The Cherry Harvest

by Lucy Sanna

  Kate returned to the barn to clean up, and when she finally emerged back out into the morning, songbirds greeted her—melodious finches, cheery robins, squeaky little chickadees. Sparrows hopped among the chickens, pecking the ground. Near the edge of the woods, a doe with two speckled fawns fed on green sprouts.

  The sun was just peeking up from across the lake, the rim of a ball, huge and red. Kate stood transfixed as the gray-blue mist turned shades of pink and rose from the glassy surface. Reflections of trees rippled along the shore. A family of ducks floated by like paper boats. She thought of Thoreau—“drifting meadow of the air.” The world was no longer scary. She breathed in the fresh morning and kicked through dewy grass.

  Coffee? Even before Kate opened the kitchen door she smelled it. Inside, Mother and Father were speaking quietly as if they had a secret. When Kate entered, they stopped abruptly and pulled away from each other. Yes, they were drinking coffee!

  “Would you like a cup?” Charlotte asked. “And there’s cream and sugar.”

  “Yes, please!” Kate scooted her chair up to the table.

  Charlotte served plates of scrambled eggs with grapefruit slices and pastry.

  Thomas took a bite. “Little Mother. How do you do it?”

  Charlotte smiled and held up the pot. “More coffee?”

  “Ah, yes.” After another sip, he said, “I’m going to have the PWs start spraying today. I found aphids in the trees on the far side of the orchard.”

  Charlotte touched Kate’s hand. “Mind that you stay upwind of the poison.”

  Kate knew well enough. Breathing in the pesticide tasted awful and burned her lungs.

  “I’m going to try something new. I got a letter from Dr. Michaels down at the university. He told me that a simple soap mixture could do as well as the lead-arsenic. Safer, less expensive too.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Of all the years, this isn’t the time to try anything new. We could lose the whole crop—”

  “I’ll test it on a small sample. If the aphids return, I can always follow with the poison. Right, Kate?”

  She nodded. Why is Mother always so negative?

  “He sent me the recipe.” Thomas wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’ll have Karl help me mix the solution in the barn.”

  “You’ll have a guard with you, of course.”

  “Karl and I will be fine—”

  Charlotte held her fork in the air. “You can’t trust any of those prisoners—”

  “What do you expect him to do, Char? Steal a chicken?”

  “I’m thinking of the butchering tools.”

  “So maybe he’ll butcher a chicken?” Thomas patted her hand, chuckling.

  “He’s younger and . . . and maybe stronger than you.” She stood and cleared the plates from the table.

  Thomas picked up his pipe, paused. “I’ve spent time with Karl, off away from the others. He has some interesting thoughts about Thomas Mann. In Magic Mountain, Karl sees allusions to irrational forces within the human psyche. I’m going to read it again.”

  Irrational forces within the human psyche? “I’d like to read it too,” Kate said, rising to help.

  “Excellent. Then we’ll discuss it, you and I. And Karl.”

  Charlotte turned from the sink. “Kate discussing things with prisoners? No. Never.” She banged the cast-iron skillet on the wooden countertop. “Those prisoners come into the orchard with guards and leave with guards and so be it. We’ll have our harvest and that’s the end of it.”

  Recalling the eyes of that crazy Nazi Fritz, Kate for once sided with her mother.

  Thomas shook his head. “Karl is an intellectual. He’d like to read more American authors.” He sucked on his empty pipe, then after a moment, added, “I told him I’d lend him some of my books.”

  “Lending personal items to prisoners?”

  “What’s the harm?” He put his pipe on the table.

  Charlotte rinsed dishes in silence, handing them to Kate to dry. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, if you’re going to be sharing things with him, you might ask for something in return.”

  “I enjoy his conversation.”

  “The canteen truck comes every week. He has Army scrip to buy anything they bring. Why not trade the loan of your books for some pipe tobacco? I know how you miss it.”

  “I never thought of that, Char.” He stared at the empty bowl of his pipe. “Sure would be nice to have tobacco again.”

  “I don’t believe this!” Kate broke in. “Ben’s buddies are being blown apart over there.”

  Father put down the pipe. “Where do you get such ideas?”

  “It’s his letters to that girl, isn’t it?” Mother crossed her arms.

  “Yes,” Kate heard herself whisper.

  “Please don’t keep information about Ben from us, Kate,” Father said.

  “The letters have lines blacked out. We’re just guessing what’s behind the marks.” Oh, she should have kept her mouth shut. “If Josie found out that I told you, she wouldn’t show me anything else.”

  Thomas cleared his throat. “We certainly don’t want you to lie to your friend. You don’t have to tell us anything personal Ben writes to her, just the news of what’s happening. That’s all. Is that reasonable?”

  Kate nodded and wiped her hands on her overalls. “I have to wash and change for school.”

  “Yes, and you’d better work on your math,” Thomas said. “Otherwise, you’ll be taking remedial classes at the university instead of doing the work you want.”

  Math, ugh. Kate expected to get all A’s on her report card again this semester, except in math.

  “Say, what would you think . . .” Thomas began. “Our Kate here needs help with mathematics, a tutor.”

  Kate waited for more.

  “Karl’s a math professor—”

  “What!” Charlotte spun around.

  “I’ve asked Karl many probing questions about his background and sympathies. He wasn’t one of Hitler’s men.” He paused a moment. “I’d be right here with him.”

  “I don’t like it,” Charlotte said.

  Thomas leaned forward. “Believe me, I see most of those PWs as the enemy. And I don’t want them near my home. But Karl . . . I think we can trust him.”

  “Think?” Charlotte balled her fists. “You think we can trust him?”

  “I’ll come in with him when we’re done with our work in the orchard. He can tutor Kate after supper.”

  “Are you suggesting we invite him for supper?”

  “I wasn’t proposing that, but it would be good for us to get to know him over a meal.” Thomas sucked on his empty pipe.

  “And how do you expect me to add another plate to the table?” Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “I have enough for us today and tomorrow, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to share our food with some prisoner who gets all he needs from the Army.” Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron. “If Kate’s math isn’t good enough for the university, so be it. She can attend one of the state normal schools and teach until she gets married.”

  “I don’t want to go to a state normal school.” And I may never get married, either. Professor Fleming isn’t married.

  Charlotte untied her apron and threw it on the counter. “If you insist on such foolishness, I want to meet this man. Yes. Bring him here for supper. Station a guard at the door. But it’s up to you to get the fixings. I have nothing to offer.”

  Kate thought of the play, the girls in the dorm. She’d do anything to get away and make it on her own. She hesitated, then whispered, “I’m willing to give up one of my rabbits—”

  Mother’s eyes widened.

  “Not to eat,” Kate said quickly, “but to trade. After all, what are my rabbits worth if I can’t make it at the university?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHARLOTTE PUT THREE QUARTS of goat’s milk into the front wicker basket of her bicycle and two butchered rabbits into the back and then peddled down O
rchard Lane, fat tires bumping along the gravel. The lane led through rows and rows of cherry trees, fragrant now with pink and white blossoms and buzzing with bees. Within two months, blossoms would turn to fruit, and as long as God didn’t damn them with pestilence, flood, drought, disease, or frost, Charlotte would be making cherry pies by the end of July. Drought was unlikely at this point, but the others remained real possibilities. At the end of the lane Charlotte veered onto County Trunk Q, north toward town.

  In summers past, this road hummed with traffic, families heading for orchards and beaches, merchant trucks delivering supplies. But there were few tourists now. And with tires and gasoline in short supply, the only vehicles Charlotte passed were occasional farm trucks hauling feed or animals.

  But here was crazy Walter, sitting proud on the seat of his hay cart filled with junk, tapping the hind end of his ancient mule. With his long gray hair and beard, he could be Jesus’s own grandfather. He waved and gave a toothless grin. Charlotte waved back.

  When Charlotte reached Turtle Bay, the early sun was slanting across the paved road, touching the town with golden light. She rode past the Farmers’ Co-op, Ginny’s Dress Shoppe, the credit union, and the barbershop where Old Man Berger’s yellow mutt lay sleeping. Down the street she breathed in the yeasty warm fragrance wafting from the open door of the bakery. And there was Ellie Jensen, putting up a sign on the window of her dry goods store.

  “Morning, Charlotte.”

  “Morning, Ellie.”

  Charlotte parked her bicycle in front of Zwicky’s Market. Inside the clean, orderly shop, Catherine Zwicky readily accepted the goat’s milk in trade for a pound of potatoes, a quarter-pound of flour, a tin of salt, a cup of Crisco, and a small jar of applesauce.

  Charlotte put her bundles into the baskets and pushed her bicycle down the block to the butcher shop. Through the plate-glass window she watched the butcher’s widow arranging fresh cuts of meat in the cooler, then opened the door, setting the bell jangling. “Morning, Olga.” She gave the old woman the warmest smile she could muster.

  Olga wiped her hands on her bloodstained apron and pushed strands of gray hair back into a tidy bun. “Mornin’, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte placed the package on the counter. “Two of Kate’s young rabbits. Dressed, ready for stewing.”

  Olga’s eyebrows went up. She untied the string around the newspaper wrapping, a bit of a smile playing on her lips. “What would you like?”

  “I need a roast for dinner. Something special. Enough for four.”

  “Four? Is Ben home?”

  Charlotte was startled with the possibility, then regained her composure. “I wish he were.” But no, men and boys didn’t return from war unless they were wounded. “I mean, I wish this war would end and they’d all come home.” She caught sight of the photograph of Olga’s son, Martin, hanging behind the counter. Thirty-seven years old, Charlotte’s very age, missing in action somewhere in Asia. Shortly after Olga and her husband received the telegram, the butcher had a heart attack. Now Olga was alone.

  The widow blinked fast for a moment, wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

  Peering into the meat cooler, Charlotte’s eyes flashed on a pink pork tenderloin, large enough to stretch for two days. It was worth more than the rabbits, Charlotte knew, but that was what she wanted. “The pork, is it fresh?”

  “Just this mornin’.” Olga nodded. “Eric Engel, ya know, does business with hog farmers downstate, brought in a good haul. I got so much in the storage freezer, gonna make sausage tonight.”

  Ah, so that was why she was letting it go so easily. “I’ll take it then.”

  Olga smiled as she wrapped the beautiful roast in white butcher paper.

  As Charlotte left the shop she noted that Olga was placing Kate’s rabbits prominently in the cooler.

  HEAT LIGHTNING COURSED THROUGH THE HUMID SKY. A coming storm.

  It was late in the afternoon when Charlotte lit the kitchen stove. For two nights now they’d had the lightkeeper’s fish for dinner. Tonight would be a roast. She hummed as she pulled the roasting pan from the cupboard. So long since she had used it! She oiled the roast and set it in the pan and salted it.

  That was when she saw them, Thomas and that Becker fellow walking toward the barn. And there was Kate, riding into the yard. Charlotte watched as Thomas motioned Kate over and brought her into their conversation.

  She didn’t like it, this prisoner coming into her home, Thomas expecting his wife to serve a killer. Charlotte stared at the beautiful roast. Becker could have eaten his prison rations with the rest of them. She stood for a moment, watching the three of them. Maybe she should cancel the whole thing—the invitation, Kate’s lessons. No good could come of it.

  When Charlotte opened the oven door, heat pulsed out like anger. She slid the roast in and slammed the door shut.

  Holding to the countertop, she took a deep breath to calm herself. No, if this man was to tutor Kate, Charlotte wanted to meet him, decide for herself before any lessons began. If she didn’t like him, she’d end it. In the meantime, they’d have a hearty meal.

  Kate came through the door, smiling. “I’ll be down in a minute to help with supper.” She hurried toward the stairs.

  The enthusiasm in Kate’s voice worried Charlotte, and only grew when Kate returned to the kitchen dressed in a flattering skirt and a pretty blouse with ruffles.

  “You’re so fancy for kitchen work.” Charlotte tried to sound nonchalant. She herself wore a simple housedress, as she did every day. “It’s not as if we’re having company. This man’s a prisoner.”

  “Mr. Becker is a teacher.” Kate took an apron off the hook, pulled the neckband over her head, and tied the waist straps. “Besides, if Ben were taken prisoner, we would want the Germans to show respect.”

  Charlotte tensed. “Ben is fighting for freedom and justice.” She looked into her daughter’s soft blue eyes. “Maybe this man can teach you math, but he fights on the side of evil.”

  THE KITCHEN WAS WARM and moist with humidity. Charlotte was stirring the pork gravy when she saw the two men approach the back door, dark clouds gathering behind them. She wiped perspiration from her forehead and glanced toward the cupboard drawer where she kept the revolver.

  The German was not tall like Thomas, but broad in the shoulders. He moved easily in a strong fit body. Must be about thirty.

  As they entered, Charlotte kept her back to them, ostensibly checking on the potatoes Kate was mashing.

  “Char,” Thomas said, “this here’s Karl Becker.”

  When Charlotte turned to look at him, a wild animal lurched inside her chest. She had expected a penitent prisoner, but this man exuded self-confidence, control.

  He had close-cut hair like the rest of them, but it was growing out a bit, dark, neatly oiled and combed. His mouth was a straight line, serious. He had a hard jaw and blue-gray eyes that made her stare. Not the warm blue of Ben’s eyes, she was glad of that. No, these were icy eyes, wolf eyes, reflecting rather than inviting. She shuddered.

  “My wife, Mrs. Christiansen,” Thomas said.

  “Mrs. Christiansen.” Becker stood at attention, gave a slight bow. She was relieved he didn’t click his heels.

  Why had she agreed to this? This Nazi in her home? She wiped her hands on her apron to steady herself, then faced him, eye-to-eye, unsmiling. “You’ll join us for supper.” Not a question, not requesting an answer, not even a howdy-do. No, it had been decided for him. She would go through with this tonight, and that would be the end of it. She need never see him again.

  “Danke.” He breathed in deeply through flared nostrils, as if Charlotte’s words had entitled him to the sensual pleasures of her kitchen. She felt perversely exposed.

  “Such an aroma I have not enjoyed in so long.” The edges of his mouth curved up gently, a deceptively innocent smile. And dimples! Evil people weren’t supposed to have dimples. She must have been staring because he raised an eyebrow, and his eyes grew w
arm, open, intimate, as if seeking some deep secret within her. Her cheeks burned.

  The breeze through the window carried Becker’s musky scent to her. She had to get away from him.

  “Thomas, please show Mr. Becker to the parlor.”

  When the two men had left, Kate was at Charlotte’s side. “Mother, are you all right? Everything’s ready to serve.”

  Charlotte had forgotten her daughter, forgotten everything except the visceral presence of that man in her kitchen. “Just give me a minute.” She hurried out through the door and ran until she reached a budding cherry tree. She put her hand against the solid trunk and inhaled the earthiness of the fertile soil. Thomas had told her that Becker was intellectual, but she sensed something else, something more physical—this man lived in his body.

  A wind from the west cooled her cheeks and brought the taste of coming rain. Lightning coursed across the sky, followed by a long rolling thunder. Another flash. She breathed it in, then walked slowly back to the kitchen.

  THE SMALL DINING ROOM TABLE SEATED FOUR. There were leaves somewhere but they hadn’t been used for years. After they were settled, Charlotte realized that Becker was sitting at Ben’s place, and she resented him for that.

  He ate in a peculiar way, keeping the fork tongs upside down in his left hand, pushing things with the knife in his right. His English had a formal accent to it, British perhaps, but he had a pleasant tenor voice, melodious almost, and she disliked him for that too.

  He was asking Kate questions about how she spent her days. Kate told him about riding her bicycle to Turtle Bay, caring for her rabbits, visiting Josie at the lighthouse. Was he fishing for enemy information? Charlotte thought of Marta’s warning and changed the focus of the conversation. “How do you find the work in the orchard?”

  “I enjoy to work in your orchard, to get my hands dirty.”

  “Well, then, you need to know that Mr. Christiansen is the number-one cherry grower in all of Door County.”

  “My congratulations.” Becker held up his glass of water to Thomas as if to toast.