In 1944, John Miller dreamed of joining his brother, fighting the war in Europe in hope that he would see the world. A farming accident sends his life in a new direction, taking him to northern Wisconsin where he finds work in the lumber industry. John meets Abby, a beautiful and simple country girl. A strong bond of love develops between the young couple and they vow to spend their lives together in a meadow they've named Kassendahl (Kissing Place). They believe in each other with all their hearts until Abby leaves mysteriously one night leaving nothing but a simple and inexplicable note. The lumber business is fraught with accidents particularly at the hands of an angry and incompetent wood boss. A contest between two lumber barons results in the death of the lumber camp cook who had been a good friend to all of the workers. An act of revenge leads to murder. John discovers the truth and attempts to bring the murderer to justice while Abby is living a life of the rich and privileged in Chicago and every attempt at communication between the two is confusing and unsuccessful. A Memory of Kassendahl is a saga of two people in love who endure a myriad of problems, opportunities and misfortunes. Each of them lives a completely different life and as a result, grow in deep and profound ways while trying to reunite over an entire year.

A Memory of Kassendahl

By David Mathias

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 David Mathias
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-0665-5

Chapter One

The afternoon sun shone brightly as a herd of dairy cattle moved about in a small pasture, sparse from over-grazing. On the other side of an old fence in an area more shaded, the grass was greener, taller but just out of reach. A single cow reached its head below the lower of two rusty barbed wires that made the division between the farmer's fields. It stretched and leaned hard to get to the taller grass now just within reach of its tongue. Soon it was joined by other cows and the tall, green grass could be reached by pushing against the rusting barbed wire. The barbed wire screeched as it was pulled through the rusty fence staples. One by one, the staples were pulled free from the rotting post. Within minutes the low and rusting thread of wire snapped and gave way to the movement of the herd. The cows moved over the remaining wire and a very thin, weathered and rotting post yielded to the force. All at once the herd of almost twenty-five cows was grazing in the neighbor's field.

Matt Miller and his son John were donned in beekeeping attire as they saw to the hives in the small orchard near their house. Matt's wife Katherine hung laundry on the line not far away. Their hired hand, a middle-aged man, was near an open shed greasing up the hay loader and tractor. Dust billowed as an old truck came down their long driveway and pulled into the yard. They all looked up from their tasks as their neighbor, Harlan, stopped his truck and stepped out.

He tipped his broad-brimmed straw hat back and wiped his brow with his hand. "Hello, Miller's ... your cows busted through the east fenceline." he said with a smile. Then he cocked his head to the side and spat as far as he could into the dry dirt.

Matt Miller waved an arm at him as if to tell him to hold on. After another minute, Matt and John put the last of the frames back into place, set the cover back on the hive and walked toward their neighbor. As they moved away from the hive and toward Harlan, they each removed their screened hats and long gloves. Matt wiped the sweat from his brow with his long denim sleeve.

"Well, I'm sorry about that, Harlan. I planned on splitting the north forty and moving them just as soon as we were done haying that field." Matt Miller said.

"Not a problem, Mattie. The boys and I rounded them up and patched the fence good enough for now, but I don't think it'll keep them cows out for long, wire's pretty rusty." After a pause, he continued. "How's the corn?"

"Pretty near knee-high. Got it in early thanks to a good Spring - and yours?" Matt smiled as he brushed a few bees away.

"Same here - it'll be a bumper crop if we don't get a dry spell. Well, I best be getting back."

"Have a glass of lemonade?" Katherine asked. Harlan smiled.

"Some other time, Katherine, thanks the same." Harlan tipped his hat to her, Matt and John, got into his truck and drove away.

"John, you best take a load of hay out to the pasture. After tonight, we'll have to keep them in the barnyard until you and Steeg can get a new fence strung."

"Yes, sir." John replied.

Morning sun glistened over the gentle hills of the east field of Matt Miller's farm and illuminated the tips of every stalk of wheat as they slowly danced in the gentle breeze. To most it would seem calm, but summer mornings were warm and welcoming to the birds, insects and every other living thing. If you studied the earth closely enough, within arm's reach you could witness an abundant bustling of life.

It was June 13, 1944, and U.S. Troops had just landed at Normandy a week earlier. The world was at war - a world far from this field. It wasn't a war that Matt Miller had started or knew much about, but he had a son over there and this made it his war as well. Matt Miller's other son was here at home on the farm where he could see him every day - work with him, and teach him the things he would need to know in order to achieve something of meaning and value in this world. As much as he needed his son's help, he placed greater value on being able to watch his son become a man and take on a character of his own.

Two men were now preparing an early start on what remained of the two-strand fence work. Previous days of work were productive and this day would be the last that they could devote before haying began. When completed, the cattle would be able to graze in a field farther east and near the edge of the woods and swamp where it was too shady and low for crops, but rich for grass. The McCormick tractor had been filled with gas the night before. It was good practice to prepare the tractor before it was put away in the shed each night. The cedar posts, sledge hammer and metal tool box were on the farm cart glistening with dew that was quickly drying from the morning heat. A small cart that held a large spool of barbed wire was still hitched behind the tractor. The screen door swung open and slammed shut behind the two men clothed in denim jeans, sleeveless t-shirts, plaid cotton shirts with sleeves rolled up and straw hats.

Steeg was the hired hand, a Swedish immigrant who had moved down from the forest country of northern Wisconsin. He was tall blonde-haired man with a solemn expression, high cheek bones and a long blonde moustache. He was a part of this farm for as long as John could remember. As a child growing up, John had always called him Mr. Onsgaard, but now that John had made that measured growth into manhood, he was at ease calling him Steeg as the other men in town did. John earned this status to be an equal and Steeg granted it to him. And the name "Steeg" seemed to fit this man like the brim of his well-worn hat. It was still early in the morning and already the brims of their hats were wet with the first sweat of the day.

Matt's son John was a strong, and good-looking young man with blonde hair and brown eyes that gave him a look of innocence. He had just turned eighteen on the first day of June, and, having registered for the draft, expected to be called at any time. Throughout the days, he would sometimes strain to hear if Ma were calling from the house or ringing the dinner bell at a time other than the ceremonial noon. He was waiting for his call to duty.

This was Wisconsin, the dairy state, a land settled mostly by German Catholic Immigrants. Many people still spoke German, especially the older ones. Sometimes German was spoken in front of the children when the adults didn't want the young ones to know what they were talking about. The people found it funny though, that the children all picked up the language, and by the time most of them were twelve they could speak their native tongue nearly as well as their fathers, mothers and grandparents.

Out on the fenceline, Steeg was digging a hole as John unloaded cedar posts from a two-wheeled trailer. John carried a half dozen posts over his left shoulder. He laid a post every twelve feet - stepping out four long steps as a measure. After dropping the last post, he turned and started walking back to Steeg. John broke the long silence. "So, Steeg, what would you be doing if you weren't doing this?"

"I suppose I'd finish getting the hay loader ready." came his reply.

"No, I mean what would you be doing if you weren't working here on the farm?"

After a long pause Steeg answered. "Suppose I'd be up north logging ... I don't know."

Moments later, sensing that John was looking for conversation, Steeg continued, "What about you?"

John was quick to answer. "I'd be traveling the world, looking for treasure. Maybe I'd be an anthropologist or archeologist. I like all of that old stuff and the hunt that goes with it. I'd like to go to college someday, but Ma and Pa don't have the kind of money to help me out and I don't have much saved. I was thinking that after I come back from the war I could work for a year or two and then go to college. Not much adventure here on the farm - unless you want to consider that time awhile back when the bull broke his stanchion and ran around the yard. I never saw Pa move so fast." A few more minutes passed and then John continued, "Maybe I'd search for the Holy Grail." He let out a little laugh. Then his expression changed as if he were thinking `why not'? "I want to ride on the Orient Express, I want to walk on the Great Wall of China, and I want to climb the Eiffel tower. I want suitcases loaded with stickers, labels and tags from countries that I've visited all over the world!"

"Well, I suppose ... suitcases with labels ..." Steeg said quietly keeping his laughter to himself.

"Seriously, Steeg, there is a big world out there. I hope to see some of it when I go off to the war".

Steeg's expression was suddenly terse. "You might see more than you bargain for. Besides, you have everything in the world right here. You have the farm, the land, the Kassendahl and all its beauty." His words, which almost seemed to be scolding at first, turned warm and sensitive.

John had a puzzled look on his face. "The Kassendahl?" he asked.

"Yes, Kassendahl, I saw you by the stream one time with a young lady. Kassendahl ... kissing place, you know, a special place that you never forget." Steeg said with a smile.

John knew that Steeg was right about the kissing place and it was a place he would never forget. A little embarrassed that his rendezvous received such exposure, John hurried to get the subject back on track.

"I love this farm, but I don't want to spend my whole life here wondering what's out there. Hopefully, in a month I'll be in the war fighting side by side with Bill. Who knows, if I'm over there when the war ends ... maybe I'll stay awhile, see Europe, travel around Italy, France ... maybe England."

Steeg laid the posthole digger off to the side as John dropped a post into the new hole. The cedar posts were sharpened at one end and, after starting a hole with the post-hole digger as deep as they could reach, a sledgehammer was used to drive the pointed end of the post down square and true. The two men took great pride in making sure the fence was in a straight line so that any man from now and on down through the years could stand at the end of the field, look down the fence line and see how straight and true a job these men had done. And a strong fence gave all of them a confidence that their cows would not be wandering off into the swamp. Steeg felt concerned for John who obviously wanted to talk more about the world on the other side of these fences. He wanted to continue the conversation with John, but he wasn't sure that he could or even should try to explain the devastation of war, the disorder, disruption and ending of people's lives or the destruction of families and homes. To Steeg there was no greater sin than to destroy a family through the taking of a life.

They were hurrying now, to get the last posts set before the noon dinner bell would ring. The sun was straight up in the sky and the mid-morning snack of hard-boiled eggs and salted pork sandwiches made with homemade white bread was long behind them. John held the last post as Steeg grabbed the sledgehammer. His first swing hit straight and true, but the post was not vertical. As John said, "hold up," he reached over the top of the post to straighten it just as the second blow came. In an instant that neither man would ever forget, the force of a grown man swinging a five-pound sledge had hit the top of his right hand.

John screamed out in pain pulling his hand to his chest and covering it with his left-hand, he doubled over and fell to the ground in unbearable, piercing pain. "GOD ... Steeg ... Oh, my God ..."

When John finally opened his eyes, blurred with tears, he could not see Steeg. As he regained some calmness from the pain, he saw Steeg running away, but not toward the farm for help, he was running toward the swamp. Confused and disoriented, John's senses quickly came to him as he took his flannel shirt from the fence post where he had put it earlier that morning. Wrapping it tightly around his bleeding hand, John was compelled with a sense of survival. He wondered where Steeg had gone as he put his focus on his feet and stumbled toward the tractor. One more yell, "Steeg". John started the tractor with left hand, right hand still held tightly to his chest and clinched in a fist, his shirt soaking with blood. The old McCormick tractor got him to the house, but emphasized to him every bump in the farm lane. John reached the house. Ma had a sense that there was trouble - a premonition - as she rushed from the house wiping her hands on her apron and running down the porch steps toward her son.

John shut off the tractor and feeling light-headed, let Ma help him down from the tractor. She took the blood-soaked shirt from his hand to wrap her clean apron around it instead. He looked away as she did this, not wanting to see what he felt. She was somewhat relieved to see that he still had all of his fingers. She caressed his back and shoulder as she led him to the house. John's straw hat fell to the porch and he could feel the wave of cool air ripple through his hair, cooling his hot and sweaty head. He was faint and felt nauseated. Through the narrow slits of his eyelids, he saw the apron quickly turning red from the burst veins in his hand.

"What happened, John?" she asked.

"Had my hand over the top of the post ... sledgehammer ... must've slipped ..." John replied as he winced in pain.

Matt Miller came from the barn and hurried into the kitchen. Seeing the situation, he proceeded to wash his hands in the kitchen sink without a word. He then rushed over to John as Katie picked up the earpiece and cranked the wooden wall phone to make a call. She was able to reach Doc Smith at his office in nearby Calvary Station. She was relieved to hear his voice and thankful that he was tending to routine office visits at this moment and not out seeing patients in their homes.

"Doc, Katie Miller here. There's been an accident."

There was a long pause as Katherine's face creased with concern and mild panic, her hands trembling as she held the earpiece. "His hand ... it was hit with a sledgehammer." She paused, took a breath, wiped her brow and eyes with a towel and continued, "Pretty bad - no, I can't tell. We have it wrapped to stop the bleeding, but it's soaking through". There was another pause as she listened intently. "Yes, yes. Okay ... goodbye".

Katherine turned to her husband Matt. "Get some ice from the freezer," she ordered before realizing that he had already taken the ice tray from the freezer and was crushing the cubes in a towel. She took the towel full of crushed ice and wrapped it around John's hand.

"John, Doc Smith will be here in about twenty minutes. Can you be strong until he gets here?" she asked.

John just winced in pain and nodded. "Let's get him to the parlor ... grab some towels, Mattie".

Matt and Katie walked John to the couch in the parlor and helped him rest back. Matt laid towels on the floor near John and tucked more towels near his side. A long quick trail of blood ran down John's arm and dripped to the floor.

"Best keep your arm raised a bit, John." Matt said. Putting a pillow behind John's head, Matt wiped the sweat from his son's forehead with his handkerchief before it reached his eyes.

"Where's Steeg?" Matt asked quietly. There was no response except for a look of confusion in John's teary eyes.

Katherine went to the kitchen, took a fresh white apron from the top drawer and put it on, tying it in the front. She then put both hands on the kitchen table, gripping the edge tightly. She lowered her head, closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. There had been accidents on the farm before, but none like this and not to her baby. In a few seconds she was prepared again to deal with the responsibilities of being a farm wife.

It was more than a half-hour before Doc Smith arrived. He was greeted by Matt Miller holding the screen door open.

"He's in the parlor. Near as we can tell, he had his hand over the top of a fence post and the farmhand must have hit it with the sledge." Mister Miller said.

Doc Smith nodded at Katie as he hurried into the parlor. He set his black bag down and opened it, taking out a light and stethoscope. He lifted John's eyelids one at a time, and shined the light into each. He placed his stethoscope into his ears and placed the cold end onto John's chest. The coolness of the instrument caused John to open his eyes slightly, but he was in too much pain to talk. He knew now that the doctor had arrived and he could leave everything in his hands. Doc Smith carefully removed the towel from John's hand. Katherine was right there to take the bloody, wet towel from the doctor. Most of the bleeding had stopped although more blood began to trickle out as Doc Smith felt the swollen hand. John grimaced in pain as the Doctor pressed into the flesh of his hand to determine if bones had been broken. After a minute, the conclusion was clear.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Memory of Kassendahlby David Mathias Copyright © 2009 by David Mathias. Excerpted by permission.
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