Hope at Dawn

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Hope at Dawn Page 7

by Stacie Henrie


  She busied herself with looking through the children’s drawings. Some of their renditions were impressive; others made her smile. The task wasn’t so engrossing, though, that she missed the sound of the door opening or the thud of boots against the floor.

  Friedrick entered the room and removed his cap. His gaze momentarily locked with Livy’s, his expression guarded. Her tongue felt suddenly thick and dry in her mouth. What could she possibly say to erase the awkwardness radiating between them?

  She settled for an amicable, “Afternoon, Mr. Wagner.”

  He nodded at her. “Afternoon.”

  There, she’d been courteous. She lowered her head and feigned renewed interest in her students’ work. With any luck, he’d hurry right back outside and start in on his task.

  “Friedrick,” she heard Greta say with childlike enthusiasm. “Look at my picture.”

  “Is that Papa?” he asked.

  “Yes, and see, he’s all well.”

  “Look at mine,” Harlan said. “It’s the gun I want. Someday I’m gonna be a brave solider for America. That’s what Miss Campbell said.”

  Heat infused Livy’s face. If only she could slip under her desk, unnoticed. Of all the things the boy could have said, he had to pick the one that made her look every bit the self-righteous busybody his brother already suspected her to be.

  Perhaps if she could explain. Livy forced her gaze upward, but the fury in those piercing blue eyes rendered her momentarily speechless.

  * * *

  Friedrick glared at Livy, his jaw clenched, his breath coming hard with anger. This was what he had feared the most after their argument last night. She was already pushing her version of American loyalty onto her unsuspecting students. Next thing he knew, Harlan and Greta would be crying “traitor” at him for his farm deferment.

  With Harlan’s picture in hand, Friedrick took two steps toward Livy’s desk. “Miss Campbell said you’d make a great solider, huh?” He directed the question to his brother, but he kept his eyes trained on Livy’s blushing face. The extra color in her cheeks made her look that much prettier—a fact he did his best to ignore.

  “Look, Mr. Wagner.” She stood, her hands splayed on the top of the desk. “It isn’t what it sounds—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “Fortunately, you’re too young to fight now, Harlan,” he threw over his shoulder. “But there are other things you can do for the war effort besides fighting. Isn’t that right, Miss Campbell?”

  To her credit, she didn’t sit down or back away as he advanced another step. Instead she lifted her chin in challenge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do. Inspiring the children to know their duty at such a young age? Plucking out their evil roots? Keeping an eye out for possible spies?” He crossed the remaining distance to her desk. “I’d say you’re the picture of patriotism, Miss Campbell. Without the gun, of course,” he added in a rueful tone as he placed Harlan’s paper in front of her. He didn’t like going toe to toe with a woman, but this one got his ire up like no one else.

  She folded her arms and glowered up at him. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Wagner.” She spoke his name with all the frostiness of ice in January. “Harlan merely expressed a desire to fight for his country. I told him someday he would make a brave solider, but fortunately for your family, such a day won’t be anytime soon. That is all I said on the matter.”

  Friedrick could see from her fierce expression and the way she refused to break eye contact that she wasn’t lying. Standing so close to her, with the bright light of afternoon coming through the windows, he noticed her eyes weren’t solely green in color. There were flecks of gold and blue there, too, which he hadn’t noticed when they were busy dancing. As he continued his study of her face, her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. What would they taste like if he were to kiss them?

  “Friedrick?” Greta’s concerned voice broke the charged moment. He’d nearly forgotten she and Harlan were still there—listening to every word.

  Friedrick ground his teeth together. He’d made a fool of himself twice over. First by jumping to defend his siblings when there’d been no need, and second by arguing with their teacher in front of them.

  He swallowed hard, hating the way his pride tasted going back down. But when he was wrong, he would admit it. “I’m sorry, Miss Campbell. My mistake.”

  “I should say so,” she muttered, but he heard her plainly as he slammed his cap on his head and turned around. “Are you ready to hand your picture in, Greta?”

  Greta nodded, throwing a glance between her teacher and Friedrick.

  “Go on,” Friedrick urged, giving her a smile. “Then you two can play outside while I work on the roof.”

  Greta skipped forward to hand in her picture, while Friedrick sought solace outside from the suffocating tension indoors. He’d meant to come in, collect the children, and start on his job—not lose his temper. Or give Livy another excuse to run straight to the superintendent and relay all the things Friedrick had felt inclined to voice.

  Most of what he’d said could be misconstrued as pro-German, something Mr. Foster had warned Friedrick against. If the superintendent caught even a whiff of German patriotism, he’d promised to have Friedrick fired faster than Miss Lehmann had been.

  None of those things had been foremost in his mind, though, when he’d walked into the school. Deep down, he’d been hoping to find fault with Miss Campbell. If he could prove she was as bad as the other self-righteous Americans he’d encountered lately, his changed opinion of her would be justified.

  Then the children had showed him their artwork—a subject Miss Lehmann had never taught the class—and he’d been forced to consider he’d misjudged Livy Campbell last night. That is, until he’d heard Harlan’s comment. Now he didn’t know what to make of the new teacher.

  Friedrick grabbed his ladder from the back of the wagon and propped it against the side of the schoolhouse. After collecting his tools, nails, and shingles, he maneuvered up the ladder and onto the roof.

  He was well into his project by the time he heard Harlan and Greta exit the school. “Be careful, Friedrick,” his sister called up to him. The way her forehead furrowed with consternation reminded him of Elsa. If only the possibility of him falling off the roof could be her only source of worry.

  With a nail gripped between his teeth and his hands full, he couldn’t answer, so he waved his hammer. Greta accepted the gesture as proof he was fine and raced after Harlan. The boy was headed to the copse of trees behind the teacher’s cabin. Probably looking for something to chase or throw.

  Friedrick returned to his task. His thoughts soon moved from the chores waiting for him at home to his most recent argument with Livy. While he did derive a certain satisfaction in finally speaking his mind, he would have to be more careful about what he said. He couldn’t afford to lose this job—his family needed it too badly.

  At that moment, Livy exited the school. She didn’t even spare a glance in his direction, but Friedrick sensed the irritation still emanating from her.

  He watched as she bade his siblings good-bye and walked toward her cabin, her shoulders bent slightly forward. Unlike the nightgown she’d worn last night, her green skirt accentuated her trim waist and the swing of her hips as she moved. Friedrick forced his gaze back to the ugly roof.

  He threw himself into his work, knowing it would purge the memory of Livy’s gold-flecked eyes and red lips from his mind. The sun baked his neck and back and his knees ached from kneeling, but he wanted to finish.

  “You done yet, Friedrick?” Harlan hollered.

  “Almost,” he called back.

  He hammered in the last few shingles and climbed down the ladder. After setting his things inside the wagon, he eyed the teacher’s cabin. Was there something he could do to smooth things over with Livy, keep her from tattling to Mr. Foster? He studied the length and breadth of the small house. Some of the shingles were missing from i
ts roof, too.

  “Harlan, can you and Greta wait another twenty minutes? There’s something I need to do for Miss Campbell.”

  Harlan shrugged. “Come on, Greta, let’s go look for arrowheads in Old Man Zimmermann’s field.” Friedrick smiled at the memory of doing the same thing as a boy.

  Armed with another stack of shingles, he strode to the cabin and rapped a knuckle against the door. He braced himself for an abrasive reaction to his presence.

  Sure enough, the friendliness on her face hardened into a frown when she opened the door and saw him standing there. “Is there more you wish to accuse me of, Mr. Wagner?”

  He pushed out a long breath, reminding himself to remain calm, no matter what. “No, Miss Campbell. I’d like to apologize again for earlier.”

  “Oh.” From the way her brow creased, she hadn’t expected his apology. “What do you want then?”

  “I want to fix your shingles.”

  “Why?”

  His silent reminder to be patient was fast losing its hold on him. “Because there’s at least a dozen missing,” he answered, “and if you don’t have good shingles—”

  A hint of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, surprising him, but she tamped it down. “I understand the importance of shingles. My question is why do you want to fix my roof?”

  Couldn’t he just fix her shingles and be done with it? Did she intend for him to grovel? “It’s my attempt to make up for my…behavior…last night.” He paused, then added, “And this afternoon.”

  “Well, you can’t do it alone.”

  “Miss Campbell,” he said through clenched teeth, “I single-handedly reshingled half the school roof. I think I can manage yours without difficulty.”

  Instead of challenging him further, she fiddled with the door handle, without meeting his eye. “I only meant that I’d like to help. To make up for my behavior as well.”

  Friedrick cocked an eyebrow. Where had the angry, verbal slinger gone? With her softened expression, she reminded him much more of the woman he’d danced with. “You afraid of heights?”

  “No.”

  “You might want to change,” he said, motioning to her skirt. He swallowed a chuckle when she blushed. He liked eliciting the infusion of color to her cheeks. “If you don’t own any overalls, you might not want—”

  “I have a pair of trousers, thank you very much. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She slammed the door before he could reply.

  Friedrick shook his head with amusement. He’d admired her spunk from the moment they’d met at the dance hall, but he hadn’t expected her to use it against him. Her pluck was as much a virtue as a vice.

  While he waited for her, he went to collect his ladder and tools. His thoughts turned from Livy to the nearly empty jar in the kitchen cupboard. Surely enduring her displeasure a little longer was a small price to pay to help his family. At least he hoped so.

  * * *

  Dressed in old work trousers and a sweater, Livy climbed the ladder propped beside the cabin door. She ascended over the lip of the roof to find Friedrick setting up his supplies. He glanced her way, his brows arched in amusement at her manly attire. But his blue eyes shone with a different emotion, and Livy realized with a mixture of confusion and delight that he appreciated the sight of her in pants. Friedrick looked away first, and the moment between them dissipated, though Livy was left feeling a bit breathless, despite her earlier irritation toward him.

  “Why don’t you hand me the shingles and nails when I need them?” he said, motioning with his hammer to a rusted can and a stack of shingles.

  “All right.” Livy crawled slowly over the rough roof. The sun seeped through her sweater, warming her. A slight breeze ruffled wisps of her hair across her face. The thrill of being high off the ground made her smile and reminded her of hours spent in the hayloft as a girl, sometimes with Joel or Tom, other times alone with her sketchbook.

  “Shingle.”

  Livy passed him the shingle. His brow furrowed in concentration as he positioned it just so. The focused look added to the handsome planes of his face and jaw, though Livy preferred his smile.

  Embarrassed by her thoughts, she busied herself with grabbing a nail and extending it toward him.

  He cocked his head as he took the nail from her. “You’ve done this before?”

  “I liked helping my father fix things around the farm. I was the official nail handler.” She fingered the stack of shingles she’d placed in her lap. “My older brothers always looked as if they were having more fun working with him than I did in the kitchen with my mother.”

  Friedrick hammered the shingle into place, then accepted the next one she passed him. “Are you one of those girls who can shoe a horse but can’t bake a pie?”

  Livy frowned at his bent head. “I’m quite capable of doing both.” His mouth quirked upward with hidden laughter—he was teasing her. This playful side to him reminded her of Tom. Her brother had always been able to coax her from a defensive mood.

  “The horse shoeing was a relatively recent lesson,” she admitted with a chuckle. “After I came home from college.”

  “That’s right, you weren’t able to finish.” He held out his hand. “Shingle.”

  Livy handed him another shingle, impressed he remembered such a detail from their conversation during the fox-trot.

  He took the nail she offered him next and hammered the shingle into place. “Do you miss it? College, I mean?”

  She brushed some hair from her face. “I miss some things.” Her classes, her friends, the excitement of living in her aunt’s opulent house, but all she’d really wanted was to be on her own, doing something she loved. “I like where I am now.”

  “Teaching German-American children?”

  Her eyes met his, but she couldn’t read his expression. Was he baiting her again? “I’m grateful for this job…and to you…for mentioning it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Relieved they’d skirted another battle, Livy helped him finish mending the roof. When they were done, Friedrick gathered up his hammer and the remaining shingles and moved toward the ladder, but Livy lingered behind, enjoying the view. From up here she could see the top of the schoolhouse, the neighboring farms stretching outward from the road and the branches of the nearby trees swaying in the breeze. The world lay in peace around her—no painful memories, no reminders of war.

  “‘She sat like patience on a monument,’” Friedrick said. “‘Smiling at grief.’”

  Livy turned around. He stood perched on the highest rungs of the ladder. “Is that a poem?”

  “It’s Shakespeare. Twelfth Night. Would you hand me the tin of nails?”

  “You’ve read it?” she asked, her surprise seeping into her voice. She scooted to the ladder and passed him the nails.

  “I’ve read most of Shakespeare’s plays—albeit in German.” He threw her a probing look and climbed to the ground. “We aren’t all the uncultured brutes they portray us to be in the war posters.”

  Warmth flooded Livy’s cheeks as she maneuvered over the roof’s edge and down the ladder. She hopped off the last rung. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You don’t have to explain.” Friedrick faced the school, his expression pained. “I would have liked to go to college—to read more books, learn new things.” Livy found herself staring at his large hands, curled into relaxed fists around his tools. She could imagine them holding a book in their gentle grip as he’d held her hand while they’d danced. “My father’s illness takes any extra money, though.” Resignation settled onto his face.

  Livy had a sudden desire to reach out and touch his arm, soothe the sadness radiating from him. How often had she complained, if only to herself, about having completed only a year of college, and yet it was evident how much one year would have meant to Friedrick.

  “I’d better get Harlan and Greta home. Good day, Miss Campbell.”

  “Thank you,” she called out as he walked away.

  She e
ntered the cabin and shut the door behind her. Why did the success of her first day feel less rewarding now that she was alone?

  Happy squeals disrupted the silence in the cabin. Stealing to the window that faced the schoolhouse, Livy peeked out the curtains. Friedrick had his eyes closed and was lumbering around the school yard, attempting to capture Harlan and Greta. As Livy watched, the two children ran almost within his grasp, then darted away again before he could catch them.

  The sight brought a physical ache to her chest, and she dropped the curtain on the cheerful scene. How many times had she felt like this, as if she were watching life from behind a window?

  While the other girls her age had married or gone off to college, Livy had waited behind, hoping for her turn at traveling or love. When she was on her own at last and enjoying school, she’d had to leave. When she had finally secured Robert’s attentions, she’d realized the hollowness of their relationship. Where did she belong? She folded her arms against the crushing weight of the question. She certainly didn’t belong at home anymore, not at the age of twenty and with her older brothers gone. Not with Robert. Not at college. Would she find the sense of belonging she craved here in Hilden, with her students?

  At the sound of wagon wheels, she glanced out the window once more. The Wagners were headed home. She watched them until she could no longer see the wagon. When she turned away, she felt as empty as the road stretching away from the cabin. She was alone again.

  Not inclined to wallow, Livy busied herself with preparing supper. The task kept her thoughts occupied, though a few errant ones pulled her back to the conversation on the roof with Friedrick.

 

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