The Major's Daughter

by J. P. Francis

  In the main office, Lieutenant Peters had slipped a cloth cover over his enormous typewriter and now he tucked it in around the edges. Closing time, Major Brennan realized. Even in prisoner-of-war camps the standard work schedule held sway.

  “Running in to meet Collie. You know where to find me if you need me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Peters said. “Shall I call the driver?”

  “No, I think I have time to walk. I could use a little exercise. I’m growing stout from all this desk work.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Although Major Brennan wanted the short walk to be alone to think, he regretted his decision to walk almost the moment he stepped off the front porch of the administration building. Really, it was too cold. He tucked his neck down deeper into his overcoat and cursed that he didn’t have a hat. It was foolish not to have a hat in such weather, but he never liked wearing one. He walked quickly to the main gate and saluted the guards there. They looked nearly frozen as they kept sentry. Still, that was their job, and it would do no good to let them find a softer way to go about it. He slid through the gate and headed toward the river.

  From south of the village he heard the train whistle and he quickened his step as a result. The lights of the village pushed out against the darkness. The pale white covered bridge hung over the river like a swan’s wing. When he reached the platform, he found three soldiers waiting. He saluted them all, then watched as an employee from the train company stepped out on the cold platform and checked his watch. It would be a bitter night, Major Brennan realized. The stars glittered with the cold and no wind moved the bare tree branches. It was the type of night that made the mercury drop in the glass. No one in his right mind would try to escape tonight.

  Then the train came puddling in, massive and spewing smoke, its bright front light nearly blinding. A conductor swung down as soon as the train slowed sufficiently, and he lifted a folding staircase down to the platform. Two soldiers immediately jumped off, one smoking a cigarette so that the soldier had to squint at the smoke. They looked young, and Major Brennan saluted them quickly. He walked the platform a few steps, hoping to see Collie as she made her way down the train to disembark, but the smoke from the undercarriage obscured everything. Arrivals and departures came in clouds, he reflected.

  At last he spotted Collie.

  “Oh, Papa, how nice of you to meet me!” Collie said, stepping off the train and into his arms.

  “Did you get Estelle married off?” he asked, taking her bag and putting it onto the platform. “Was it a good trip?”

  “It was a wonderful trip, thank you. Estelle is married, and I’ve come to like George,” Collie said, her eyes happy and alive. “He’s not any girl’s dream, exactly, but he’s quite dependable.”

  “Dependability is a great trait in a man,” Major Brennan said, feeling the ridiculousness of his remark as it passed his lips. He touched his handkerchief to his mouth and coughed at the cold air, then shifted topics. “You must be weary. And it’s horribly cold tonight. The barometer is nearly bursting. Come along.”

  “It feels haunted when it gets this cold,” Collie said, breathing in long pulls. “Ghostly.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Major Brennan said, “that’s exactly what it is.”

  • • •

  Descending in the elevator at the Biltmore in Chicago, Estelle felt the strangest sense of division. Or perhaps that was the wrong word for it. She felt of two minds, of two bodies, as if she had split down the middle and had calved a twin. On one side was the same girl she had always been, the girl she had seen in the mirror for her entire life, the girl with secret thoughts and opinions, a girl who read and spoke a smattering of French, and on the other . . . what was the other? A wife, she supposed. Mrs. Samuels. George’s helpmeet. Even the elevator operator, a graying, glimmering old man who wore an organ-grinder’s monkey’s hat, seemed to regard her differently. Mrs. George Samuels of Suite 372. She felt this wifely demeanor was a costume she could don and use to her benefit, yet it threatened to grow into her skin and become impossible to remove. Somehow a bargain had been struck, but what the terms of the agreement might be, what it meant in the long run, felt as cloudy as a poorly explained insurance policy. One had a sense of it, but scarcely any of the details.

  The elevator stopped twice, each time admitting soldiers. Chicago, she had discovered, was overrun with military personnel. One could not go anywhere in the city without seeing uniforms of every description. It was like a parade, really, the men plumed in their wool finery, their obvious satisfaction at being involved in the world’s great affairs contained in every movement. Even now, between floors, two young navy ensigns smiled and tipped their hats, their white uniforms glowing in the elevator light. Everything seemed in transit, the men nearly interchangeable, the uniforms the only constant.

  When they reached their destination, the military men stepped aside to let her pass into the lobby. George had already gone down to breakfast. She had argued to have breakfast in the room, but he had made an appointment to meet with someone from Midland Bank, a mortgage specialist whose business, she must understand, was invaluable. It was the only opportunity to see the man while in Chicago, and so they had a date for breakfast, where surely she would be a third wheel. That was another confusing feature of being married; one was not always sure if one was wanted. Nevertheless, she found the dining room easily enough and stood for a moment at the maître d’s station while she scanned the various tables and chairs. She spotted George and the other man—a sleek, seallike man of about forty with white-blond hair and a slightly arched back—seated in a banquet looking out on the street. They appeared rapt in conversation, but as she approached the table they looked up and stood, the business associate’s napkin falling off his lap onto the floor.

  “Estelle . . . may I present . . . ,” George started, but then stopped when he saw the comedy of proceeding while the man bent over to get his napkin.

  “Sorry,” the man said when he retrieved the napkin. “Harry Palconowski.”

  He held out his hand. Estelle shook it. It was a dry, light hand.

  “I ordered you coffee,” George said, stepping out and making room for her to slide in between them. “We were just saying, the breakfast is quite smashing for wartime.”

  “Smashing?” Estelle asked, unable to help herself.

  “Good, then,” George amended. “Harry here was saying we must see the Field Museum. They have a Tyrannosaurus rex on exhibit. Best in the world.”

  “If you like that sort of thing,” Harry hurried to assure her. “I happen to take an interest. When I was younger, I thought I’d like to be a dinosaur hunter.”

  “And then what happened?” Estelle asked, trying to conceive of this man—yes, he reminded her of a seal, with a sharp nose and soft eyes and heavy lashes—living and working anywhere except in a five-block radius from where they sat.

  “The usual hubbub of life. Isn’t that always the case? One makes plans, then the world intrudes. I can’t kick, though. Midland has been fine to me.”

  “Harry is the vice president in charge of the entire Midwest,” George said, looking up to catch the eye of the waiter now that everyone was at table. “At his age, that’s practically unheard of.”

  “What compounded the difficulty of escaping,” Harry said to Estelle, “was that I happened to be good at this sort of thing. This banking . . . not everyone is. And when you are good at it, they throw enough money at you to make you forget your former ideals. In an odd way, if I had been a disaster at this position I might be a dinosaur hunter today. So a success is always a failing on its flip side.”

  “I never thought of it like that,” Estelle replied, seeing this Harry Palconowski in a more charitable light.

  “But of course here I am interrupting your honeymoon. Your lune de miel,” Harry said, his gaze resting on Estelle’s. �
�I hope you’ll forgive me. I tried to tell George we could meet another time, but he insisted that you wouldn’t mind. He said that was the remarkable thing about you.”

  “I don’t know how remarkable that is. I hardly had a choice in the matter. Did I, George? But you know, that’s the second time someone has referred to my lune de miel.”

  “It’s meant more broadly by the French than we understand it in the United States. We use it to talk about the brief vacation after a wedding, but to the French it connotes the entire month . . . that the first month of marriage is a month of honey. One moon-full, as it were.”

  Estelle gave the man credit and took a third look at him. He was not entirely pleasant to look at, but she could see why he was successful in business. He had a sharp, magpie mind that picked up glittering pieces of glass and held them up to see if they contained value. At least, she mused, that was the initial impression he gave. She was pleased to be interrupted in her train of thought by the waiter, who took their orders in an efficient manner without writing them down.

  Then for a short while the men discussed business. She realized almost immediately that she could follow the issues, though she found them tiresome. She wondered why anyone would devote his life to such a practice. It was illuminating, however, to watch George in action against a worthy adversary. Mr. Palconowski would not be intimidated by George’s usual brusqueness. George himself, in deference to Mr. Palconowski’s lofty position as vice president of the Midwest—whatever that meant precisely—did not drive as she was used to seeing him drive. This was her husband, she reflected, and here was the start of their future together.

  She was still watching when Mr. Kamal walked into the dining room.

  Her heart stopped. To have something to do, she reached for her coffee, and it was only by looking away and then returning her eyes to Mr. Kamal’s retreating figure that she realized she had been mistaken. It was not Mr. Kamal after all, only another Indian man, probably a Sikh from his appearance, and she had supplied the necessary details to bring him to life as Mr. Kamal. Her hand shook as she brought the coffee cup to her lips.

  “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Mr. Palconowski suddenly said in a momentary pause from his fencing with George. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she managed to say, “I choked a little on something.”

  “Crust of bread always works for me,” Mr. Palconowski said. “All things advance before a crust of bread.”

  She did as he suggested. The men returned to discussing business, though Mr. Palconowski—Harry, she told herself—promised it would take only a moment longer. Dull stuff, he’d said. She ate two bites of the crusty French bread on the table and only when she was certain she could contain herself did she turn and pretend to take in the dining room. There was the Mr. Kamal look-alike, sitting with a woman Estelle imagined to be his wife, two small children wedged between them. She felt her heart regain its rhythm and her breathing came back under control. She tried her best to keep her attention fixed on the two men at her table, but her mind roamed back to the flower shop and to the scent of spiced tea and lilies, the charming fountain table bathed by early sunlight.

  • • •

  “I am going to kiss you,” August said, and he did.

  As simple as that, Collie thought. At the same time she kept a hand up against his chest, his heavy coat making a flapping sound in the wind, and she tried ineffectually to prevent him from claiming too much by the kiss. His cheek scratched hers; his lips tasted of coffee and powdered milk and something else she could not identify.

  “August, stop,” she whispered after a moment. “Please. That’s too much.”

  “I’ve dreamed about kissing you,” he said, his voice tight, his arms pulling her into him.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “Yes, I know. I have feelings, too. . . . But this isn’t the time or place. . . .”

  He released her slowly. A part of her wished he would never unclasp his hands. He finally took a step back and kissed her hand. A mitten covered it, but he kissed it anyway. He kept his eyes averted.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  She smiled. He was devastatingly handsome, she saw once again, but now it was a more mature beauty. His kiss continued to vibrate through her body. She could hardly believe what it felt like to be kissed by him. She reached out and put a hand on the horse nearest to where they stood in order to steady herself. The horse took a half step sideways and nickered a little in its throat. She had come out to the horses on her lunch break, to her usual spot, and here was August harnessing one of the animals. He had not delayed or equivocated; he had stepped toward her as soon as he had seen her and kissed her. It was the first she had seen him since their last moment together as he departed.

  “You surprised me,” she said, still trying to regain her balance. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I’m sorry. I have thought of you over and over . . . and then suddenly you were here as if I had conjured you. And I thought perhaps you wanted to kiss me, too.”

  “Yes, I did. . . . I mean, yes, I’m not angry. It’s just . . . ,” she said, having difficulty forming her words.

  “There is a great gulf between us, I understand,” he said. “A world apart. Our countries are at war.”

  “Something . . . yes, I suppose. But we are suited in other ways, I think. I don’t know what I’m saying. You confuse me. Our situation . . . but I am glad you kissed me. Very glad.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  He smiled. She reached out a hand and squeezed his. She wanted to reassure him. He had lost weight, she realized, during his time in Vermont. He did not look entirely healthy. Rations, she knew, had been difficult to procure, yet the logging work continued. Her father felt himself in a bind; it was always a bind, and he spent hours on the telephone haggling with supply officers for more food. She could see the effect the limited rations had on August. His skin had become somewhat sallow and his hair, always luxuriant, had taken a dull sheen. His teeth appeared slightly too prominent.

  He met her eyes, then stepped back and finished harnessing the horse. After the night of bitter cold, it felt glorious in the sunlight. The horses stood in the makeshift pole barn, their bodies warm and comfortable, only their shadows cooling the air when one passed through them. August ducked under the large Percheron to buckle a belly cinch. He straightened the halter straps along the horse’s cheeks, then spent a moment making sure the horse’s right ear was not pinched. Collie watched everything he did.

  “How was your trip?” August asked when he had the horse ready.

  His voice had changed a little, reverting to a more formal tone.

  “It was a lovely wedding.”

  “I’m glad. That was your friend Estelle, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s a good thing to think about,” he said. “You traveling and happy. I search for happy things to occupy me. I have a storehouse of memories that I pick up like stones and examine them.”

  “And how have you been?” she asked, conscious of the absurdity of such a question to a prisoner of war. “You’ve been gone a long time it feels like.”

  He shrugged and put his hand on the horse’s forehead to pet it.

  “A letter from home arrived,” he said, “but it was out of date.”

  “From whom?”

  “My mother. She wrote with news, but the letter is too old to say much. It was good to see her handwriting, though. She reports that it is bad in Germany and Austria. The Russians are advancing from the east. The Russians are animals, you know. They will kill everything in their path. They will not leave a stone on a stone.”

  He said all of this in careful English, his words pieced together slowly.

  “Do you fear them?” she asked.

 
He nodded and continued.

  “If they reach the Rhine, then all is lost.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry. I am sorry for you but not for your country.”

  “I understand. Do you see why it is difficult for you and me? We are dreamers. The world doesn’t cooperate. Is that the word? Cooperate?”

  “Yes, I take your meaning.”

  “The Allies will try to attack the Ruhr Valley. That is our manufacturing center. The Rhine is the last line of defense. Hitler is calling on the young and old to defend the Fatherland. Boys are now fighting. Young boys without whiskers. The old men have left their firesides, and they are fighting for their lives.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He bent back and rubbed the horse’s neck. He appeared exhausted and haggard now that he was fully in the sun. She wondered if her father saw the prisoners’ conditions clearly. It was easy to overlook such things in their gradualness.

  “We brought it on ourselves,” August said simply, petting the horse’s neck. “You cannot forget that. We would like to forget that fact, but we can’t. The Russians have a tank . . . it’s known by a letter and a number . . . a T something . . . and it cannot be stopped. It can shoot our tanks from a mile away and decimate us. That’s what we hear. We send out old men to fight with grenades strapped to sticks. We cannot hold out.”

  Collie studied him. How had she never quite understood this before? One country’s victory meant the obliteration of another. A country was an abstraction; war meant the death and annihilation of hundreds of thousands of human beings. It meant the eradication of entire families, of sons and daughters and loved ones, irrevocable loss that could not adequately be represented by a newspaper account or a radio report. The war was progressing; even in the Pacific the Allied forces had gained ground. Reports of troops advancing on Berlin came every day now. The German and Austrian people would suffer. That was the price they paid, but that did not make it any more conscionable.