Heart of the Wilderness by Janette Oke Page B

moccasins. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to shop or not. Oh, she supposed it would be nice to have new things instead of the clothing that Nonie had sewn for her. But she just wasn’t sure she wanted to give up the things with which she was familiar.
    “Who is Mrs. Miller?” she asked instead.
    “She is a friend of mine from many years back.”
    Kendra knew that. What she really wished to know was what kind of a person the woman was. Was she old? Young? Kind? Difficult? Talkative or silent? Who was Mrs. Miller?
    “You will like Mrs. Miller,” her grandfather continued. “She never had a family of her own but she . . .” He hesitated. They had not talked of Mary for many months. At last he willed himself to continue. “She loved your mother very much,” he said softly. “Almost like she was—was her own daughter. After your—your grandmother died, Mrs. Miller helped your mother with her clothes and—and even her wedding.”
    Kendra stirred. It was the first in a long time that she had been reminded of the mother she could barely remember.
    “Is she Scotch too?” she asked, wishing to have some point of contact.
    “No. No, she is German.”
    Kendra’s head came up, her eyes reflecting her deep shock.
    The man had no idea what the one simple word meant to Kendra. Again she saw the flashing dark eyes of Nonie as she spat in the dust of the path and hissed out the words, “German. P-f-f-t.” And spit again.
    “What’s wrong?” asked her grandfather, sensing her discomfiture.
    “Germans are bad,” she said in a whisper.
    “What do you mean?”
    “They’re bad.”
    “Who told you that?” he asked her. “Where did you get that idea?”
    “Nonie. Nonie spit. She—”
    “Nonie?” His mind scrambled to try to figure out the meaning of her words. Then a light dawned.
    “Oh, that. Nonie shouldn’t say such things. Should know better.”
    “But—”
    “There was a trapper in the area once,” he went on to explain. “He was a bad trapper. He stole from other traps and made a great deal of trouble for everyone. Including Nonie’s husband, who was still alive at the time and trapping south of the settlement. Eventually the Mounties came and got the man. They put him in jail somewhere, I guess. We’ve never heard of him again. He was German. It’s true. But,
    Kendra—you never should judge a whole race of people because one of them is bad. It doesn’t work that way.”
    Kendra still looked doubtful.
    “I knew a bad Scotsman once,” her grandfather went on. “He drank whiskey—all the time. Then picked fights with anyone who came along. He was a Scot. I am Scot. Does that make me bad?”
    Kendra knew that it didn’t. Still she could not voice a reply.
    “And I knew a bad Indian once,” her grandfather went on. “He never wanted to work a trapline. Never hunted for food. Never wanted to do anything except steal from his neighbors. He watched the other cabins, and whenever the people were not at home, he slipped in and stole from their traps and belongings, their food supplies and leggings. He was Indian. Nonie is an Indian. Does that make her a bad Indian?”
    Kendra shook her head slowly. She knew that it didn’t. She loved Nonie.
    “We must never— never judge a race by one person—or a person by a race. Each individual must be allowed to be good—or judged bad—on their own merit, their own behavior. Do you understand, Kendra?”
    The words were spoken softly but firmly. Kendra sensed that her grandfather felt very strongly on the matter.
    She nodded her head again.
    “Maggie Miller is about the finest woman you will ever meet,” her grandfather went on. “She nursed your grandmother for months before—” He couldn’t finish the thought. “And Henry, her husband, another German—he risked his life to save mine. He still bears the scars on his hands. No, Kendra. One bad German does not make a race of bad Germans any more than one bad Scot makes a race of bad