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Now that he could speak more English, Lenert was eager to learn how to write in the language. As he had told Isaac, he had only learned to write the basics back in Prussia, in something that Isaac called ‘script,’ which was different from the ‘printing’ that was used in books. So he had a lot to learn.
That evening they sat in the lamplight and Isaac demonstrated the difference between Lenert’s name in both print and script. “Do you see how the letters connect here?” Isaac asked. He placed his hand over Lenert’s and wrote his own name in script. “See the way I had to draw that little extra line on the bottom of the S to connect it?”
Lenert nodded, enjoying the feeling of Isaac’s hand wrapped around his own. His fingers were slimmer than Lenert’s, though they were the same length, and Isaac had a callus on the inside of his second finger. “And letter A is different,” Lenert said, forcing himself to concentrate on the writing, not the warmth of Isaac’s hand, or the way he leaned in so close that Lenert could have shifted his mouth just a fraction and kissed him.
They practiced each letter of the alphabet in both print and script, and Lenert found the difficult letters his favorites, because each time Isaac would grasp his hand and guide him through making them. “Now these two dots above the vowels, they are called the umlaut,” Isaac said, and Lenert laughed at his pronunciation.
“Oom-lout,” he corrected, and Isaac imitated him.
“See, I am teacher now,” Lenert said proudly.
“And you must help me with this letter,” Isaac said, and he sketched out a very awkward eszett that looked little like the ones Lenert had seen in Prussia. This time Lenert wrapped his hand around Isaac’s and guided it through the β, with its long tail hanging like a mule’s. Then, playfully, he dragged his finger along Isaac’s buttocks as if miming a tail there, and Isaac laughed and swatted his hand away.
Over the next few days, Lenert practiced his penmanship while Isaac read. Once he had mastered his letters enough, he decided to write his parents a letter telling them that he was well and safe in America, even if they would not care. By the lantern light one evening in the middle of the week, he put aside his penmanship lesson and rehearsed what he wanted to say in his head, choosing his words carefully.
It was funny how his German came back to him so easily, when he had become accustomed to speaking in English, often frustrated because he did not know how to say what he wanted or what he felt.
“Greetings from America,” he began. “After I left Cloppenburg, I spent some time in Bremen, earning money for my passage across the Atlantic. On the boat I met many men from Prussia and Germany—even a couple of Berliners! These city people are not so far from those in the country, though they spoke with terrible accents.”
He licked the end of the pen, thinking of what to write next. “When I arrived in Philadelphia, many people were kind to me. I found a job walking along a canal taking care of a pair of mules who towed boats up and down.”
Isaac looked over his shoulder during a break from his book, and surveyed the German words on the page. “Do you write to your parents?” he asked.
Lenert nodded, and finished a word, dotting the period at the end.
“But you said they cannot read?”
Lenert nodded. “The village priest will read to them.”
“This priest, he knows why you left?”
“Is small town. But he is a good man, the priest. And I will only write what I want the whole town to know.”
“After a year, I changed to work along the canal, where I turn the gates to open and close the lock for barges. I live in a small cottage and grow many fruits and vegetables, as Papa taught me. And Mama will be pleased to know I prepare some of the food she fed us as children, too.”
He did not mention Karl-Heinz, his broken leg, or even give Isaac’s name. Only tell them what they might want to hear, he reminded himself.
He closed with affectionate regards to his sisters, and wrote his father’s name, the road where the farm was located, and the town and country on the envelope Isaac had left for him. Then he went out into the summer sunshine.
Yellow daisies with black centers grew by the side of the cottage, and a bee circled around them, sampling their nectar. The air was so still he could hear the bee’s buzz, the gentle lap of the water in the canal, a bird’s hooting call high in the trees.
The next morning, they had a spurt of boats. Merit Copeland, captain of the Ben Franklin, was the last. “There’s a delay down in Bristol,” he said to Isaac, as Lenert watered the mules. “You won’t see any more barges for at least a few hours.”
Isaac liked to talk to Copeland about books, Lenert knew. He approached Isaac to help with the center gate, and then said, “I will like to walk to the post office, if you can manage the Franklin.”
“Are you sure your leg is well enough?”
“Yes, gets better every day. And exercise good for me.”
“Then take your time,” Isaac said. “I will be fine here. Mr. Copeland and I can have a long chat.”
He went back inside the cottage and found the bills and coins the canal supervisor had handed to him. He had no idea how much it would cost to mail the letter; it was the first he had ever written, after all.
It had been some time since his last trip along the towpath, but he still remembered every dip and turn along its length. There was the large misshapen rock he had to steer the mules around, and a bit farther along the spot where the big cat chasing the rabbit had spooked the mules.
A squirrel chittered in a tree above him, and he recalled how the solitude had suited him then, and he had enjoyed being in nature. Then he remembered how awful it had been in the cold rain of winter, how the snow had snuck under his collar and melted down his back, how hard he had worked, often forced to sleep in the open while Frau Anderson nestled inside the barge.
His leg felt good, almost healed, and he walked without pain all the way into Stewart’s Crossing. He had never been into the center of the town, only seen its edge as he passed along the canal, and he marveled at all the buildings. He recognized the farrier, where he had stopped once to have a mule’s shoe repaired, and heard the pounding of mallet against anvil.
A sawmill sat by a stream that ran down to the Delaware, its water harnessed to power the mill, and he waved hello to a burly man in front chopping logs. The man stopped to wipe his brow and waved in return.
Lenert felt quite the gentleman, strolling along Ferry Street in the middle of the morning as would a man of business and importance. He nodded greetings to ladies and men alike, even tousled the hair of a small boy whose ball came bouncing toward him. Some took notice of his short pants and his splinted leg, and as he passed the doctor’s surgery he decided to stop in and see if the man could remove it.
There was no one in the surgery but the doctor himself, and he welcomed Lenert in. “Let’s see how you’re healing.” He took off the splint, pressed against Lenert’s skin for the bones beneath.
“Very good,” the man said at last. “The bones are knitting well.”
Lenert must have shown his confusion on his face because the doctor added, “Almost all better. I will give you a smaller splint that can fit under trousers, if you like.”
“Yes, please,” Lenert said, happy to be able to have this conversation without the need for any interpreter. The doctor finished and took a single coin from Lenert’s palm for the work, and then Lenert went back outside.
A hot wind greeted him as he walked up Ferry Street to Main, and Lenert began to sweat. He was glad to turn onto Main Street, find the post office, then duck into the cooler air inside.
“I have letter for Prussia,” he said to the postmaster.
“You’re the man working at the lock with Isaac Evans, aren’t you?” Mr. Buck said, as he weighed the letter.
Lenert agreed.
“Good. I have a letter for him, came in this morning. Save me a trip going out there.”
He took a few more coins from Lenert’s palm for the stamp, and handed over the letter from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
It looked impressive and legal, and Lenert worried that it contained bad news. Could Mrs. Pennington have reported him and Isaac to the government? Or perhaps Karl-Heinz had told his captain what he thought of his and Isaac’s relationship, and the captain had relayed that information to the manager, Mr. Rayburn, and Isaac was being fired?
In the far distance, he heard the whistle of the train that passed through Yardley, the next town downriver from Stewart’s Crossing. He could keep going, he thought. Get on that train, ride to Philadelphia, and find other work in the city. Save Isaac from any trouble that Lenert’s past might bring to him. Isaac could return to his solitude and blame everything on Lenert. He might be able to escape the law that way, or keep his job.
But what of the letter, then? He couldn’t go back into the post office and return it to the postmaster. And what if it was nothing important, or at least nothing harmful?
He had no choice. He would return to the lock and give the letter to Isaac, then see what it said. And then, if necessary, he would walk down the towpath again, continuing to Yardley, and the train.