The Enemy

by Sara Holbrook

  “I guess,” says Mom. “Cripes, it’s late. The shower is in less than an hour. Don’t be too harsh.”

  “World’s a harsh place, Lila. Boy’s got a lot more tearing at him than a broken arm. His pop’s gone, brother’s in the clink, and Frank, he doesn’t have it so bad, living here. He’s got him a case of survivor’s guilt. Seen it plenty of times in boys not much older than he is. Best thing he can do is get up and get on with it.”

  “I suppose,” Mom answers, starting to climb the stairs. “C’mon, Carol Anne. Help your Mama dress,” she says, as if there were any chance in the world Carol Anne would let her go upstairs alone.

  “I thought Frank was worried about Charles,” I say.

  “Charles is just fine,” Dad says. “With good behavior, he’ll be out come fall and he’ll have a high school diploma and hopefully enough sense to never go joyriding in a stolen car again. So tell me something, you say this Scholtz family moved here from Canada?” The question’s directed at me.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Inga speaks French and everything,” I add quickly.

  “She speaks German, too, right?”

  I’m not sure what he wants me to say. If I say they are German, is that going to make him mad? “I never really heard her talking German,” I lie, my words coming out like I spread peanut butter on graham crackers, slowly, carefully.

  “Don’t be thinking you need to protect anybody by telling me stories, Marjorie. They speak German, right? That’s what the mother speaks, am I right?”

  I look to where Mom was standing for help, but she’s disappeared upstairs.

  I nod and shrug, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to whip the curtain back on the whole truth either.

  Dad nods back and kind of purses his lips together. I can’t tell if it’s a mad look or not. I watch him carefully.

  “You ever meet a Mr. Scholtz?” Dad asks me.

  I shake my head no. It’s true I never met him. I don’t tell Dad that I think I saw him that once watching us play Nazis. I don’t tell him that I met his cap. The black cap with the button on top. The cap on the hook in Inga’s house.

  “Mmm,” Dad says. “German, eh? I wonder what he did in the war.”

  This is the question that comes up whenever one of my friends’ fathers is mentioned. Or any man, really. What did he do in the war? Pacific or Europe? Army? Navy? Marines? Did he see real combat or was he a pencil pusher? Was he 4-F? And if he was, he better be blind or at least missing one eyeball. Flat feet was no reason to stay home when so many went off to be killed.

  I know that Piper’s dad joined up for pilot training before our country even entered the war. He served under MacArthur and flew airplanes that picked up stranded sailors in the Pacific. He named her after a plane he trained on called the Piper Cub. And Mary Virginia’s dad had to hide in a barn in France for two weeks after he parachuted into the wrong place. Owen’s dad was in the Pacific; Jodi’s dad was in Europe. It’s just something people ask about dads. But this is the first time I ever thought about a man who might have fought for the other side.

  I shrug. This conversation makes me want to bolt. It’s already lasted at least two sentences longer than a normal conversation with Dad. A normal conversation goes like this, “You done your homework, Margie-girl?” and I say, “Yes,” and he says, “Good girl.” Or I say, “Not yet,” and he says, “Get busy.”

  “I might have to meet this Scholtz,” Dad says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “You can’t,” I blurt. My mind races. “I mean, they don’t have a phone.”

  “Well, good thing I got feet then, isn’t it? You know where they live, right? Maybe you can walk me over there sometime this week.”

  Why does Marjorie visit the Scholtz house after school?

  Is it true that Marjorie is friends with a germ?

  Why does Marjorie’s father want to talk to a Nazi?

  I can see a slam book with my name on it. If I go over to the Scholtz house again, my friends are going to have questions. Big questions. Questions I don’t want to read about in a book passed around at school.

  CHAPTER 26

  I help Mom to the car with her cookies and gifts for the baby. Dad has lured Carol Anne out to the garage so Mom can make her escape in peace. “Careful,” Mom says as I pick up a tray of little sandwiches.

  A baby shower is not exactly a sleepover with pillows and records, but it’s easy to see that Mom’s planning to have a good time with her friends. I stand at the door and wave as she pulls out of the drive.

  When I turn around, I come face to face with red and purple and white.

  Frank. His face looks like it’s been ripped off and painted back on in bright colors. His arm is in a sling, and a giant white pad the size of a slice of bread covers one ear.

  I gasp, one hand flying up to my mouth.

  “Thanks, punk,” he hisses through puffed-up lips. There are black stitches marching straight out of one side of his mouth.

  “Kind of hard not to notice,” I say.

  “I almost made it, ya know.”

  “Almost made it to heaven?” I say. And then because he looks pretty pathetic, “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “Okay, you two.” It’s Dad. He and Carol Anne are both wearing their coats.

  “How ’bout we all take a walk up to the gas station for a little consultation on where to start straightening out that bike?”

  Frank and I both stand there. For once we have found something we have in common. Neither one of us wants to go anywhere.

  “That gas tank’s gonna take some welding and that’s beyond me,” Dad says. He lays a hand on Frank’s good shoulder. Frank winces. He must hurt all over.

  I have zero interest in standing around staring at tools and tires at the gas station while he talks to some guy I don’t know about motorcycle repairs I don’t care about.

  “Come on, it’s not that bad of a day. Let’s take a walk. Go out and blow the stink off.”

  Funny Dad should say that since I think gas stations rank right up there with dirty diaper pails and open sewers as places full of stink.

  The phone rings. “Now who could that be?” asks Dad. He motions to Frank to put his coat on as he strides over to pick up the receiver.

  As soon as he says, “Yep, she’s right here,” I know I’m off the hook. I practically skip to the phone.

  “Hi, it’s Piper.”

  “Oh, hi,” I say. “Just a minute.” I cover the mouthpiece and negotiate with Dad, who says I can stay home as long as I don’t burn the house down.

  That’s twice in two days I’ve been warned to not burn a place down. I want to ask if I look like an arsonist, but instead I just say, “I’m just going to talk to Piper and then take a nap, Dad. You guys go ahead.”

  “I’m gonna beg off, too. I didn’t sleep so good last night.” Frank turns to retreat to his basement lair. The door closes behind him.

  “You need to learn to sleep no matter what.” Dad yells after him. “And that goes for you, too,” he says to me.

  “Okay, Dad.” I nod, my hand over the telephone receiver.

  “Got to be battle ready.”

  “Right.” I turn back to the phone.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, sweet pea.” Dad takes Carol Anne’s hand in his and they head for the door. She’s jumping for joy to be going on a walk with Dad because she’s too young to know how boring gas stations are. I settle into the chair by the telephone table.

  “I’m back.”

  “It’s Piper.”

  “I know, you said that already.”

  The phone is silent, and I can picture Piper chewing on her lip on the other end. “You okay?” I ask.

  Another few seconds of silence.

  “Bernadette’s mad at me.”

  Bernadette, mad? Only a few hours ago the slumber party had ended, and we were all laughing and waving good-bye. “Don’t be silly, Piper. You worry too much.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t laugh, Marjorie. Mary Virginia wrote her part in the slam book before we left Bernadette’s and I’m next and I forgot to bring the book home with me and Bernadette called and I’m really in trouble. She says I don’t think the slam book is important, and that’s not true. I do think it’s important, I really, really do.”

  “Sure you do, Piper. Don’t sweat it. Bernadette’s not mad.”

  “Do you know that for sure? Have you talked to her?” Her voice is urgent. It’s as if she’s telling me there’s a train coming and we better get off the tracks.

  “No, I haven’t talked to her, but it’s not that big of a deal.”

  “Oh, yes, Marjorie. It is a big deal. It’s a very big deal. I might be banned from her house again or worse.”

  “Why don’t you have your mother ban Bernadette from your house, then you’ll be even.” I’m not sure what the problem is between the Lutherans and the Catholics, but I know it goes both ways.

  “My mother did ban her from my house, it’s just nobody cares what I do or my mom does. Everybody just cares about Bernadette. And she’s made us all sign that loyalty oath. This is really serious. What if she starts a slam book about me? If she did, I’d just die. Please. You have to talk to her for me. You know her best.”

  I manage to calm Piper down, as much as she can be calmed down. Piper’s like a kite string on a windy day most of the time, ready to snap any second. I promise to call Bernadette and tell her that Piper thinks the slam book is important. I decide not to tell Piper that I’ve been worried about the same thing. This slam book idea could be turned against anyone.

  After I hang up, I run up the stairs and flop on my bed, but I’m way too worked up to take a nap. I’m not sleepy tired. I’m fed-up tired. I roll over and slam my fist into my pillow once for Kirk making Inga sit next to me in the first place. I slam it again for Inga. And again for Curious George. And twice for Frank. I raise my fist again for the box of books hidden under my bed, but my hand stops in midair as I realize I am home alone. Well, as good as alone. Frank is two floors away.

  I slip off the bed and pull my box of National Geographic maps and travel folders out into the middle of the floor. Flat on my belly on the floor, I can barely reach the box of books that Mom jammed under there. She may be right that books stretch the brain, but, trying to move a box of them with my fingertips, I quickly discover they are more likely to stretch my arm out of its socket. I roll over on my back and use my feet to pull the box towards me. Right on top sits the 1984 book that landed me in trouble at the library. I pick it up, slip it under my pillow, and quickly push the box back, shoving it all the way against the wall with both feet.

  Why is Marjorie an instigator?

  Is Marjorie a commie sympathizer?

  Questions crowd my brain as I open 1984 and begin to read about what happens to this guy Winston. People are always watching him, too. Only this story is set in the future where they have more ways to watch him. The watchers are also mindreaders, so he has to hide in the corner of his room where no one can see him think. The Thought Police hover outside of his window in helicopters, and bombs go off every day. In a weird way, at first this makes me feel a little bit better. At least my life isn’t as bad as his. But it also puts me on high alert, like hearing about a robbery in another town. I hurry to the window and pull down the shade, just to be on the safe side.

  The book has lots of words I never saw before. Some of them, like the word truncheon, I just skip over and figure I can understand the story whether I know that word or not. Other strange words just explain themselves, like Newspeak. It’s an invented language they speak in Oceania, the made-up country where Winston lives. It’s kind of an upside-down language where war means peace and freedom means slavery. I am only on page six of this book when it really starts to turn scary. The Thought Police are everywhere, watching him all the time. Even Winston’s TV set can read his mind, so he has to wear a fake smile in order to watch the news and not be in trouble. He takes a big risk and buys a blank book that he wants to use for a diary. Writing thoughts in a diary is so illegal it could get him sent to a horrible prison with no windows and lots of barbed wire, which (according to Newspeak) is run by the Ministry of Love.

  I can’t see into the future as far as 1984, but I can see what’s going to happen in this book. This guy Winston’s going to wind up in big trouble for thought crimes, and it’s not going to have a happy ending. I close the book and put it back under my pillow. I’m in no mood for unhappy endings, and reading this book is like pulling a heavy load of bricks in a wagon. Not easy.

  Since 1984 takes place in London, I decide to pull out a map of England. I kneel beside my collection of brochures and pull out one with Big Ben, this huge clock tower, on the cover. LONDON! it says in blue and red.

  “We’re back,” Dad announces as he slaps open the door. I jump and fall backwards like someone’s pulled the rug out from under my knees.

  “Hey, kid. Don’t look so spooked. What are you doing with the shades down? Beautiful day outside.” He walks over and releases the shade so it snaps up loud as a gunshot. I jump again. Carol Anne scampers into the room.

  “Can I see? Can I see?” She plops down beside my box and starts grabbing at things. Instinctively, I cover it with both arms. My heart’s racing like a revved-up car. I can hardly breathe.

  “What ya got there? Ahhhh. Beautiful town, London. Hope you see it someday. Hope you see all the places in that box. Changes who you are, I can tell you that.” Dad hangs over the box for a second. I glance nervously to the side and see the corner of 1984 sticking out from under my pillow. My ears pound.

  “You think you could be a good big sister and watch Carol Anne until your mother’s home? Shouldn’t be too long. I’m going to roust Frank and take him out to kick tires on some used cars. See if we can wrap a little more metal around him with some of the money his dad left him. Looks like repairing that bike might just be throwing good money after bad.”

  I am panting like I’m sinking in the deep end.

  “Calm down, kid. A little gun-shy, there, eh?” Dad scrubs the top of my head with his hard hand.

  I nod. There’s still not enough breath in me to speak.

  “We’ll be back before supper. Tell your mom.” He turns around as he’s about to leave, “Hey, get a load a this. Guess who’s moonlighting as a weekend mechanic up to the gas station? German, name a Scholtz. Turns out he was a tank mechanic in the war, and guess what else?”

  I’m not even blinking, I’m listening so hard. “What?” I mouth the word.

  “He has a kid named Inga! Your friend’s dad, working up to the gas station, what do you make of that? I invited him over for a cup a joe next weekend. Maybe a beer. Who knows? See what he’s all about. Oh, and I invited Inga to come with him.”

  “Frank,” is all I say. Kind of to myself and kind of out loud. Frank is going to go off like a box of screaming fireworks if Mr. Scholtz comes over. And it’s not the best time for a visit from Inga, either.

  “Frank’ll deal with it. Don’t set the house on fire. Be back in an hour.”

  Dad’s out the door and down the stairs before my heart slows to something close to normal. What if I’d had the wrong box pulled out? By the time I come to my senses, Carol Anne has discovered that she can slide on my brochures. She’s skating around the room, one foot on Sweden and the other on Cuba.

  “Give me those,” I yell, snatching back the glossy brochures. I throw everything in the box any which way and shove it under my bed. “Those are mine. No touching!” The words come out meaner than they need to be, and her lower lip begins to quiver.

  “I want Mommy,” she cries. She throws her head back, “Mommy!”

  “Shh. Shh. Here, you want me to read you Curious George?” I offer. I run to her bookshelf and start to pull off all her favorites.

  She screams for Mom a few more times, but I wear her down with a stack of books and promises to read every one. Twice. We sit in the same place
that I sat with Inga the week before, reading about the man in the yellow hat. The sun comes in, and the room fills with warmth. Carol Anne toots her pretend bugle, just like George in the animal show. Mom comes home before I’m finished with the stack of books and sits down with us on Carol Anne’s bed.

  “How are my best girls?” she asks, bouncing the bed and making us both giggle like babies, “I am the luckiest mom in the whole wide world, you know that?”

  It isn’t until after dinner and The Honeymooners that I remember the hidden book and reach under my pillow. Its hard cover feels cold against my hand. I wish there were someone I could talk to about this book business. I wish there were someone I could trust, someone who wouldn’t tell the police—or worse—Bernadette.

  I try and think who that might be. Not Jodi or Piper, and definitely not Mary Virginia, who would tell your deepest secret to an entire assembly of kids if she thought she could wiggle a laugh out of them.

  For some reason I can’t really explain, I wish I could talk to Inga.

  CHAPTER 27

  “You signed a loyalty oath. Remember?” Mary Virginia tries to pass me the slam book as we are hanging up our coats on Monday morning. “Here.”

  “Don’t be so pushy,” I answer and try to hurry past her to my desk.

  Mary Virginia catches me by the arm. “You’re with us or you’re against us, Marjorie.”

  “Did Bernadette tell you to say that? She can tell me herself.” I jerk my arm away.

  “We need to know where you stand. Are you on our side or not?” She pokes me with the slam book, but I refuse to take it. Instead I point to Inga, already at our desk and working on the story problem. Mike is leaning over the aisle, helping her with the words.

  “Not now!” I want to scream that I don’t want to take sides.

  “Okay, I’ll give it to Jodi then, but you have to do this, like everyone else.” She tips her head. “You gave your word.”