B.E. Beck - Who Are You, Trudy Herman?: A Novel

Who Are You,
Trudy Herman?

Copyright 2018 by B. E. Beck

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2018
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 9781631523779 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-63152-378-6 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017957934

Book design by Stacey Aaronson

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THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS EITHER ARE THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHORS IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

For Ron, Stephanie, and Teresa

The bond we feel to those names in our family tree can be powerfulfamily names and faded photographs, stirring tears and a sense of history, a sense of loss. Yet, if we trace back far enough, arent we all relatedall deserving of equal justice?

M ost of my familys history on my mothers side their pleasures and struggles, their successes and failuresI learned from Granddad Weber. I never questioned how much was true, because he told the stories as truth, isolated from the grief, pain, and misery that can reach deep enough to form layers around our hearts.

In 1909, when Mom was three, a letter arrived from an old friend of Granddads encouraging him to leave Germany and come to America where jobs were plentiful. After careful consideration, Granddad said, he and Grandma Rose sold their belongings and bought passage on the ship SS Rhein, bidding farewell to family and friends. With two young daughters and Grandma Roses brother, Werner, they sailed to a new home.

After seven days at sea, the ship arrived in New York waters. The sun, low over the horizon, painted the sky beautiful shades of pink. Catching sight of Lady Liberty for the first time, Granddad and Grandma Rose believed the torch she held high beckoned them to the shores of America like a lighthouse guiding ships safely into its harbor. Relieved the journey was over and they would soon walk the land of their new country, Grandma Rose cuddled my eight-month-old Aunt Hilda to her heart and cried.

From the ships, immigrants were ferried to Ellis Island for medical evaluations. Werner was diagnosed with weak lungs and a hernia and was not permitted to land in New York. At nineteen, he sailed on to South America to join a community in Argentina as many of their German shipmates did. That just about broke poor Rosies heart, Granddad said. Still, he and Grandma Rose loved being in America with the hope of employment and a good life.

Those years marched along well until during a cold, harsh winter in Virginia, Grandma Rose and Aunt Hilda died of influenza leaving Granddad with Mom to raise on his own. She was thirteen at the time.

Granddad spoke often of Grandma Rose and Aunt Hilda. For him, they were here only yesterday. He talked to Grandma every day, especially when he didnt know which way to turn. Your grandma always knew exactly what to do, he said with a look of longing as though the past was moving before his eyes.

Today, weAngel, the small wooden angel Granddad whittled for me when I was four, and Isat on Granddads lap. Id crawled onto his lap when I was two and Mom, smiling, insisted I had been there ever since. Resting in Granddads easy chair, we listened to the storms wind beat against the walls and windows and heavy rain pound the roof of the old farmhouse.

Granddad was quiet. Having no reason to talk, we simply relaxed in silence and listened to the workings of nature. With one arm wrapped around Angel and me, Granddad held his pipe away from my face with the other hand, his long, crooked fingers gripping the stem. White streamers curled upward, leaving a scent of cherry in the room, up and up until the circles of smoke spread out and disappeared.

I leaned my head on Granddads chest, his worn brown sweater smelling of tobacco and soap, of safety and comfort. When I woke, the smoke, the cherry scent, and the storms darkness had disappeared.

The sun peeked through the clouds, its yellow face laughing and shining in the windows while it warmed the earth drawing moisture into the air.

Storms over. Lets go. Granddad scooted me from his lap to my feet.

Wed started to pick beans earlier, then without warning, dark clouds blew toward us like a flock of black crows soaring across the sky and forced us indoors.

I still feel like having fresh beans for supper.

Water plowed furrows into the land as it flowed downhill to the creek. We held hands and stepped over the narrow ditches on our way to the vegetable garden at the back of the house. Granddad stopped, pushed his hat back on his head, lifted his face, and squinted at the yellow sun. I believe the heavens is going to give us another drink tonight, Trudy.

I watched the clouds encircle the sun wishing I could read the signs like Granddad did. What I saw were white clouds bunched together in clusters like cotton balls, the dark ones all blown away.

Clouds deliver sustenance and disaster, Granddad explained, his German accent still evident after all his years in America.

He walked slowly and stopped frequently for no reason, his tall body erect, and his face shaded by his hat. He never rushed, but always took time to enjoy the roses bordering the path and comment on the size and color of the blooms. He usually remarked the flowers were not as fragrant since Grandma Rose went to heaven.

Often, Angel and I chased gray squirrels from the garden. Wed run after them until theyd climb up the acorn tree and hide among the branches and leaves.

Clouds bring storms with wind, rain, sleet, and snow. Granddad tightened his hold on my hand. Winds either cool us or destroy us, water nourishes the soil or floods our homes, and snow blankets the earth for protection from the cold and provides moisture or buries us. He hesitated and glanced downward. Are you listening, Trudy?

Thunder rolled in the distance. I nodded and scooted closer to Granddads side, clutching Angel tighter.

Yes, indeed. Storms can shake our very foundation.

How do you know what theyre going to bring? I asked leaning against his legs.

Granddads deep-set hazel eyes, the exact color of mine, studied me from beneath his thick gray brows. It takes a little living first, young lady.

He let go of my hand and placed his on top of my head, a familiar gesture. His fingers slid down and brushed my hair from my face.

Remember, clouds are signs of whats to come.

How much living, Granddad?

His lean, bent fingers lowered to my shoulder and squeezed gently. You have foresight, Trudy. Give yourself some time.

I LOVED GRANDDAD Weber and his easygoing ways. He was my favorite person in the whole world. Granddads thick gray hair, like his eyebrows and long, leathery face, did not change. He rarely smiled, but he was a kind man. A quiet man. He didnt speak unless he had something to say. He once said I rattled on enough for the both of us.