Another Place in Time

by Tamara Allen

  All three looked up. Tolliver and one of the other youths jumped from the porch to the front walk, hurrying off, but the third paused to put a last bend on the dripping red symbol on the door before stepping back. Warren cut across the grass and caught him in a tackle that even Charlie would have been proud of. They crashed to earth together, the teenager underneath.

  Warren grunted as he took an elbow in the ribs. The boy struggled, cursing, shoving at him with the wet paintbrush. “Get off me, you bastard.”

  “No chance.” Warren grabbed a handful of shirt, and got his other hand around the boy’s wrist.

  He was outmatched though. The struggle was brief before the kid heaved Warren aside and took off running after his friends.

  Warren knelt on the grass, breathing hard. Eventually he turned to look at the house. Each of the new windows had one pane smashed to a gaping hole, and the clean front door dripped red. A haze came down over Warren’s eyes, and he struggled to his feet and took off after the vandals. He ran blindly, at his best uneven speed, plowing forward. When he was suddenly jerked to a halt by a grip on his arm, he whirled and almost swung a fist. Luckily his anger cleared enough for him to recognize Officer Donovan before the blow landed.

  “Here now, where’s the fire?” Donovan asked.

  Warren pulled free, tugging his shirt straight. “Chasing a trio of vandals for breaking windows.”

  “Yes?” Donovan’s eyes narrowed. “Is that blood? Are you hurt?” He pointed to Warren’s sleeve.

  “Just paint. Dammit. On my good shirt. That’s never going to come out.”

  “I got a report of a fight. Was anyone injured?”

  “No.” Warren took a slower breath. “I caught one of the bastards, but he gave me the slip. I recognized another one, though. Young Jerry Tolliver.”

  “Tolliver? He’s not usually a troublemaker.” Donovan turned. “Why don’t you show me the damage and I’ll make a report.”

  Warren led the way back toward Stefan’s house, limping a little more now that the flush of anger was wearing off. His hip ached. As they got near, Stefan came towards them quickly. “Warren! Are you all right?” He slowed and added, “Officer.”

  “Mr. Koehler. This isn’t the first time we’ve been called out to your place.”

  “No, sir,” Stefan said meekly.

  Warren felt his anger rebounding. “It’s not Mr. Koehler’s fault if someone damages his property.”

  “Of course not,” Donovan said flatly. “Why don’t you gentlemen show me what happened.”

  Stefan had turned out his porch light, and in the dimness the red paint looked black. The windows were shadowed, holes punched out. Donovan shone his flashlight on the damage, then sighed. “Those boys do get carried away, don’t they?”

  “I’d call that more than carried away,” Warren said.

  “I agree. I’ll have a sharp word with young Tolliver. And the others, if he’ll tell me who they were. Not likely, that. They have their code, the scallywags.”

  “They should be made to pay for it,” Warren protested. “Clean it up. Paint, new windows, and the time to fix it. That’s several dollars of damages right there.”

  Donovan sighed and turned to Stefan. “Do you want to press charges, Mr. Koehler?”

  Stefan said quietly, “No. Not at this time.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Donovan turned to Warren. “There, sir. There’s not much I can do if the gentleman won’t press charges.”

  Warren turned on Stefan. “Why? Why won’t you at least do something? I saw Jerry, for certain, clear as day.”

  Stefan looked at Donovan instead and held out his hand. “Thank you for your time, Officer.”

  There was a moment’s wait before Donovan took his handshake. “No problem, sir. That’s why I’m here.”

  As if by mutual agreement, they waited until Donovan had walked off down the street before Warren turned to Stefan. He lunged and grabbed the front of Stefan’s shirt, heedless of the paint on his hand. “Why?” he demanded. “Why won’t you even try?”

  Stefan looked at him, eyes shiny in the faint light of the full moon. “You saw. I asked the police chief, once, what would happen if I took someone to court for damages. That was right after D-Day. He said he did not advise it. He told me, ‘ Tempers are running a bit high. Better to just let it all cool down.’ And half the policemen in town act like I’m the enemy, or at least might be.”

  “But D-Day was three months ago. Someday you have to make a stand.”

  Stefan reached up to Warren’s wrist and firmly disengaged his clenched fingers from his shirtfront. “Making a stand ends up with people getting hurt, or killed. One day this will be over, and life will go on. I will move, if things here have gotten too bad to stay. But I would rather not poison the well by offending the town now.” He let go of Warren’s arm and stepped back. “Thank you, though. That is twice you have come to my defense. I do appreciate it.”

  Their eyes met in the moonlight. For a moment, Warren searched for the next thing to say, the reasonable path, but nothing came. Stefan gave a tiny, sad smile, turned, and went in his defaced front door.

  Warren would have run after him if his hip hadn’t given a sudden, vicious twinge. Instead he stood, rubbing it. Eventually he turned back to his mother’s house. She was waiting for him in the kitchen, with his plate covered and set on the back of the stove to keep warm.

  “Are you all right?” she asked worriedly. “What’s that on your arm?”

  “Paint. Don’t worry.” He made the effort to sound normal, a little irritated, maybe. Not heartsick. “I’d better go clean up and change. There’s turpentine in the shed. Will you keep the food warm a bit longer?”

  “Yes, of course. But what happened?”

  “Another round of breakage and paint at . . . Mr. Koehler’s.” He’d almost said Stefan’s. But, although his mother knew he was becoming friends with their neighbor, he’d kept it very casual in her presence. She knew what Warren was, and nothing of her knowledge could be allowed to spill over onto Stefan.

  She gave him a gentle look, though. “You like Mr. Koehler, don’t you?”

  “He’s a good neighbor. Gave me a lift to the store, remember, when I got that board for the eaves. And he brought those potatoes from his garden. And the Brussels sprouts.”

  “He seems like a generous man.”

  “Yes.”

  “I should have made more effort to get to know him before now. No matter how standoffish his grandmother was.”

  “Great-aunt,” he said offhandedly.

  “Oh yes, that’s right. It’s such a shame that people treat him like he’s one of them, or some kind of spy. It’s downright un-American behavior.”

  “Exactly.”

  His mother patted a clean spot on his sleeve. “I tell everyone I know that he’s Swiss, but you know how people are. They prefer to believe the worst.”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps we should have him over for a party with some of the other neighbors. Introduce him to people. That’s part of the problem, you know. He’s kept himself to himself, even when Mrs. Tillens died. Normally that would be fine, but these days it lets people imagine all sorts of things.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Although Warren was beginning to wonder if maybe it wasn’t smart for him to be in the same room with Stefan under his mother’s discerning eye.

  “I could ask Sebastien to employ him at the plant,” his mother mused. “Everyone knows that Sebastien would never employ a German spy. So that would put an end to that rumor.”

  “I’m not sure that would be a good plan. It might cause more anger than it cured.” Not to mention that his mother was a bit deluded if she fancied that Uncle Sebastien would listen to such a request from her.

  He was relieved when she said, “Oh, well, it was just a thought. There must be something we can do . . .” She gave his arm another pat. “Go now and see if you can get the paint off your clothes before it sets. There’s a b
it on your trousers too.”

  So there was. Damn. Warren controlled his tongue and just nodded.

  It took the better part of half an hour to clean his hands and arm and sleeve and trousers and shirt front and damned undershirt too. By the time he had the clothing rinsed out and hanging over the bath and had changed, his fury had subsided to a quiet burn. He went into the kitchen and took his lukewarm plate. His mother called from the sitting room, “Is that warm enough, dear?”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll join you in just a shake of a lamb’s tail. You go ahead and eat now.”

  The stew was still good, and eating took a further edge off his black mood. If he was being honest, he could understand Stefan not wanting to turn to the law after being warned off like that by the police chief. Still, there had to be something useful they could do. Perhaps he could go to young Jerry himself and demand recompense. Or maybe Stefan needed a good dog . . .

  As he was finishing his meal, his mother came into the room, her arms full of fabric.

  “What’s that?”

  She smiled and shook it out. On a field of dull red, a blocky, white cross stood clearly. “The Swiss flag.” She turned it to show the other side sewn the same way. “Just as well it’s a simple one. Maybe your Mr. Koehler can hang this up on his front porch. It might do some good.”

  “Maybe.” He looked more closely. “Is that . . . your curtain?”

  She flushed. “Well, floor-length curtains are an extravagance in these war days. Wasted fabric. I just shortened one. It’s not quite the right red, but close enough.”

  “It’s lovely.” He stood and went to kiss her hair. “You’re the best mother.” Only then did his brain catch up with his ears. “Not that he’s, um, my Mr. Koehler in any way.”

  “Perhaps not yet.” She tilted her head to look him in the eye. “But I don’t sleep well these nights, and my room looks east, to the side hedge.”

  “Ah.” He could feel the heat rise in his face as he desperately tried to calculate how often and how late she might have seen him rounding that hedge.

  She patted his cheek. “I don’t want to know any details. But Warren, I’ve prayed for a decade that you would find someone to care about. I gave up a few years ago praying that it would be a woman. Now all I really ask is for someone kind and trustworthy. Yes?”

  He hugged her, tightly enough that she squeaked in protest. “You’re even better than the best. Thank you.”

  She handed him the flag. “Why don’t you take this around and make sure he’s all right?”

  “Yes. I’ll do that.”

  With a twinkle in her eye that he’d missed since he came home, she said serenely, “I won’t wait up.”

  He swallowed and didn’t answer that, just bundled up the flag and let himself out the door.

  He resolutely didn’t look at the damage to Stefan’s house as he walked around back. No point in getting more riled up. When he reached the kitchen, there was a light on behind the curtain, but for several minutes he wasn’t sure if Stefan was going to let him in. His knocks on the back door went unanswered. He’d turned away, about to give up, when the door opened a crack. “Yes?”

  “It’s me, dammit.”

  “I know. What do you want?”

  “Let me in.”

  There was another long pause, but eventually Stefan drew the door open and stepped back. Warren went in past him and waited until the latch snicked shut before turning. “Are you all right?”

  Stefan looked startled, as if that wasn’t what he’d expected. “Yes. Fine.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For pushing.” Warren crumpled the fabric in his hands. “For not understanding why you just let it happen.”

  “I am not a coward,” Stefan said harshly.

  “I never thought you were.” But he had, hadn’t he? Maybe? A tinge of wondering why Stefan didn’t have the guts to stand up for himself?

  “Sometimes fighting just make things worse.”

  “Right.” Warren took a sharp breath. “Anyway, I have some good news and some bad news.”

  “May I have the good first?”

  “They’re kind of mixed together. It turns out that I’m not as sneaky as I thought I was, and my mother has caught on to the fact that we have a . . . relationship.”

  Stefan looked paler. He swallowed audibly. “What will she do?”

  “Oh no, that’s the good news too. She gave us her blessing, sort of, unofficially. Without wanting to know too much.”

  “Her blessing . . .” Stefan stared at him.

  “She knows about me and she loves me.” Tenderness filled Warren at the sight of Stefan’s fear. “Don’t worry. She wants me to be happy.”

  “But . . . with me?”

  “You make me happy.” Warren moved closer, realizing how true that was, and laid a quick kiss on Stefan’s tight lips. “She won’t give us away. Which will help, because we won’t have to sneak around as much. You can come over to my house sometimes for an evening or a meal. It will be good.”

  Stefan nodded slowly. “That is . . . unexpected. Good. Yes.”

  “Look.” Warren shook out the flag and held it up by the corners. “She made this for you.” The white cross was bright in the lamplight. “She sewed it just tonight. I don’t know if it’ll help, but it couldn’t hurt, right?” Stefan looked alarmingly pale and shocked. Warren blundered on, “She used part of a curtain for it. Trust my mother to make do. She’s a wonder at finding what we need when we need it. Always was, even in the thirties when things were tight. Come to think of it, I probably got a bit of that talent from her. Anyway, she made this and—”

  “No!” Stefan snatched the flag from his hands and threw it into the corner. “Stop!”

  “What?” Warren stared at him.

  Stefan bent his head, hands fisted in his own hair, tugging until Warren saw pale strands come loose. “No, no, no!”

  “I don’t understand. It’s just a flag. If you think it’s a bad move, we won’t do it.”

  “You’re right. You do not understand.” Stefan grabbed Warren’s arms above the elbows, his fingers cold as ice and tight as clamps. “I am not who you think I am.”

  Warren’s brain scrambled to make connections. “Then who . . .?”

  “Oh, I am Stefan Koehler. I am twenty-three years old, I have a Swiss mother, a Swiss great-aunt, a passport. All that is true. But I was born outside Munich, I lived there for eighteen years, and when the army of the Third Reich marched into Poland in 1939, I was in those ranks. I fired a gun, shot down the enemy, occupied the towns. I was there. In the uniform. Just like the men who killed your brother.”

  Warren stared at him. It didn’t make sense. Images jumbled in his head, of Stefan’s blue eyes, of Charlie laughing, of faces in newsreels under peaked military caps, under menacing green helmets, cold eyes, dead eyes . . . He yanked his arms free of Stefan’s grip and stumbled back.

  Stefan watched him, the lines of his jaw pulled tight with strain, his lips pressed flat. Warren backed up against the counter. Stefan stood with his arms wrapped around his stomach, curling in as if in pain. But when he finally spoke, his voice was flat and level. “So you should probably go home.”

  “You were . . .” He couldn’t even say it. He swallowed. “Are . . .”

  “A soldier of the Wehrmacht, yes. Ein Gefreiter. I do not know the translation.” He laughed, a short bitter bark. “Did you know, it is the same rank held by our beloved Führer when he served in the Great War?”

  Warren just listened, shocked out of words.

  “My father served in the Great War, too. Perhaps he was the one who loosed the mustard gas that poisoned your father’s lungs. My brother, he is ten years older than me, of the rank of Hauptmann. He is no doubt still killing your people. That . . . That is who you have been bedding, all these weeks. That is the man your mother sewed that flag for.”

  Warren tasted acid in his throat.
His breath came short and shallow. “You lied to me. All this time.”

  “You should go now.”

  “Damn you.” Warren blinked hard. “I told you about Charlie, about Dad, about all my friends. And you said nothing.”

  Stefan shrugged, almost nonchalantly, although he still hugged himself tightly as if keeping his guts from tumbling out of his body. “What was there to say? Go home, Warren.”

  “Too damned right.” Warren strode past him to the door, his chest constricted in bands of iron. “Too fucking right. I’m gone. And to hell with you and your lies and your swastikas and your gorgeous, two-faced, lying . . .” He choked, fighting with the lock on the door. The bolt stuck, resisting his shaking hands.

  Finally it yielded, sliding back. As he reached for the handle, he heard Stefan make a sound, something short, garbled, strangely thick and unclear. He wouldn’t have bothered to even glance back, but the sound was followed by the thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Against his will, he looked over his shoulder. Stefan lay sprawled on the floor, arms akimbo, head arched back, eyes rolled up, twitching in every muscle.

  Serves him right! Warren tried to say that, but without thought, he found himself on his knees on the tiles, bending over Stefan.

  It had to be a fit. Warren calmed his racing breath, his hands hovering over Stefan’s shaking body. He’d almost forgotten that Stefan had them. This was far worse than that moment in the car. Remembering the betrayal Stefan just confessed to, he wondered if this could be some kind of act. But no one could fake the bone-shaking tension of every inch of Stefan’s body, the drool slipping from his mouth, the acrid scent as his bladder let loose. Stefan’s arm thrashed, and Warren grabbed it to keep him from hitting himself on the table leg. The muscles were tight and vibrating like piano strings under his fingers.

  He had a vague idea he was supposed to keep Stefan from swallowing his tongue, but his tight-clenched, working jaw muscles made that seem impossible. Stefan’s shaking vibrated his body against Warren’s knees, but the worst was the rolled eyes, blind white arcs under tight lids, devoid of all that was Stefan. The fit lasted an eternity of minutes, but perhaps only three or four by the clock. Slowly, the tension in the wrist Warren was holding faded. The trembling stopped. Stefan’s painfully arched neck eased, and he softened to stillness, his eyes fluttering shut and then opening to blue, fuzzy awareness. “Was ist passiert . . .?”