Fields of Grace
Fields of Grace
Copyright © 2009
Kim Vogel Sawyer
Cover design by Paul Higdon
Cover photograph by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
E-book edition created 2010
ISBN 978-1-4412-0471-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of
Congress, Washington, DC.
For
my parents
,
who instilled in me a pride in my heritage;
and for
my grandchildren
,
who will carry that heritage into the next generations
“. . . MY GRACE IS SUFFICIENT FOR THEE:
FOR MY STRENGTH IS MADE PERFECT IN WEAKNESS. . . .”
2 CORINTHIANS 12:9
Contents
M
ENNONITE VILLAGE OF
G
NADENFELD
IN
M
OLOTSCHNA
C
OLONY
, R
USSIA
Late May, 1872
L
illian Vogt wept against her husband’s chest, using his striped nightshirt to muffle the sounds of her heartache. The boys, sleeping in the loft directly overhead, must not be disturbed. Lillian had held back any sign of regret or worry during Reinhardt’s announcement of their plans at the dinner table. Somehow she’d found the strength to smile and assure their sons they were facing a grand adventure. But now, in the quiet of her bedroom, snug with Reinhardt in their familiar feather bed, the fear exploded into tears.
“Shh, Lillian.” Reinhardt rubbed his palm up and down her spine. “You and I had already made the decision to go to America. So why this crying?”
With a gulp, Lillian pulled back to peer into Reinhardt’s face. The flickering candlelight made him appear harsh and forbidding. She lowered her gaze and toyed with the edge of the white cotton sheet. “But on our own . . . leaving behind our things . . .” Fresh tears welled and spilled over. “I need time to prepare myself for this journey. Can we not wait for the explorers to come back with a report of the land? It frightens me to think of going ahead . . . without knowing what awaits us.”
Reinhardt sighed, his breath stirring her loose curls. He tugged her beneath his chin and rested his cheek against her flaxen hair. “You know we cannot wait. It may be another year before the explorers return. Henrik will be eighteen in only three more months.”
His ominous tone stilled Lillian’s protests. Yet anger rolled through her, filling her chest so thoroughly her lungs resisted drawing a breath. Her family could remain right here in their little village were it not for broken promises. So often her people had suffered the consequences of broken promises. Had they not come to the
steppes
of Russia and tamed the land, building their farms and villages secure in the promise of practicing their Mennonite beliefs free of government involvement? Now leaders had decided not to honor their promises, and once more her people were forced to make agonizing choices.
But, truthfully, there was no choice. The mere idea of dear, scholarly Henrik with a gun in his hands sent shivers down Lillian’s spine; the reality would be unconscionable. Of course they must go. But oh! How hard it would be to leave her home and all she cherished. Her own grandfather had helped found the prosperous village of Gnadenfeld. She had been born in this village, as had her three fine sons.
In her mind’s eye, she pictured Henrik’s first shaky steps, taken in the grassy yard beneath the flowering
kruschkje
tree. She crunched her brow. “Do pear trees grow in America?”
A gentle chuckle vibrated Reinhardt’s chest. “I do not know,
mienje Leefste
.”
Reinhardt was a good man who loved her, but he rarely called her his dearest. His doing so now warmed her, but it also prompted concern. For him to use such tender words, she knew his emotions must also run deep at the prospect of leaving their home.
“Just as Eli plans to take his wheat seed, we will take seeds with us and grow
kruschkje
if we cannot find them. Will you then feel more at home?”
Lillian feared it would take more than a pear tree in the yard for her to feel at home in America, but she decided not to burden Reinhardt with the thought. She twisted slightly to look into her husband’s face. “Eli has agreed to come?”
“He did not even hesitate when I suggested it.”
Although Lillian knew of Eli’s devotion to Reinhardt after having been taken in by Reinhardt’s family when he was orphaned as a small boy, the thought that he would abandon his thriving farm to travel to America puzzled her. “But he has no son to protect from military service.”
“
Nä
, but he loves Henrik like a nephew. And he has farming skills that will help us survive until the others come and we can establish a village.” A mirthless chuckle once more rumbled. “My skill at cobbling, no matter how masterful, will not put food on our table in the new land. Having Eli come, too, is
en
Säajen
.”
“A blessing . . . yes . . .” A bigger blessing would be if Eli were married. Then she would have a woman with whom to travel.
Reinhardt planted a kiss on the top of Lillian’s head. “Go to sleep now,
mienje Leefste.
You will need rest to face the work of tomorrow. We must leave for Hamburg in only two more days.”
Lillian rolled to her side and nestled into her pillow. But the images behind her closed lids of her beloved Gnadenfeld kept her awake far into the night.
Henrik stomped his feet against the hard-packed road with such force he wondered if the hand-sewn seams holding the soles to the kidskin vamp of his boot would burst. Every day for the past three months he had met Susie Friesen behind her father’s butcher shop at the end of the school day. Despite his pleasure in studying, meeting Susie was usually the day’s highlight. But not today.
Sidestepping a parked wagon, Henrik slipped between two mud-brick houses to proceed free of the watchful eyes of those on the dirt street. Everyone in the village seemed to stare and whisper, surely aware of his family’s plans to leave Gnadenfeld ahead of the others. Even though his father had only informed them at their dinner table last night, news spread quickly. Had Susie already heard the whispers? Would she accept the news better than he had?
He reached the back door of the butcher shop with its attached living quarters and waited, as had become his routine, for Susie to appear. When Susie slipped out the planked back door a few minutes later, Henrik knew by the expression on her face that the rumors had found her ears.
In all their times of talking, not once had Henrik touched Susie—not to hold her hand or slide his fingers along the line of her jaw the way he itched to do. As a proper Mennonite girl, she had kept three feet of distance between them, and as a proper Mennonite boy he had not made untoward advances. But today it seemed natural for her to dash across the short expanse of grass and throw herself into his arms.
His pulse pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer as he curled his arms around her and held tight. He asked, unnecessarily,
“Weete
dü?”
Her face against his chest, she nodded. He felt her shoulders heave in one silent sob. Yes, she knew. And she was no more pleased than he with the plans.
Henrik tipped his head slightly, grazing her warm hair with his cheek. The sparse whiskers that had only recently begun peppering his cheeks by midafternoon caught in her silky hair, pulling loose a few yellow strands. But Susie made no effort to remove herself from his embrace.
Henrik swallowed. How could Father expect him to leave? All he knew—and loved—could be found in Gnadenfeld. “I do not wish to go.” He forced the words past the lump of agony that filled his throat.
Susie pulled back, nearly toppling him with the unexpected movement. Her blue eyes wide, she stared into his face. “But you must go! You cannot remain here and be forced into military service. My heart would break if you were hurt or . . . killed.”
The fear on Susie’s face mirrored what Henrik had seen in his mother’s eyes. Resentment choked him. Did no one have confidence in his ability to fend for himself? Slinking away seemed the coward’s response. Henrik squared his shoulders, drawing in a deep breath. “I would not be killed. I can take care of myself.”
Susie’s fine brows dipped down. “You . . . you would go? To war?”
Henrik turned his head to look across the neatly sown fields surrounding the village. The tenacious spirit that had allowed the Mennonites to carve the harsh
steppes
of Russia into flourishing farms resided within Henrik, too. Truthfully, he had no desire to use that tenacity in marching in military parade or aiming a weapon at a man who pointed one back at him, but pride—a pride his father had repeatedly tried to extinguish—kept him silent.