The Major's Daughter

by J. P. Francis

  She climbed the stairs and found Collie had left a note to join her at the sitting rock. She said she had important news. Estelle paused, wondering if she should take a few moments to read Mr. Kamal’s letter. She pulled it out of her skirt pocket and felt its thickness. Yes, he had written a long letter. She decided she did not want to rush through it. She did not want to squander his voice or his thoughts. She grabbed a jacket instead and hurried out to meet Collie.

  The late afternoon had turned to early evening. A kingfisher hunted at the edge of the river, lacing its way from tree to tree as if it meant to keep company with her. It felt good to be outdoors. The river sent up an embracing chill that seemed to spring free from the heat of the day. Crickets scattered as she walked. The mountains caught the angle of the falling sunlight and turned bronze; the phenomenon reminded her of the alpenglow she had encountered in the Alps. Legend held that the mountains drew the light inside and stored it for the following morning. Light ran like sugar into the peaks.

  She found Collie perched on her meditation rock, watching the river. Estelle deliberately scuffed her foot to warn of her approach. Collie looked up and smiled. Estelle felt a moment of great tenderness toward her friend. When she reached her, she leaned down and hugged her. To her surprise, Collie hugged her in return with great force.

  “Is it possible to love someone so easily?” Collie asked. “Am I simply being foolish?”

  “What happened today?” Estelle asked, taking a place beside her friend. “Did you see August?”

  “Yes, he was playing the piano in the refectory. I knew it must be him. We shared a moment together. . . .”

  “Did you kiss him?” Estelle asked, and grabbed her friend’s forearm.

  “No, I’m not that brave. But we recited poetry to each other. And our eyes . . . I could barely breathe, Estelle. I know I can be silly about these things. I have a romantic bent, I suppose . . . at least I’ve always felt that I am a bit too easily excited by poetry and music. . . .”

  “I’m sure he felt the same.”

  “I think he did,” Collie said, astonished as she said it. “I’m fairly certain of it.”

  “I’m sure he did. It’s as good as a declaration.”

  “I’m the only woman he sees, really. He might be susceptible in his condition.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Collie. You’re beautiful and intelligent and would do any man credit. Is he working in the kitchen now?”

  “Until he’s completely mended,” Collie said. “He looks better than he did, but he’s still recovering. Estelle, he’s a prisoner! What hope do we have? He can’t leave the grounds without a guard. And we can hardly approach each other with several hundred men watching us. I would never want to put my father in an awkward position. Really, I think it’s a crazy idea.”

  “The heart wants its way. You know that.”

  Estelle drew out Mr. Kamal’s letter. She handed it to Collie.

  “He wrote?” Collie asked, examining the letter.

  “I haven’t read it yet. I can’t bring myself to open it.”

  “Would you like me to open it?”

  “No, please. I need to sit alone and read it. If I had half a brain, I’d throw it in the river and forget about it.”

  “Here,” Collie said, and jumped to the edge of the river and held the letter over it.

  Estelle jumped after her, and Collie began to laugh. Estelle took the letter back and returned it to her skirt pocket.

  “How absurd we are!” Collie said.

  “Let’s go back. Mrs. Hammond has promised me a sandwich. And I have to tell you all about the movies we saw. Marie insists.”

  “Did you have a good day?”

  “I had a lovely day.”

  Estelle hooked her arm through her friend’s as they began to walk. The kingfisher had departed and the alpenglow had changed to a dull, wan light. Evening rested on the peaks like a bird waiting to come to the feeder.

  “If the war would end,” Collie said, “we might have a chance. But until it does, it’s hopeless.”

  “Yes, a great deal will change when the war ends. The world will be different. Not entirely, of course, but it will be changed. Can you ask your father what will happen to the prisoners at the end of the war?”

  “I doubt he knows for certain. They will have to be repatriated eventually. August heard a rumor that the men will be sent to England. They will be put to work as prisoners again.”

  “Germany will be destroyed.”

  “Still, they will have to go back. Opinion would not stand to let them stay here.”

  “So you have fallen in love with a man who will be taken from you?”

  “Yes, that’s why it’s ridiculous to let my heart go in that direction.”

  Estelle squeezed her friend’s arm with her elbow.

  “It’s funny, you know,” she said, “if I had made this trip a year ago I would have told you to take hold of your heart and protect it. But now, after meeting Mr. Kamal, I know it’s not as easy as it sounds. It’s far more complicated, isn’t it? At the same time, it’s far easier. Simpler. What else should we do but follow our hearts?”

  “Will you follow yours, Estelle?”

  “I’m not sure it’s a choice any longer. I’m afraid I’m lost.”

  “And society will never approve.”

  “No, not really. We can pretend people will be generous in spirit and accept these differences, but not in Ashtabula, Ohio, I’m afraid.”

  “Could you return to India with him?”

  “He would never ask. Besides, he likes America. He is growing rich here, at least by his former standards. His business is quite successful. His family in India counts on his resources.”

  “My mother used to say that time is the oil of life. She said that patience is the greatest tool. Most things resolve themselves if you leave them alone.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “The war will end someday, Estelle, and then people may look at Mr. Kamal differently. Not everyone, of course, but the people who count in your life. What feels impossible now may seem prosaic later on. You never know.”

  “I don’t have your confidence, Collie. Prejudice is a sharp, angry thing. Intolerance. Mr. Kamal tells stories that would wrench your heart. In the final analysis, your chances with August are greater than mine with Mr. Kamal. And I am not entirely sure of my own heart as you are sure of yours. It is my own grain of prejudice, you see, that poisons me. I don’t like that about myself. But it’s there. . . . I see him as different, but he is just a man like any other man.”

  “And your parents would object. . . .”

  “I would be ostracized from everything I know. It’s true, believe me. No one would mean to do it, not in their conscious minds, but they would think twice about inviting me to a party, or a wedding, or any social occasion if it meant also inviting Mr. Kamal. Then in time they would persuade themselves it was out of kindness toward me . . . because they would not want to make me feel awkward. You know how these things go, Collie. Little by little I would be on my own island with only Mr. Kamal for company. And if we had children . . .”

  “I get your point. But I will always be your friend, Estelle. I promise that.”

  “Yes, I know you would. I’ve always known that about you. Now here we are, and if you don’t mind I am going to go up to the room and read Mr. Kamal’s letter. You know, I think it’s time I stopped calling him Mr. Kamal, don’t you? He has invited me to use his first name, and I do sometimes, but with others . . . it’s easier to use Mr. Kamal.”

  “What is his first name?”

  “His full name is Neem Karoli Kamal. His mother calls him Neem.”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “It reminds me of rainfall. I don’t know why, but it does. A soft rain on a spring morni
ng.”

  “Go read your letter. I’ll tell Mrs. Hammond you are hungry. Now, go. I’ll build a moat around you.”

  Estelle hugged her friend again. Then she ran up the porch stairs and went straight to their room, her hand against the letter to keep it from sliding out by accident.

  • • •

  The moon rose above the Devil’s Slide. August sat on the porch of the refectory and watched it climb above the last brow of pines. A summer moon. He fanned the apron to bring air under his clothes. The kitchen had been mercilessly hot all afternoon and evening, and one of the men, Simon, had become light-headed and had to be sent to his barracks to rest. The cutting crews talked of swimming in the many woodland creeks when they came back for mealtime, but that was not permitted for the cooking detail. August had worked straight through, first peeling potatoes, then carrying service ware to the tables, and finally washing an avalanche of dishes. His hands felt scarred and raw, and the front of his apron pushed its sodden weight against him. A funny thing, he thought, to spend the war washing dishes in a military prison somewhere in the United States. Nevertheless, he felt grateful for the work and to be alive to see the moon climb into the sky. He hoped his brother and his parents watched the same moon. He prayed they still lived and that they had not given up hope.

  He started to rise to his feet when Red came out for a cigarette, but Red grabbed him by the shoulder and kept him where he sat. Red pulled an upside-down bucket close to August and handed him a beer. The beer sweated with glistening rivers of ice; the label had slipped away from the brown bottle.

  “Lousy beer,” Red said, his fingers reaching into his pockets for a cigarette. “But lousy beer is better than no beer. Skoal.”

  August tilted the tip of the bottle toward Red, then took a deep drink.

  The beer tasted watery.

  “Not as good as ours,” August said.

  “Not close. Pig piss. What I wouldn’t give for a few Bavarian lagers.”

  “It’s a pretty moon just the same.”

  “Yes, very pretty.”

  Red lighted his cigarette. In the flash of the match, August saw his profile. He appeared older in the dim light, as if the man beside him was a faded copy of the chef who ruled the kitchen.

  “I’m not sure how many of these I would have to drink to feel drunk,” Red said, alternating between sips and puffs from his cigarette. “They are weak. Hopelessly weak.”

  “They have different tastes, I suppose.”

  “Yes, but there are plenty of Germans in this country. You would think they could teach the Americans how to brew a proper beer.”

  “We only know this one place.”

  “True,” Red said, apparently giving up on his condemnation of American beer. He blew a white funnel of smoke into the air. A few June bugs rattled the light over the back door. For a time neither of them spoke, and August concentrated on the coolness finally touching his skin.

  “How is your Fräulein?” Red asked. “Have you seen her?”

  “Earlier today. At break time.”

  “She came to see you?”

  “She heard the piano.”

  “Ah! Music is the cheese for your little trap!”

  “It’s not a trap.”

  Red laughed, then took a large drink of beer. He rolled the empty bottle into a corner, then went inside and brought out two more beers. August finished his and rolled it after Red’s. The bottles clinked. Red lighted another cigarette as he sat.

  “Women . . . ,” he said, then lost his thought or his tongue.

  “What about them?”

  “What else do we have but women? That’s the great misery of war. What sane man puts himself in a barracks full of men miles away from available women? We must like it, because we continue to do it. War turns us into bachelors whether we like it or not. It makes no sense.”

  “Did you ever marry, Red?”

  “I did, but she didn’t!” he answered, and then gave a loud, hearty laugh. August guessed he had employed that remark many times.

  “My Fräulein is the commandant’s daughter.”

  “So? Everyone is someone’s daughter or son. You can’t let that get in the way.”

  “I can’t approach her.”

  “But you already have, don’t you see? The heart always finds a path. It’s like water . . . it keeps seeking its own level. You two will not be able to stay away from each other. Trust me.”

  “They’ll send us back afterward.”

  Red shrugged.

  “Who knows what will happen?” he said. “We all may be dead tomorrow. Hasn’t the war taught you that much at least? Enjoy each other. If it doesn’t work, pffft. It’s not the end of the world. But if you don’t take her seriously, you may regret it. Do what you can and see where it takes you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Nothing to thank me for. It’s nature, that’s all. All the wars in the world won’t prevent men and women from finding each other. You watch. Your Fräulein will find a way. She has more freedom than you. And the war is ending. You can feel it, can’t you?”

  “It’s not finished yet.”

  “No, not for a time yet, but the end is inevitable. Hitler should have stopped a long time ago and sued for peace. He should have taken his gains when he had them.”

  “That’s not his personality.”

  “No, of course not. He’s the great Napoléon of our age. He had bad counsel around him. That proved to be his Achilles’ heel. They made him believe he was invincible, that the German people would sacrifice anything for him. But there is a limit to what people can endure. His counselors should have warned him.”

  “What waits for you at home, Red?”

  “More kitchens,” he said, flicking his final cigarette away. He drank off his beer. “For me, the world is a kitchen. For you, maybe it is that Fräulein’s sweet arms. Now come on, let’s finish. I’m tired and I want to go to bed.”

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twelve

  Estelle waved for as long as she could still see the station. Twice she watched Marie jump into the air, her lovely young face covered with tears. Then Estelle saw Amy gather her little sister into her arms. The poor child, Estelle thought. Marie had been inconsolable at the thought of them all separating. She had asked repeatedly why Estelle needed to return to Ashtabula, and it did no good to remind her that Estelle had always meant to visit, not change addresses permanently. To every reason put forward—time, money, missing her parents, her home life—Marie had countered with a cry from her heart. She wanted Estelle to stay, that was all. Estelle had never felt more admired by anyone in her life.

  So she waved and she watched her three friends wave in return. The train moved up a slight grade and then turned gradually around a bend. Pine trees blocked her view of Percy Station at last. Her friends disappeared. She fell back into her seat and felt a wild mixture of emotions clawing in her chest.

  She was going home. Back to her house in Ashtabula. Back to her parents. And, of course, back to Mr. Kamal.

  Nothing had changed, she realized. Even now she carried his letter in her purse. How many times had she read it? Rocking slowly in the train, the pines clustered and rich in either direction, she drew out the letter and read its opening again. Besides giving the news of Ashtabula, the gossip among the merchants, a few mentions of the society page, it contained, buried in several lines, expressions of his feelings. She had showed those passages to Collie and Collie had concurred; they had been placed carefully in the letter to convey his feeling for her. He could not simply declare himself, and so he had hinted, and made references to earlier conversations, all of it expressing to her his deeper, truer feelings. He waited for her; he looked forward to resuming their afternoon teas; he had new plants to show her; he had thought of a concert they might attend. All innocent, all friendly, and all a
n invitation to step closer.

  She had not replied. She had tried several times, coached in several attempts by Collie, but words failed. She did not want to encourage him; she did not want to encourage herself. The letter remained like a burning ember wherever she carried it. She did not dare expose it to common air for fear it would explode into fire.

  With an act of will, she pulled down the window of her train car and dangled the letter out the window. She let the sheets go one at a time. She did not care what other passengers might think. The pages flung themselves rearward along the train, swirling back like memory or loss. She watched them go and told herself it was for the best.

  • • •

  Marie insisted on dancing. She had lingered at Mrs. Hammond’s boardinghouse all afternoon after Estelle’s departure, depressed and unhappy, and to buck up her spirits Collie had agreed to a single wish if Marie would simply smile. Amy had cautioned against it, but Marie had jumped on the offer and moved immediately to the radio in Collie’s room and turned up the volume.

  “It’s too hot for that nonsense,” Amy said. “People don’t need to hear us tromping around up here like a herd of elephants.”

  “You promised!” Marie insisted.

  “I didn’t promise,” Amy replied. “I hate to say it, Collie, but this is your ticket to punch. She’ll dance your legs off.”