follow her down to the cellar. The apples, harvested from their own orchard and stored below where in winter it was as cold as the icebox, were heaped in bushel baskets along one wall, as red and crisp as the day they were picked. Choosing the nearest basket, each girl seized a handle and lugged the apples upstairs. Their mother sat up quickly and smiled when they returned, but it was obvious she had been resting her head on the table.