Another Place in Time

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Well, the firm closed down. I could have found new work back in Philadelphia, of course, but I thought if I was job hunting anyway, I might as well do it close to home and save my rent money. If you’re willing to put me up?”

  “Of course I am.” She hugged him. “Whether it’s for a week or long term. But won’t you miss your friends? And having a place of your own?”

  “Are you kidding? A single bachelor apartment, or a whole house and garden with home cooking thrown in? That’s an easy choice.” He said it lightly and didn’t think about logistics and privacy and the reasons he’d moved away to Philly in the first place. “And my friends, well, most of them are off to the war by now. It was getting too hard to watch them all join up, and not be fit to go too.”

  “Darling.” She pulled him closer, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “That’s not your fault.”

  “I know.” The polio that had given him a shortened left leg was no one’s fault, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy feeling a coward when kids like Charlie went off cheerfully to face a rain of bullets on some foreign shore.

  His mother put her hand on his cheek. “We have to accept God’s plan for us. I used to rage at Him, you know, for letting the polio take Elizabeth and lame you. But now I know He was making sure I’d have one son safe through this awful war. You hate it, Warren-love, but I find it a great comfort.”

  What could he say to that? “You’re right, of course, Mother. So, is my room vacant by any chance?”

  She laughed. “You know it is. Did you bring a bag? Or did you just come with the clothes you stand up in?”

  “It’s outside the door.” He went and fetched his case. For a minute he waited on the stoop, listening, but he heard nothing untoward, from the street or next door. No sound of the vandals, and none to suggest the neighbor was cleaning up the mess. Just quiet, as if nothing had happened.

  Eventually he lugged the suitcase up to his childhood room. There were two bedrooms under the eaves. The one to the east had been his. As he set his bag on the bed and started to unpack, he remembered that his window overlooked the house next door, over the top of the cedar hedge. He was drawn inexorably to the glass, cupping his hands around his face to look out into the dark.

  The upstairs room directly across from his showed no light, but through the side window below he could see into a parlor of some kind. One small electric lamp shed a soft glow from a low table. The visible walls were lined with books, far more than he would ever have expected, the bindings looking like the subtle shades of leather and not the more lurid paper covers of dime novels. He wanted to handle them, could almost smell the leather and old paper, but then Koehler came into the room, and Warren’s attention shifted.

  Koehler strode up to a shelf, took out a book, then shoved it back with a force that made the antiquarian in Warren cringe. Koehler roamed the room, staring at the shelves, every step graceful, powerful despite his lean build. He shifted in and out of Warren’s view, touching a spine here, pulling a book halfway out there. Each time he rejected his choice and moved on, again, and again, until Warren was ready to yell at him. Finally, Koehler took down a volume and carried it to a wingback chair. He sat upright, every motion precise, his perfect profile to Warren, and opened the book on his knees. And then he closed the cover, laid the book carefully on the floor, and doubled over, arms wrapped around his middle, and wept.

  It was a tight, restrained, private-looking grief. Warren moved quickly to close his drapes. Whatever Koehler was dealing with, it wasn’t something for strangers to watch. Warren turned his back, opened his closet, and began to hang his clothes. But all through unpacking, and a late dinner with his mother, and a long bath, and bed at last, the image of that cool, controlled man crying haunted him.

  Even when he dozed, the phantom sound of sobbing lay in wait in his dreams. He woke, over and over, wondering if his mother was crying for Charlie, if he should go to her. But each time, when he’d dashed the last of sleep from his eyes and ears, the house was silent all around him. When he tried to drop off again, here in this childhood home, the ghost of his little brother visited him, laughing, teasing, saying his name before running away into darkness. It was nearly dawn before he fell deep asleep at last.

  He was woken by the steady thud of a hammer. The angle of the sun said it was mid-morning, so he had no real cause for complaint. When he stretched, stood, and went to his window to pull back the curtain, he found even less cause. His mother’s neighbor stood in his own back yard, sleeves rolled up, cutting and nailing some boards together. After a moment’s stunned admiration for the lean muscles showing through the sweat-damp shirt, Warren realized the man was probably making a panel to cover the broken window. Which was really a job better done by two people . . .

  He dressed fast, choosing rougher clothes for working in. As he hurried downstairs, he saw no sign of his mother. It was Sunday, and she’d be at church, he realized. He was stunned that she hadn’t woken him for it.

  In the entry, he quickly laced his shoes: the normal one, and the other with its thickened sole. He had a moment’s qualm, as always when meeting someone new. He hated the look of pity that always met his limping steps. But there was no way around that, except past it. He straightened his shoulders and let himself out the front door.

  Next door, the swastika had been cleaned off imperfectly, a hint of pink still visible. The window glass still gaped. As Warren rounded the hedge and made his way down the side of Koehler’s house, the sounds of hammering from the back ceased. He reached the corner and almost bumped into Koehler, who was coming the other way carrying the large, cobbled-together sheet of wood. Koehler startled and staggered. Warren quickly grabbed a corner of the board to steady it. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

  Koehler lowered the board, looking at him coolly, all surprise schooled out of his expression. “That’s quite all right, Mr. . . .?”

  “Burch. Warren Burch. That’s my mother’s house next door.”

  “Ah.” Koehler’s eyes warmed slightly. “Of course. You must be Charlie’s brother, then.” He froze at his own words and added carefully. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Warren hesitated, unsure whether to offer to shake hands. The slab of wood between them was a clumsy obstacle. Instead he reached a hand to the nearest corner. “Can I help you with this?”

  “I can manage.”

  “It’d go easier with two, though.” He gave his best smile.

  Koehler didn’t return it, but he did say, “That is true. Thank you.”

  Warren bent and lifted his end, wishing silently that he’d thought of gloves for handling the rough boards. As he backed up, carefully guiding his end, he said, “I saw the broken window last night.”

  “Ah. Yes.” Koehler’s voice was crisp and clear, but there was an undeniable accent, the Swiss indistinguishable to Warren’s ears from German. He could see why there might be trouble, however wrong-headed it was.

  “They’re idiots. Troublemakers,” he said.

  “They are afraid, and angry.”

  “That’s a generous way to put it.”

  “It is only truth.” They reached the front and together lowered the board to the grass in front of the window. Koehler looked at him steadily. “I speak as I do, look as I am. They see the face of the enemy.”

  “Well, given how many thousands of German-Americans there are, let alone Swiss, they’d better start looking more carefully.” Warren turned to the window. “All right. How do you want to do this?”

  “I thought to nail it to the frame. Perhaps if you would hold it in place?”

  “Sure.”

  They worked together in silence broken only by the sure, sharp strokes of Koehler’s hammer driving in the nails. When it was done, they stepped back. Warren said, “Well, it’ll do for now, I suppose. But you’ll want to get the glass replaced.”

  “Yes.” Koehler looked at his feet. “I do want that, but . . .”

&nbs
p; “What?”

  Koehler shrugged. “It is common in wartime. Materials are hard to come by. I am told by Mr. Tolliver in the hardware store that glass windows this big may be difficult to find for months. Perhaps longer.”

  “Really?” Warren frowned. Rubber, steel, aluminum, maybe even plywood, sure. Those were needed for the war effort. But he wasn’t aware of a glass shortage.

  “Or perhaps it is just for someone like me that these things take time.”

  Warren felt a surge of anger, especially when Koehler added, “Mr. Tolliver has had two sons wounded fighting the Germans in France.”

  “That’s no damned excuse for him to treat you like some kind of leper or saboteur.”

  “Well, I seem suspicious, do I not?” Koehler’s lips curved slightly. “I arrived here after the war began, with only an elderly doddering lady to vouch for me. I look like a recruiting poster for the Third Reich, my English is still not so good, and now the lady is dead and I live alone. I might well be a saboteur.”

  “I doubt it,” Warren said tartly. “My mother likes you.”

  Koehler laughed, and the sudden relaxation of his features made him look like a boy. A stunning boy. Warren took a breath.

  Koehler said, “Mothers. They are, what do you say? The salt of the earth.” He held out his hand. “I am Stefan Koehler. It is good to make your acquaintance. Please, call me Stefan.”

  Warren took that proffered hand, longer than his own, narrower, rougher. “Warren.” Their grips were matched, and he didn’t think it was his imagination that they both held on just a fraction too long.

  Nor that Stefan’s next words were, “So, is there a Mrs. Warren?”

  “No. Although if my mother could have her way, no doubt there would be.”

  Stefan tilted his head a fraction, eyes narrowed. “And will she have her way?”

  Warren met his gaze. Those eyes were blue all right, but not the ice blue that went with the hair and cheekbones. They were soft, clear, like summer skies. Stefan’s expression held a hint of warmth despite the way he’d stilled, waiting for Warren’s reply.

  “No,” Warren said deliberately. “She won’t.”

  He saw that go home, message clear and received. Stefan’s eyes widened and darkened flatteringly.

  Warren had always known what he was and who he wanted. Before leaving home, he’d sublimated it with heated sessions over his physical culture magazines. When he’d first moved to Philadelphia, there’d been enough like-minded young men if you knew where to look. He’d been with his share and had no complaints. But he was almost thirty, dark and common-looking, and lame, however slight the deformity. To have a man this lovely take a breath and flush in response to his glance was heady praise.

  Stefan recovered swiftly of course. Took a step back and bent to pick up the hammer and jar of nails from the grass. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Any time,” he said, emphasizing the any. Then he added, more casually, “I wish I could have pointed out the culprits to the police. I didn’t get a good look.”

  “Nor did I.” Stefan gave him another swift glance from under lowered brows. “At the time, I thought it might have been you. But you were not laughing.”

  “No.”

  “One may hope that they are now satisfied and done with me,” Stefan said. “So. Do you have to go? Or can I offer you something to drink? I have no beer, but I have some apple cider.”

  “My mother would skin me if I drank beer on a Sunday anyway,” Warren said easily. “Cider sounds good.”

  “Come, then. I will put the tools in the shed, and we can go in by the back door.”

  That door opened into a small, tidy kitchen. Warren noted that, unlike some of the bachelors of his acquaintance, Stefan didn’t leave dirty plates in the sink or crumbs on the counter. The room smelled slightly of toast, but it was a pleasant aroma. Stefan pulled out a chair for him. “Here, sit down. I will get the cider.”

  Warren sat, pleased that Stefan had so far made no direct reference to his limp or his shoe, although no doubt he’d noticed. Good manners, that. He glanced around as Stefan opened the icebox. There were signs of a woman’s touch everywhere: frills on the window curtains, rooster figurines along the tops of the cabinets, a row of cookbooks held in place by bookends of fanciful cows in pinafores. Not that he hadn’t met one or two men capable of choosing frilled curtains, but he thought even they’d have drawn the line at those cows. “You moved here with your grandmother? I’m sorry for your loss, too.”

  “My great-aunt, yes. My grandmother’s oldest sister. I only met her four years ago, but it was a privilege to have known her.” Stefan set a glass in front of him and dropped gracefully into the other chair.

  “Have you been in America long, then?”

  “Four years.” Stefan took a sip, eyes guarded. “I came over from Switzerland in February 1940.”

  “Right at the beginning of the war, then.”

  “Yes.”

  Warren wanted to say, “You must have been very young.” But that was something no man really liked to hear, and he already felt too much of a gap between them. He said, “1939. That was the spring the architects I clerked for closed up shop. No one was building new houses, and the business went under. I started working for Lockland Refrigerators. Parts and supplies.”

  “So you are an office man?”

  Warren decided to say it first. He slapped his leg. “Not fit for much else. Polio as a kid.”

  “Ah. I did wonder. But you seemed to do all right muscling around the wood and tools.”

  “Not fit for marching. Anyway, I like solving puzzles. And as the war tooled up, getting parts for the refrigerators became a puzzle indeed.”

  “So do you still work there? Are you here on a holiday?”

  “No. We got converted to war production, and my job was redundant with another guy’s. He had a family, while I was free to move on, so I have. I wanted to see my mother anyway, now that . . .” He swallowed, ambushed by that sudden grief. “Now that Charlie’s gone. I want to support my mother, get another job where I’ll make a direct contribution to the war effort. I’m here to stay, for the foreseeable future, anyway.”

  Stefan met his eyes. “Would it be forward of me to say I am glad?”

  Warren said, “I like men who are forward.”

  For a moment he wondered if Stefan might take the next step. Those high cheekbones were tinged with red, and Stefan’s breath came faster as he bit his lower lip to a matching red. But instead he sat back and took another long drink of cider. They were dancing around the topic. It was fraught, this game of suggestion and interpretation, fear and trust. If you were wrong, the consequences were disastrous. But Warren was sure he wasn’t wrong. Pretty sure.

  They talked then of simpler things, of the annoying schedule of buses going into town, of gas rationing, of the large victory gardens both his mother and Stefan’s great-aunt had planted in the spring, which were no doubt going to be a good part of their own fall chores for another month. Warren watched Stefan’s mouth and hands, and caught Stefan doing the same.

  “I should learn how to can and preserve,” Stefan said. “Tante Elsa thought a man did not belong in the kitchen and insisted on doing it all last year. I’ve been giving away the excess produce this summer, but that is lazy of me.”

  “Or kind,” Warren suggested.

  Stefan shrugged. “I remember being hungry.” He pressed his lips together and stood abruptly. “More cider?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Give me your glass, then. I will wash it.”

  Warren stood. “I’ll dry.”

  “For two glasses?”

  Warren smiled, letting a bit of heat show. “My mother will be at church for another hour. I thought we might get the chores done fast.” There. If that wasn’t a clear invitation, nothing was.

  Stefan took a short, sharp breath. “Chores might wait.”

  “Good idea.” Warren reached for him slowly, certain by now
he was wanted, but far from sure Stefan might not still spook. Stefan’s pupils were blown wide, and a fine tremor shook the tumblers he held. Warren put his hands on the glasses, pried them slowly out of Stefan’s grip, and set them in the sink. He held Stefan’s gaze. “Yes?”

  “Yes.” Stefan lunged, no other word for it, his hand tight on Warren’s hip, eyes eager as they pressed together. Then he jumped back. “Not here. Upstairs. Safer. I will lock the doors.”

  Warren could understand the desire for caution. “Where?”

  “My bedroom. Left at the top of the stair.” Stefan snapped the latch over on the back door and headed for the front.

  Warren climbed the stairs and turned into a room the mirror image of his own. Heavy drapes hung beside the window, and he pulled them across the glass, dimming the room. Downstairs he could hear Stefan’s footsteps, hurrying, crossing the house for something. He hesitated, then reached for his shirt buttons. He wanted to make it impossible to go any way but forward.

  By the time Stefan reached the room, Warren was naked and stretched out on the narrow single bed. He thought his instincts had been good, because Stefan came in saying, “We do not have to . . .” And then he stopped, staring at him.

  Warren looked up from where he lay, his shoulders propped on Stefan’s pillows, and twitched the sheet off his hips, baring his erection blatantly. “Yeah. We kind of do.”

  “Oh.” Stefan looked down at him, then met his eyes and swallowed. “That is . . .”

  Warren crooked a finger. “Come here. Get undressed. Tell me what you want.”

  “What I want?” Stefan came closer, moving stiffly, as if against his will.

  “Yes.” Warren frowned. “You have done this before?” If he’d imagined he was seducing a virgin, he’d have gone a hell of a lot slower. Or not at all.

  Stefan tossed his chin higher, confusion fading to arrogance. “Of course I have.”

  “Then come here.”

  Stefan came to the side of the bed and slid his braces off his shoulders. He slowly unbuttoned his work shirt, although his eyes were avoiding Warren’s again. “It is just, in English, I do not know if I have the words.”