Chapter Five

“THE LORD GAVE, and the Lord hath taken away.”

Those meditative words had been with Reverend Kraushaar since he’d woken beside his wife on this Sunday morning in April, even though that Scripture from Job was not part of the liturgy he would follow today. The lectionary calendar of the season called for more joyous verses on this week. Yet the sober words from the Old Testament had followed him to the church.

Perhaps the season brought the verse to mind. Easter Sunday was just behind them, most certainly a reminder of the ebb and flow of Christ being given to mankind and then taken by man’s own hand, given again through the Resurrection, and then finally taken away by the Ascension. This Second Sunday of Easter began the anticipation of Pentecost, a new giving from God to His people.

Now the Reverend stood in his pastoral robe before the congregation he knew like family, taking in their faces. He’d preached along with the seasons the people lived and worked by, comforting and instructing immigrant farmers through sorrowful times: the Great War and the Spanish flu, droughts and fires. He’d shared their major life events of weddings, funerals, births, and baptisms. And he’d been with them in more private moments, the broken tears, the anger with God. The Reverend’s stalwart flock took adversity in stride, and his weekly instruction and private counsel eased their burdens, even if only in a small way. Often there was no reasonable explanation for heartbreak, for loss.

Thus the passage from Job seemed a theme in this land of hardship, among these people. To remember that “the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away” was to remember God’s goodness. It helped the Reverend himself to lean on God’s divine will, to trust in His sovereign, sometimes mysterious ways.

As he read the day’s appointed Scripture verses from the pulpit, Reverend Kraushaar’s eyes lingered a moment on Jennie Vander Zee. Her husband sat on one side and her younger daughter, Jane, on the other. Jane appeared not to be listening. Her eyes skimmed the congregation even though her face was turned respectfully toward the front.

In the months since Jennie had first come to him about Minka’s troubles, Jennie had visibly aged, though she was not yet forty. But today, Reverend Kraushaar had news he hoped would comfort the couple and provide the best arrangement for their oldest daughter.

The minister brought the sermon toward a conclusion a short time later. He’d been preaching and shepherding these people and this church since August 9, 1908. Now, over twenty years later, his time in South Dakota was about to end.

The Lord gave. The Lord took.

God had opened a new path for him and his family as president of the Lutheran College of Seguin, Texas. He felt honored by the offer, and he relished the new challenge at this time in his life. Yet it meant leaving the congregation he’d served for so long. He’d come to feel what he sensed was God’s divine love for this flock.

Around him it seemed a season of taking away, he thought, as his eyes again rested on the Vander Zee family. The call to help the girl and the family was heavy upon him. His work in Aberdeen was not quite done.

He’d known Jennie Vander Zee when she was still Jennie DeYoung, a widowed mother of three young ones who lived and worked as a housekeeper to the elderly Gus Pansegrau. In those days, Reverend Kraushaar had been an almost itinerant preacher, and so young! Then he’d served as a chaplain in the Great War and had earned the kind of knowledge that comes not from seminary books but from sharing mankind’s heaviest burdens.

The Scriptures charged the church with the care of widows and orphans. The still-young widow Jennie had done well for herself compared to others in her situation. The Reverend had been comforted by the security her family found during their many years with Uncle.

Jennie’s children had been raised with a firm yet loving hand. Her marriage to Honus Vander Zee further improved her situation, and the minister enjoyed watching two dedicated churchgoers —from his two different flocks —come together in such a pleasing union. The joined family appeared to flourish after they bought the dairy. They ran it well, although Jennie’s oldest child, John, had resisted the transition and had chosen a military life over milking. John was a tall, strong, fatherless boy. For such as he, the Reverend knew, soldiering was often a good fit.

If only John’s sisters had been allowed to continue their education, at least through high school. The Reverend placed a high value on education. But after two decades with his congregation, he understood his community. Times were hard, and immigrant families worked together. Education was considered a luxury by most.

God had been good to Jennie DeYoung and her children. The tragedies of other families, those who had lost sons to war or farms to drought, put that into perspective. They were safe, together, thriving with the new business it seemed. They, and their dairy, were an integral part of Aberdeen. But missing now from his congregation was Jennie’s middle child.

The Lord gives and takes away. As Reverend Kraushaar’s mind touched on this verse, he thought of the most oft-repeated question he heard as a minister, the one most wrestled with in the human experience: “Why?”

The Reverend knew the answer to that was usually a long time coming.

* * *

After the Lord’s Supper and the closing of the service, the minister stood near the back of the church, bidding his congregation farewell, watching the slow approach of the Vander Zee family as Jennie and Jane spoke to other women and daughters. When Honus reached him, the Reverend leaned close as they shook hands.

“If I may have a word with you and Mrs. Vander Zee in my office.”

Honus nodded. He caught Jennie’s eye and gave a slight motion of his head. She excused herself from a lively discussion. Jane remained behind but watched them with a slight frown.

“I received word from the facility that I spoke to you about,” the minister said after he closed the door to his office. He spoke German fluently but had noticed that parishioners seemed to prefer speaking English with him. Perhaps it seemed more proper.

“In Sioux Falls?”

“Yes, at the Lutheran House of Mercy.” Handing Jennie a piece of paper, he continued. “This is the letter I received. I have known the superintendent for many years, and Minnie will be well taken care of here, if it’s acceptable to you both.”

He noticed how Jennie gripped the letter as she read, concern etched into the wrinkles of her forehead. She winced, and he guessed she’d read the price or about the required test for venereal disease —an awkward matter, but understandably necessary. Jennie’s finger touched a place on the letter as she glanced at Honus, who leaned close to read it. This was most likely the price of Minka’s stay and the doctor’s fees.

“We pay,” Honus said without hesitation. The cost, $50 plus room and board, was a steep one, especially for a frugal Dutch family who diligently managed each penny, and in a time when bread cost eight to ten cents a loaf and a head of cattle could be sold for $59 each.

None of them could have guessed that by the end of that very year, the stock market would crash, ushering in the Great Depression. In five short years, the price of cattle would plummet to $17.50 per head.

“Dit is het beste,” Honus said to Jennie. This is best. She nodded and dropped her hands to her lap as relief came over her features, but also something else —the mask of sorrow, or perhaps shame, that had marked her face over the past half year.

“She come home soon after child,” Jennie said. She didn’t want Minka to be with the baby after its birth —it would make everything harder. The minister took in the mother’s concerns. Jennie knew her daughter better than anyone. Minka reminded the Reverend of his own three daughters, sheltered and completely susceptible to such a vile act. This was an example of the evils of the world preying upon the innocent.

“I will do all I can to get Minnie promptly installed at this place,” he promised.

As the couple left his office, Reverend Kraushaar opened his desk and withdrew two pieces of clean stationery. Today was the Sabbath and his family would be waiting with dinner, but Reverend Kraushaar could not delay. The time was coming quickly. First he wrote a quick note to Minka.

Then to Miss Bragstad of the Lutheran House of Mercy.

To Miss Bragstad,

. . . The girl referred to is Minnie DeYoung, at present at 3315 E. Ave. Sioux City, Iowa. Her case is a peculiar one, since her parents insist that the baby must be given away and Minnie return home as soon as possible.

There are other children in the family, esp., another younger sister, from whom they wish to hide Minnie’s condition, and then, too, Minnie’s rehabilitation here would be practically impossible were she to return with a baby.

Minnie is as innocent a girl as I have ever met. She is the victim of a foul assault. . . . The mother thinks that the child should be taken from Minnie directly after birth and Minnie return home about three weeks thereafter, but can you take care of such a small child until its adoption?

I want to do as much for Minnie as I would for my own daughter. . . . Thanking you for any kindness shown this unfortunate girl.

Sincerely yours,

Rev. Kraushaar

* * *

“It appears we will have a new arrival in a few weeks,” Miss Bertha Bragstad said to her assistant, Miss Julia Questad. As they sat together reviewing the schedule for the week ahead, Miss Bragstad’s eyes brushed over the response she’d been writing to Reverend Kraushaar. “Her name is Miss Minnie DeYoung.”

“When is her expected time of confinement?” Miss Questad asked as she scribbled down the name.

“Toward the end of May. I must write to explain our policy, however, that she must stay here for a month afterward. Her family wants her to return home immediately, but I have faith they will understand. This young woman comes highly recommended from her minister. She is innocent of the situation she finds herself in.”

“That is most difficult,” Miss Questad said.

Miss Bragstad caught Miss Questad’s raised eyebrow. The matron of the house steadied her gaze at the young woman. “With this one, I believe in her innocence as well.”

“Oh yes, of course.” The doubtful look vanished, and Miss Questad’s back straightened.

Miss Bragstad pushed up from the smooth wooden desk with a gentle sigh.

“Receive this not as a reprimand, but a reminder. In your time here, you’ve heard every story of innocence. Sometimes it is the truth; usually it is not. Regardless of the circumstances, our duty is to treat every young woman without prejudice and with the best possible care. Believe me, they will have a difficult journey ahead, whether innocent or not.”

“I apologize.” Miss Questad shifted in her seat with eyes lowered to the page open on her lap.

Miss Bragstad walked toward the door, giving the young woman’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “No apology necessary. Now let us start our rounds.”

The younger woman held back as if still embarrassed, but Miss Bragstad knew it would pass. Such reminders were necessary for all of them, herself included. The Lord called them to be compassionate and full of grace at the Lutheran House of Mercy.

Whatever circumstances brought the unwed mothers to their door, Miss Bragstad wished them to leave with a renewed hope that they might become women of character and dignity as they reentered the world outside.

The two women walked the long hallway, reviewing current issues: repairs needed to the stairway railing, a suitable substitute for the cook while she visited family, the review of a recent adoption, adjustments to their tightening budget. They passed the parlor and grand stairway. The sound of breakfast dishes being washed chimed from the kitchen as the cook and her assistant made the transition from one meal to the next.

Several young women occupied the house at the moment, three waiting for their children to be born. One girl was preparing to leave with her baby, under the determined belief that the child’s father would accept them once he saw his newborn son.

“When does Miss Sheldon leave?” Miss Bragstad asked before ascending the stairs. She was planning to talk once more to that hopeful new mother.

“Next Sunday. I’ll arrange to have her room prepared for the new arrival.”

“Very good,” Miss Bragstad said. She savored moments like this when the house and office ran well. She had developed a well-oiled system for arrivals and departures, for the housekeeping and kitchen staff, for the arrangements that she coordinated between adoptive parents, the state of South Dakota, and birth parents.

Miss Bragstad had taken the position of matron superintendent at the Lutheran House of Mercy eight years earlier, in 1921. Now, at the age of forty-three, Bertha Bragstad had settled into her role as a spinster. She’d experienced her own disappointments in life, but in her current position —an appointment to be proud of —she’d found a place where she excelled and where others respected her.

Painful childhood losses had prepared her to run this home, where she tried to counter the humiliation carried by arriving girls with the kind of empathy that would guide them into new lives. If an orphaned girl like herself could become the matron of such a respected establishment, these women could also set a fresh path for their own lives.

There were few boundaries between her personal and professional life. Miss Bragstad took on every necessary role without complaint. She lived in the downstairs quarters and was on call day and night. There were plenty of midnight wake ups. In emergencies, Miss Bragstad became a stand-in nurse or temporary doctor. She counseled the young women on their options, listened to their plans for the future, provided arms to soothe heartache, and carefully disciplined the girls when rules were broken.

Over the full twenty-eight years of her career, Bertha Bragstad would easily slip into the shoes of mother and grandmother to hundreds of teenaged mothers and the infants they brought back to the House of Mercy from the hospital. But she would never marry or have children of her own.

“Instead of Miss Sheldon’s room, let us put our new arrival in the Rose Room,” Miss Bragstad said, pausing in her steps as she considered the Reverend’s letter again. Miss Questad appeared surprised but marked the change in her notes.

The Rose Room was Miss Bragstad’s favorite upstairs room, the one into which the best light spilled this time of year. Reverend Kraushaar’s recommendation meant something to her. If he would treat the girl as his own daughter, then she would as well.

The girl had been through enough already, and Miss Bragstad knew all too well that the worst was yet to come.