Summer of My German Soldier

by Bette Greene

  “Anybody else?”

  I thought of good-old-raggedy-old Freddy Dowd who couldn’t be mentioned in my father’s presence. “No, sir, that’s about all.”

  Mr. Pierce looked down. “Patricia, did you within the last five months give food to some tramp, somebody that you’d never seen before?”

  It was plain he’d been talking to the sheriff and now he wanted to find out if the tramp could be Anton. “Yes, sir, I sure did.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, sir, during the summer I met this man and he looked an awful lot like a tramp and he told me that he hadn’t eaten in—I forgot how long. Is it important? Should I try to remember?”

  “Just go on with the story,” said Pierce.

  “Anyway, he asked if I could spare him some food and I told him that I could. And so I did—give him some food from our fridge. Is that what you want to know?”

  “What was his name?”

  I shook my head. “He didn’t tell me.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Just some old clothes that weren’t clean.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He didn’t look like anything too special. He looked tired ’cause his eyes had this redness like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep.”

  “About how old would you say he was?”

  “Well—” I began conjuring up my original vision of the tramp, the one I had used for Sister Parker and Sheriff Cauldwell. “He wasn’t too young, some of his whiskers were getting grey. He may even have been forty, as old as that.”

  “Anything of a special nature that you noticed about the tramp?”

  “Well, if there was any one thing I guess I’d have to say it was his politeness. He thanked me for every bit of food that I brought him.”

  Then Pierce asked his height, but before I had finished telling him that he wasn’t too tall the FBI man was off on another question. “Did he talk like people from these parts?”

  “Well, sir—” As he deliberately speeded up his questions, I deliberately slowed down my answers. “I’m not sure that he did.”

  The other FBI man led my father from the room saying something that sounded like, but it couldn’t be, “Show me your clothes.”

  “How did he talk different?”

  “Well, for one thing, he had polite manners.”

  “You told me that. I want to know about his accent. Did he, for example, sound like a Southerner?”

  “No, sir, I really don’t think so.”

  Pierce picked up a briefcase at his feet. “Where do you think he came from?”

  “New York,” I said automatically before even deciding whether it could do any harm. How could that help the FBI? After all, Anton wasn’t from New York. Still, I felt uneasy.

  Pierce slipped a glossy black-and-white photograph from his briefcase. “Is this the tramp?” he asked, placing the picture before me.

  It was him. Anton! “Sir?”

  “I asked you if this man was the tramp?”

  “Well, sir—,” I said, not really sure of what to say. I couldn’t quite figure out if it would hurt or help Anton if the FBI believed he was the tramp.

  “Surely, you know whether or not this was the tramp. You gave him food; he gave you his ring. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

  “I lost it.”

  Pierce struck the photograph with his fingers. “Well, is it him?”

  I held the photo close and then out to arm’s length. Ideas crashed head-on into other ideas. One idea revived itself: Make Mr. Pierce believe that I want to help him. “Well, Mr. Pierce,” I said, finding his eyes. “It sure doesn’t look too much like him, although, it could be if he were wearing a disguise. Do you think he wore a disguise?”

  He answered my question by asking rapid-fire questions of his own. How did the tramp look like the picture? How did he not look like it? Eyes? Hair? Same or different? How? Why? Moles? Birthmarks? Clothes? Where did the tramp say he was going? Where had he been?

  My head began to fog up. “Did you give the tramp any clothes to wear?” How much longer can this go on? Will there be a point when there are no more questions left to ask? Stay calm. Important, staying calm and pretending to be helpful. After all, how can I hurt Anton? I don’t know where he is. He never told me where he was going. Yet, in my mind’s eye I always saw him in New York City walking down Fifth Avenue, maybe even wearing an ascot from some fancy store.

  Suddenly, something blue was pulled from the briefcase. “Do you recognize this shirt?” asked Pierce.

  It was the Father’s Day present. Near the shoulder was a tear, but it was still the shirt because on the pocket remained the initials, H.B.

  “Well, do you?”

  Anton ought to know better than to leave it lying around for people to find. “I may have seen it before, but I’m not sure. One shirt looks pretty much like another to me.”

  “You’ve seen this shirt before. Your daddy told me you bought it for him.” Pierce picked up Anton’s picture and waved it before my eyes. “And then you gave it to this man. This prisoner of war.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard every word I said!” He shoved the garment into my hands. “Look at it and tell the truth.”

  The tear was not so much a tear as a hole, quarter-sized, with purple stains smeared around it and two thick blotches of stain below. It was exactly the color you would expect to see if you mixed the blue of the shirt with the color red.

  “Blood?” I waited for Pierce’s denial. “Looks a little like blood.” In a moment he would explain that it was only catsup stains. As I waited I searched his face, which was firmly set.

  “Blood? Blood!” I screamed. “Did you hurt him?”

  Pierce’s face unset, and I knew that good news was coming. I waited for him to tell me that it was nothing serious—a few scratches across his chest.

  Pierce’s lips parted. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. “Is who hurt?”

  “You know who! The shirt’s person.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Reiker!” I shouted. “Frederick Anton Reiker. Is he going to be all right?”

  I heard a noise that sounded like the sweet breath of satisfaction. Pierce took out a yellow half sheet of paper from his briefcase and read:

  FREDERICK ANTON REIKER WAS SHOT EARLY THIS MORNING WHILE TRYING TO AVOID ARREST. HE DIED AT 10:15 A.M. IN NEW YORK’S BELLEVUE HOSPITAL.

  What was Pierce saying? Making jokes? Then it struck me that the agent wasn’t laughing and wasn’t going to, for what he said wasn’t meant to be a joke. Yet, it couldn’t be true. His words came back to me—at 10:15 A.M. Frederick Anton Reiker died in New York’s Bellevue Hospital.

  The alarm clock on the night table ticked out the seconds. A cry like from a wounded animal scattered the quiet for what seemed like all time.

  Lunging suddenly up, my fingernails plowed red rows into his freshly shaved face. “You killed him!” my voice screamed. “You killed him—Ohhhhh!”

  My neck was caught in the V of his arm, and I wanted nothing so much as to breathe again. Releasing his hold, Pierce wiped the blood from his cheeks. The air that I greedily sucked into my lungs came rushing out again, carrying with it a single word that I hurled at him in a spray of spit.

  “Murderer!”

  17. The Confession

  AS I LAY across my bed I pinched my forearm until the colors changed from white to pink and finally to a crescent of red. If this is nothing but a bad dream a little pain should scare it away. But I can see him still, his face contorted. Harder, pinch harder! The red crescent turned purple. But Anton’s sprawled body was still there bleeding across the city sidewalk.

  Pierce stood just outside my door talking on the hall phone. “... All right, yes, yes, I’ll hold. Mr. Bergen, these calls aren’t costing you anything. I’ve reversed the charges.”

  “Hurry it up. I’ve got to call my lawyer.”

  “I’m doing the best I can, M
r. Bergen. My instructions were to bring the girl into Little Rock. Since you’d rather I bring her into our Memphis bureau, I’m gonna have to get permission for that.”

  “Do what you can.”

  “... Hello, Chief Gilford? John Pierce here. We got a virtual confession out of the girl. She knew he was a prisoner of war, and she sheltered him. McFee is out checking the abandoned rooms above the family garage. ... All she says is that she did it and did it alone. Listen, Chief, I’ve run into a snag. The father wants her taken into Memphis, wants a certain Memphis lawyer to handle the case. ... I don’t know if he thought of that. Hold on, let me talk to him.” Pierce held the receiver against his chest. “Uh, Mr. Bergen. Our bureau chief, Tom Gilford, says we can question her from the Memphis bureau, but that it would pose a problem you might not be aware of.”

  “What problem?”

  “He says that any charges that might come out of the investigation would be processed through the Arkansas courts and that you would be better advised to have an Arkansas lawyer who knows the local courts.”

  “And I still want her taken into Memphis!” my father said.

  My father walked into my bedroom and slumped into the maple rocker. I heard his voice quiver, but not from rage. “I don’t understand. How could you? A girl who is Jewish. You disgraced me, your own father. And for what? A Nazi. A God damn Nazi!” He brought a white handkerchief out of a back pocket and began blowing his nose.

  At another time I might have felt his grief was mine. But now his was his and mine was my own and that was burden enough.

  He jumped out of the rocker as though the cushion had suddenly been replaced by hot coals. “Tell me why,” he shouted, his voice hollow.

  “I can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Tell me!” he screamed, but this time he seemed more vulnerable than violent.

  “He was good to me.”

  My father looked as though I had just finished telling him the world’s most incredible lie. “Are you going to tell me or do I have to knock it out of you?”

  “I’ve already told you. He was kind to me.”

  “And I don’t believe you. You let him put his hands on your body, didn’t you?” His thin lips contorted into a sneer. “You—you filth!”

  “That’s a lie! Anton’s a good man. A better man than you.”

  “God damn you!” The paleness left his face. “How dare you compare me to that Nazi! Why you—you’re no good. From the day you were born you’ve brought me nothing but misery.”

  Ruth rushed into the room, brushing past my father. “You’ve got no call talking to this child like that.” She sat down beside me, giving the bed a bounce. “Mr. Bergen, now I only works here and I ain’t ’pose to be telling you nothing, but some things needs saying. Lord knows that’s the truth.” Her arm spread over me like a great shield. “That man from the government didn’t say Patty did bad. All I heard she do is let a tired man sleep where nobody else wanted to sleep and gave him food that came from nobody’s mouth.”

  “And I want you to stop interfering in something that’s none of your business.”

  The earth-colored yolks of Ruth’s eyes rose to their highest point, leaving a splash of whiteness below. “This here is the Lord’s business, Mr. Bergen, and I’m trying to do the work he set out for me.” Her hands were clasped and her eyes stayed heavenward. After a moment she nodded as though she understood her silent instructions. “God is our refuge and strength, and a help in troubles. Therefore will we not fear, though the earth be removed and the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea. ... Be still, and know that I am God.”

  “Ruth, get yourself out of here.”

  “Listen to the Lord speakin’ to you, Mr. Bergen.”

  Couldn’t Ruth see she was wasting her time? “Leave him alone. He doesn’t understand,” I whispered.

  “God almighty is crying out to you to bring forth your humanity. He wants you to quit your tormenting and put your faith in him.”

  My father threw Ruth a look that could have split rock. “And now I’m telling you, you’ve pushed me past my endurance. I think a lot of Patty’s meanness is your doing. This family doesn’t need you anymore.” He took out his wallet and threw a five-dollar bill and three ones onto the bed. One of the singles rested for a moment at the side of the bed before fluttering to the floor. Neither Ruth nor my father made any effort to pick it up. “Now, I’m paying you for the week, but I don’t want you here one second longer. Get your things and get out. Now!”

  “Lord knows I needs this job, Mr. Bergen. Lord knows I needs the money, but—” Ruth’s arm tightened around me. “This child needs me even more than I needs the work. Truth is she does.”

  “Don’t send Ruth away! Please, don’t do it.” My arms couldn’t complete the circle around her waist. “If you never in your life do another thing for me, don’t send her away. She’s all I have left.”

  “Take the money, Ruth,” said my father in a voice marked by sudden calmness. “And then you tell those fat legs of yours to take you out of here.”

  18. Jew, Nazi

  PIERCE WALKED to the door of my room without entering. “All settled, Mr. Bergen. We’re taking the girl into Memphis.” Then he gave me a nod. “Better pack a few things.”

  “How long will she be gone?”

  “Don’t know, sir. She’d better take a few changes.”

  I got the smallest of the three suitcases out of the closet and began putting in some clothes like a robot who feels nothing. I wasn’t even conscious anymore of wanting anything except maybe to be left alone, and I wasn’t even strong on that. Living was too big a deal and dying too much trouble.

  When I snapped the case closed the agent asked, “Ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  My father was shouting into the phone, “... Well, get Mr. Kishner out of conference. This is an emergency. Let the Hardwood Dealers of America wait! .... No, it’s not about my business. I guess I oughta know what kind of a lawyer I need. ... Less than an hour? Have Mr. Kishner call me back collect at number two five five, Jenkinsville, Arkansas. Got that? Number two five five.”

  “We’re ready, Mr. Bergen,” said Pierce.

  “I can’t leave. I want to be here when the lawyer calls.”

  “No problem. It’s only a couple of blocks to our car. McFee, get the suitcase, will you?”

  As I walked past my father I said, “Good-bye,” but maybe he didn’t hear. At any rate, he didn’t answer.

  The sidewalk was too narrow for three, so Pierce and McFee walked a few steps behind me. Across the street Freddy Dowd looked up from his worm diggings. “Where you going? Someplace?”

  “Memphis.”

  “Boy, oh, boy,” he said, letting out his widest grin, “I sure wish I was you!”

  I laughed inside. “There are better wishes to wish for, Freddy.”

  As we came close to my father’s store I saw people milling in front. Too many people for a weekday unless today is dollar day. Suddenly, the FBI men were walking at my side. “Stay close to me,” whispered Pierce. There were ten, more than that, at least fifteen people and all with fixed faces. They know about me. How could they have found out so soon? Then I spotted Jenkinsville’s leading gossip merchant, Mary Wren, holding onto the arm of Reverend Benn’s wife.

  The agents maneuvered me away from the sidewalk and into the center of Main Street. The crowd followed. A glob of liquid hit me in the back of the neck and when I saw what my hand had wiped away I gagged.

  Suddenly a woman’s voice called, “Nazi! Nazi!” Other voices joined in. A man’s voice, one that I had heard before, shouted, “Jew Nazi—Jew Nazi—Jew Nazi!”

  When we reached the car, the mob blocked the doors. “You people are obstructing justice,” said Pierce. “Please move back.”

  “Jew Nazi-lover!” screamed the minister’s wife.

  Tires screeched to a stop. A car door opened and Sheriff Cauldwell shouted, “Get away from that car
. What’s the matter with you folks, anyway?”

  People slowly moved away from the car, crowding into a huddle on the sidewalk. Sheriff Cauldwell opened the back door of the car for me, and then, whipping out a small black Bible from his shirt pocket, he pressed it into my hand. “Times when I was down this helped lift me up. God bless you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling the tears stinging at my eyes.

  McFee drove in second gear all the way down Main Street before taking a right turn onto Highway 64. As we passed McDonald’s dairy, I looked down the long dirt road leading to the prison camp. But I knew I wasn’t going to find him there or any other place on God’s earth.

  I was already awake when the phone first rang downstairs at a quarter to eight. By nine there had already been three or four incoming calls. I wondered if they concerned me.

  At nine thirty I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. I would go downstairs and face my grandparents. Last night it was pretty late when the agents brought me here, and Grandmother Fried said that I looked very tired and she took me straight to bed. This morning, though, it might be different. She might get around now to the questions she hadn’t asked.

  I saw her at the kitchen table, stirring a cup of coffee with one hand and holding the phone with the other. “You sure about Harry selling the store? Things blow over. People forget. ... Pearl, I’ll talk to Poppa. ... Didn’t I say I would? If Harry had been maybe a little nice to us all these years then I know Poppa would say, sure. Now, I don’t know....” My grandmother looked up as I entered the kitchen. “Pearl, I have to go now. Patty just woke up.... Yes, Pearl, I’ll talk. I’ll talk! Tonight, after supper. Good-bye.”

  “My father has to sell the store?”

  “Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Who knows? My daughter always makes a gontzeh tsimmes out of everything.”

  “And my father wants to go to work for Grandfather?”

  “Your mother wants it; only Gott in Himmel knows what your daddy wants.”

  Grandmother brought me a perfectly oval omelet. “I’m sorry to cause you all this trouble,” I said.