Corsets & Clockwork

by Trish Telep

Jula's strident voice calls, jolting me from my train of thought. She waves me down. I brake. Her long ponytails bounce as she jumps in the back of my wagon. She talks nonstop during the rest of the trip to town. Rattling on about boys, fashions, and the war. I let her words flow around me like the hot August air.

  Instead, I strain to listen to Father's Octopus Pluckers working in Teos' apple orchard. An odd clunk interrupts the cadence of the metallic pincers. If Teos fails to oil that joint soon, he'll be bringing one of the Pluckers back for repairs. Perhaps I should ...

  "... I'm glad you're not helping him with his metal beasts anymore. Girls shouldn't have oil under their fingernails or know so much about hydraulics. You're sixteen now, you should be trying to find a husband before all the boys go to war."

  "Jula, why do you think I'm not helping my father?" I ask.

  "Because of the war."

  "Why would the war matter?"

  "So you don't see his new machines."

  "What new machines?"

  "War machines, of course," she says. "It's all hushhush. The Polish government's involved, and they say once he's finished, the Nazis will be too scared to cross the border."

  If it's all hush-hush, then why does everyone else know about it? Instead of pointing out the obvious to Jula, I concentrate on navigating over a set of deep ruts.

  Eventually, the wagon clatters over cobblestones, announcing our arrival in the heart of Leba. Where the buildings are all huddled tight together as if they can't stay upright without the help of their neighbors. Townspeople fill the narrow streets with their loud voices, drowning out my wagon. Horses clop and carriage wheels thump and clunk. The rare automobile chugs by followed by an occasional lumbering truck. To me, the sounds are raw and unrefined. Just noise.

  Jula and I part company as she heads to the pharmacist to purchase a tonic for her mother. The hardware supply store is a refuge of calm. Inside, the scents of sawdust, metal, and grease mix into a familiar aroma. The shopkeeper hustles to take my order as the other customers drift closer to see what's carried out to my wagon. I must admit to my own curiosity as each item is placed inside, wondering why my father needed that particular device or gadget.

  "... could be for a big trench builder for our boys," one man says about a stack of metal scoops.

  "He's not going to dig trenches," his friend chides. "They're for a weapon. Maybe one that can run right through the Nazis."

  "Those springs could launch bombs," another says.

  "Or could help with suspension for a huge walking machine," says the first man.

  Their guesses get wilder and a couple are physically impossible, but I don't bother to teach them the laws of physics. Not that they would listen to me--a mere girl. At least my father never cared about my gender.

  We would work together until late into the night, building fun gadgets like the Poodle Pooper Scooper. It resembled a poodle, with copper wires for hair, four metal legs, and it even barked. It ran around outside, but instead of leaving droppings, it cleaned them up with its wide tail. During those late-night sessions, he taught me so much until ...

  I shy away from thoughts of war. Instead, I notice one customer staring at me with a keen interest. I try to ignore him. But when I pass by to pay for my purchases, I smell the faint tang of machine oil. The hair on my arms stands up in warning.

  After I receive my change, I bolt from the shop. Thankfully, the strange customer doesn't follow me. I wait for Jula at the place we parted. An odd creepy feeling slides up between my shoulder blades like I'm being watched. I search the streets, but see nothing unusual.

  My father said my imagination would get me into trouble someday. I wonder if today is that day. Or is today the day I need to be smart? I run my finger over the clear crystal of my wristwatch. The numbers and hands are crafted from pieces of amber. Below the face, tiny gears spin, keeping time. It looks so delicate, yet the watch is thick and heavy on my wrist. My father gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday--May 22, 1939.

  I remembered when he hooked his finger under my chin to pull my gaze away from his marvelous gift and said, "Zosia, this will tell you when it's time."

  "Time for what?" I asked.

  "Time to be smart. Time to stand up for yourself." He refused to explain anymore, and the next day he disappeared. Well, not completely--my mother claims he comes in late at night to check on me. And I have a collection of the little presents he occasionally leaves on my bedside table. Smiling, I recall the miniature amber statue of a girl with springs on her head instead of hair. The last present he left for me. I still haven't figured out how to turn her on yet.

  Jula is slow returning today. The other shoppers don't pay me any attention. Although my attention is suddenly focused. Inek and his three younger brothers--all blonds--sit on the steps of the butcher's shop at the opposite end of the street. Probably waiting for their father to finish haggling over the price of beef.

  Inek's family's cattle farm is about a mile away from our house. Inek used to work at our farm, helping me with the chores. That was before my father caught us kissing behind the house a month before my birthday. Father chased him off, yelling at him to stay away from me. At six foot four inches tall, my father is already impressive, but when he's waving a wrench and wearing an oversized pair of crystal and amber spectacles, he's doubly so.

  Inek didn't come back, to my mother's delight. She never liked him and I suspect it's because he's half Swedish.

  Inek catches me staring and frowns. I jerk my gaze away, but the damage is done. Even though I'm hurt that he hasn't tried to contact me this summer, my insides still twist tight. My mouth goes dry in an instant. I can't help remembering the impish spark in his sky-blue eyes, his sense of humor, his wide smile, or the way his long fingers tangled in my hair.

  I tuck a few curls behind my ear, but know it's hopeless. Most of the long strands have sprung from my braid by now. My mother once claimed in exasperation that my curls were a force of nature. My father agreed, saying the color of my hair matched the color of the Baltic Sea's amber. He then proceeded to use a few strands of my hair to build a very accurate rain detector.

  I'm jolted from my memories by two men who block my view. One look at their black suits, fedoras, and dour faces and I know they're from the government. Problem is, which one? Germany's or Poland's?

  The thin-faced man on the left says in German, "Miss Nowak, we'd like a word with you." The language isn't a clue as most people around here speak both German and Polish.

  The suit on the right touches my elbow. He gestures to a side street, and I catch a glimpse of a Luger holstered on his belt. "In private," he says. His hand remains on my arm.

  Now my heart is thumping for a whole new reason. There's nothing I can do as the men guide me to a quieter place. I catch a whiff of machine oil and fear rolls inside me.

  Thin-face asks, "Where is your father, Miss Nowak?"

  Surprised by the question, I reply in German, "At home."

  They exchange a glance.

  The man holding my elbow says, "No one is at your house. Where are the Poles hiding him?"

  Cold sweat drips down my back. "My mother--"

  "Gone, too."

  Unable to comprehend, I stare at Thin-face. "But, they were there this morning."

  His expression softens a tiny bit. "Did you see your father today?"

  "No, but--"

  "When's the last time you saw your father, Miss Nowak?"

  He sees the answer in my face.

  "How long?"

  "Two, maybe three months ago," I say.

  Elbow-man swears. His fingers tighten around my arm, digging into my skin. "Now what?" he asks his partner.

  Thin-face studies me. His gaze lingers on my wristwatch. "We have his daughter. Perhaps we can use her to lure her father from his hiding place." He grabs my watch, ripping it from the leather strap.

  "Hey," I say in response to both his actions and words. It's all I can manage before Elbow-man cuffs
me, ordering me to be quiet. Pain radiates through my ear.

  Holding my sixteenth-birthday present on his palm, Thin-face says, "This will provide the necessary proof."

  It's almost as if my watch knows it's the center of attention. A strident clicking emanates from it and then an extraordinary thing happens. Metal legs unfold from its sides. The gears inside spin faster and faster. In mere seconds it transforms into a metallic crab, complete with two sets of nasty-looking pincers.

  Thin-face is fascinated until the crab pinches his finger. Its claw cuts through his skin, exposing the metal beneath. A blue spark arcs through Thin-face's hand. He yelps and knocks the crab off. It immediately scrambles sideways toward Elbow-man and clamps onto his ankle. Again the electric hiss and blue bolt.

  Elbow-man releases my arm to swipe at the crab. Thin-face is yanking at his own now unresponsive arm.

  Inek appears in the midst of the chaos, urging me to run. I race after him. We weave through the streets and alleys until we're certain the men haven't followed us. Then we collapse to the ground, gasping for breath.

  Inek recovers faster than me. "Were they Nazi agents?"

  I connect the dots. "Yes," I puff.

  "Enhanced?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Inek curses. "Did they capture your father?"

  "No. They were looking for him."

  "Good." Inek relaxes. "Someone in the village must have warned him."

  Over two months ago. As my fear ebbs, my irritation increases. My mother has been lying to me. Then I remember what Thin-face said.

  "Mother!" I jump to my feet, and run in the direction of home.

  Inek catches up. "What about your mother?"

  "The Nazis said she's gone."

  "She's probably escaped with your father."

  "No. My father's been gone for months."

  Inek grabs my shoulders and stops me. "Wait a minute."

  I'm struck by how tall he has grown since I saw him last. Inek's suspenders strain over his muscular chest, his white shirt is untucked, and stuck to his sweaty skin. The early August heat has been hotter than normal. I'm sweating as well, but I resist the temptation to wipe my brow.

  "But I need to find her." I try to push his arms away, but they're solid muscle.

  "I understand, but think about it. The Nazis know where you live."

  His matter-of-fact statement sends icy daggers into my heart. They know where I live. Two separate pieces of information click together in my mind. The Nazis have been watching us, and my mother's been putting on quite the show for them. It explains all those nights of mechanical noises, the smoke puffing from our chimney, and her exhaustion.

  Pride that she has been fooling them into thinking my father was still at home wars with my anger over being kept in the dark.

  "If you return home now, the Nazis will find you again," Inek says. "You need to hide until we can locate your mother."

  He's right, but my desire to return to my house overrules logic. "What if she left me a message?"

  He bites his lip as he considers.

  "And I'll need a change of clothes and money." I would have to leave my wagon and supplies behind in Leba. "I'll go after dark."

  "We'll go," Inek says. "You can't go alone."

  "Why not?" I snap. "I'm quite capable of taking care of myself. It's not safe for your family. Or you. The Nazis are scarier than my father."

  I know I've said too much when Inek squeezes my shoulders and anger flashes across his face. But he drops his arms. "You're not going alone. We'll cut through the fields while it's light and then wait until dark."

  I open my mouth to protest, but a familiar clicking sounds behind me. Spinning around, I see the metallic crab, but not the Nazis--a minor relief until I realize the metal animal is heading straight toward me. Fast. I step back automatically as Inek hunts for a weapon.

  Afraid of its dangerous pincers and electric shock, I hug my arms tomy chest. My fingers brush the leather watch strap still onmy wrist and I finally remember the crab was a gift frommy father. Feeling a bit foolish about my panic, I crouch down.

  "Get back," Inek yells.

  "It's okay." I lay my hand flat on the ground.

  The crab climbs to the strap. Humming and clicking, it retracts its legs and pincers and reverts back into my watch. I tug on it, but it has secured itself to the leather.

  Inek stares at the watch. "And you wonder why your father scares me."

  * * *

  After we make sure the Nazis didn't follow my watch-crab, Inek and I hike through the fields. I hold up my skirt and I'm careful not to crush the plants with my work boots. We keep out of sight. There is no breeze, and the heat presses on my skin. My tunic is soon soaked with sweat. Insects buzz around my head, and our footsteps seem overly loud.

  Something's wrong. I stop, gazing at the rolling countryside.

  "Did you see someone?" Inek asks.

  "No. It's just ... Too quiet. That's it!" Another sweep of the neighboring farms confirms my theory. "My father's machines are gone."

  "Nazis probably stole them," Inek says. "You can't be too surprised. His machines are efficient, compact, and don't require a heavy combustion engine or diesel fuel. They probably want to tear them apart and see how they work."

  He pauses, and I wait for the inevitable question.

  "Do you know what fuels them?" he asks.

  "No." I lie to him because my father swore me to secrecy after I figured it out on my own. He worried the Nazis would learn the secret. My father refused to tell my mother or anyone else. When asked, he deadpans that it is the sea air--the Baltic's very own electrons that power his equipment.

  "Can the Nazis figure it out?"

  "I've no idea." Which is true. My father rigged the power block on his machines to incinerate the fuel when it was tampered with, but I didn't know if it worked or not.

  Inek and I walk for a while in silence. My stomach growls, and I long for water. When we reach the woods that border my home, we stop and wait for dark. It's hard for me to sit there doing nothing. Worry over my mother's disappearance churns inside me. And where is my father? Does he know the danger he put us in? Does he care?

  I search my mind for any clues to his whereabouts. Suppressed memories of my parents arguing bubble to the surface. My mother insisting he help the war effort, his quiet response, and Mother using my name as a weapon. I also recall my mother flinging his Catfish Rug Sweeper--his vacuum cleaner invention--into the kitchen wall. Unable ... or rather unwilling to explore those memories further, I ask Inek about his family.

  Inek chats aimlessly about his brothers and how their antics have gotten them in trouble. I realize I've been so preoccupied with my own problems that I forgot that Inek abandoned his brothers to help me.

  "Will your family be worried about you?" I ask.

  He shrugs. "Probably not."

  "I guess they're used to you running off without saying a word."

  Inek's expression flattens. He gives me a cold stare before he stalks away.

  * * *

  Alone with my thoughts isn't fun. I try to think of happier days. Like when I mastered the installation of the reticulating gears needed to move a four-legged device. Or when my father beamed with pride after I designed my first gadget--a page-turning music stand. Or when I spent hours and hours on the beach with both my parents. As I played in the sand, my father would collect amber while my mother dug for clams. My heart lurches as I remember the day when I was eight-years-old and a green crab bit my toe. I yowled and begged my father to build a metallic fish to eat all the crabs in the sea.

  Instead, he drew me into his lap. Beads of salt water clung to the ends of his short curls, and grains of sand peppered his beard. "Zosia, the crab didn't bite you out of meanness or anger," he said. "You were probably going to step on her and she was defending herself."

  "Or her babies," my mother chimed in.

  "Yes, that's it," he said. "Mothers are very protective, and she didn't
want you hurting her family. You see, they're planning a very long journey to Finland to attend the wedding of the king of the crabs." Then he proceeded to tell the most outrageous story about the mother crab's trip across the Baltic, and how, in the end, she protected the future crab queen from a giant herring.

  I touch my watch, trying to imagine the protective mother crab's shape in the gears, but am unable to focus due to the tears in my eyes.

  * * *

  Inek returns a few hours after he stormed off. He brings sugar beets and a jug of water from a neighbor's house. The beets taste delicious.

  "Mr. Sobczak said the Nazis have been posing as Polish officials and going house to house asking questions about your family, and confiscating your father's machines," Inek says. "No one has seen your mother. And he thinks the Nazis have left the area, but it makes sense that they would leave someone or a few of their spy owls behind to wait for you. You're going to walk into a trap. Come to my house. My mother will--"

  "No. I need to see for myself. I know it's dangerous, and I appreciate your help and the beets. But you've done more than enough. Go home, Inek."

  "No." Inek sits down. He leans back on a tree trunk and crosses his arms.

  It takes a long time for the sun to set this far north. A long time of sitting in an uncomfortable silence. Complete darkness finally descends after midnight. The chirp and trill of the nighttime insects help fill the emptiness, but as we approach my house from the back field, the silence is eerie.

  No lights shine. The doors are closed. No smoke from the chimney. The place already has an abandoned feel.

  Inek remains outside to watch for the Nazis as I sneak toward the house. The moon is three-quarters full and gives off enough light to illuminate the steps to the back door, which is unlocked.

  I slip into our kitchen and stifle a gasp. The floor is littered with broken plates and glasses. Drawers hang open or have been flung to the ground. Careful not to step on any debris, I look for a note or some clue as to where my mother has gone. Our table has been broken in two and most of the chairs smashed into splinters. The rest of the house is in the same state as the kitchen. Outrage and fear churn in my stomach as I realize the Nazis have taken all of Father's kitchen machines.