February 11, 1944
Kathy
Kathy sat on the big
boulder that lay in the sun in front of the farm. She was thinking, thinking
very
hard. Kathy was one
of those quiet girls. What the youngster in the dirndl apron was thinking
about,
she alone knew; she
never told her thoughts to anyone -- she was much too withdrawn for that.
She
had no friends and probably
would have found it hard to get any. Her mother found her a strange
child, and the pity
of it was that Kathy felt that. Her father, the farmer, was much too busy
to concern
himself with his only
little daughter. And so Kathy was always by herself. It didn't disturb)
her; she
didn't know any better
and was soon satisfied But on this warm summer evening she sighed deeply
as she looked up and
glanced at the cornfields. How jolly it would be to play with those girls
over
there. Look, they ran
about, and laughed; what fun they were having! Now the children
came closer,
and still closer --
would they come to her? Oh, how awful, they came -- but to laugh at her.
She
clearly heard them mention
her name, not her real name, but the nickname that she hated so much
and that she often heard
the children whisper--Crazykate!
Oh, how miserable she
felt; if she could only run into the house, but if she did, the children
would
laugh at her all the
more. Poor girl, it surely isn't the first time that you have felt so forsaken
and
envied to other youngsters.
. .
"Kathy! Kathy, come
home! We are having supper!" Another sigh, and the child slowly rose to
obey
her mother.
"My, what a cheerful
face! We surely have a happy daughter!" the farmer's wife cried when the
child,
more slowly and more
depressed than ever, entered the room. "Can't you say something for
yourself?" scolded the
woman. Her tone was more unfriendly than she herself knew; her daughter
never had been the bright,
lively girl she had always wanted.'
"Yes, Mother," whispered
the child.
"You're a fine one,
staying away all morning and not doing a stroke of work. Where have you
been?"
"Outside." Kathy felt
as though she had a gag in her throat, but the mother misunderstood the
girl's
embarrassment and now
really became curious where the child had been all morning. Again she
asked:
"Answer me properly;
I want to know where you have been, do you understand? I can't stand that
everlasting, slow-witted,
crazy behavior!"
At the word that reminded
her of the detested nickname, Kathy lost control of herself and burst into
tears.
"What is the matter
now? You're a real coward! Can't you tell me where you've been hanging
out?
Or is that perhaps a
big secret?"
The child could not
possibly ansuer; violent sobs kept her from speaking. Suddenly, she upset
a
chair, ran weeping out
of the room and up to the attic, where she sank down on some bags in a
corner, sobbing as if
her heart would break.
The mother shrugged
her shoulders as she cleared the table dounstairs; she wasn't surprised
at her
child's conduct. Such
"crazy" moods were not unusual; she decided to let the girl alone -- there
was
nothing to be gained,
and the everlasting tears were always on the point of coming. A fine specimen
of a twelve-year-old
farmer's daughter! In the attic, Kathy had calmed down somewhat and was
collecting her thoughts.
She would presently go downstairs, tell her mother that she had simply
been
sitting on the boulder
by the door and thinking about things, and offer to finish all of the work
that
afternoon. Her mother
then would surely understand that she did not mind the work, and should
she
be asked where she had
been sitting still all morning, she would answer that there was something
important she had to
figure out. Then, in the evening, when she had to deliver the eggs, she
would
buy a pretty, silver,
glittering thimble for her mother; she had just enough money to buy one
in the
village. Mother would
realize that she wasn't so slow-witted and crazy, after all. Oh, if she
could only
get rid of that dreadful
nickname! Here was a thought: If she had any money left over after buying
the
thimble, she'd get a
bag of sweets and, on her way to school, divide them among the girls. Then
they'd like her and
ask her to play with them. They would soon see that she was good at games
as
anyone, and nobody would
ever call her anything but Kathy after that. Softly she descended the
stairs. When she met
her mother in the passage, all courage to talk and explain the morning's
absence left her, and
she quickly started cleaning the windows, one of her regular tasks.
It was almost sundown
when Kathy took the basket of eggs and began her rounds. After a half
hour's walk she reached
the first customer, who stood in her doorway, dish in hand.
"I'll take ten tonight,
my child," said the friendly woman.
She counted off ten
and, with a greeting, continued on her way.
In three quarters of
an hour the basket was empty, and Kathy stepped into the small general
store. A
pretty thimble and a
bagful of sweets were soon put into the basket, and now Kathy turned back
toward home. About halfway,
she saw two of the girls who had teased her in the
morning coming toward
her. She bravely suppressed a longing to hide, and, her heart beating
wildly, she went on.
"Look! Here comes Crazykate!"
At her wits'end, Kathy
took the bag of sweets from her basket and politely held it out to the
children.
They quickly grabbed
it from her and ran away with it. One of them stuck out her tongue at Kathy.
Lonesome and heartbroken,
Kathy sat down in the grass at the edge of
the road, and wept,
wept, and wept. Finally, in the dark, she dried her tears, picked up the
basket,
and slowly set off in
the direction of home. Somewhere in the grass,
the thimble glittered . . .
February 20, 1944
The Flower Girl
Every
morning at seven-thirty the door of a little house at the edge of the
village opens, and out
steps a rather small girl, carrying a basket heaped
with flowers on each
arm. After shutting the door, she switches her burdens
and starts the day's
work. The people of the village, who answer her smiling
nod as she passes, feel
sorry for her. "That road is much too long and the
job too hard," they
think, "for a child of twelve."
But the little girl,
herself, naturally doesn't know the thoughts of her fellow
villagers. Merrily,
and as quickly as her short legs will take her, she walks on
and on and on. The road
to the town is really very long; it takes her at least
two and a half hours
of steady walking to reach it and, with two heavy
baskets, that's not
easy.
When she finally trudges
through the streets of the town she is exhausted,
and it's only the prospect
of soon being able to sit down and rest that
sustains her. But the
little one is brave and doesn't slow down her gait until
she gets to her spot
in the market. Then she sits down and waits and waits .
. .
Sometimes she sits and
waits all day because there are not enough people
who want to buy something
from the poor flower girl. Quite often Krista has
to carry her baskets,
still half full, back to the village in the evening.
But today things are
different. It is Wednesday, and the market is unusually
crowded and busy. Beside
her, market women cry their wares, and all about
her the little girl
hears scolding and angry voices. Passers-by can scarcely
hear Krista, for her
high little voice is
almost drowned out in
the market hubbub. But all day long, Krista doesn't
stop calling, "Pretty
flowers, a dime a bunch! Buy my pretty flowers!" Some
people who, finished
with their errands, take time to look into the baskets
gladly pay a dime for
one of the lovely small
bouquets.
At twelve o'clock, Krista
walks to the opposite side of the market square,
where the owner of the
coffee stand is in the habit of giving her, free of
charge, a cupful withplenty
of sugar. For this kind man Krista keeps her
prettiest flowers.
Then she takes her seat
again and once more starts crying her wares. At
last, about three-thirty,
she picks up her baskets and returns to the village.
Now she walks much more
slowly than she did in the morning. Krista is tired,
terribly tired.
The trip back takes
her a full three hours, and it is six- thirty when she
reaches the door of
the little old house. Inside everything is still the way she
left it -- cold, lonesome,
and untidy. Her sister, with whom she shares the
place, works in the
village from early morning to late at night. Krista can't
afford to rest; she
is no sooner home than she begins to peel potatoes and
clean vegetables. Her
sister gets back from work at seven-thirty, and they
finally sit down
and have something to
eat.
At eight in the evening
the door of the cottage opens again, and once more
the little girl comes
out with the two big baskets on her arms. Now she walks
into the fields that
surround the little house. She doesn't have to go far; soon
she bends down in the
grass and picks flowers, all kinds of them, big ones
and little ones, and
all of them go into the baskets. The sun has almost set,
and the child still
sits in the grass, collecting her next day's supply.
The task is finished
at last; the baskets are full. The sun has set, and Krista
lies down in the grass,
her hands folded under her head, and looks up into
the sky.
This is her favorite
quarter hour, and nobody need think that the hardworking
little flower girl is
dissatisfied. She never is and never will be so long as,
every day, she may have
this wonderful short rest.
In the field, amid the
flowers, beneath the darkening sky, Krista is content.
Gone is fatigue, gone
is the market, gone are the people. The little girl
dreams and thinks only
of the bliss of having, each day, this short while alone
with God and nature.