The Holland Press

Immel Hoffstedder stood in silence, mesmerized by the sight of the wooden fence that ran along the edge of the property and disappeared from view as it followed the contour of the land into the valley below. She had walked this path for eight years, but this evening the symmetry of that fence and the smell of country grasses captured her senses in some mysterious way. She allowed herself to stop and fully breathe in the fresh aroma that comes with the first hint of summer’s end.

For a moment, she imagined this enchanted air was working some miracle inside of her, allowing her to transcend the drudgery of thought and, by simply willing some never-known emotion, grow wings and fly above the fence, the farm and the province to real and wonderful places she couldn’t begin to imagine but knew must exist. She flew without effort, without tiring. She flew all night, crossed the great ocean and found an undiscovered continent full of marvel and richness. She would claim this land. Here she would build a village for children and anyone else who needed healing and belonging.

Momentarily lost in the daydream, she looked down, and her breezy flight gave way to the sight of her scuffed brown leather shoes with her feet firmly planted in them. On either side sat wooden milk buckets full of fresh warm milk with bits of cream and grass floating around on top.

She sighed involuntarily and heard herself say, “All right, Immely, we must face the fact that you are twenty-five years old and losing your mind. Mother will not approve.”

“Eemma! Have you forgotten where the house is? Look straight in front of you!”

The tenor voice of her husband Karl, shaped by his German accent, cut through the invisible barrier that she imagined separated her from her actual life. Hearing her name mispronounced yet again brought about a tiny convulsion as she instinctively closed one eye and rolled the other, her neck giving its familiar little twitch. She was a little amused at her natural reaction and wondered if every wife on every farm had managed to develop similar abilities.

Reaching down to grasp the rope handles, she lifted the handmade buckets and marched up the dirt path that led to her back porch, which was, prior to eight years ago, his back porch.

The farmer’s wife set the milk buckets down on the table next to a basket of fresh eggs she had gathered earlier. Evening chores were nearly done, but morning would begin the same routine again. It was a simple one; up at dawn to cook for herself and her husband, then after cleanup she visited the chicken coop to collect rent from the residents there, having given names to several who’d become favorites among the bunch. Big Girl and Lucetta always gave the most eggs and close behind them were Speckles and Mrs. Trillia, named after a nervous neighbor she knew as a child. The farmer’s wife stopped herself from naming the lot of them since most of them would wind up on her table sooner or later.

From the chicken coop, she would carry her basket of warm eggs to a sagging gate that she unlatched and swung open to free the sheep waiting to be released into the pasture. Since she worked alone, Immel made a trip to the kitchen to drop off the eggs, then grabbed her two buckets on the way back out to milk the cows, which had become her permanent job since her husband was bitten on the knuckles by a nursing calf the summer before last. His hand had healed soon enough, but the milking remained hers. Her personal garden demanded much of her time but rewarded her efforts with herbs and vegetables of her choosing, the like of which her husband wouldn’t bother growing on the farm.

There was always cleaning to do, water to be drawn and clothes to be made and mended, leaving little time for reading but plenty for daydreaming. The day’s end would require more cooking and another trip to round up and secure the sheep, gather eggs and relieve the cows of more milk.

The next morning, Immel was awakened disturbingly early to darkness and the sound of a rooster crowing. In her mind the function of a rooster is to crow at daybreak. Any rooster that crows hours before that is a broken rooster.

“I'm going to kill you soon,” she muttered.

“Well, I hope not before you've done all of your wifely duties,” said Karl, as he clumsily groped about her in the sheets. She giggled and batted his hands away, rolling out of bed. She much preferred the cold of hardwood under her feet as opposed to other stimulation presently offered. After washing her face, she looked up from the basin into the mirror to see her freckled cheeks and brown eyes staring back at her. “Your wifely duties,” she whispered, mimicking his Prussian accent. She scoffed at what all those might include, knowing fully what her husband meant. She had married at seventeen to a man twenty-two years her senior. At seventeen, Immel had no understanding of what would be required of her; the only advice from her stoic mother was “work hard and please your husband,” which was cryptic at best.

Karl was a wealthy and respected landowner, and her parents considered it a good marriage. That was largely because her father would receive farmland from Karl in the exchange. She still didn't understand the details of the trade since she had not been made privy to that sort of thing. She did, however, remember the conversation with her father about marrying Karl Hoffstedder. He had been to visit twice and had supper with the family. Immel knew him as her father’s associate, but those two visits were apparently their courtship, as she would later learn. Her father came to talk to her in her room the night of the second visit, which was a bit unnerving since her father hadn't entered her room in four years.

“Karl is a good man, Immely.”

“Yes, papa.”

“He'll make a good husband.”

“Yes, papa.”

She watched her father walk away and was overcome with a dreadful feeling. What had just happened? At first she was confused, yet instinctively she knew. She would be wed soon, to Karl, and that was that. She could cry or pray but she would never protest. This was the manner of things and it was an honor to be married to such a man in this way. She would honor her family and her new husband. She would do what those before her had done; after all, she wasn't a child anymore. She would be a wife.

Whatever that meant.

Later that morning, from her station in the kitchen she could see the short wood-planked shed where her next meal would be hanging, flopping and slowly dying. Karl had just hung a large carp on a post inside and slammed the door to keep the animals from getting to it before she could. That was her cue to take it down, prepare it and cook it. She often wondered what it would be like to have the roles reversed. She could catch the fish and Karl could beat it senseless, scale it, remove the entrails and clean it, quarter it and cook it with vegetables he had picked earlier after cleaning house and washing clothes by hand. A concept she personally found fascinating. “I'm certain Karl would love that idea,” Immel said to herself aloud.

Cleaning fish wasn’t her favorite chore, but no matter, it must be done.

She didn't mind hard work; in fact she enjoyed keeping busy. She did believe, however, that women were capable of much more than they found opportunity to accomplish.

She began the process of cleaning the fish, working quickly because the strong smell would linger on her hands long after the work was done. She hated smelling like fish. Not that it would bother Karl, or that she would ever be surprised by a visitor for that matter. She consoled herself with the knowledge that if she were killed by a wolf someday with no one to help, at least her funeral wouldn’t smell of lake carp. It’s the little things that matter in life, she told herself, especially her life.

She laughed at her own morbid sense of humor, allowing her mind to wander enough to invent the scenery around which an alternative reality might exist. In this new setting, she could easily allow for the fishy smell since she was piloting a large fishing vessel with a deck full of the day’s catch sliding around her high-booted calves like one slimy membrane of some loathsome sea creature she had conquered and now hauled toward shore, fighting the unrelenting wind and crashing waves of a surprise afternoon squall while she readily shouldered full responsibility for all souls on board.

“We shall not perish this day!” Her lips moved slightly as she exclaimed to the crew in her mind. “Fight! Back on your feet, boys, and man the rigging. We aren’t defeated yet!”

A seagull navigating beside her had been sent to assure Captain Immel that fortune favors the bold. In her fantasy, she waved to it, and in return it screeched and squawked back to her. Softly at first, then much louder and very chicken-like, until she realized the sound was real and coming from the chicken coop.

Reaching for a sheep-herding staff, she left the unfinished fish inside the shed and pushed the door shut before running to confront some woodland creature intent on making a meal of her egg layers. At the low wire fence she saw a weasel dash behind a standing crate. Immel placed one hand on a fence post and leapt over the fence while raising her staff with the other, preparing to strike. As most weasels go, this one was much quicker than the farmer’s wife and dodged a heavy-handed blow by the length of its tail, running for its life away from the coop.

A few steps away lay Speckles, motionless, with two red blotches in the white feathers below her head. Immel knelt and touched her, but Speck gave no sign of life. Her heart hurt. Speck had been her friend. A giver of eggs and a confidant who would never break her trust. Now she was gone, and all her mistress received in the exchange was a sharpened hatred of weasels in general and one local murderer in particular.

She vowed her revenge and carried the victim away, deciding that Speck was not to be served on her own table. She buried her beyond the garden, then returned to the shed. The carp had waited, as had every other thing she still needed to do.

By evening, with the fish cooked and the day’s work finally put behind her, Immel wanted to wash away more than the smell on her hands. In their household the wife had been expected to bathe after her husband, but Immel had managed to get her own private bathing room. It was meant to be a nursery, but after a few years of marriage yielding no pregnancy, they had stopped preparing the room for a child, and she got permission to use it for herself. She traded a yearling colt for an old metal bathing tub with feet beneath it, worn enough that she could imagine it had served somebody’s grandmother. Her husband shook his head and called her uppity but indulged her anyway. When he asked what she had given for it, he shook his head again, though this time she caught the little smile he tried to hide.

Having her own bath was double work on Saturdays, every bucket drawn, heated and carried, but worth every bit of it. More importantly, Immel could have a bath any day she wanted if she was willing to do the work. Neither of them would tell another soul about her bathing room. Such an indulgence would paint the Hoffstedders with a royal brush, an air that Karl could not afford in town.

In the early morning hours, Immel dreamt of a place she had never been. Sculpted from childhood storybooks and her imagination, it opened into bustling streets and alleys full of olive-skinned people, a marketplace full of sounds, sights and smells which delighted and filled her with wonder. She saw children’s faces in such detail; she interacted with them and learned some of their names. She held handcrafted goods and could feel the weight of them in her hands. This place felt as familiar as family and as foreign and exotic as something beyond her mind’s ability to concoct.

She had no fear, and every corner opened new and unexplored experiences with no end of delight. She wanted to stay, to live nearby, to make a home among these people who offered unlimited resource and intrigue. She could feel her soul searching for a way to nest here, and she instinctively felt she had much to offer them.

She stopped at an aged wooden table and picked up a scarf from the artisan’s collection. It was handmade, and Immel was certain it contained colors she had never seen. She made her purchase with a simple nod to the crafter, and his smile in return was her receipt.

What an astounding concept this place operated on, she thought. The currency of approval in a land where it flowed in abundance and everyone was validated for what they brought. It felt that the entire world should function precisely this way.

Immel suddenly became aware that this wasn’t her reality. A feeling washed over her of being in some supernatural place of great significance, accessible only in the spirit state, in a dream. She realized fully that she was dreaming, but more... experiencing something true and meaningful.

It was then that she saw a man walking toward her. He had the same familiar feeling as this place, yet she had never seen him before. His eyes locked with hers, and he moved toward her slowly, with determination.

Immel could see every detail of his face as he came closer. She had no fear of this man, yet she could feel herself trembling as he approached. He didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak. They searched each other’s eyes for a while and found deep connection. He reached out to touch her arm, then she woke.

Her heart was pounding and she was out of breath. As the feeling slowly subsided, she was baffled. Immel had no clue what kind of episode that was, but she couldn’t help thinking it was connected to that place, and to that man. Even after she got out of bed, she could still remember the colors in the scarf.

A few mornings later, Karl loaded provisions in the back of the wagon while Immel steadied the mules and secured their harnesses. She was giddy but trying not to show it. This was the first time she would go on an extended trip into Brescia. She had known the city as a place beyond the farm and the lake, but now she would have a few days in which to know it for herself. The marvels of the modern age seemed to arrive there almost every day, and the fact that those exciting changes were within reach had most country folk a bit nervous. Not Immel. She longed for change, for innovation. It meant possibilities, it meant a future.

Their road toward Brescia carried them through country near the south end of Lake Garda. Immel knew this area well and loved it because she had spent many years there as a child and young teenager. She loved living near the lake, watching the boats and the coming and going of goods along the shore.

She had once had access to an extensive library belonging to the estate where her father worked, and she spent long hours and hot summer days deep in the basement reading about a great diversity of things. She read about Lake Garda and the theories of how it came to be; her favorite was that great masses of ice had shaped the land long before anyone lived there to see it. It held wonder for her because it wasn’t created by men with dams. It was a God-made lake whose length took it miles to the north, toward the mountains.

She knew that her life would be very different if it had not been for Lake Garda. She mused about how her life and the lake’s life were intertwined, how different her childhood, her family and even her life as a wife might have been without it.

In those days she had a mentor. The owner of the estate was an aging man with declining health who took a liking to Immel. She had come to trust his intentions, and he told her he sensed something special about her. Gio was the nickname he had earned in his youth and the only name she knew to call him then. Although he had children and grandchildren who loved him, it was Immel he took a keen interest in and chose to invest time teaching things that most young folk, much less a girl, had any chance of learning.

Gio spoke of the wars of Napoleon as things he remembered, not merely things in books, and of the factions that had outlived those wars. Men who supported or resisted Austrian rule could be more present and dangerous than the soldiers themselves. She had not understood every warning then. It was good to have been taught some useful skills by someone who cared and took time and interest in her, even though she was aware that her parents would never have approved if they’d known.

Her mind took her to the yard behind Gio’s house, her training ground of sorts for a time. A place where she learned self-awareness and self-discipline, commodities she had found little opportunity to practice beyond chores since coming to Karl’s farm.

During the wagon ride she was swept away by the scenery and ambiance that this time of year brings. The wind had changed direction this month, coming down from the north and west. She knew it distinctly, or believed she did; it was the smell of the Alps, the smell of Switzerland.

In Brescia, Immel held onto Karl’s arm as they entered the courtyard of the Broletto. She gave a moment of thought to how odd it felt being dressed up and hanging onto her husband as they entered this ancient stone building. Excitement, nostalgia, awe and wonder were all words that couldn’t quite approach what she felt. When Karl went inside for his meeting, she leaned back against a crafted column and wrote furiously in her journal, still unable to fully capture what she was taking in.

While her husband met with other businessmen and officials about affairs she would normally take interest in, Immel chose to wander through the courtyard and the halls open to her, then out among the buildings nearby. She could feel the points connecting: information she had overheard from her father and history she had read about and now walked in, touching and breathing in the actual places where important events had taken place.

She could fall in love with this place. Easy, girl, she warned herself. You are only here as a visitor, a guest for a few days. Enjoy it, then leave it and go home to the farm.

A great sadness fell over her as she heard that thought in her head.

“Then go home to the farm...” she told herself again. When did my own destiny get wrenched away from me? Was it ever something I possessed? Was it always an illusion?

Later that night, Karl spoke to his wife of plans that involved her. That was Karl. There were things his wife needed to know, and the rest of his plans she needn’t be burdened with. Brescia was changing, he told her, and he meant to be involved. More people and more trade would mean a greater need for crops, and he intended that his farm should supply its share.

The railway was already carrying travelers and goods, but to Karl its possibilities had scarcely begun. There would be new sources of revenue and new demands upon the farm. Her role would be less of a home labor worker and more of a company overseer as helpers and workers were added, the farm expanded and modern farming equipment brought in. This was exciting, scary and overwhelming; nevertheless, she set her mind to the task and accepted these new ideas and responsibilities.

“You wanted change, Im. Here it is upon you,” she told herself with a smile.

In a few days, she imagined herself interviewing builders and craftsmen for the new barns and workers’ lodgings which needed to be built before winter. Money wasn’t in short supply now, since the bankers seemed very eager to lend to Karl. Only time and expertise seemed to be the resources she needed more of. Her husband would be away more in negotiations and meetings, and she was beginning to feel the weight of making impactful decisions without his direct supervision, but with his overall approval.

Immel sat at her kitchen table before sunrise with an oil lamp burning and a ledger in front of her. This morning she was up before the rooster crowed. The trip home from Brescia had been full of instructions from Karl and questions from her. She had felt confident enough until he repacked his bag and prepared to leave. Now, after hours alone to contemplate her new schedule, the task at hand felt daunting. She would meet new people today. That was something she would typically enjoy, but this was different. She would be the one making decisions.

“Whatever you do, Eemma, hide that soft touch of yours. People will ride roughshod right over you if you let them.”

That was the last thing she heard from her husband before he left the evening before, bound for Brescia and a morning train. Beyond that lay the longer journey back to Prussia, with changes and arrangements she had not been asked to understand. There was something about being that far removed from Karl that gave her a certain freedom; wings, and with it the sense of danger that comes with flight.

News of work travels fast, and this project had been posted in town two days earlier. Things were already set in motion. This day’s light would bring supplies, craftsmen, a draftsman and laborers. As far as she knew, there would not be another woman to collaborate with, and she would stand in Karl’s place with the decisions that came with it.

She wondered if she could hold her bluff. She wondered if she had one.