Lift My Eyes Read online

  The man looks down at the ground and then turns back to the slaughter. Not until he has gone do I cry. I cry until I am too exhausted to cry anymore. But this is only the preparation for what is to come.

  *****

  NOVEMBER 30, 1864

  (LATER THAT DAY, AROUND DUSK)

  Franklin, Tennessee

  Amelia is chopping vegetables for supper. I wonder how any of us will be able to eat—I still feel like I am going to vomit. The blue uniforms are all eating, though—hunched around their open fires fueled by our felled trees, devouring the hogs that were meant to feed us throughout the winter, devouring Ute, devouring Mattie.

  Mama enters the kitchen in her coat and hat. The daylight is fading, so I wonder where she can be going.

  “Kommt jetzt!”

  She is telling us all to come with her right away. Her voice is calm and steady, but Mama normally speaks English, and when she speaks German, we know that she is very serious. Amelia promptly lays down her knife, unties her apron, and takes her coat from the peg near the kitchen door.

  “Do I have to come right now?” Paul asks. He has been sketching the devastation of our backyard, and I know that he is hurrying to finish before he loses the light. This drawing seems to make him feel better somehow. I cannot look out there anymore, but I have been watching him as he works, his right hand making sure, swift strokes across the paper, his left raised from time to time to check perspective, his brow crinkled in concentration. He is drawing tree stumps, hacked branches, men in blue uniforms with dark, menacing faces gnawing on bones.

  “Ja stimmt! Jetzt, Paul!” Mama answers.

  Paul does not mistake her tone this time, and leaps to put on his coat. Mama takes my hand in her strong, sure hand. In the hall, we join Papa, who grips his toolbox with one hand, and with the other clasps sleeping baby Gus to his shoulder. Mama and Papa look at each other wordlessly. I am with them, so I am not afraid, but I know that we are on guard, as a family of deer who sense a hunter will stand listening for a moment before they flee.

  *****

  NOVEMBER 30, 1864

  (THE NIGHT OF THAT SAME DAY)

  Franklin, Tennessee

  We are huddled in the Carters’ storage cellar, starting at the reports of the guns cracking over our heads, shaking with the thunder of the canon. Earlier today, as the grey uniforms streamed up Columbia Pike to meet the blue ones, Papa brought us here to our neighbors’ home to seek shelter. Papa has kept us here, so I believe that all will be well.

  All of the Carter family is here, except Tod who they say is out there with the Confederate Army. All of our family is here, except for Joseph, who returned to his work in Nashville early yesterday, before the soldiers arrived. Mama says Joseph was sent away by the powers above to be spared from all this, and that our twins, Julian and Julius who died last year, have been spared this, as well.

  Mama has not been spared. As she speaks of her dead babies her eyes, usually golden brown like honey, darken with grief, and her wide mouth pulls tight as it does when she is choosing not to weep. Gus is asleep at the ample pillow of one of her breasts, but I scramble up to her other side, making sure to keep my wet skirts away from her. I throw my arms around her neck, and rest my head over her heart.

  “I hate them, Mama.”

  “No, Tillie, you mustn’t.”

  “I do, though. I hate the blue uniforms. They killed our babies. They killed Mattie and Ute. They kill and steal and make everything ugly.”

  “Tillie, dear, hating will only hurt your own heart. You are very young, and it is hard for you to understand this, but most people are doing what they think is good, even when that harms other people. That is what is happening out there right now. Yankee soldiers are killing Confederate soldiers, and Confederate soldiers are killing Yankee soldiers. It is horrible, and it is sad, and it is hurting so many people, but if we asked them right now, most of them would say that what they are doing is good.”

  “Was it good that they killed Julian and Julius?”

  “Dear child, of course it was not good, but the Yankee soldiers did not intend to kill our babies. They did not even think about them, or about any of us who were just trying to live in our home. They were doing their jobs—horrible jobs of killing people who think differently than they do.”

  “That is what the blue uniform was telling me, Mama. They didn’t mean to kill Mattie. Somebody made a mistake. But, Mama, one minute there was her sweet life and the next minute there was not. I cannot stop hating them.”

  Mama holds me closer and whispers, “You are hurting badly right now, Tillie. It may take you a while to forgive.”

  I do not want to forgive the blue uniforms, though I do not say this to Mama. Every time I think about them I get the same shaking feeling I had with the soldier who shot Mattie. My stomach pulls together inside and I want to scream.

  It is different for Mama. Mama is stronger than anybody, even stronger than Papa, I think. Papa is the sky—high and full of light with all sorts of bright beauty shining from him. But Mama is the earth that holds us up and feeds us and never changes. I know that we all came from her as Mattie came from Ute—Paul, and Gus and I, and also Amelia and Joseph a long time ago when Mama was married to another man in Bavaria. What a great woman she is—a tall and solid woman in black silk dresses with full skirts that Paul and Gus and I hide beneath when we are playing. And the heart in her is great, great enough to forgive these people who take so much from us.

  The heart in me is little and it hurts.

  Now the blue uniforms throw open the door of the cellar. Mr. Carter jumps to his feet and meets them at the door.

  “We are going to fire from this room now,” one of the uniforms says.

  “Indeed you are not, sir,” answers Mr. Carter. “You have already moved us from the lower dining room where the ladies could sit on chairs and where there was at least a carpet for the rest of us. Now we are in a damp, drafty storage space, sitting upon cement. There is no lower room remaining that you have not occupied. Where would you have us go?”

  “Well, you will just need to go upstairs—”

  Papa rises and joins Mr. Carter at the door so that their bodies stand between their families and the blue uniforms. It is hard for me to breathe. Will they kill us, too? Or put us in a place where the bullets will kill us? Papa’s face is sterner than I have ever seen it.

  “My good sir,” Papa says, “your commanding officer vowed to me that my family would not be harmed. Now you are asking us to bring our wives and children into rooms where bullets are most certainly penetrating the walls. We shall not do as you ask.”

  “This is not a discussion!” The blue uniform is yelling now, spit flying from his mouth. “This is an order! We are in the midst of a battle and you are on the opposing side!”

  “In fact, sir, I am not on the opposing side. I am a civilian, an American citizen, who is not on either side. I am simply trying to keep my wife and children safe.”

  This seems to confuse the blue uniform enough to silence him, and he leaves. Papa and Mr. Carter do not move from the doorway. The one who comes next is better dressed, and speaks more politely.

  “Good evening, Mr. Carter, Mr. Lotz. We are sorry to trouble you, but my men need to fire from this room and you will need to move.”

  “Good evening, Commander Schofield,” Mr. Carter replies. “Have your men finished firing from the other lower rooms?”

  “They have not.”

  “I see. Then where would you move our wives and children, Commander? Surely you are not suggesting that they shelter in upper rooms, which are being penetrated by bullets and cannon as we speak?”

  “We have no choice, sir.”

  “You, among all your army, are the one who does have a choice, Commander,” says Papa. “You will remember your promise that our families would be safe.”

  The blue commander looks at his boots, looks up, nods, and leaves. He does not return, but I was so afraid that he would shoo
t Papa that I started shaking, and now I cannot stop and my skirts are wet because when I asked Amelia hours ago where I could use the toilet she just shook her head and then Papa was standing in front of the blue commander and his gun. Afterward, everyone says that Mr. Carter and Papa saved our lives.

  I smell bad. I want to wash. I am hungry. I am tired, so tired, but the shrieks of men and the braying of horses, the thunder of cannons and the crack of rifles keep us from sleep. Even worse than my own bad smell is the reek of blood and burning coming from outside.

  “Is this hell?” Gus asks through tears, his little face full of fear.

  “No, child. We are near something like hell, but you are safe,” Mama answers.

  Mama holds Gus closer and rocks him. She has held him all through this horrible night, rocking him and humming to him, trying, usually unsuccessfully, to stop his crying. But when he dozes off, she reaches out and puts her hand on my head.

  “Try to sleep, Matilda,” she says.

  I want to tell her that it is impossible to sleep, that the noise is painful, that my ears are ringing so loudly that I can hardly hear her speaking to me. I want to tell her that I am afraid to close my eyes, that I am still shivering, that I want to cry—but I cannot speak now.

  I grab Mama’s arm, open my mouth, and try again—no sound.

  “Matilda? Are you choking?” Mama lays Gus on Amelia’s lap and slaps my back. She takes me by the shoulders and observes me. I shake my head. I clap my hands to my ears and open my mouth as if screaming, to show her that there is a ringing in my head and that no sound can come from my mouth. That I am not choking. That I cannot speak. I cannot speak at all.

  *****

  DECEMBER 1, 1864

  (THE NEXT DAY)

  Franklin, Tennessee

  After the longest wait I can remember—nineteen hours, as I learn later—Papa goes upstairs and returns to tell us we can go home. Amelia hands Augustus to Papa and Mama, who has held and comforted me for hours now, stands to cradle me as if I were still a baby. Since Gus was born, she has not carried me. Her arms feel wonderfully safe. I put my face against her soft, firm cheek. We begin to climb the stairs. Before we reach the porch, she takes my face in one muscular hand and looks into my eyes.

  “Listen to me, Matilda, listen very carefully.”

  I nod. I listen.

  “Do you remember the song we sing with Amelia sometimes, ‘Lift thine eyes, O lift thine eyes’?”

  I nod again.

  “Good, child. I want you to lift your eyes now, Matilda. Look up, up into the hills, and into the sky. You must not look down. You must not see such a sight as you would see if you looked down. Will you do as I say?”

  I nod once more. Still my ears make a loud ringing and I cannot speak. I look up. There are hardly any more treetops. There is gray smoke, and the air stinks of burning and blood, like meat. But my eyes find the hills through the smoke. The snow at their tops still looks clean and fresh.

  Mama walks very, very slowly, with jerking movements as if she is climbing over logs. Sometimes she trips and grips me closely, but she keeps her balance and we do not fall. As we walk she sings. “Lift thine eyes, O lift thine eyes to the mountains, whence cometh help.” I want to sing with her, to help her rich and lonely voice to fill this place that is so horrible that I am not allowed to look at it. But I simply hug Mama more closely, and she sings even more loudly. “He hath said, thy foot shall not be moved. Thy Keeper will never slumber.”

  I wonder that it can be taking so long to get home, when home is only across the street from the Carters’. I start to look down at Mama’s face to see what the matter is, but she has my head in her palm, and turns it back to the sky.

  “Do you remember the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, Tillie?”

  I nod. I love to listen to the myths Mama reads me, and this is one of my favorites, though it is very sad. Orpheus loved his wife Eurydice very much but she died and went to Hades which is like hell, and he played the harp so beautifully that the Hades god let her leave. Then in one moment Orpheus looked back and lost her forever.

  “It was so very important for Orpheus not to look back, Tillie. Let’s pretend you are Orpheus and we are escaping from Hades, for indeed we are. Only you must look up instead of forward. Can you do that, my Tillie? Tillie?”

  She understands that I have lost my voice, but I have to answer somehow, so I pat her cheek.

  “Good girl, Tillie. It is just a little longer.” Again she begins to sing.

  Orpheus forgot his promise for just a moment and so he looked back. I cannot make such a mistake. I arch my neck and look higher. Ravens are flying in a circle above us the way they do above animals that die in a field. The burning smell catches at the back of my throat and makes my stomach want to vomit, but there is nothing there to vomit now. Mama walks even more slowly, with greater jerking and more tripping, and holds me very tightly. My neck aches, but I will not look down.

  At last Mama says, “We are just in front of our house, Matilda.”

  She has spoken too soon. When I lower my eyes to our front yard the first thing I see is a wonderful drum. I think that maybe we can keep it and Paul and I can play with it. But then, lying near the drum, I see the one who must have played it—the little boy dressed in blue, not much bigger than I am, lying so still, too still, still as a stone.

  *****

  DECEMBER 1864

  (THE NEXT WEEK)

  Franklin, Tennessee

  Our family has returned, but it is not to the home Papa built for us, not to the home he showed his customers so they could see his beautiful woodworking. That home, which I will always remember, is gone forever.

  A cannonball has crashed through the roof and the upstairs floor and all the way into the parlor, destroying the wonderful piano with the carvings of plums and apples. All the windows in the library and dining room are smashed now, with jagged, dirty teeth of glass jutting from their frames. Bullets have bitten through the walls. Worst of all, the staircase has crashed down—the lovely bannister lying all broken and splintered in the hallway. I look and look, but still I cannot believe it. Thankfully, the roaring and ringing in my ears is less now, but still I cannot cry or speak, though Mama has heated water over an open fire in the yard and calmed my shaking with a warm bath, warm soup, and blankets.

  The first day back home and some days afterward are brisk with tasks to accomplish and people to help. Mama hangs a red flag from the porch; she tells us this is so everyone knows that we can tend the wounded here. And we do—so very many of them, a confusion of gray and blue—and a confusion of feelings about the two. It is not only the Yankees who have hurt and killed—the Confederate soldiers have, too, Papa reminds us. Now men who were trying to kill each other only a day ago lie side by side in pain, and it is our duty to care for them without partiality. Mama and Amelia do as he says. I am glad I am little and do not have to help any of these soldiers.

  More strangers than I have ever seen walk into our house or are carried in on stretchers or blankets. They lean against the walls and sprawl on the floors, soaking our carpets with dark-red blood. When we run out of room in the house, they fill the back porch in spite of the bitter cold. There are never enough blankets, and we have pulled down draperies and pulled up rugs for coverings. Mama and Amelia do what they can, mostly trying to keep their wounds clean and make them more comfortable, they tell us when we all gather in the evenings. They give me jobs like tearing sheets for bandages and carrying basins of water for washing wounds. Some of the men moan and cry out, but most are silent and sad. Doctors come in and out to use the parlor for a surgery. Through the sometimes open door, I glimpse men bleeding on our dining table and our kitchen table. Most of the time, though, Mama keeps that door closed and tells me to stay with Papa and help him, but no matter where I am in the house and no matter how my ears still buzz as if a swarm of bees were caught inside them, I can still hear the screams from that room. Mama says the doctors have to do things
that hurt the men, to keep them alive. Amelia says that these men are not the worst off, that the worst have been brought to Carnton Plantation, where there are more rooms for surgeries and where there are slaves to help. Papa and Mama have never kept a slave; they say that we need to work with our own hands for what we need.

  Papa spends these first days of our changed life quickly fixing the worst of the damage to our house. When I am sent to help him, he lets me hold the boards in place while he hammers. Sometimes I fetch tools or nails. Papa’s work is not beautiful now as it has always been before. As he works, he explains how he is trying to protect us from the cold. He nails boards over the holes where the windows were, and over the holes the bullets have made in the walls. He closes the holes in the roof and ceilings, to keep us dry and at least a little warmer. The side of the house where the library and dining room used to be—once my favorite part of our home, with sunlight streaming through its tall, wide windows—was directly exposed to the battle. It is all boarded up and dark now, so cold from the wind blowing through the small cracks between the boards that we cannot use it except to house the wounded who would otherwise have to lie on the porch.

  During these days, I begin to understand that my sensitive artist Papa is badly wounded in his heart. While Mama seems no different from before, except for being busy every moment, Papa’s light is dimmer than it used to be. He speaks little, and sighs often, instead of humming as he used to do. One day he lays down his tools to take me on his knee and stroke my hair.

  “How are you getting along, little Tillie?”

  I pat his soft beard and he puts his hand on mine.

  “Do not be afraid that you cannot speak, Tillie. This has been a frightening time for you, with many difficult changes. Time and love will restore your voice. Will you remember that?”

  I nod, looking into his sky-blue eyes and hoping that time and love will heal him, too.