Wild Heart on the Prairie (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) (21 page)

“Not many farmers lived in this community back then, but my
husband and I did, God rest his soul. He is one of the witnesses to this will. I
remember when Adolphe and Rakel took Ernst and Frank into their home and made
them their own. But they required Tomas and Heidi never to speak of Dieter
again.
This was wrong
.”

Frau
Tokker pointed at Adolphe. “You threatened to
take Ernst and Frank far away if Tomas and Heidi did not agree to keep quiet about
Dieter. I remember, you see, because Heidi wept on my shoulder when Dieter and
Gretchen died—when you took their boys and would not allow their grandparents to
see them until they promised that you and Rakel could raise them as your own.”

She shook her finger at Adolphe. “Now at last the truth
comes out! Ernst and Frank are Dieter and Gretchen’s
kinder
and Tomas’
heirs. It is
they
who own this house and land, even this room our church
has worshipped in all these years!”

With that, the elderly
Frau
Tokker, assisted by her
daughter, sat down.

A sad silence settled on the room. Then Ernst faced Adolphe
and raised an unsteady voice. “You have lied to us all of our lives.
All of
our lives!
”

Adolphe stood up. “You will not speak to me with disrespect!
I raised you; I am your father!”

Ernst shook his head. “No. You are
not
my father.” He
trembled with long-suppressed hurt and rage. “Have you ever treated us as a
father should treat his sons? No!”

Rakel was also on her feet, pleading with Ernst. “Ernst! You
do not know what you are saying! You must obey your father!”

Ernst looked at her sadly. “I am grown now. I will never
obey this man again. And you and your husband will leave this house today. You,
you . . . you are not welcome here.”

He grabbed Frank and yanked him to his feet. “This is
our
home now, Frank.”

He strode to the elders and took the Bible and Tomas’ will
from their hands. “These are our grandmother’s,
ja
? We will return them
to her.” He pointed at Adolphe. “Please help this man to pack his belongings
and leave our property. He has his own farm to go to.”

Ernst paused and added, “Take the church’s things, too—the
benches and tables. There will be no church here again. When we return, I
expect
them
—he pointed at Adolphe and Rakel—and all these things to be
gone.” With a confused Frank trailing behind him, Ernst stormed from the room.

Consternation and confusion reigned. Jan shook his head in
anguish.
Lord! Confusion is not from you! This is now worse than before!

But a still, small voice rumbled in his heart:
I cannot
heal until what has been covered is uncovered and brought into the Light. I
must do a deep work. Trust me
.

Sighing, Jan muttered,
Ja, Lord, you know I will.

~~**~~

Jan and Søren stood on the knoll above their old soddy and wiped
the sweat and dust from their necks and faces. With grim faces they studied
their fields to the east: acres of corn, shriveled and stunted, their stalks
and tassels barely stirring in the dry breeze.

To the north, parched by the glaring sun, were their wheat
fields. The Thoresen men, aided by Sigrün and to a lesser degree by Little Karl
and Arnie, had already harvested the meager early wheat and oat crops. This
second crop of wheat, when sent to Omaha, was to have meant dearly needed cash in
the bank.

But they would send no crops this year.

On Thoresen land and all neighboring farms, the usually lush
prairie browse was burned to dry stubble. What corn the Thoresens salvaged would
have to feed their cattle, horses, goats, and sizable herd of pigs—not only through
the cold winter months, but even now.

The drought that had broken briefly a year ago had reasserted
itself; little rain had fallen this spring to water their fields. The few
newspapers circulating through their community reported that the drought was
widespread and severe, threatening the very survival of America’s plains and prairie farmers.

And so, as distressing as this crop was, they would need every
bit of it—the ears, the stalks, and the leaves—if they were to keep their stock
alive another year.

Jan clapped Søren on the back and sighed. “Praise to God! We
will at least have enough to get by another year.”

Jan and Søren, now sixteen years old, strode between rows of
corn and randomly selected a few ears to sample. They each stripped the husk
from an ear and examined the corn within. Søren bit into his ear and uttered a grunt.
“The kernels are not big,
Pappa
, but they are sweet.”

“
Ja
,” Jan replied, “but the ears will get no bigger.
We should start the harvest tomorrow, eh?”

Søren agreed. Corn was the most labor-intensive and time
consuming of their crops to harvest. Every Thoresen would work the harvest,
from dawn to dusk, until the crop they so desperately needed was safe within
their barn.

In the distance they heard the clanging of the bell
signaling the midday meal. They walked in silence back to the farmhouse, both
of them planning their afternoon tasks in preparation for tomorrow’s start of
the corn harvest.

As they strode into the farmyard, Little Karl, Arnie, and
Kjell ran toward them, jumping with abandon into Jan and Søren’s arms or
grappling them around their legs.

“
Onkel! Onkel!
Is it time?” Little Karl shouted.

Arnie hollered, “
Søren!
Is it time?”

“Is it time to harvest the corn?” Little Karl yelled louder.

Kjell, only three and a half, raced around Jan and Søren,
screaming, “Is it time? Is it time?” again and again, part of the general chaos
that greeted Jan each day.

Heidi, smiling with happy abandon, waved from inside the
screened door. She held tiny Uli by the hand. Uli, too, jumped up and down,
shrieking her delight that
Onkel
and Søren were home for dinner.

“All right, all right,” Jan said, pulling one little boy
from his legs only to have another clamp on. “Let us all go to the pump and
wash up,
ja
? Your
mamma
will not let any dirty hands or faces at
her table, is that not so?”

Jan and Søren made their way to the pump, dragging the tribe
of wild boys who protested against getting their hands and faces washed in the
cold water, even on the sweltering August day.

During the large dinner served by the women, Jan and Søren
made plans to sharpen the farm’s scythes and look over the other tools they
would use for the harvest. When Uli began to fuss for her nap, Jan took her on
his knee. He gently bounced her until she leaned against his broad chest,
yawned, and her eyes drooped.

Jan looked about the table, satisfied with what he saw. Heidi
had cemented her place in their home with her love and care. To Amalie she was
mother and confidante, one who understood Amalie’s loss and grief. To the
children she was their
bestemor
, the only grandmother they would know.
To Jan, Heidi was strength of spirit. Her stability and joy comforted and
encouraged him.

Her grandsons, Ernst and Frank, had, in the last year, retreated
from the community and had little to do with anyone, including their
grandmother. “God will heal their wounds someday,” Heidi declared bravely. “I
will pray for them until the Lord undertakes!”

Adolphe and Rakel had moved back to their own homestead, and
the German church had not voted Adolphe as their lay minister. Instead they had
called an older man whose gentleness was reminiscent of Tomas’. The church met
in his barn, quite a distance from the Thoresen and Bruntrüllsen farms.

Soon after, Adolphe and Rakel sold their homestead and
departed. No one knew where they had gone.

Norvald continued holding services in his barn for those who
lived too far from where the German church met. The Thoresens, Andersons, and
others gathered with them on Sundays.

“
Takk-takk.
” Amalie gestured for Jan to pass Uli to
her. “She will go to her nap now that she has had a moment of her
Onkel
Jan’s
attention. Then Heidi and Sigrün and I can get back to our canning.”

At least the green garden is doing well
, Jan observed.
As long as the well held out, they could pump and haul water to the garden,
ensuring that their family would eat through the long winter months.

Jan gave Uli up reluctantly but acknowledged that he and
Søren needed to get back to work. He pushed back from the table and frowned as
the light from the kitchen window dimmed a bit.

“Are those rain clouds to the north and west?” Søren
remarked. “I did not see rain on the almanac, did you?”

Jan went out the door and stood on the porch followed by
Søren, Little Karl, and Arnie. The sun shone nearly straight overhead but the northwestern
horizon was covered by a cloud that stretched from the heavens to the ground. Jan’s
heart thudded, and he did not understand why.

“It looks like . . . snow . . .”
Søren said, puzzled. “Like a blizzard? How could that be?” True, they had
suffered summer hailstorms many times, but a hail-producing thunderstorm came
from dark, even black, thunderheads.

The cloud was miles wide and miles high. It covered every
aspect to the northwest, blotting out their view of the distant prairie and all
on it. And the cloud was advancing. Quickly.

Something landed on the porch. Jan glanced down just as
something smacked him on his chest. Instinctively he swept it off, but
something else struck his trousers. This time he grabbed it and looked closely.

A grasshopper of some kind. It was small and black, no
larger than a penny, but . . .

Arnie shrieked and swatted at an insect on his shirt. Søren
brushed another out of Arnie’s hair.

The cloud was near, closing on them. And then the locusts were
falling from the sky, millions upon millions of them, falling like living hail.

“
Pappa!
” Søren’s shout conveyed terror.

“Get inside!” Jan bellowed. He and Søren grabbed up the boys
and threw them into the house, following them and slamming the door.

“Close every window,” Jan commanded, swatting the bugs that
had fallen on them and been carried indoors. “Pull the shutters closed!”

A great sound beat the air, growing louder and louder. The
children were crying and screaming. Amalie and Sigrün rushed about the house
sliding up the windows so that they could reach the shutters and pull them in.
Jan and Søren ran to help them, swatting at the insects that were hurtling through
every crack.

The day darkened unnaturally but the noise of insect wings increased
until it was a deafening pounding upon the house, drowning out all other sound.

They huddled in the kitchen, the little boys crowded onto
Jan’s lap sobbing in terror. No one spoke—
no one could be heard!

They could do nothing but wait.

In the near dark Søren studied his father. Jan’s face was
set in sorrowful lines. Søren knew, without being told, that nothing would
remain of their meager crops.

Hours later the din faded and the late afternoon sun came
out. Jan’s small nephews had cried themselves to sleep in his arms and began to
stir. Jan set them down and gestured with his chin to Søren.

His
sønn
opened the kitchen door with caution. Then
he opened the screened door. It swept a swath of insects from the porch. They
were everywhere, all moving, all chewing. Jan and Søren walked toward the barn,
by way of the green garden, their sturdy boots crunching insects with each
step.

The garden was covered in inches of locusts. Where bush
beans and tomatoes had stood several feet high, only a mound of insects
remained.

Jan shuddered. The collective din of the insects’ mandibles
chewing and grinding away was all they could hear until they drew near the barn.
Then the sounds of distressed animals reached their ears.

Jan and Søren ran the rest of the distance. The locusts had
found their way inside the barn and sheds and were consuming grain, hay, and straw
wherever they found it—in the stalls, in the feed boxes, in the pens, even
beneath the animals now crazed by the insects climbing on them, clustering in
their ears and eyes.

Under the hay shelter, Jan and Søren’s meager stacks of
baled grasses and hay crawled with grasshoppers. Jan grabbed heavy canvas
tarpaulins. “Let us cover the bales as tightly as possible!” he shouted.

“But the locusts are already on them!” Søren yelled.

“Sweep off what you can,” Jan replied, “But covering the
bales might keep more locusts from getting to them—perhaps we will save some!”

Even as they worked, Jan’s mind was trying to grasp the
enormity of the swarm and calculate the damage to their farm.

If nothing is left, we will have nothing to feed the
animals
, his mind clamored.
Nothing!
He began to pray—not just for
his family, but for every friend and neighbor. The Andersons! Norvald and Inge!
The McKennies! He knew that for some of his neighbors, this would be the final
straw.

O God, how will we survive this?

The insects ate their fill for two days, devouring anything
containing moisture. They beat upon the windows, fought their way inside
whenever a door was opened, and crept through cracks into the house.

When Jan and Søren ran to the well to fetch water or to tend
the stock, the insects fell on them, chewing at their clothes. When they
returned to the house Amalie and Heidi would pick the insects from them. By the
second day even the children picked up the locusts and threw them into the fire
without flinching.

On the third day, to the thrumming of millions of wings, the
locusts took slowly to the air. Jan and Søren watched from a kitchen window as
the swarm rose, again darkening the skies. Gradually the shadow of the swarm
disappeared to the south and east.

“Where will they go,
Pappa
?” Søren asked, his voice
low. “Will they be back?”

Jan shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Jan and Søren surveyed the damage: It was utter and complete.

The locusts had eaten every living plant to the ground. Jan
could only compare the destruction to that of a fire—and yet, he had seen fires
leave more behind.

The garden was bare dirt defiled with the husks of many dead
locusts. On the slope where his apple trees had helped shade the graves, two sticks
remained, their trunks and branches stripped and gnawed bare.

In the hay shelter, the canvases they had strapped over the hay
bales lay flat on the ground—all but one. Søren lifted it and found three or
four bales still intact. Dead locusts littered the ground as he picked up and
folded the tarps.

“Look at this,” Jan called. Søren followed his father’s
voice to the barn wall where the tools hung.

“See, they have chewed on the leather tack. They have even gnawed
on the wooden handles of our tools,” Jan pointed out.

They went about the business of filling the watering troughs
of the livestock and removing the carcasses of those animals that, in their
crazed states, had injured themselves.

“The chickens are glutted,
Pappa
,” Søren noted. The
chickens were the only animals that had fed well. The locusts had attacked the
straw in the pens, but the chickens had seen them as bounty. They were the only
animals not clamoring to be fed.

Jan thought for a moment. “We have no feed left for the
chickens,” he reported. “It is gone, too. The locusts chewed through the bags
and ate it all.”

He pointed to the dead grasshoppers on the hay shelter
floor. “Let us get the children to sweep up as many grasshoppers as they can.
We can feed the chickens on them for a few days.”

Søren ran toward the house leaving Jan alone.

And then? After even the dead locusts are gone?
Jan
sat down on one of the remaining bales of hay and dropped his head in his
hands.

We have no feed, no hay, no browse for any of our
animals, and neither will anyone else
. Jan rocked back and forth.
We
will have to slaughter most of our animals, saving only breeding stock to
rebuild our herds. But what will we feed even them? And what will I feed my
family through the winter, Lord?

He began to shake.
O God! This land! It has taken so
much! My brother, my child, and my wife! Our crops! And now our animals!

“Oh, God!” Jan cried aloud in agony. “This land! This land
is breaking my heart! I have nothing left of my dreams but this dust and my
tears.”

~~**~~