Nightingale

by Susan May Warren

  The room died to a crisp silence.

  “I’m not cheating, Linus. I—”

  “Shut up!” I said it was in.” His voice ground down to a nub.

  Tommy eyed him for a long moment. “Fine, old man, it was in.” He glanced at his audience, lifted his shoulder.

  Linus threw the paddle at Tommy’s head. Tommy dodged and it crashed into the wall behind him, splintering.

  “What the—”

  But Linus had already cleared the table, faster in his wheelchair than Peter would have given him credit for—or any of his fellow patients, for that matter, for no one moved as he launched himself at Tommy.

  “Linus! Stop!”

  “Hey!”

  Linus had Tommy on the floor, and they rolled like helpless, angry men, Linus slamming his fists into Tommy’s head, his nose. He wrestled atop him, pinning him, his hands on his throat.

  “Linus!” Hands grabbed at him, pulled him off, and he thrashed out, kicking, taking down Tommy’s two-legged protector, rage twisting his face.

  Linus jumped on his new assailant, fisted his pajamas, slammed his fist into his face. But Tommy had pulled himself over, yanked his arm around Linus. Pulled him off even as the other man shoved him away.

  Then three other soldiers landed on Linus, pinning him.

  Linus lay on the floor thrashing, his face hot, crying, swearing. “Help! Help! Rosie! They’re killing me, Rosie!” His voice tore through the room, pitiful with the tone of it, wrenching through Peter—and probably every man there—so reminiscent of their own battle-wounded cries. “Rosie!”

  And then she appeared, and Peter should have known it all along. The woman in the picture. The woman in the doorway to his room watching Esther kiss him, the woman in Linus’s heart.

  The woman Linus had wanted to come home to.

  Rosie. With the red hair caught in a snood, wearing a white apron over her blue nurse’s dress. Rosie, who had probably loved him since first grade, definitely hoped to marry him when he returned from war. Rosie, the nightingale who parted the chaos, dropped to her knees, and gathered Linus into her arms.

  Linus clung to her, coming back to the wreck of himself, and sobbed.

  Rosie, the woman Linus loved.

  Am I going to die, man?

  Peter sat in the chair, staring out at the blue-skied morning, listening to the hymns filter through the window, and wished the answer had been yes.

  “O Lord, how shall I meet Thee, How welcome Thee aright?”

  Thy people long to greet Thee, My Hope, my heart’s Delight!”

  The words twined out of Esther like old bones creaking, driven from cobwebbed corners in her soul, the tune of the old hymn stirring to breath inside her.

  “O kindle, Lord, most holy, Thy lamp within my breast.”

  Sadie hung on to her hip, her arms around her, pretty in her pink sundress and curls. Esther had pin-rolled her own hair, found a dress for herself that didn’t bag on her and turn her into a refugee.

  Although, she felt like one, tiptoeing behind the Hahns into St. Peter’s Lutheran Church. Eyes tracked her, and she silently begged the judge to stop near the back. But no, their pew sat three rows from the front to the left side of the altar. Within reach of the fire and brimstone.

  The sun through the stained glass windows gilded the polished wood pews, and at the side of the altar, the pipe organ gleamed gold as it rang out the hymn.

  “To do in spirit lowly All that may please Thee best.”

  The judge loomed beside her, taller than she remembered—or perhaps she’d just never stood this close to him. In his black suit, the wide red-and-yellow-patterned tie, the way he held his fedora in his hands, with Mrs. Hahn in her black pillbox hat, her long-sleeved navy suit, the voices raised in precision and harmony, all of it peeled back time.

  “Don’t fidget, Esther. It’s not proper.” Her mother cast a look on her, her blue eyes lighting on Esther’s wayward foot. Esther tucked it back in line with the other, wrapped her hands around the curled wood of the pew as her mother returned to the hymn.

  My heart shall bloom forever, For Thee with praises new

  And from Thy name shall never, Withhold the honor due.

  Next to her, Hedy made eyes with Francis across the aisle, and as Esther looked up at her beautiful sister, Hedy winked.

  Esther followed her gaze to Francis, saw him overdramatize his singing.

  I lay in fetters, groaning, Thou com’st to set me free;

  “What are fetters, anyway?” Hedy said into her ear. Mama shot them both a sing-or-else look.

  Hedy straightened, held out her songbook, lifting her glorious voice. Oh, to sing like Hedy. She could probably be a singer someday, on a stage somewhere, with her golden-blond hair, her pretty smile. And someday, maybe Esther could be just like her. Beautiful and with a boy like Francis flirting with her across the aisle.

  “‘I stood, my shame bemoaning, Thou com’st to honor me.’” Esther glanced at the hymnal that Mrs. Hahn held, pushing away the rest of her memories.

  Still—”

  “Hedy, God doesn’t suffer harlots!” Her mother’s voice rising through the farmhouse, through the vent in the second-floor bedroom. If Esther pressed her eye to the curl in the grate, she could just make out her mother’s expression, the eyes flaring with anger, the snarl of her mouth, her hat still pinned to her head. And Hedy, standing there, her weight on one skinny hip, staring out the window.

  “I’m not a harlot, Mama.”

  “You will be, and then what? There’s no coming back from your sins, then.”

  “Maybe I won’t want to come back.”

  The crack of a palm against Hedy’s face jerked Esther away, and she scooted back, her hand to her mouth.

  Hedy didn’t cry out. But moments later the house shuddered as the door slammed.

  I’m not a harlot, Mama.

  “Love caused Thy incarnation, Love brought Thee down to me; Thy thirst for my salvation, Procured my liberty.”

  Sadie wiggled on her hip and Esther set her down on the pew. Mrs. Hahn looked over, raised an eyebrow, but Esther ignored her. How many verses did this hymn have?

  She took count of the people she knew in the audience—there was Dr. Sullivan and his wife, and behind them, one of the younger nurses, who had married just weeks ago one of the soldiers from the ward.

  Clearly, Esther wasn’t the only nightingale to give her heart to a wounded man.

  Maybe we could just hold on, for one more moment.

  Peter’s words clung to her like the heat of the sun on her skin. She curled them into herself, letting herself see his eyes, the way he listened to her confession without condemnation.

  Even, after it all, still wanted her. Still…

  “Rejoice, then, ye sad-hearted,

  Who sit in deepest gloom, Who mourn o’er joys departed, And tremble at your doom.”

  She caught the words, let them tiptoe inside.

  Do not despise the grace given to you by staring at your sin. You must turn around and keep your eyes on the face of love. The face of grace. This is where you’ll find forgiveness.

  How she wanted to see the face of grace. But she kept hearing that slap. I’m not a harlot, Mama.

  “Ye need not toil nor languish, Nor ponder day and night

  How in the midst of anguish, Ye draw Him by your might.

  He comes, He comes all willing, Moved by His love alone,

  Your woes and troubles stilling; For all to Him are known.”

  She glanced at her daughter, her two fingers stuck in her mouth, sucking. Esther edged them out of her mouth, wiped her chin. The sun in her hair turned it nearly into a halo. Yes, perhaps God did know her troubles…and her joys.

  “Sin’s debt, that fearful burden, Let not your souls distress.” She leaned into the hymn, drinking in the words. “Your guilt the Lord will pardon, And cover by His grace.”

  Cover by His grace.

  “You’re marrying him because you are
trying to erase what happened! You’re trying to find forgiveness. But don’t you see—you already have it.”

  She closed her eyes against Peter’s words, but they crashed over her again, their tone nearly turning her inside out. Yes. She was trying to erase her past. Make it right. But maybe she had been staring at her own sins so long, she hadn’t looked up to see….grace.

  Grace just seemed so….inappropriate. Why should God forgive those who intentionally sin?

  She opened her eyes, lifted them to the altar, the communion wine and bread spread out on the table. Grace. She hungered for it.

  Esther, He loves you more than you can imagine.

  Tears burned her eyes. She blinked then reached around for her handbag to find a handkerchief.

  Looked up.

  There, three rows behind her, Rosemary caught her eye. Her red hair turned to fire in the sunlight, her painted lips a perfect knot of disapproval. She slowly shook her head as the final verse rose around them.

  “He comes to judge the nations, A terror to His foes,

  A Light of consolations, And blessed Hope to those

  Who love the Lord’s appearing.

  O glorious Sun, now come, Send forth Thy beams so cheering,

  And guide us safely home.”

  She clasped the purse shut, turned back. Safely home. Wherever that was.

  Mrs. Hahn closed her hymnal, turned, and lifted Sadie off the pew. Settled her on her lap. Esther sat with her hands folded on her knees, stiff, as the congregation recited the Apostles’ Creed and the pastor delivered the sermon about Jesus and Nicodemus.

  “But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God.”

  Rosemary’s stare burned a hole in the back of her neck.

  They rose for the communion prayer, and Esther gripped the pew, her legs weak, perspiration sliding down her back. She might faint with the heat in the church.

  “Mrs. Hahn—” she started as the church began to file out to the altar for their communion. Mrs Hahn shot her a look, wide-eyed, as she shifted Sadie onto her hip.

  They moved out of the pew and for a moment, Esther stopped. Bread and wine, the propitiation of Christ’s death and life in her.

  A harlot.

  She turned, bumping against the man behind her. “Excuse me,” she barely mumbled as she quick-walked to the back of the church. She felt eyes scrape over her as she fled.

  Tripping down the steps, her heart in her mouth, she crossed the vacant street and headed straight for the park. Found a bench under an elm.

  Listened to the organ’s mourning trail after her.

  Overhead the swallows chirped. The July sun syruped through her, touching her bones. Her heartbeat settled back to itself.

  See, it had simply been the heat inside the church. She pulled off her hat, let the wind loosen her hair, cool the moisture from her body. And she hadn’t been sleeping well, not since her job at the hospital ended two weeks ago.

  And Linus—Linus had been even more distant, almost angry whenever she went to see him. And yet, he begged her to stay with him, last time throwing a pudding dish at her when she got up to leave.

  “Sadie needs me—”

  “I need you!”

  She wrapped her hands around her waist, closed her eyes, raised them to the sun.

  He just needed more time. Hadn’t he said that he didn’t want to get married until he could stand at the altar? That might be months—even a year. Surely he’d see, by then, that he didn’t love her.

  He didn’t love her. She knew it in her bones. Saw right through his need to the truth.

  Linus feared being unloved. Just like she’d feared it as war loomed closer, just like Hedy feared it and gave herself away in a desperate thirst for it. They all simply wanted that taste of something that could nourish their empty places, make them feel whole. For that, she couldn’t fault him.

  The bells rang, and she looked up to see the ushers opening the doors. She got up—at the very least, she should relieve Mrs. Hahn of Sadie so she could greet her friends. And perhaps, with Sadie as a buffer—

  Oh, she’d turned pitiful along with everything else.

  Esther stood back from the bottom of the steps, spotted Mrs. Hahn, and lifted her face in a smile.

  Mrs. Hahn could bring a woman to her knees with a look. No wonder Bertha said little and served much.

  The woman came down the stairs, Sadie’s hand clutched in hers, then all but dumped the girl into her mother’s care. “I never…” She shook her head, turned away.

  Yes, well, she probably hadn’t.

  Esther crouched down next to her daughter. “Sorry that Mama left, sweetie.”

  Sadie looked past her. “Mama! A black squirrel!”

  Esther took her daughter’s hand. “That’s right, honey. Only in Roosevelt. They ran away from the circus and came to live here, where they’d be safe.”

  “And why are they black and not brown, like the other squirrels?”

  “I guess that’s just the way God made them. To be black.” Or maybe they’d turned black when they ran away from their home. To Roosevelt.

  She lifted Sadie to her hip, listening to the chatter of women, watching the men lighting cigarettes, children skipping into the park. The bells had stopped chiming.

  Behind her, one voice spliced the conversation.

  She tightened her jaw, even as she parted out the other sounds to listen.

  “And then I saw her kiss him. That Nazi. I just don’t know why the Hahns put up with her. Linus deserves better. But maybe they’ll never get married. Linus doesn’t want to, you know.”

  She turned, and Rosemary didn’t even bother to hide herself, just flicked a gaze at her, past the huddle of women, and smiled.

  Mrs. Hahn, however, standing with her own group of women, stilled—in fact, it seemed to Esther that even the wind stopped in the trees, the birds ceasing their songs. Then, she pasted a smile on her face, one that turned the day to January.

  “Linus will marry Esther, Rosemary. Friday evening, in fact. At the hospital.” She lifted her voice, still that smile. “And you’re all invited to the joyous event.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “According to the rules of the Geneva Convention, you should be in solitary confinement.”

  Bert Siefert’s dark words clawed into Peter, sharp and tenacious. “But something just doesn’t sit right with me. So, you stay out of trouble, and you’ll be home before you know it. You make more trouble, we’ll ship you off to Fort Robinson, and you can wait it out with your Nazi pals.”

  I’m not a Nazi. But Peter didn’t argue—better to keep his mouth shut and do his time by driving the tractor on the Janzen pea farm, mowing the peas into windrows for Arne and Fritz to fork onto the flatbed trailer.

  With the slain peas fermenting under the early August sun, the sky a limitless blue, the sun a haze of gold, Peter felt nearly healed. Who knew that the smell of home—of sauerkraut in its brine—might be scoured up by wet pea silage? His cotton pants reeked of it, his T-shirt soiled with green stain, but somehow it soothed his corrosive ache for Esther.

  Now, he sat atop the Flambeau Red JI Case V-series tractor that his uncle would have given his prize hog for. He glanced behind him, monitoring his speed as Arne and Fritz scooped the silage into the trailer. From there, they’d put it through the viner and separate the silage from the peas. Then, off to the cannery, a job he’d feared they’d assign to him after he returned from the hospital.

  But Mrs. Janzen had requested him back, and apparently Bert Seifert hadn’t bought into Fritz’s accusation that he’d caught Peter escaping.

  Even though the thought plagued Peter more than he wanted to admit. Since seeing Linus erupt, then collapse into the arms of Rosie, well, it only churned up the still-simmering desire to find Esther—and her beautiful daughter Sadie—and run for the hills.

  Especially since he’d sat in the solarium the ent
ire morning, finally returning to his room after the church service, and not a man there realized they’d been worshipping with the enemy.

  Then again, when voices raised as one to the High King of Heaven, how could they be enemies?

  “You going to ever let me drive, Peter?” Arne asked, leaning on his rake.

  “Leave him alone,” Bert said, finishing off an apple as he walked behind them. Peter had seen him nick it from the crib in the barn. “He can’t rake.”

  “I can take a turn,” Peter said, setting the brake. He stepped down, stole the rake from Arne. “Slow and steady on the gas.”

  Arne grinned, something raucous in it, and Peter shook his head. Every day, a morsel of Arne’s youth returned to him, the haunted look dissolved by the rolling hills, the smell of the shaggy black spruce ringing the fields, the kindness of Mrs. Janzen. Yes, somehow, it helped him return to Germany and fishing with his grandfather.

  And maybe someday he really would.

  Arne fired up the tractor and Peter held in a wince as he scooped a forkful of silage onto the wagon. So, maybe he’d take it easy, just a bit. Two weeks out of the hospital, and his ribs still burned when he moved too fast.

  However, the work took him away from his helplessness. What kind of man was he if he let Esther marry Linus—what if Linus’s anger erupted at her?

  He’d been forming a letter in his head for the better part of a week. One of these days—maybe after he left, so the temptation to find her, rescue her, redeem her, didn’t run wild in his brain—he’d put the pen to paper.

  I’m not getting married. Oh, Peter hoped not. Linus’s words, more than anything, kept him sane.

  The tractor jerked as Arne let the clutch out too quickly. The wagon rattled on the drawbar and Fritz put his hand on the end. “Go easy there, kid. We don’t want this thing to mow us down.”

  Fritz didn’t look at Peter, hadn’t met his eyes but once since Peter returned to camp. But that one look bore enough for Peter to keep his distance.