“All right, Mutti. How did you know I was going to be on that train?’
“We didn’t.”
“But—”
She smiled up at him. “From what we were told, you could have arrived as early as yesterday afternoon. So we have met every train since then. Today was our third time, so we were especially glad to see you.”
That floored him. “You mean . . . you’ve come from Graswang three different times?”
“Ja,” she said. “We didn’t want to miss you.”
“And you walked here and back three times?”
“No,” she laughed. “Your father bought a new milk cart last year and it’s large enough to hold all of us.”
Hans nodded but wasn’t about to be deflected. “No one knew I was coming. I didn’t even know when I was leaving until just a few minutes before I left.”
“Oh?” his mother said with a twinkle in her eye. “No one?”
He started to shake his head, and then it hit him. “Emilee?”
“Ah,” she said, half musing, “so it’s not Nurse Fromme, now, it’s Emilee?”
“Emilee called you?”
“Yes. Does that shock you?”
“How? You don’t have a phone.”
“We do now.” His father said, turning around. “First telephone in Graswang,” he said proudly. “Now there are four or five others, but we were the first.”
“I told you that in my letter,” his mother explained. “Didn’t you get it? I gave specific instructions on how to make the connection.”
“Uh . . . no, I didn’t get it.” He was reeling. He lowered his voice even more and spoke to his mother. “When did Nurse Fromme call you?”
“Yesterday morning. About nine-thirty. Maybe ten.”
“From Pasewalk?”
“No. She said she was in Königsberg, helping her mother.” She slowed her step, peering up at him. “She didn’t tell you?”
He shook his head.
“Well, well,” Inga said archly, “and I thought it was your idea. I just assumed that you wanted us to meet you at the station. You know, it being Christmastime and all.”
Hans winced but decided there was nothing he could safely say to that. “So, how long did you two talk?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m curious, Mutti. Did you talk very long?”
“Not very.”
Inga had turned her attention forward. Heidi had slowed as Miki broke off from the other children and came back to join her mother. She pulled her mother down and whispered in her ear. Heidi smiled and turned around. “Hans, Miki wants to know if she can walk with you and Oma. She wants to hold your hand.”
“Of course,” he called. “I’d be delighted.” Then to his mother: “So how long did you talk?”
“Umm, I don’t know. Maybe twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes! What in the world did you talk about?”
She ignored that and spoke to Miki. “Would you like to hold Onkel Hans’s hand, Liebchen?”
Miki nodded vigorously and stuck out her hand. Hans glared at his mother as he took it. “This conversation isn’t over,” he muttered.
“It is for now,” she said happily.
And so he turned his focus to Miki. “Would you like to ride on Onkel Hans’s shoulders?”
She shook her head gravely.
“You just want to hold my hand?”
That brought an enthusiastic nod. Smiling, Hans took her by the hand and they set off again. “Isn’t she a sweetheart?” Inga whispered.
Hans nodded absently. His mind was racing, and he felt his irritation start to rise again. Had Emilee been afraid he might back out on the whole thing?
But as he felt Miki squeeze his hand, shame drove those feelings away. What had happened just now with his family had been wonderful. If Emilee hadn’t called, he’d be looking for a room right now. And probably someone in the village would see him and race off to tell his mother that he was home. That would not have been good.
Did Emilee understand all of that? Was this what she had been hoping for?
And with that, he forgave her, for it had been perfect. Absolutely perfect. Hans squeezed the tiny hand in his gently, realizing that he was happier at this moment than he had been in over four years. His thoughts raced out across the miles. Thank you. Thank you, dear Emilee, for seeing clearly what I could not see at all.
Chapter Notes
Saint Nicholas was a Catholic saint who lived about 300 years after Christ. He is said to have been a protector of children and often gave them gifts. Though this may have come later, in most pictures he is shown in a red robe and has a full head of hair, a thick mustache, and a full beard, all of pure white. He was born into a wealthy family but decided to follow Christ’s admonition to “sell all that you have and give to the poor.” This was how his name came to be associated with gift-giving and blessing those in need.
Nicholas died on December 6, 343. Many years later, also on December 6, he was sainted by the Catholic Church. Since then, December 6 was always celebrated as St. Nicholas Day. It is still observed as such throughout much of Europe. It has long been a custom in Germany and other European countries for children to clean their shoes on December 5 and place them beside their doors that evening. While the children are sleeping, Nicholas fills their shoes with nuts, gingerbread, chocolate, candies, and fruits. If they have been naughty, he leaves a switch with their parents. Even today, it is still traditional to have St. Nicholas, accompanied by Ruprecht (dressed in plain brown robes), visit family Christmas parties and deliver gifts.
December 11, 1918, 3:45 p.m.—Eckhardt dairy farm, Graswang, Bavaria
“Mutti?”
“I’m in the back bedroom, dear,” a voice called.
Hans walked through the kitchen, up the half-flight of stairs, and into the bedroom where his parents had slept for the last thirty-nine years and where his grandparents had slept for that long before them. His mother was seated on the padded stool in front of the small dressing table and mirror, hunched over and picking the loose threads from the hem of a skirt. Probably Annaleise’s, judging from its size.
She looked up and smiled. “Was that the mailman I just heard?”
“It was. How long has Fritz had a bell on his bicycle?”
“About two years now. It came with the new bicycle the Postal Department bought for him.”
“Wow. Really coming up in the world, eh?”
“Don’t be snippy, dear. It doesn’t become you.”
Hans ignored that, not wanting to get sidetracked. “I have a question for you, Mutti.”
“All right. What is it?”
“Has Emilee called you on the phone lately?”
Her hands went still, but she didn’t look up. “Why do you ask?”
“Thank you for not asking, ‘Emilee who?’” He walked over and dropped a letter on the skirt.
She leaned closer and then shook her head. “I can’t read it without my glasses.”
He didn’t believe that. Emilee wrote in fairly large script. “Where are they?”
“Oh, just read it to me, Hans. They’re downstairs somewhere.”
He sighed and took it back. “It’s dated three days ago.”
Sunday, December 8th
Dear Hans,
Returned from Königsberg late last night. Much accomplished, but much more to be done. Ernst and I leave again first thing tomorrow. Hope to finish up in a week. Mother is adjusting well to Pasewalk and a smaller house. It is especially good for Mother to be away from there. Königsberg is not a safe place to be. I was very glad to have Ernst with me at all times. Heinz-Albert provides company for Mother all day long, and vice versa.
Heard you arrived safely in Bavaria.
Hans stopped and gave his mother a sharp look. She pretended not to see it.
Hoping all with your family is well and that you are enjoying getting reacquainted with your nieces and nephews.
With warm wish
es,
Emilee
He lowered the paper. “How does she know all that, Mama?”
“Because she asked.”
“So you did call her?”
“No. Actually, she called me.”
He mouth fell open a little. “Since I’ve been here?”
“The day after you arrived.”
“And you didn’t let me talk to her?”
“She didn’t ask to talk to you.”
He threw up his hands. “What is this, some kind of conspiracy?”
Inga finally looked up, and her eyes were glinted with a touch of merriment. “Yes.”
Hans snorted in disgust. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“Is there anything else in her letter?” his mother asked.
“She gave me her address and a phone number to reach her.”
“Ah.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just, ah.” Inga’s amusement deepened. “The phone is downstairs in the kitchen.”
“What makes you think I’m going to call her?”
She just rolled her eyes and went back to work on the skirt. “Or,” she said, not looking up, “if you’d rather call from the exchange in Oberammergau, that would be fine, too.”
Hans spun around and started away but then turned back. “Maybe I will. That would be better than having the operators and everyone else on the party line here in Graswang listening to my conversation.”
“Then go, dear. If it bothers you that much, just go.”
He stalked out and started down the steps. His mother called after him, “Put on a warm jacket, dear. It’s supposed to snow later.”
“I’m not going,” he called back.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because right now I’m pretty upset with Fräulein Fromme, as well as my mother.”
“I understand, dear. And the fact that she’s gone back to Königsberg has nothing to do with that?” Her voice was filled with sweet innocence.
Hans made some nasty comment as he stomped down the stairs. Inga ignored it. “Why don’t you go see Miki, then? She’ll cheer you up.”
December 21, 1918, 6:05 p.m.
“Onkel Hans. Onkel Hans. Onkel Hans.”
The children clapped their hands in rhythm as they chanted the words. Little Miki clapped right along with the others. Hans Otto, laughing at how earnest she was, looked at her father. “Sorry, Klaus.”
Klaus Borham, who was seated on a three-legged milking stool in the stall next to him, pulled a face and turned to his wife. “Heidi,” he called with pretended offense, “why am I not hearing anyone chanting, ‘Papa Klaus. Papa Klaus. Papa Klaus’?”
His wife, trying hard not to smile, bent down to her daughter. “Miki. You need to cheer for Vati.”
She kept right on clapping. “No, Mutti. I want Onkel Hans to win.”
“Why?”
“Because I love Onkel Hans the most,” she responded, surprised that her mother had to ask.
Inga and Hans Sr. burst out laughing. They loved all of their grandchildren dearly, but this little one was a pure delight. “Well, Klaus,” Hans Sr. called, “there you have it. But don’t worry, Oma and I will cheer for you.”
Touched by the simplicity of Miki’s words, Hans Otto turned to his brother-in-law and said in a low voice, “You know, of course, that you have to let me win so that I don’t break Miki’s heart.”
“Ha!” Klaus cried. Then he turned to his father-in-law. “We’re ready, Opa. Give the signal.”
Actually, Hans’s jaunty confidence was somewhat forced. Until he had returned home about ten days earlier, he hadn’t milked a cow in a very long time.
On the other hand, Klaus and his other two brothers-in-law now ran the Eckhardt dairy farm, and between them they milked thirty-two cows night and morning.
The irony of that had hit Hans more than once since his return. He, who was the designated heir, would someday own the farm, the house, the three cottages that now housed his sisters and their families, and fifteen acres of rich meadowland. But he, by his own choice, had enlisted in the army. Because of the amount of milk, cheese, and butter the farm produced for the war effort, all three of his brothers-in-law had been given agricultural exemptions from conscription into military service. So the heir went through hell while the workers enjoyed four years of relative peace. And had, on average, about twice the amount of food that families in the cities had.
On such small hinges did the gates of fate swing.
When he had arrived home two weeks ago, Hans had offered to help with the milking. His father had been shocked at the thought. Not after all he had been through, his father harrumphed. Hans’s three sisters, who had doted on him through his growing-up years, concurred. He hadn’t come all the way from Berlin to milk cows. But then his mother had intervened. “I think it would be good for you, Hans,” she said quietly. And so he had started the next morning. He was back into it again, but enough to beat Klaus? He doubted that.
The chanting stopped, and a hush fell over the children as their grandfather stepped forward. “All right,” he called. “You know the rules. Each man milks three cows. And that means fully milked, including the strippings. Just as we do every night and morning. First man done wins.”
“And gets the biggest piece of Oma’s chocolate cake,” Inga sang out.
Karl, who was a more methodical milker, had decided to let Klaus represent the brothers-in-law. Rudi, who had not been raised on a farm and who had moved here only about a year ago, also bowed out. Anna teased him about it, but not very vigorously.
Hans took the first stall; Klaus was in the second. Both scooted their stools in a little closer to the cows and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads into the cows’ flanks.
Hans’s father raised one hand. “Ready? Eins. Zwei. Drei. GO!”
Their hands shot forward, grabbed the swollen teats, and went to work. The children erupted, cheering, clapping, shouting, and jumping up and down. Hans found himself laughing as he worked his hands feverishly back and forth. Klaus did this night and morning and had done it for years now. For all Hans’s big talk, he knew he was in for a contest.
Done! Leaving the nearly full pail of milk for his sisters to move out of the way, Hans grabbed his stool and leaped past Klaus to the next stall. Klaus was still seated, his hands moving more slowly as he stripped the last of the milk from his cow. The kids went wild, and Hans was delighted to see that even his mother was rooting for him, in spite of his father’s promise to cheer for Klaus. But for some reason, the second cow was not in a good mood. She kicked back at Hans as he sat down, and he had to jerk to one side to avoid being knocked down. By the time Hans finished with her, Klaus was on to his third animal and had a twenty-second lead on him.
As his sisters set the four milk pails aside, the children were in a frenzy, yelling and screeching. But whether it was for him or for Klaus, Hans could no longer tell. Never had Hans’s fingers flown so fast. The streams of milk were coming so fast that the surface of the milk was covered with two inches of foam. He concentrated, forcing his hands to go faster and faster. He could feel the muscles in his forearms starting to seize up on him, but he ignored them. He was barely aware of the children. Sweating, he drove himself on with furious intensity.
A minute later, he leaped to his feet and kicked the stool away. His arms shot into the air. “Done!” he cried.
“No!” Klaus also jumped to his feet and raised his hands, but he was about three seconds too late. Hans started doing a little dance of triumph, and then he saw Miki hurtling at him. With a roar of delight, he swept her up in his arms, swinging her around and around as she squealed happily. “You won, Onkel Hans! You won!”
He kissed her soundly on the cheek. “No, Miki. We won. If you hadn’t been cheering and clapping for me, I could never have done it.”
She beamed. “I know.” She turned to her father and gave him a pitying look. “Sorry, Papa.”
/> “Yeah,” he growled. “I can see that.”
8:30 p.m.
Hans looked around the table. By firm decree of his mother, the supper dishes were left stacked in the sink, soaking in soapy water. This was Hans’s last night, and they weren’t going to spend it doing dishes.
Miki was on his lap eating the rest of his double-sized piece of German chocolate cake. Frustrated that he kept stopping to talk, she had finally turned toward him. She took his face in both of her hands and pulled him down until she was looking directly into his eyes. “I do it myself,” she declared in disgust. From then on, she held the fork. About every fifth bite she would turn and put some into his mouth, but if he wasn’t paying attention, she’d pop him one on the chest.
Miki’s feisty determination tickled Hans so much that it was all he could do not to encircle her in his arms and squeeze her until she cried out in protest. With every passing minute, he was realizing just how much he was going to miss this little girl and her total devotion to him. But it wasn’t just her. He turned to watch his mother, who was talking to Gerhardt, Miki’s older brother. Something she said brought a huge smile to his face, and he reached out and touched her hand. It was a tender moment, and it hit Hans hard.
He had been eight years without his family. Eight! Only now did he realize what he had missed. The birth of two grandchildren, including Miki, with another on the way. Anna’s marriage. The deaths of his grandparents. Now the wrinkles in his mother’s face were deepening almost daily. Her hands were somewhat gnarled as her arthritis grew worse. But there was a serenity in her that was . . . what? He couldn’t even think of the right word. Beautiful? Yes, but . . . content. That was it. She was thoroughly content with life now that she had her son back.
Hans looked at his father, who was half asleep in his chair. He had aged the most of all. The doctors said he was still clean of cancer, but Hans could see the toll it had taken on him. His skin had a sallow look to it. His hair had noticeably thinned, and he had lost enough weight that his clothes hung on his frame. The biggest change, though, was in his energy. He had not only let his sons-in-law take over the farm chores, but he no longer rode in with them to Oberammergau to deliver their product to their customers.