Christmastime 1943

by Linda Mahkovec

  A few men kept the teasing alive with more under-the-breath comments: “Can I get a private lesson?” and “I’d love to teach you some things I know.”

  Part of Lillian wanted to collect her materials and storm out of the room.

  Then the man with the cane, who she assumed was the ringleader, suddenly smacked the table with the end of his cane, causing Lillian to jump.

  “Can it!” he hollered. “Let the lady do what she came here to do. If you want to learn how to draw, stick around. The rest of you – scram. Go on, beat it!” He turned to Lillian and gave a small bow. “Sergeant Remling – at your service.”

  Most of the men remained, coming up to the table to get tablets and pencils. A few trickled off and went back to their card game. They kept turning their heads, not wanting to miss out on any developments.

  Lillian nodded a brief thanks to the sergeant.

  “Okay, let’s begin.” She turned to a young man sitting at the end of the front row. “Why don’t you start with your name?”

  He politely gave his name. And then one by one, the others introduced themselves, giving Lillian time to regain her composure. Most of the men went by their nicknames: Alabama, Bushwick, Mack, Lefty, Bull, Memphis, Curly. She tried to remember as many of them as she could. A glance at the clock showed that fifteen minutes had already passed and she hadn’t taught them anything.

  A few of the younger men were clearly there for fun. One asked, “Now your turn, teacher. Tell us all about yourself.”

  “For now, my name will have to suffice. We’re running out of time. Why don’t we get started with a basic exercise? Turn to the person next to you and draw a brief sketch. After five minutes, you’ll switch.” She could sense hesitation and coaxed the men to give it a try. “Don’t worry about what it looks like. I promise you’ll get better. It’s just a matter of practice.”

  Sergeant Remling had taken a seat in the front. “You’re closest to me. Mind if I draw you?”

  “Not at all.” She faced him and smiled.

  She heard a whistle and some laughter from a few of his friends. “Watch out for Rembrandt,” one of them called out.

  “Rembrandt?” she asked, addressing the sergeant.

  “Remmy. Rembrandt. Dutch. I got a lot of nicknames,” he said with a wink. “Rembrandt – that’s the guys making fun of me on account of my appreciation for the finer things in life. Art and music. Fine wine. Beautiful women.”

  Lillian disregarded his flirtatious words and glanced at the clock. “All right. You have ten minutes to make your sketches. Don’t judge your work. Just try to depict what you see.”

  One patient moved to the front and jerked his thumb back at his friend. “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna to draw his ugly mug. Mind if I draw you?” He didn’t wait for Lillian’s response, and started to sketch her.

  Then another came forward. Lillian was losing control of the group again.

  “All right. That’s enough.” She put her hand up at a few others who were about to move closer to her. “It doesn’t matter who you draw. It’s about training your eye.” She waited for the hand to land on twelve. “Okay – begin.”

  She sat still since a few men were drawing her, but she kept encouraging the more serious ones. “Try to keep your hand fluid, the pencil moving.”

  From the back row, one GI repeated her words to the man beside him, putting a different spin on them. “Keep your hand fluid, Mack,” he said, eliciting a few guffaws.

  Lillian was about to reprimand them, but when she looked over at them, they smiled sweetly, all politeness. She hid the fact that she was rattled, and tried to build on the courtesy that most of the men showed her.

  She was appalled to find that, to each other, they were astonishingly abrasive. “Keep still, Crip, and stop your hacking!” one man said to the patient he was trying to draw.

  Another looked over at the sketch a one-armed man was attempting: “Jeez! And that’s your good hand? Thank God it was the other arm you lost.”

  Others simply snorted in amusement at the various results.

  After ten minutes she called time. “Okay, let’s take a look at your first efforts.” She walked around the room and made a few comments, encouraging some, offering suggestions to others.

  When she came to Sergeant Remling, however, he became self-conscious, not wanting to show his drawing.

  Lillian insisted. “This is just a simple assessment so I know where to begin. How else am I supposed to help you?”

  He slowly handed over his sketch, keeping his eyes down.

  Lillian almost burst into laughter. Could he be serious? His rendition of her was not much better than a child’s drawing – round head, curly scribble hair. She placed her hand over her mouth, realizing that this was the best he could do.

  Remling put on an exaggerated wounded expression. “Aww, you’re not laughing at me, are you, Teach?”

  “No. Of course not. This is an introductory class. You’ll improve. You’ll see.” She was glad he was being good-natured about it. Though when she looked at the rest of the drawings, most were not much better.

  “I want you to keep your drawings so that we have something to compare your progress against.” She glanced at the clock. “Let me use the rest of our time to go over some basics.” She spoke for another fifteen minutes and gave a few examples on the chalkboard, but she was unsure whether she was getting through to the men.

  At the end of class, she gave two assignments: a still life and another portrait sketch. Several of the men delayed her with questions about drawing and about herself. She answered a few general questions, and, taking her coat and hat, she backed out of the room.

  As she left, she heard a burst of laughter. One of the men had snatched up Sergeant Remling’s drawing and was holding it high, to the immense entertainment of the others. No one was laughing harder than Remling himself.

  Lillian was about to step back in and say something about respecting each other’s efforts, but she sensed that there was a deeper dynamic at work, one that she didn’t quite yet understand. A certain toughness mixed with dark humor. During class she had overheard several joking remarks about each other’s wounds or handicaps, but each time they were met with a chorus of laughter. She closed the door behind her.

  “Sorry I’m late!” said Mrs. Coppel, rushing up to Lillian. “Well – how did it go?”

  “I – I’m not sure,” answered Lillian, looking back through the glass door at the patients. “I’m not sure how much they learned.”

  The coordinator gave an easy chuckle as she glanced inside. “At least they’re enjoying themselves. That’s an improvement in itself.”

  Lillian gave a start when she saw one of the men, the one called Bull, grab a patient’s wheelchair and tip it backwards, almost to the floor. The patient hollered in anger, swinging his arms behind him – and then started laughing.

  Mrs. Coppel recognized Lillian’s dismay. “You will be coming back, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” smiled Lillian. “And the next time, I’ll be better prepared. I was caught a bit off guard today.”

  “Splendid! Perhaps next time you could stop by the ward upstairs and talk to a few patients unable to leave their beds. Some of them are quite dejected, but have expressed an interest in the drawing class.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “It would be much appreciated. Not everyone makes the time for individual cases. It will surely do them good. I strongly believe in the healing properties of art, don’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Lillian. Though she wondered how much healing she’d be able to bring about with this particular group.

  Chapter 6

  *

  Despite Otto’s assurances that the POWs would be no trouble, Kate and Ed maintained a watchful eye and kept them away from the house. But after a week of working with them, Kate was beginning to come to the same conclusion as Otto. Yes, they were the enemy, or at least their country was, but they were
hard-working, decent men.

  They were friendly and courteous, appreciative of her cooking, and they seemed to take great pleasure in the outdoors. They even seemed eager to please. Of course, it could all be a ruse, thought Kate. She tried to keep a clear vision and constantly reminded herself that they were German soldiers. Yet her instincts told her that these were good men. And she couldn’t deny the results they were bringing about on the farm. The fences in the pasture and south field were mended, and to her delight, the tractor was now running and in full use, after being in disrepair for weeks.

  On the second day, she had come out onto the porch on hearing the sound of the tractor. There was Otto, driving the tractor in wide circles, a proud smile spread across his face at Kate’s surprise.

  Ed had laughed and stepped up onto the porch. “That fella Friedrich asked if he could try to fix it. Used his lunch hour to give it a go. Seems he has some mechanical ability. Runs like new.”

  They all watched as Otto drove the tractor to the barn. Kate caught Friedrich’s eye and nodded her thanks.

  A faint softening filled his handsome face, and he turned his eyes to Ursula.

  She had stepped onto the porch with a dish towel in hand. “He’s probably good with explosives, too.” And she stepped back inside.

  Ed saw the frustration in Kate’s face. “We’ll take it down to the creek and chop up those fallen trees I’ve been wantin’ to get to. We can get a cord of wood out of them – maybe two.” He looked up at the sky. “The weather’s sure to change soon enough.” Ed took off his hat and swatted it with his hand, smoothed his hair, and put his hat back on. He then joined the men outside the barn. Gustav and Friedrich hitched a large cart to the tractor, and soon they all drove off towards the creek.

  Since that day, she and Ursula increasingly argued about the prisoners. Kate understood Ursula’s anger, but it was getting in the way of running the farm. There was enough to worry about without Ursula constantly finding fault, especially with Friedrich. Ursula targeted him with most of her contempt. He seemed to want to help, and Ursula resented it.

  Yesterday Kate noticed that Friedrich used his lunch break to finish chopping and stacking the branches that Ursula had started on. Earlier, he had watched as Ursula worked, pushing her hair off her forehead, rubbing her sore palms. It seemed to pain him. Though Ursula strode around as if she were strong, she was small-boned and most of her strength came from sheer determination. When Ursula came back outside after lunch, she saw the neatly stacked branches, glanced towards the POWs, and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Kate remained torn. She wanted to keep a distance from the prisoners, yet she was grateful for their hard work. And the nature of farm life was such that some interaction must take place. The truth was she liked them all, and appreciated their mild, respectful manner. In her mother’s heart, she believed that mothers were the same the world over. Perhaps one day, some German mother might show a kindness to one of her sons.

  As they’d grown used to each other, Kate relaxed her hold on the reins and allowed for simple, human interaction. Otto had filled her in on the scant information he had learned about the prisoners.

  The oldest, Gustav, was married and liked to talk about his family. He had two little boys that he missed terribly and the best of wives. He was sick of fighting and only wanted to get back to his farm.

  The youngest, Karl, had seen just two weeks of duty before being captured – and was apparently relieved by it. He was proud of the little English he knew and was always trying to catch a new word or phrase.

  Friedrich didn’t fit the stereotype of Rommel’s men either. He had been part of the Signal Corps and hadn’t seen much fighting. His main duty was the repair of radios and equipment. Otto said Friedrich was a hard nut to crack and that he kept to himself for the most part, though he got along well with the others.

  Kate stood on the porch. She rubbed her arms and pulled her coat close. She looked at the mottled gray sky and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself; she and Ursula had just argued again. With the colder weather, Kate had told Ed to bring the prisoners and Otto inside to eat, which set Ursula off. Both mother and daughter had stormed out of the house – Kate to the front porch, Ursula to the back of the house.

  Kate raised her face to the sky again and flexed her fingers. Snow was on the way; she could feel it in her joints. The extra wood the prisoners had cut gave her a degree of comfort against the coming winter – and there were more trees to be felled, more wood to be chopped. She gave a firm nod, as if in support of her argument. Ursula’s room would be warmer this winter. Did she think of that? And Ursula would have more hot water to soak in the tub, as she was so fond of doing. Had she considered that? A hot meal in a warm kitchen was the only decent thing to do.

  And yet – she still had doubts that she was doing the right thing in having them on the farm at all, let alone in her kitchen. She needed their help, but she also felt a sense of betrayal. The reports from the front filled her with terror. There was still a knot in her stomach from hearing Edward R. Murrow’s recent “orchestrated hell” report. Her own son, Eugene, was in just such a plane, flying somewhere over Europe – flak exploding all around him, enemy planes swooping down, smoky ruins below.

  Of course she understood Ursula’s resentment. But the farm – it had to be there when they all came back. It was the only thing she could do for her sons. And they must step up to the increased demands from the government to produce more food. She shook her head at the situation. There were no simple answers. That was clear. She went back inside to prepare the lunchtime meal.

  Ursula had gone out to the chicken coop to gather eggs, wanting to be alone with her anger. It was a torment that he was always around, and now he would be eating in their kitchen! She wanted him far away from her. She wanted to erase whatever had passed between them in October.

  She was trying to stay away from him, to be cold and distant – and here was her mother inviting him to lunch. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

  And yet, she constantly sought him out, wondering where he was, what he was doing – in order to avoid him, she told herself.

  Everything he did infuriated her. He fixed the tractor after she had so struggled with it. He finished chopping the wood for her, as if she were incapable. She told herself it was his Nazi arrogance, wanting to put her in her place.

  At least she had succeeded in keeping a distance between them. Two days ago, the prisoners were sitting on the fence as they waited for Zack Wells. She came from the barn, carrying a heavy milk can. Seeing her struggle, Friedrich had jumped down to help her. She’d quickly set the can down, and stood with her palm raised. “I don’t need your help,” she’d said firmly. She was sure he understood her meaning.

  From that day, he kept out of her way. If their paths happened to cross, he averted his eyes. At least he had sense enough for that, she thought. Today when he saw her coming, he had purposely turned away and walked back inside the barn. It was becoming clear to Ursula that he was trying to avoid her. Which was starting to bother her. What right did he have to avoid her?

  The chickens gathered at her feet, where she was scattering feed. She collected a few eggs from the straw and placed them in her basket. The knot that had lodged inside when she saw him again that first day continued to pull and tighten.

  She sought out reasons to despise him, but he gave her nothing to work with. She remained alone in her contempt. Her mother was grateful, and Ed was impressed.

  “Ursula!” Kate called from the back door.

  Surely her mother didn’t expect her to be in the same room with the prisoners. She would rather go without lunch than have him near. She would wait until they were finished and back in the fields.

  Ursula felt the distance between her and her mother growing, which pained her. She didn’t want to add to her mother’s already heavy burdens. But her aversion to Friedrich was not something she could talk about.

  *
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br />   The following day, Ursula watched from the living room window as Ed, Otto, and the prisoners returned from fixing the last of the fences in the farthest field. She was angry that she had wasted so much time awaiting their return – standing at various windows, glancing at the clock, scanning the horizon.

  When the group finally returned at end of day, she saw Otto look up at the sky as if gauging the time, and exchange a few words with Ed. Then he motioned for Gustav and Karl to follow Ed to the granary, and he walked with Friedrich to the barn and handed him a milk pail.

  Ursula saw an exchange between them and gathered that Friedrich didn’t want to do the milking. Otto laughed and gestured inside the barn, and then went to the granary with the others. She glanced out at Ed and her mother; they were working on a list of supplies for repairing the barn and hadn’t noticed the exchange.

  Against her better sense, Ursula went out into the farmyard, strode to the barn, and stood in the entrance.

  She startled Friedrich, who had been talking gently to one of the cows as it lazily swished its tail. He tensed with expectation.

  “Is milking too far below you? Is that it?” she asked, satisfied that her tone and expression conveyed the words he didn’t understand. She had grown accustomed to insulting him whenever he was near, though she knew the pettiness of such behavior was beneath her.

  He turned his back to her and continued to stroke the cow.

  She walked up next to him and pointed to the milk pail. “Well, go ahead. You’re so quick to impress everyone with your enthusiasm to work, but as soon as no one’s looking you dawdle and talk to the cow.” She shook her head in disgust. “You’re not a Nazi soldier now, but a prisoner. A farmhand.”

  She lifted the pail, and shoved it in his hand.

  He took it, and met her gaze. Then he slowly sat down on the milk stool next to the cow.

  Satisfied, Ursula spun around and left. When she reached the door, she looked back. Friedrich remained sitting, but with no apparent intention of milking the cow.