Loving Luther Page 2

  “There is another door on the other side of the building,” Sister Odile said, “open to all who seek sanctuary. This one is just for us.”

  Us. I repeated the word.

  “The sisters. And the girls. Other little girls, just like you. And bigger, too. We don’t lock the door until after supper, and then don’t open it at all after dark. You got here just in time.”

  The mention of the word supper brought my stomach rumbling to life, as loud as the sound of the sliding bolt and creaking hinges. Whatever hunger I felt, however, knotted itself into pure fear at the image in the open doorway. No amount of black fabric could shroud the twisted figure of the old woman who stood, leaning heavily on a thick walking stick, on the other side. A stub of candle illuminated a face the likes of which I had never seen before. One eye clouded with blindness, thin lips mismatched to each other, and a cascade of fleshy pink-tinged boils dripping like wax down one side. In stature, she was not much taller than I, and I stood silent and still as a post under the woman’s studious gaze. Then the single squinted eye was aimed up at Sister Odile, and a voice squawked, “She’s too late.”

  “Sister Gerda.” Sister Odile spoke soothingly as both greeting and introduction. “This is our newest charge, Katharina.”

  “Supper’s over and cleaned up.” Her lips moved like waves, producing a spittle that dripped unchecked down her chin. “Thought you made it clear to have her here by three o’clock.”

  “So are we to stay out here until morning?” Sister Odile brought me close to her side. “Or will you kindly allow us to come in?”

  Sister Gerda muttered as she scuttled backward, opening the door wide enough for a full view of the entry, where another door—equally impressive—dominated the facing wall. The long, narrow room was lined with two wooden benches. Above each hung a tapestry, but the light was too dim to make out the images.

  “Go and fetch her a cup of water,” Sister Odile said, leading me to sit on one of the benches. “And some bread, too. I’m sure you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, then said, “Yes, ma’am,” in case it was too dark for a silent response. An invisible prod from Papa prompted me to add, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Kitchen’s closed up,” Sister Gerda said with a sniff. “Cleaned up, too. It’s nearly seven.”

  “This wouldn’t be the first time somebody crept into the kitchen for a slice of bread after dark. Would our Lord not bid us to share what we have? Does our obedience to him snuff out with the sun? You’re a quick, silent little one, Sister Gerda. No doubt you can be there and back before the hour tolls. And should anyone comment, tell them you are there on my errand. Schnell! Before the poor girl collapses from hunger.”

  I listened, fascinated by the rise and fall of Sister Odile’s tone. Demanding at first, then affectionate, authoritative, and almost playful at the end. Almost as if four different women spoke from within the habit, each spinning to show her face from behind the veil. This, I knew, was a woman to be respected, maybe even feared. While her size brought on a certain intimidation, a level of comfort came with it too. Stooping, she took the candle stub from Sister Gerda, touched it to a sconce on the wall, and handed it back with a sweetly whispered reminder to hurry. Then she went to one of the benches and settled her weight upon it, bringing out a creaking protest from the wood.

  “Komm her.” She held out her hands, gold band winking in the candlelight. It was impossible to distinguish sleeves from shadow, but the face floating in the midst of the darkness was wide and smiling.

  Without another thought, I took the few steps to cross the room and climbed up into the softness of Sister Odile. Arms wrapped around me, and I was absorbed in the deepest embrace I could remember since before Mama fell ill. I pressed my face into the warm, worn wool and felt the rumbling of the sister’s breath. Humming, now, a tune I did not recognize, but somehow knew to be ancient. Sacred. I closed my eyes, knowing it would be safe to cry now. The tears could flow into the wool, and as long as I did not sniffle, I could pour my fear and sadness into this woman. Instead, with each breath, I felt the block of fatigue from the journey begin to crumble, turning to little pebbles like those on the walkway, and finally to dust. I felt heavy, too heavy to cry. Too heavy to lift my head and ask where I might go to sleep. Too heavy to close my lips when I felt its pull.

  The last thing I remembered was the coarseness of the cross on Sister Odile’s breast pressed into my cheek, each stitch wrapped around the lullaby.

  CHAPTER 2

  Voices whispered at the edge of sleep.

  “Should we wake her?”

  “We have to, or Sister Gerda won’t let her have any breakfast.”

  My stomach gurgled at the mention of it. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day, and I’d fallen fast asleep, forgetting about the half of a sausage in my pocket, let alone the meal the monstrous sister was sent to fetch for me.

  “Poke her shoulder, Girt.”

  “You poke her shoulder. You’re the brave one.”

  “How brave do you have to be to poke a little girl’s shoulder? It’s the perfect opportunity for you to grow your courage.”

  “What if she bites?”

  “She won’t bite.”

  “But what if—”

  At that moment I wished I could bite, imagining a snap of my teeth around their pointing fingers. They’d howl in pain and I’d jump up and run away. Back home, even, if I could remember the path. Instead, I clamped my eyelids down tighter and could feel them vibrating with the pressure.

  “Wait a minute.” The first voice again, and close enough that I could feel warm breath on my cheek. “I think she’s awake. Hey, girl. Are you awake?”

  Then came a none-too-gentle push—almost a shove, really—to my shoulder, and I brought my arms up protectively.

  “Not so rough, Therese. She’s little.”

  “Well, she’s never going to get any bigger if she sleeps through breakfast. I’m going to go tell Sister Gerda she wouldn’t wake up. In fact—” the voice was so close now, I tried to push my head deeper into the wooden bench to escape the words—“I’ll tell her that the little thing just died in the night. And we can drag her out to the rubbish heap and have her portions for ourselves.”

  “Stop that.” There was a sound of a scuffle, the girl Therese being yanked away, and feeling as though a protector had been established, I opened my eyes.

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  I knew from the voice that this was Therese—the same girl who had been speaking so menacingly close, but who proved herself too beautiful to inspire further fear. She looked like she’d been assembled from new, fresh snow. White-blonde hair framed a porcelain face; ice-blue eyes held a steady gaze above a pointed nose. Her mouth hid behind a pretty hand, one finger touched to her lips, warning me to silence.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead.” This from the other voice, Girt, and I pulled my gaze away from Therese to see a vision of pure, warm joy. Both girls wore plain dresses of homespun wool, with stiff aprons, thick black socks, and sturdy wooden shoes. While Therese somehow managed to look like a fairy princess trapped in a peasant’s dress, Girt looked like a sturdy, milk-fed farmer’s daughter, complete with full cheeks and wide brown eyes. Just looking at her made me think of gingerbread, my mother’s gingerbread, straight from the oven. Sweet and peppery. I fought an overwhelming urge to reach out to take a pinch of Girt’s freckled flesh.

  “Your name’s Katharina,” Therese said, as if making a proclamation. “And you’re six years old, but you’re small. I would have said you were four, but they don’t like to take in girls that little. Sometimes they wet the bed, and then everything smells awful for days. You don’t wet the bed, do you?”

  “No,” I said, though I would have lied in the moment and refused sleep for the rest of my life if I did.

  “Good. Because we haven’t time for babies here. You’ll start lessons with the rest of us and just have to keep up. Can you read at a
ll?”

  “A little.” This was not so much a lie as an exaggeration. I knew my letters and could write my name and the names of everyone in my family. I’d been working a sampler with Mama and had covered the hearth with charcoal renderings of my practice until the new mama made me wash it all away.

  “We’re learning Latin,” Girt said, beaming with pride. “And if we practice and study very hard, someday we’ll be able to read the Scriptures as easily as the priests can.”

  “That’s Sister Odile’s doing,” Therese said, her nose wrinkled. “I think it’s a giant waste of time.”

  I regarded Therese closely, trying to guess the girl’s age. She had the stature and features of a child, but everything else about her seemed like a grown-up stuffed into a little girl’s body. Her eyes held both wisdom and sadness, and her words came out with a snap of authority. Like at this moment, when she pointed directly at me and said, “What is that? Give it to me.”

  My hand went to my throat and touched the familiar gold chain. “It’s my mother’s.” I drew out the locket attached to the chain, but would not open it. Not in front of these girls, because inside were tiny, braided strands of hair. Mine and my mother’s, intertwined, no thicker than the width of embroidery silk. I would cry if I looked at them right now, and in just these few moments, I knew I never wanted to cry in front of Therese. Girt, maybe. She seemed softer, like a mother in training, but Therese would have no patience for tears.

  “Give it,” Therese said, reaching, but I took the necklace off, wadded it in my fist, and hid it behind my back. I knew it was a losing battle, the two of them against me, each outmatching me in size and strength, but I’d put up a fight if I had to. Growing up with three older brothers had taught me to use my size to an advantage. I could kick hard and low and bite into the soft flesh above the wrist. I bared my teeth in preparation and sat back on the bench, feet straight out in defense.

  “It’s all right.” Girt moved to sit beside me and positioned herself as a barrier. “You can trust her with it, or give it to me if you’d rather. We’ll keep it safe, I promise. The sisters will take it away, and you won’t see it again. We’re not allowed to keep anything personal.”

  “Or valuable,” Therese interjected. “Not if they can swap it for a few more coins in the coffer.”

  “Here.” Girt held out her hand, and the softness of the gesture beckoned mine. I remembered Sister Odile’s admonition. Nothing. Tightening my fingers around the chain, I offered a silent thanks to God for the darkness that had kept this treasure hidden. Until now, of course, when the glint of gold had caught Therese’s eye. Better Therese than one of the sisters, though? According to these girls, yes, and Girt at least seemed deserving of my trust. With the last bit of hesitation, I loosened my grip and watched the chain and locket fall into Girt’s waiting hand.

  “Don’t open it,” I said, wishing I sounded strong enough to carry out some punishment should they disobey.

  “We won’t.”

  Girt immediately handed the locket over to Therese, who flipped up the hem of her skirt and secreted the necklace into a pocket on the underside. “Once you get your new dress,” she said, smoothing her pinafore, “you need to tear it. Trip and fall, or step on the hem when you’re on the stairs, or catch it on a nail—”

  “Wait a few days,” Girt chimed in, “so it doesn’t look suspicious.”

  “And when you mend it, put in a pocket. We’re not allowed to have pockets, but some of us do.”

  “But not everyone.” Girt again, a voice of caution. “So don’t tell any of the other girls. You’ll ask Sister Gerda for a scrap to mend your dress. She’ll want you to do it right in front of her. Can you sew?”

  “Yes, I sew all the time at home.”

  “Well, forget you can,” Therese said. “Make a mess of it, and ask Sister Gerda to help you.”

  “She won’t, of course,” Girt said, “because she can hardly see. She’ll send you off to find an older girl to help.”

  “And we’ll be the older girl.” Therese finished the plot with a note of such finality, I couldn’t imagine not complying.

  “When will I get a new dress?”

  Girt took a pinch of my sleeve. “This is in good shape. They could get a few pennies for it, and you’re small enough to get something handed down to you. I’d say even today.”

  “So if you have anything else,” Therese said, “hand it over. Because if you’re caught with it, you’ll get stripes.”

  “What are stripes?”

  “Never mind.” Girt turned to Therese. “Why are you being so mean? Trying to scare her on the first day. Still—” she leaned in close—“do you have anything else you want us to hold for you?”

  There was something else, deep in the pocket—the real pocket—of my dress, wrapped in a bit of coarse napkin taken from the inn where Papa and I had spent the night. The sausage. Rather, half of a sausage, a little more than half, as I’d been too nervous to eat it for breakfast. It had traveled the course of a day’s walk in my pocket and had remained as I slept. I reached for it now, bringing out the grease-soaked napkin to the utter delight of the two girls. Girt, in particular, appeared to be restraining herself from snatching it away.

  “It’s sausage, isn’t it?” She inhaled, scrunching her whole face up in the process. “Sage and pepper. I can smell it.”

  Therese practiced no such control and grabbed it. “So will everyone else. It’s Friday, stupid girl. Were you thinking you were going to carry it around until the resurrection?”

  “Blasphemy!” Girt cried, hands clasped to her mouth in horror only to be beset by her own giggle.

  “I forgot about it,” I said weakly. “And I lost track of the days. Papa didn’t say anything. I should have—”

  I was interrupted by an echoing screech.

  “Girt! Therese! You naughty girls!”

  The halls outside this small room must have been cavernous. Therese pulled us into a circle.

  “Sister Gerda,” Girt whispered. “We were supposed to fetch you straight to the dining hall for breakfast.” She turned to Therese. “What should we do?”

  “Go to breakfast, of course.”

  “But what about—?” Girt pointed to the greasy bundle. “We’ll get stripes for sure.”

  “Better than having our immortal souls condemned to hell.” Again our names were called, this time with greater impatience, and the first hint of fear crept into Therese’s face. “All right,” she hissed. Then, to me, “Have you had your first Holy Communion yet?”

  “N-no,” I stammered, too caught up in fear to consider whether or not this was an enviable state.

  “Then it’s not such a sin for you.” Therese tore the sausage into three pieces and handed each of us our portion. “And, Girt, we have a week before confession, and I’ll take half portions of every meal until then as penance. Now hurry.”

  Not until the morsel passed my lips did I realize how truly hungry I’d been. Never mind that it had gone cold and crumbly, the sage and spices had a dizzying effect, and I grasped the arm of the wooden bench to keep myself steady as I ate. From the expressions on their faces, Girt and Therese were equally enraptured, so much so that when the heavy wooden door flew open, they turned their backs and continued to chew, steadily, offering a guttural “G’morning, Sister Gerda,” to the nun’s chastising greeting.

  The woman was no less frightening in the fullness of morning, especially given the grayish quality of the light coming through the narrow windows, and the sight of her was enough to make the bit of sausage stick in my throat. I covered my mouth, hoping to disguise the choking as nothing more than a cough, as Girt and Therese gathered around me, hiding their discretion behind the goodwill act of petting the new girl.

  “Don’t tell me she’s sick,” Sister Gerda said, making no move to offer comfort. “Got enough of that with the last one, bringing half you girls into the infirmary before she died.”

  I hazarded a peek under Therese�
�s arm and noticed not only the density of the cloud over one of Sister Gerda’s eyes, but that the other was nearly hidden by the rise of tumorous flesh. She was looking not so much at us but toward us, making me wonder why we should bother to hide mortal sin, until Sister Gerda’s nose wrinkled with authoritative scrutiny.

  “What’s that?”

  Girt’s whole body shuddered in a swallow. “What’s what, Sister Gerda?”

  “I smell—”

  “It’s the girl,” Therese said, and that’s when I noticed she was not only patting my back in the guise of relieving my cough, she was rubbing the greasy napkin over every inch of my dress. “I think they must have spent the night next to a smokehouse or a butcher’s shop. She reeks of sausage.”

  “That’s it,” Sister Gerda confirmed. “That’s the smell. Sausage.” She said it with a wistfulness that testified to the rareness of the treat. “She’s going to have all our mouths watering, this one will.”

  I gulped and was about to speak when Therese elbowed me, hard.

  “She needs a bath. And she’s been riding in carts with all kinds of animals. Personally, I think it would make me sick to sit next to her and try to eat. The other girls too.” She leaned in close, nearly nose-to-nose. “Are you really very hungry, Katharina? Or do you think you can wait until dinner? That’s at noon, just a few hours from now.”

  Of course I was hungry. The nibble of sausage had only served to awaken my appetite, but I couldn’t attribute the sudden weakness of my knees to day-old emptiness or newborn fear. I’d sinned, caused others to follow, and now was part of a complex lie to cover it up. At home I paid little attention to such things, what with the constant barrage of my brothers’ fists, my father’s tears, and my mother’s slow, lingering death. Now it seemed I’d carried all of that darkness into this holy place and divided it among these innocents who had been nothing but helpful. Perhaps not entirely kind, but I was after all a stranger, and they had offered me a camaraderie forged in secrets. In Girt, I might have a friend, but Therese was more than that. She was a protector. What I would bring to the trio, I didn’t know. I was little, weak, and not even a real Catholic yet, but I felt pure strength coming through Therese’s direct gaze and Girt’s lingering grip on my arm.