Her Mother's Hope

  Her Mother’s Hope

  by

  Francine Rivers

  Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Carol Stream, Illinois

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  Her Mother’s Hope

  Copyright © 2010 by Francine Rivers. All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration copyright © 2010 by Robert Papp. All rights reserved.

  Interior images copyright © by Duncan Walker and iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Interior photos of author’s family used by permission from the Rivers family collection.

  Author photo copyright © 2003 by Phil Fewsmith. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Beth Sparkman

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with Browne and Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 410 Michigan Avenue, Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rivers, Francine, date.

  Her mother’s hope / Francine Rivers.

  p. cm. — (Marta’s legacy ; 1)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-1863-9 (Hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3679-4 (Mobipocket/Kindle)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3679-4 (eReader)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3679-4 (Sony Reader)

  1. Mothers and daughters--Fiction. 2. Self-actualization (Psychology) in women—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3568.I83165H47 2010

  813'.54—dc22 2009042434

  For Shannon and Andrea

  Acknowledgments

  Most of the novel you are about to read is purely fictional, though there are bits and pieces of personal family history woven throughout. The manuscript has taken various forms over the last two years, and in the end morphed into a saga. Many people have helped me in the process of writing the stories of Marta and Hildemara in this first volume and Carolyn and May Flower Dawn in the second. I want to thank each and every one of them.

  First of all my husband, Rick, has ridden the storm through this one, listening to every variation of the stories as the characters took form in my imagination and acting as my first editor.

  Every family needs a historian, and my brother, Everett, has played that role to perfection. He sent me hundreds of family pictures that helped flesh out the story. I also received invaluable help from my cousin Maureen Rosiere, who described in detail our grandparents’ almond and wine-grape ranch, a pattern I used in this novel. Both my husband and my brother shared their Vietnam experiences with me.

  Kitty Briggs, Shannon Coibion (our daughter), and Holly Harder shared their experiences as military wives. Holly has been a constant help to me. I know of no other person on the planet who can find information on the Internet faster! Whenever I ran into a wall, Holly tore it down. Thanks, Holly!

  Holly’s son, U.S. Army Lieutenant Daniel Harder, gave me information on the engineering and ROTC programs at Cal Poly. He is now on active duty. Our prayers are with him.

  Ida Vordenbrueggan, a nurse and personal friend of my mother’s, helped me fill in information about long-term patient care in the Arroyo del Valle Sanatorium. I’ve enjoyed our correspondence.

  Kurt Thiel and Robert Schwinn answered questions about InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. Keep up the good work, gentlemen!

  Globus tour guide Joppy Wissink rerouted a bus so that Rick and I had the opportunity to walk around my grandmother’s hometown of Steffisburg, Switzerland.

  All along the course of this project, I have had brainstorming partners when I needed them. Colleen Phillips raised questions and encouraged me from the beginning. Robin Lee Hatcher and Sunni Jeffers jumped in with ideas and questions when I didn’t know which way to go. My agent, Danielle Egan-Miller, and her associate, Joanna MacKenzie, helped me see how to restructure the novel to show the story I wanted to tell.

  I would also like to thank Karen Watson of Tyndale House Publishers for her insights and encouraging support. She helped me see my characters more clearly. And, of course, every writer needs a good editor. I am blessed with one of the best, Kathy Olson. She makes revision work exciting and challenging rather than painful.

  Finally, I thank the Lord for my mother and grandmother. Their lives and Mom’s journals first inspired the idea of writing about mother-daughter relationships. They were both hardworking women of faith. They both passed on some years ago, but I cling to the promise that they are still very much alive and undoubtedly enjoying one another’s company. One day I will see them again.

  Part One

  Marta

  1

  Steffisburg, Switzerland, 1901

  Marta usually loved Sundays. It was the only day Papa closed the tailor shop and Mama had a rest. The family dressed in their finest clothes and walked to church, Papa and Mama ahead, Marta’s older brother, Hermann, behind them, and Marta and her younger sister, Elise, bringing up the rear. Usually other families joined them along the way. Marta would watch eagerly for her best friend, Rosie Gilgan, who’d run down the hill to join her and walk the rest of the way to the old Romanesque church with its arches mortared shut and the white clock tower.

  Today, Marta hung her head, wishing she could run away and hide among the pines and alders while the townsfolk gathered for services. She could sit on her favorite fallen tree and ask God why Papa despised her so much and seemed so set on making her suffer. Today, she wouldn’t have complained if Papa had told her to stay home and work in the shop alone and not step foot outside the door for a week, though it would take longer than that for the bruises to fade.

  Despite evidence of the beating he had given her, Papa insisted everyone attend services. She wore a knitted cap and kept her chin down, hoping no one would notice. It wasn’t the first time she had borne the marks of his anger. When people came close, Marta shifted the woolen scarf or turned her face away.

  When they came into the churchyard, Papa sent Mama ahead with Elise and Hermann. He caught Marta by the elbow and spoke into her ear. “You’ll sit in back.”

  “People will want to know why.”

  “And I’ll tell them the truth. You’re being punished for defying me.” His fingers dug in painfully, but she refused to utter a sound of pain. “Keep your head down. No one wants to see your ugly face.” He let go of her and went inside.

  Fighting tears, Marta went in alone and stepped into the last row of straight-backed chairs.

  She watched her father join Mama. When he glanced back, she tucked her chin quickly, looking up again only after he had seated himself. Her sister, Elise, looked back over her shoulder, face far too pale and strained for a child. Mama leaned close, whispering, and Elise turned face-forward again. Hermann sat between Mama and Papa, his head turning to the right and left. No doubt he was looking for friends and would disappear as soon as the services ended.

  Rosie passed by and sat near the front. The Gilgans had eight children and took up an entire row. Rosie glanced toward Marta’s mother and father, then back. Marta hid behind Herr Becker, sitting in front of her. She waited briefly and peered around the baker again.

  All the murmuring stopped when the minister stepped into the pulpit. He opened the service with prayer. Joining with the congregation, Marta said the prayer of confession, and she heard the minister’s assur
ance of God’s mercy and forgiveness. As the creed and Scriptures were read, Marta let her mind drift like the snow blowing across the Alpine meadows above Steffisburg. She imagined herself spreading her arms like wings and letting the white swirling flakes lift and carry her wherever God willed.

  And where would that be? she wondered.

  The minister’s voice rose as he preached. He always said the same thing, but used different words, different examples from the Bible. “Strive harder. Faith is dead without good works. Do not become complacent. Those who turn their backs on God are destined for hell.”

  Was God like Papa, never satisfied no matter how hard she tried? Papa believed in God, but when had he ever shown her mercy? And if he believed God created everyone, then what right had Papa to complain over how tall she was, how thin, how white her skin, how large her hands and feet? Her father cursed her because she passed the school examinations “and made Hermann look a fool!”

  She’d tried to defend herself. She should have known better. “Hermann doesn’t apply himself. He’d rather hike in the hills than do his studies.”

  Papa came after her. Mama tried to get between, but he shoved her roughly aside. “You think you can talk to me like that and get away with it?” Marta raised her arm to protect herself, but it did no good.

  “Johann, don’t!” Mama cried out.

  Still gripping Marta’s arm, he turned on Mama. “Don’t you tell me—”

  “How many times must we turn the other cheek, Papa?” Something white-hot rose up inside Marta when he threatened Mama.

  That’s when he used his fist on her. He let go of her abruptly and stood over her. “She made me do it. You heard her! A father can’t tolerate insolence in his own home!”

  Marta didn’t know she’d fainted until Mama stroked the hair back from her face. “Be still, Marta. Elise is getting a wet cloth.” Marta could hear Elise crying. “Papa’s gone to the tanner. He won’t be back for a while.” Mama took the cloth Elise held out. Marta sucked in her breath when Mama dabbed her split lip. “You shouldn’t provoke your father.”

  “So it’s my fault.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I pass the examination with the highest marks in school and get a beating for it. Where’s Hermann? Strolling along on some mountain trail?”

  Mama cupped her cheek. “You must forgive your father. He lost his temper. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

  Mama always made excuses for him, just as Papa made excuses for Hermann. No one made excuses for her.

  “Forgive,” Mama said. “Seventy times seven. Forgive!”

  Marta’s mouth twisted as the minister spoke of God the Father. She wished God was like Mama instead.

  When the service ended, Marta waited until Papa motioned her to join the family. Head down, she fell into step beside Elise.

  “Johann Schneider!”

  Papa turned at Herr Gilgan’s voice. The two men shook hands and talked. Hermann took advantage of the distraction to join some friends heading up the hill. Mama took Elise’s hand when Frau Gilgan joined them.

  “Where have you been all week?” Rosie spoke softly and Marta turned. Rosie gasped softly. “Oh, Marta.” She moaned in sympathy. “Again? What was his reason this time?”

  “School.”

  “But you passed the examination!”

  “Hermann didn’t.”

  “But that’s not fair.”

  Marta lifted one shoulder and gave Rosie a bleak smile. “It does no good to tell him so.” Rosie would never be able to understand. Her father adored her. Herr Gilgan adored all his children. They all worked together in the running of Hotel Edelweiss, encouraging one another in everything. They teased one another with good-natured humor, but never mocked or belittled anyone. If one of them had a difficulty, the others lovingly closed ranks around him and helped.

  Sometimes Marta envied her friend. Every member of the Gilgan family would finish school. The boys would serve their two years in the Swiss Army and then go off to university in Bern or Zurich. Rosie and her sisters would learn fine cuisine and the art of running a large household that embraced up to thirty outsiders. She would be tutored in French, English, and Italian. If Rosie had further aspirations, her father wouldn’t deny her simply because she was a girl. He would send her to university along with her brothers.

  “You’ve been in school long enough,” Papa had declared when he came back from the tanner. “You’re old enough to carry your share of the financial burden.”

  Begging him for one more year of school had done no good at all.

  Tears filled Marta’s eyes. “Papa said it’s enough that I can read, write, and do arithmetic.”

  “But you’re only twelve, and if anyone in our class should make it to the university, it would be you.”

  “There will be no university for me. Papa said I’m done with school.”

  “But why?”

  “Papa says too much school fills a girl’s head with nonsense.” By nonsense Papa meant ambition. Marta burned with it. Marta had hoped that with enough schooling, she would have choices about what to do with her life. Papa said school had puffed her up and she needed to be brought down to where she belonged.

  Rosie took Marta’s hand. “Maybe he’ll change his mind and let you come back to school. I’m sure Herr Scholz will want to talk to him about it.”

  Herr Scholz might try, but her father wouldn’t listen. Once he made up his mind, not even an avalanche would change it. “It’ll do no good, Rosie.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Papa plans to hire me out.”

  “Marta!”

  Marta jumped at Papa’s bellowing voice. Scowling, he motioned sharply for her to come. Rosie didn’t let go of her hand as they joined their families.

  Frau Gilgan stared at Marta. “What happened to your face?” She cast an angry look at Papa.

  Papa stared back at her. “She fell down the stairs.” Papa gave Marta a look of warning. “She’s always been clumsy. Just look at those big hands and feet.”

  Frau Gilgan’s dark eyes snapped. “She’ll grow into them.” Her husband put his hand beneath her elbow.

  Mama held out her hand to Marta. “Come along. Elise is cold. We need to go home.” Elise huddled close to Mama’s side, not looking at anyone.

  Rosie hugged Marta and whispered, “I’ll ask Papa to hire you!”

  Marta didn’t dare hope her father would agree—he knew how much she would enjoy working for the Gilgans.

  Papa went out that afternoon and didn’t return home until late in the evening. He smelled of beer and seemed quite pleased with himself. “Marta!” He slapped his hand on the table. “I have found work for you.”

  She would work for the Beckers at the bakery every morning. “You must be there by four in the morning.” She would spend three afternoons a week working for the Zimmers. The doctor thought his wife would welcome some freedom from tending their fractious new baby. “And Frau Fuchs says she can use you to tend her hives. It’s getting colder, and she’ll be ready to harvest the honey soon. You’ll work nights as long as she needs you.” He leaned back in his chair. “And you’ll work at Hotel Edelweiss two days a week.” He watched her face closely. “Don’t think you’re going to have tea and cookies with your little friend anymore. You’re there to work. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Marta clasped her hands in front of her, trying not to show her pleasure.

  “And don’t ask for anything. Not from any of them. Herr Becker will pay in bread, Frau Fuchs in honey when the time comes. As to the others, they will settle with me and not you.”

  Heat spread through Marta’s limbs, surging up her neck into her cheeks and burning there like lava beneath pale earth. “Am I to receive nothing, Papa? nothing at all?”

  “You receive a roof over your head and food on your plate. You receive clothes on your back. As long as you live in my house, whatever you make rightfully belongs to me.” He turn
ed his head away. “Anna!” he shouted at Mama. “Are you done with that dress for Frau Keller yet?”

  “I’m working on it now, Johann.”

  Scowling, Papa shouted again. “She expects delivery by the end of the week! If you don’t have it ready by then, she’ll take her business to another dressmaker!” Papa jerked his head. “Go help your mother.”

  Marta joined Mama by the fire. She had a box of colored threads on the table at her side and black wool partially embroidered spread across her lap. She coughed violently into a cloth, folded and tucked it in her apron pocket before taking up her sewing again. Anyone could see by her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes that Mama wasn’t well again. Mama had weak lungs. Tonight, her lips had a faint bluish tint. “Help your sister, Marta. She’s developing another headache.”

  Elise had spent all evening on her sampler, brow furrowed over every stitch in pained concentration. Marta had helped her until Papa returned. About the only thing Elise could do well was hem, leaving Mama and Marta to do the fine embroidery work. Elise struggled as much as Hermann in school, though not for the same reasons. At ten, Elise could barely read and write. However, what she lacked in intellect and dexterity was overlooked because of her rare and delicate beauty. Mama’s greatest pleasure took place every morning when she brushed and braided Elise’s waist-length white-blonde hair. She had flawless alabaster skin and wide, angelic blue eyes. Papa asked nothing of her, taking pride in her beauty, acting sometimes as though he owned a priceless piece of art.

  Marta worried about her sister. Papa might be right about suitors, but he didn’t understand Elise’s deep-seated fears. She had an almost-desperate dependence upon Mama and became hysterical when Papa went into one of his rages, though never in Elise’s life had a hand been laid on her in anger. Papa would have an eye out for a settled man with money and position for Elise.

  Marta prayed nightly that God would bless her sister with a husband who would cherish and protect her—and be rich enough to hire others to cook, clean, and raise the children! Elise would never be able to carry out such responsibilities.