by Kirby Larson
“What’s on your agenda today?” Mo faced the mirror near the back door, situated her hat on her head, then rubbed a bit of lipstick off her front tooth.
“Weeding Miss Zona’s Victory Garden.” Fish spooned up the last of the cornflakes.
“Can you also make time to give Liberty a bath?” Mo grabbed her pocketbook. “I think she’s still got fleas. See you tonight, kiddo.” She blew Fish a kiss and hurried off to the streetcar.
Fish washed up the breakfast dishes, then whistled for Liberty. He got her out of her pen and clicked the leash onto her collar. She followed him through the gap in the fence over to Miss Zona’s backyard. She made herself at home under the Indian Hawthorn bush; Fish tied the leash to a branch. His trap had finally snagged that hungry rabbit. Fish and Olympia relocated it to the big woods by the railroad tracks. Now, instead of critter problems, Miss Zona had weeds. And she paid them a nickel for each bucketful.
“Hey, y’all!” Olympia bounced down the stairs. Liberty wagged her tail in greeting but didn’t move from her spot in the cool earth. Olympia ran to her, fussing like she hadn’t seen Liberty in weeks.
“Are you going to help?” Fish dumped his first bucket of weeds in the burn barrel.
Olympia stuck out her tongue at Fish. “I’m not finished loving on Liberty.”
Another few minutes went by. Fish threw a dirt clod at Olympia. She ignored him and began rubbing Liberty’s belly.
“Mmm, mmm, that snowball sure is going to taste good.” Fish made a big deal of smacking his lips. “Too bad you won’t get one. Because I’m doing all the work.”
“You sound like the Little Red Hen from my storybook.” Olympia pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I have to plant the wheat and mill the flour and bake the bread all by myself,” she carried on.
Fish had to laugh. “Well, it would go quicker if you helped.”
She gave Liberty one last pat, then joined Fish in the garden. She was quicker than he was, so she caught right up. They both looked like they’d run through a sprinkler by the time they’d each filled three buckets.
“I could probably get used to the heat,” Fish said. “But why does it always have to be so sticky?” He brushed his sweaty hair off his forehead.
“Keeps most of the Yankees away.” Olympia cackled. “’Cept you.”
Fish threw another handful of weeds at her. She threw some right back.
“You children working out there?” Miss Zona called from the kitchen. “Because from where I sit, it looks like a good deal of horsing around.”
“We’re almost done, Grandmamma!” Olympia picked up the scattered weeds. Fish helped. They surveyed the garden.
“I think we got them all.” Fish pulled one tiny weed from underneath a tomato plant.
“Let’s go get that snowball,” Olympia said. “I’m about to melt.”
They collected their wages from Miss Zona, who carefully removed the coins from a Lipton tea tin in the cupboard. Liberty panted, tongue hanging out, as she trotted along behind to the snowball shop. Olympia was partial to peach; Fish ordered grape. They plopped onto a bench — Liberty took shelter underneath — in the corner park, scooping the finely shaved flavored ice with wooden spoons. Fish hated the feel of the wood on his tongue, so he dropped the icy mix into his mouth. From time to time, he dropped a spoonful into his hand and let Liberty lap it up. Fish leaned his head against the back of the bench, feeling the icy cold trickle down his throat. Maybe he could invent something like a snowball to cool off the outside of a body. Something better than an electric fan.
Fish lifted his head at the clip-clop of horse hooves.
“Watermelons. Red to the rind. Watermelons. Red to the rind.” The watermelon man flicked the reins, urging on the old horse that was pulling a small wagon filled with green ovals. “Watermelons!”
“White horse!” Olympia nudged Fish. “You can make a wish. But quick.” She squinched her eyes shut.
Liberty nudged Fish’s hand for another bite of snowball. He obliged. Then he closed his own eyes and wished, too.
The horse and driver clip-clopped over to a nearby row of shade trees. The driver hopped down, brought out a bucket of water, and let the horse drink. Then he poured some of the water on the horse’s back to cool it off. The horse looked pretty happy about that, shaking itself and whinnying.
“I’m not going to tell you what I wished for,” Olympia announced. “Otherwise it won’t come true.”
Fish shrugged. Everybody knew that rule.
“Okay. I’ll tell you this much. It has to do with my auntie.”
Fish reminded himself never to tell Olympia a secret. She wouldn’t be able to keep it for more than three seconds. He imagined their wishes were pretty much the same: Olympia wishing her aunt back home safe, and him wishing the same for Pop and Roy. Safe and soon.
The D-day invasion didn’t end the war straight off as Mo had thought it might, although things were going the Allies’ way. Right before the Fourth of July, Allied troops had liberated Cherbourg, France. But there were still Nazis to fight in Europe. And the Japanese in the Pacific. Now Mo said maybe by Christmas it would all be over.
Fish let Liberty lap up the last of the syrup in the bottom of the snowball cup. Watching that horse had reminded him. “Want to help give her a bath?” He was afraid Mo was right about Liberty’s fleas. He’d found another bite on his leg that morning. Just thinking about it made him itch.
Olympia jumped off the bench. “Sure.”
They pitched their trash and walked slowly home under a darkening sky. Each afternoon that week, clouds had scudded in, bringing thunderstorms. Fish did everything he could to comfort Liberty. Even moved her to the shed, though she fretted about being shut up, so she wouldn’t be under the tree, in case of lightning strikes. But no amount of pleading would convince Mo to let her in the house. As long as there was one flea on her fur, Liberty was an outside dog only.
Fish peeled off his shirt and dragged the hose over to the old bathtub. When it was full enough, he undid Liberty’s collar and coaxed her in with a Milk-Bone. She stood there, up to her knees in water. She didn’t try to get out, but her eyes said, Do I have to?
Olympia lathered up some soap in her hands and rubbed it over Liberty’s back. “That gash healed up real nice,” she said. “The way the fur grew back over it, you don’t hardly see anything.”
Fish worked on Liberty’s legs, getting those stockings of hers as white as he could.
Far in the distance, he heard a gentle rumble.
“We better hurry,” Olympia said. “Another storm’s on its way.”
Fish picked up the hose and began rinsing off the soap. Liberty was at the end of her patience and shook herself, head to toe. Olympia backed off, laughing.
“Wait a sec!” Fish said. “Stay!” Liberty kept shaking.
“Turn off the hose, brainless!” Olympia laughed. “She’s going to drown me.” She swiped at her wet face.
Fish stepped over to the faucet and turned it to the right. At that moment, the storm no longer threatened. It arrived like a train roaring down the tracks.
Liberty shivered for a second.
And then, slippery and wet, she ran.
“Liberty!” He hobbled after her. “Here, girl, here!”
Olympia tore off across the yard. “There’s nothing to grab on to!” She picked up her pace. “You took off her collar!” Her bare feet slapped the ground, one-two-one-two-one-two. But Liberty zipped out of reach.
“Li-ber-ty!” Fish screamed her name.
They chased her for blocks. But she put too much distance between them. They couldn’t catch up.
She was gone.
The first days at Camp Plauche stretched out like years. Oskar was content to read books from the camp library and the Professor took university classes. Philosophy! Geology! Modern literature! Erich signed up for the English classes; those, he could see a purpose in. But that was all he could see purpose in. There were the
soccer games, to be sure, but he didn’t play. He kept to himself. Not even the Professor, with his kindly ways, could draw him out in conversation.
When the guards asked for day laborers, Erich raised his hand. At first, the jobs were confined to the camp. Mending the chain-link fence. Filling in potholes. Painting barracks. All tedious but with each one was some task that could be accomplished by a solitary person. And Erich always offered to do that solitary task. Anything to be as alone as he felt.
The POWs were paid their wages of eighty cents a day in scrip, tickets they could redeem for Cokes and writing paper and smokes. No cash, for fear it might be used in an escape. No one had tried, yet, from this camp. But there had been rumors of escapes from other camps.
Erich had noticed these stateside guards were just as eager as those in Algiers for “Nazi” souvenirs. At first, he’d made gifts of the little birds he carved. The downy woodpecker was a special hit. He was now quite grateful to his grandfather for passing on his wood-carving skills. Sergeant Tucker was a new father, so Erich carved a little boy figure and traded it for a five-dollar bill. “A souvenir,” Erich told Sergeant Tucker. “A souvenir of my time as a guest of the United States.”
Americans were so trusting.
Olympia sat on Fish’s back porch, kicking her heels against the stair riser. “She loves you. She only ran because she was scared.”
Fish held his chin in his hands. It didn’t much matter why Liberty was gone. She was gone. Had been gone for a week. “Mo says she’ll come back when she’s hungry enough.” He’d refilled the pie tin dog dish with corn bread and syrup and ham scraps from breakfast.
Olympia’s braids bounced around as she nodded. “’Course she will.”
Mo poked her head out the back door. “You two about ready? Mr. Haddock will be here soon.”
He stood up, brushed off the seat of his pants. Olympia fluffed out the skirt of her dress.
“You’re sure this is okay?” she asked Mo.
Her question took Fish back to that day coming home from the library. He caught Mo’s eye. Mr. Haddock wouldn’t treat Olympia the way that man had, would he?
“Mr. Haddock is a gentleman,” Mo assured Olympia. “And very forward thinking.” She fluffed her hair a bit. “Though he is an exceptionally slow driver.”
Mr. Higgins was throwing a big celebration out at Lake Pontchartrain in honor of the shipyard’s ten thousandth ship. Mo had three grandstand passes; Fish invited Olympia. After all, she had walked the neighborhood with him, going door to door to see if anyone had caught sight of a little brown cur hound. The only house they’d bypassed was Mr. LaVache’s. It was unanimous that they’d best not bother him about Liberty.
Fish had wanted to wear the aloha shirt Roy sent. But Mo nixed that. “Not when you’re in the viewing party,” she said. So he’d put on a plain old button-down instead. He could already feel sweat rivulets running down his back as they walked. The aloha shirt would’ve been cooler. “It looks like it won’t rain,” he observed.
Mo laughed. “Mr. Higgins would not permit it. Not today.”
Mr. Haddock’s sedan pulled up to the curb and they climbed in, Mo in front, Fish and Olympia in back. Mr. Haddock was a poky slow driver, like Mo had said, but riding in a car was a nice treat. Besides, Fish didn’t know what he would’ve done on the streetcar. He couldn’t let Olympia sit in the back by herself. And he would’ve gotten plenty of dirty looks if he’d joined her.
“The boss has all kinds of brass lined up for the day,” Mo said. “Brace yourself for lots of speeches.”
Fish and Olympia exchanged glances. If it got too boring, they could go in search of some ice cream.
Finally, Mr. Haddock parked the car and they were soon hiking toward the seawall with hundreds of other New Orleanians, each as proud of Mr. Higgins and his ships as if they worked at the shipyard themselves. Newspaper reporters and photographers meandered through the crowd, getting shots before the big celebration.
“Mr. Haddock! Miss Elliott!” One of the younger engineers in the office caught sight of them and flagged them to their spots on the seawall. “Will you look at all the people?” he asked, after giving Mo a hand up.
“Well, our boss makes this town pretty proud.” Mo straightened her hat, gone askew during the step up.
Olympia stood very close to Fish. She hadn’t said a word since they got into Mr. Haddock’s car. Fish looked around at the crowd. Nearly all the faces were white, like his. He punched Olympia in the arm to let her know she was okay here. Safe. Distracted by thinking about her, he almost missed sighting Mr. Higgins, gleaming in a white seersucker suit and hat. Would he give a speech, too? Fish waved, but Mr. Higgins probably couldn’t even pick him out of the crowd, there were that many people.
Mo had been right. There were lots of “brass,” and lots of speeches. Boring speeches. Fish’s legs grew tired, even his good leg. Mo had said the grand finale of the afternoon would be a demonstration with real troops performing a mock landing on the beach. He nudged Olympia again. “Want to go walk around?”
She shrugged.
Mo overheard. “Don’t go too far,” she cautioned. “And stay together. I don’t want to lose either of you in this crowd.” She reached for her pocketbook. “Do you need some spending money?”
Fish patted his pocket. He still had some coins from weeding for Miss Zona.
As soon as he and Olympia wiggled down from their viewing spots, others filled right in. They made their way down a grassy slope to a large open area where a handful of Army trucks were parked. Soldiers in full gear spilled out of the trucks. Fish could only imagine how hot they were, in helmets and uniforms, carrying packs and guns. Though it was only for show, each man wore a determined expression, as if there was no difference between this beach and the beaches at Normandy or on some Pacific island.
“Watch out there, kids.” A solider ran by, leading a single file of his comrades, guns swinging in their arms as they ran. Fish and Olympia stepped aside, letting them pass.
“Their LCVPs must be over that way,” Fish said. “Want to go? We can see how they get in.”
“I need to find the ladies’ first.” Olympia looked in the opposite direction. “You can wait here if you want.”
Fish remembered Mo’s warning. “Naw. I better come along.”
“I’ll be quick,” she said. “I promise.”
They made their way to the right restroom. Fish paced at the fringes. A couple of men sat at a table nearby, drinking beer, talking really loud and waving their arms around. Fish was going to move away from them, when he realized that one of the men looked familiar. It was that old grouch, Mr. LaVache. Before Fish could step back, he heard something that made him feel like he had shaved ice flowing through his veins, not blood.
He moved closer still.
“I tell you, LaVache, if those are hound pups, you could make yourself some nice money,” the friend said.
“How long do you think I gotta wait, Pie?” Mr. LaVache swigged at his beer.
“I can tell before their eyes even open,” the man, Pie, bragged. “If they’re mutts, you can just drown ’em. By the looks of her, it’s only another month.”
Mr. LaVache spit. “Well, I better get something out of those pups if I have to feed her for a month.”
“I sold my last litter for a hundred bucks a pup.” Pie opened another bottle. “’Course, everyone wants a Pie DuFour dog, if I do say so myself.” He burped. “With that dog, you don’t know how she hunts, so maybe only seventy-five dollars. But if she has a litter of five or six, that’s —” He took a drink. “Gotta be close to three hundred.”
Fish shook his head. It’d be closer to four hundred. Mr. LaVache’s friend was dumb and creepy. This conversation was making him sick. Fish started to back away again.
“I heard those two kids were looking for the dog, too. Those Beasley biddies told me.” LaVache snorted. “Figures that the only friend that crippled kid would have would be a girl like her.�
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Fish felt his limbs turn wooden. They were talking about him and Olympia! Did that mean the dog they were talking about was —
“There you are.” Olympia skipped up to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Mo’s going to kill me, but I have to leave.” He started toward the streetcar stop.
He had to get home. Now.
“Wait up!” Olympia ran after him. “I’m coming, too.”
Erich did not think much of this latest farmer they were working for. Others had at least offered water to supplement what the Army provided for their noon dinner. Some families even offered cakes and cookies. And those delicious sweets called pralines. But not LaVache. Erich could imagine him in some long-ago time, cracking a whip against the back of a burdened slave.
Among other tasks, the POWs had been hired to repair his chicken coops, which needed tearing down, not repair. But what was it to Erich? He took the task of sawing the lengths of siding. That was something he could do by himself. He set up a station under one of the few trees. How did people survive in this heat? Sometimes the air was so heavy that Erich could scarcely breathe. He took care to make his canteen last the entire workday. Around four, Sergeant Tucker motioned the POWs back into the trucks for the return to camp. From the sounds of things, they were to come back again. Erich didn’t mind. LaVache aside, this job had been all right. Away from the camp. Out of doors. And working around chickens made him feel right at home. Erich wondered how Mutti’s had fared with the war. He supposed that her flock had gone, one by one, to the supper table.
He was the last to hop into the back of the truck, holding on to the side as Tucker gunned the engine and left LaVache behind. A boy walking down the street caught Erich’s attention. Walking wasn’t quite the right word. The boy hobbled along with an uneven gait. Erich shivered, stared. Then shook his head. Of course it wasn’t Friedrich. His brother was thousands of miles away. But that boy could be his twin.