Lillian patiently took off her coat and hat and hung them on the hall tree. Then she stood in front of Tommy.
He scrunched up his face, thinking of how to explain. “Well, I kind of had an argument.”
“Not at school, I hope!”
“No, after school. On the way home.”
Lillian waited, growing impatient that Tommy wasn’t volunteering any information.
Then Gabriel came into the living room, the salt shaker in his hand. “It wasn’t his fault, Mom. That dope Butch said Hitler could still win the war, and Tommy said ‘no he couldn’t,’ and Butch said ‘yes he could,’ and Tommy said ‘if you’re gonna talk stupid you can just shut your mouth’ and that’s when Butch said ‘oh yeah? Make me’ so – ” Gabriel shrugged his shoulders, the rest of the story being obvious.
“Was he hurt?” Lillian asked, concerned.
“You bet! Tommy clipped him a good one,” Gabriel said, with a proud smile.
“Gabriel!” Lillian cried.
“Only after he hit Tommy in the nose and made him bleed,” he quickly added.
Lillian sat down next to Tommy, shaking her head. “What am I going to do with you boys? Gabriel running off from school, and you fighting whenever you get a chance.”
Tommy had his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. “Sorry, Mom.”
“You convinced me that you were old enough not to need a babysitter after school, but I think – ”
“It would have happened anyway,” said Tommy. “It started at school.”
It was moments like these when she wished Charles were there to help. He would know what to do and be able to explain things to the boys. They always listened to him. The thought of Charles suddenly filled her with sadness. She rose to her feet and glanced at the clock.
“We’ll talk about it later. Go change your shirt, and let me fix dinner.” Lillian felt she was taking the easy way out, but she just didn’t feel like scolding Tommy. Maybe up at Annette’s, away from everything, she could talk to him about it.
The boys were soon helping to set the table and seeing what was for dinner. Lillian gave Tommy a quick squeeze as he lifted the lid on the simmering vegetable soup.
He smiled up at her, wondering how he had gotten off so lightly. He and Gabriel exchanged a smile, and lifted their shoulders in bafflement.
*
That night Lillian lay in bed, missing Charles more than ever. She had stayed up late writing him a letter, pouring out her heart to him about Tommy’s fighting and Gabriel’s skipping school, and writing about her loneliness.
Then she tore it up, and wrote a calmer letter about how well they were all doing, and how the boys were looking forward to having Christmas with their cousins.
It seemed that every day something happened that made her wish Charles were there. She wanted to talk to him about Tommy and Gabriel. She wanted to tell him about the patients and about how surprised she was that she enjoyed teaching so much. She wanted to tell him her idea of perhaps becoming a teacher and trying to find freelance work as an illustrator.
Even though every day seemed to emphasize his being gone, it was the nights that were so difficult. She never knew that a bed could feel so empty, that a night could be so long.
She placed her hand on his pillow, and then pulled it over and laid her cheek on it. She could almost hear the tenderness in his voice, see the smile that always melted her, and that soft look in his eye that was for her alone.
Visions of their early days filled her mind: the excitement she felt on learning something new about him, the thrill of filling in the gaps, of everything that made him more and more hers. She remembered the desperate passion that filled their nights – a wild mix of delight in each other and fear that they might lose what they had finally found.
The ache in her heart deepened, as it often did at night. Rather than give way to tears, she placed before her a little dream that she often nourished at bedtime, to take away the loneliness. It was an image of them all together again, sitting in the living room. After the war. Charles and the boys were gathered around her, looking down at the darling baby in her arms. A sweet little girl, named Charlotte, after Charles. Tommy and Gabriel were touching her tiny fingers, smiling at their little sister. And Charles – he looked from his daughter to her, and the tenderness in his eyes –
Tonight the vision didn’t work, and her heart burst, taking her by surprise. There would be no more children; it would have happened by now. She had so badly wanted a child with Charles. She knew how happy it would make him. And her. But the war had come and forced them apart. And she was getting older. And Charles was so far away – she couldn’t bear to think of him out there all alone. And what if – what if he – She pulled the pillow closer to her mouth, to muffle the sound of her crying.
Chapter 10
*
For the next several days, Ursula was careful to avoid Friedrich. She was a jumble of emotions, all getting in her way – not clear-headed, so unlike herself. Everything was changing so quickly. A year ago she was focused, and knew exactly what she wanted and how she was going to get it. Though she had postponed her plans for college when Paul enlisted, she continued to study on her own and had remained clear-sighted about what she wanted out of life.
But now? She was sure of nothing. She was behaving in a way that she had not thought possible – impetuous, impulsive, unsure of herself.
She hated that he thought so lowly of her – and she hated that she cared what he thought. He had called her a stupid girl, and he was right. Not for a moment had she considered that he might be able to speak other languages. Because she could speak only her native tongue, she had assumed the same for him. She wanted him to know that she was going to college – after the war. She wanted to learn, to travel, to study other languages. A bit of Latin and French was all she had. She cringed at the memory of how she had freely insulted him for weeks, the hurtful words she had used.
But what did he mean about not calling him a Nazi? Weren’t they all? How could she know? She was ignorant. But she wanted to know more. No wonder he despises me. He has every right to.
As she did every day, Ursula stood at her bedroom window, watching the pickup truck take away the prisoners. The setting sun gave the western sky a brief flush of pink, which soon disappeared and left the skies a heavy gray. She watched the truck leave the farm lane and turn onto the country road. When it was no longer in sight, she went downstairs to find Ed.
He was in the kitchen with Kate and Jessica, telling them how his wife was staying the night with her sister, who lived in the next town over, to help her with the holiday baking.
“Don’t know what they can do, what with sugar so hard to come by these days. Opal says they’ll cook with molasses and honey, add some raisins and other dried fruit. Every day she thanks you for the honey you sent. Puts it in her tea at breakfast. Says she’s gotten to the point where she prefers it to sugar. Funny, how we get used to things.”
“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Ed?” said Kate, draining the water from the potatoes into the sink.
“She set me up with leftovers at home. Thanks, anyway.”
“Let me set a plate for you, Ed,” urged Ursula.
“And you don’t want to miss out on Mom’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes, do you?” asked Jessica.
Over dinner, the conversation settled on the POWs. They discussed how theirs compared to others at the surrounding farms, how much work they had accomplished in such a short time, and some of the cultural differences.
“First time we served them corn,” said Ed, “they looked at it in surprise, then in confusion, wondering if it was some kind of joke or insult. They all looked up at Otto, who laughed heartily, and took a big spoonful of the buttery kernels. Then he said something to them all in German, and slowly they gave it a try. Otto said in Germany corn is used only for livestock.” Ed chuckled at the memory. “Now, they can’t get enough of it.”
“Or my buttered
cornbread,” added Kate. She would never admit it, even to herself, but cooking for the POWs gave her a sense of satisfaction, as it had when she cooked for her sons. She loved nothing more than to see a hearty appetite become gratified by her cooking.
“Ed,” asked Jessica, “why do they always sing? Have you noticed? Shirley said hers do the same thing, and Sue Ellen said Mr. Enchelmaier, their guard, says at camp they sing when they march, they sing when they work, they sing all the time.”
Ed scratched his cheek, searching for an answer. “I guess it’s just their way. Otto said Gustav told him that at the base camp they had an orchestra of sorts. Said that Friedrich has a beautiful voice, studied music at the university.”
“That explains it,” said Kate. “Once or twice he’s been in the living room, and I wondered why he was looking so intently at the piano. I thought he was looking at the photographs on top. Perhaps he plays.”
Ursula casually turned to Ed as she dished up some more potatoes. “Did Otto say that he majored in music?”
“No, that wasn’t it.” Ed rubbed his whiskers in thought. “Engineering, that’s it. I knew it was something with machines.”
“I hope the same three can help us in the spring,” said Kate. “It would be a shame to have to start all over again. And we may not be so lucky the next time.”
“Are they leaving?” asked Ursula, wondering if her voice had shown her alarm.
“Hard to say,” said Ed. “The war’s not ending any time soon, that’s for sure. But Otto said the canneries up north are in need of labor. And once the cold weather sets in, I’m not sure how long we can keep ’em.”
“Repairing the barn alone will take time,” said Kate. “And I was hoping they could start on the outbuildings. They all have repairs that need done. And there are several trees that need cutting down. And if we have an early spring – ”
Ed gave a low chuckle. “I know, Kate. We’ll try to keep ’em. Lord knows, we can keep ’em busy.”
“I hope they can stay. Or at least come back in the spring,” said Jessica. “Shirley said her father sent one prisoner back. They just didn’t like him, and the other prisoners always seemed tense when he was around – like he was spying on them. Mrs. Bloomfield was glad when he was gone.”
“Ed,” asked Ursula, “did Otto say anything about the prisoners not being Nazis?”
“You mean our prisoners?”
She moved her shoulder as if she didn’t really care. “Just something I heard talked about in town. About some of the prisoners not being Nazis. I thought they all were.”
“Oooh no,” said Ed. “Otto said the three we have are all strongly anti-Nazi, though they keep it to themselves. Apparently, there are some POWs, maybe SS men, that the prisoners are afraid of.”
“Maybe that’s who was on the Bloomfield farm,” said Jessica, her eyes wide with fear.
“Afraid how?” Kate asked Ed, passing him the platter of chicken.
“Well, ‘reprisals back home,’ is how Otto put it. Maybe here, as well. He said there was some trouble at the base camp where they came from.”
“What do you mean – trouble?” asked Ursula.
“Well, apparently the Nazis pretty much control the camps, and have been allowed to keep some of their ways. Otto’s brother works up north at Camp Ellis, and said the Nazi’s keep order in the camps. Makes the guards’ jobs a whole lot easier, especially since only a handful of guards speak German.”
They all waited to see if Ed had more information to impart.
“Did our prisoners say anything about it?” asked Kate.
Ed rubbed his cheek. “Otto said all three of ’em requested farm work as a way to get out of the base camp. Now, this is all between ourselves – but they didn’t like what was goin’ on there.”
“Like what?” asked Jessica.
“Otto said there were groups of hardcore Nazis who punished anyone who spoke out against Hitler.”
“Punish how?” asked Ursula, suddenly afraid for Friedrich.
Ed clearly didn’t want to say anything more. “Well,” he said, rubbing his gray whiskers again, “best not to repeat things I can’t know about.”
*
The next day Ursula waited impatiently for Jessica to arrive home from school. She then convinced her to go with her to call on Shirley and Sue Ellen, to bring them some walnuts for their holiday baking. If any information were to be had, Mrs. Bloomfield was the person to ask. The tiniest prod would release any gossip she might have.
After a half hour of chatting at the Bloomfield table over tea and cookies, Sue Ellen steered the conversation to the Christmas dance at the Town Hall.
“Joe Madden finally got around to asking me. I knew he would. I don’t know what took him so long. I had half a mind to tell Bart Eichen that I’d go with him.”
“Go on,” said Shirley. “Go show them your dress. It’s beautiful.”
Sue Ellen ran upstairs, delighted to have an excuse to try on her dress again.
“I’m still working on mine,” said Shirley, “but let me show you.” She ran to her room and came back with a dress made of the fabric she had chosen with Jessica back in October.
Jessica jumped up to look at the dress. “Oh, Shirley, it’s so pretty! Mine’s all finished. I added the trim around the neck, like you said. Ursula is going to wear her blue satin dress.”
Ursula gave a quick look at Jessica, but didn’t say anything.
Mrs. Bloomfield clapped her hands. “I’m so glad you’re going, Ursula. Sue Ellen said you probably wouldn’t, but I think it’s very patriotic of you. We all must do our part for our boys. They’ll all want to dance with you, I’m sure.”
“Shirley! Come help!” Sue Ellen called from upstairs. “The sleeve is catching on a button or something. Come quick!”
Shirley and Jessica laughed and ran up the stairs to assist Sue Ellen.
Ursula made a show of trying to decide between the raisin bars and the oatmeal cookies. “Speaking of the war,” she began, “Jessica said that you were glad to get rid of one of your POWs.”
Mrs. Bloomfield gave a shudder. “I did not like that one from the beginning. A Nazi to the core. Didn’t trust him one bit.”
“I heard that some camps are having problems with the Nazis taking too much control. Do you know anything about that?”
“I do, indeed! Now, what I heard from Mrs. Pickett, the sheriff’s wife, no less, is that those Nazis are bringing their devilish practices over here.”
“What sort of – ”
“She said that in some camps they’ve established a stronghold, still maintain their own rank and order, and if anyone doesn’t agree – ” she gave a knowing nod at the unfinished thought.
“What happens?”
Mrs. Bloomfield leaned forward, whispering. “If anyone speaks up, has anything good to say about America, or bad to say about Mr. Hitler, they get a visit at night from some ghastly group of thugs that calls itself – the Holy Ghost! Beatings mostly, though apparently some have resulted in death.”
Ursula sat back in her chair, shocked at the information, and wondering if it was just a rumor. “I can’t believe that would be allowed here in our own country.”
“Oh, it’s true, all right. It’s all been hush hush – but the word is slowly getting out.”
“Beatings by Nazis! While in prison here?” said Ursula, thinking of Friedrich.
“And worse,” Mrs. Bloomfield added, shaking her head.
“Worse?” asked Ursula.
Again Mrs. Bloomfield leaned forward. “I don’t want the younger girls to hear, but they say there have been suicides.” She pursed her mouth and nodded. But seeing that Ursula wasn’t following, she added, “Murders to look like suicides.” She threw her hands up against the idea, and poured fresh tea into their cups.
Ursula felt sick to her stomach. The horrors of war were supposed to take place oceans away, not here at home. She thought of what Ed said about the POWs requesting farm work –
and how Friedrich didn’t know how to milk a cow. Her heart ached at the way she had treated him. Perhaps he had been in danger, and she had mocked him.
Mrs. Bloomfield patted Ursula’s hand. “Why, you’ve gone quite pale! I didn’t mean to upset you so. I figured you must have heard some of this from Otto.” She pulled herself up to her stout-figured most. “Rest assured – they will not get away with such devilish behavior for much longer. We’ll put a stop to their evil ways. You can be sure of that!” She turned and beamed at the vision of plump loveliness coming into the kitchen. “Oh, my heavens, Sue Ellen! You do look a picture! Doesn’t she?”
Ursula suddenly found herself grateful for the fresh-faced wholesomeness of Sue Ellen, an antidote to the sickening information she had just heard. For a fleeting moment, she longed for their girlhood days, when their greatest concerns were where to find the best wild blackberries, or if they would win a ribbon at the fair.
She stood and admired Sue Ellen and her dress. “Just beautiful! That purple really suits you. You’ll be the belle of the ball, Sue Ellen.”
“Yes, I will!” Sue Ellen said, turning to admire her reflection in the hall mirror. “Just as long as you don’t show up,” she laughed good-naturedly.
*
The next day, Ursula made a jug of fresh coffee and cut up pieces of pumpkin bread and arranged them on a plate. She carried them out to the barn, where the prisoners were beginning on the repairs. Friedrich was up on a ladder and avoided looking at her, but came down when Otto called to him.
Ursula poured the coffee into their cups and made small talk with Otto and Ed, happy to see them all enjoying the unexpected treat. She waited for Friedrich to look up at her, but he took his coffee over to the barn entrance, and gazed out over the barren landscape.
While she waited for him to come back inside, she asked Otto about their progress and listened with interest as he explained the order of repairs, and how they would give them a fresh coat of paint when they were finished. She glanced over at Friedrich, but he remained looking out over the snow-dusted fields.
When Ursula left, she noticed something white in the straw at the base of the ladder. She pushed at it with her shoe, and lightly gasped. A photograph. Her heart beat faster. She knew she shouldn’t look at it, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had to see it. She stooped to pick it up, turned it over, and on seeing the image, her face softened – a sweet young boy, no more than fourteen or fifteen, smiled up at the camera. Just as she held it closer, Friedrich snatched it out of her hand. Without looking at her, he put it in his shirt pocket. Avoiding her asking eyes, he walked back outside and began lifting and throwing lumber into the cart.
Christmastime 1943 Page 10