The Cherry Harvest

by Lucy Sanna

  “He brings in the best yields year after year,” Charlotte said. “He went to the university and specialized in . . . what’s that subject?” She looked to her husband.

  “Agronomy. But I didn’t quite finish.”

  “You would have if it weren’t for the fire.” Charlotte turned to Becker. “He’s an expert on yields and pests and diseases, and everyone asks for his help and he always gives it.”

  Thomas nodded. “I like helping the other growers. It’s good for all of us.”

  Becker took a bite of pork roast, swallowed, then glanced back and forth from Thomas to Charlotte. “Did you both grow up in this area, may I ask?”

  Thomas patted his mouth with his napkin. “Mrs. Christiansen grew up on a dairy farm downstate.” He grinned. “When I tasted her pies, I knew she was the one.”

  “Just because of my pies?” Charlotte tossed her hair and laughed.

  He winked toward Becker. “I asked her to make me a cherry pie, and she said she would if she had the cherries. She wanted an orchard and I wanted a cherry pie. So we had to get married.”

  Kate laughed. “Oh Father, that’s silly.”

  “All right. That wasn’t all. Char—Mrs. Christiansen—is one of the best businesswomen I’ve ever met, smart as any man I know.” He paused, serious. “She runs this farm like a well-oiled engine.”

  “You’ve got to taste Mother’s cherry pie.” Kate looked so pretty. She sat up tall and straight and proper, her long blond hair pulled aside with a bobby pin, wide blue eyes trained on this man Charlotte feared. Charlotte watched Becker’s response. Any sign of interest would be the end of the lessons.

  “I feel blessed to be on your farm,” he said to Thomas. “You are all kind. You treat us as if we belong.”

  “We feel blessed as well,” Thomas said. “It was actually Mrs. Christiansen’s idea for you to work in the orchard.” He scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Christiansen,” Becker said. “I grew up on a small farm. I like helping to grow things. Cabbages, potatoes, turnips, greens. And flowers. My Mutter, she loves flowers.” Becker’s dimples deepened. “You must love flowers as well, Mrs. Christiansen.”

  Flowers, yes, she did love flowers, but she didn’t have room in her garden for such extravagance.

  “You grew up on a farm but decided to leave, to teach?” Thomas asked. “Same as me. Whaddya know.”

  “No. I wanted to stay on the farm. My brother, he will inherit it. He is married with children. His family lives there with Mutter.”

  “You’d rather be on the farm? Well, that’s ironic.” Thomas said, almost to himself.

  Karl nodded. “These potatoes and gravy, very delicious. This meal, it reminds me of home.”

  Yes, Charlotte had made a substantial meal. Not only for Becker, of course, but it was gratifying to hear a stranger compliment her cooking. Thomas was always generous with praise, but that was because he was a good husband. Becker recognized the art of Charlotte’s gravy, the tiniest measure of flour and water mixed into the drippings slowly and carefully until it was creamy and rich and you wanted to pour it on everything.

  “You miss your home,” she said.

  “I do.” He stared off into space.

  “Well, let’s hope this war’s over soon so you can go back.”

  In the silence that followed, Charlotte realized how rude that had sounded. “I didn’t mean to . . . Are you comfortable here in the camp?” Why did she ask that? She didn’t care whether he was comfortable or not.

  “Until the war is over, I want to stay here in your camp more than return to Deutschland.”

  “You’d rather stay in prison than go home?” Kate said, eyes wide.

  “Back home, I would be sent to the Russian front. That would be the final end.” He stared straight ahead. “The Russians, they are not Americans.”

  “I hope you’re still here when Ben comes home,” Kate said. “I know you’d like him.”

  “That would be gut.” Karl nodded.

  “What town are you from, Karl?” Thomas asked.

  “Dresden. My family is safe there. The enemy—excuse me,” he cast about, “the Allied forces—they would never get that far . . .” His words drifted off. He looked down.

  Of course they will! Charlotte didn’t say it out loud. She watched this presumptuous man who expected that Hitler would hold Europe and then attack America from the Atlantic as the Japanese had from the Pacific. They were already out there, Ole had said, German submarines lurking. Her mind flashed on the daily radio broadcasts from London, Edward R. Murrow, and behind his voice, air raid sirens, swooping planes, pops and blasts. No, that can’t happen here.

  A stormy gust shook the windowpanes. No one spoke for some time, until Kate broke the silence. “Did you want to be a soldier, Mr. Becker?”

  Becker put down his fork and knife. “All the boys went to der Hitler-Jugend, like your Boy Scouts. We played games, marched with rifles. Learned to shoot. All in fun. Until the war began.”

  “So you didn’t want to go?” Kate asked.

  “We grew up with the pledge to fight for the Vaterland. Fight against die Übeltäter.”

  “Ubel . . . ?” Kate tried to say. “What’s that?”

  Karl paused and swallowed hard. “I am sorry . . . it means . . . evildoers.”

  All was quiet except for the wind.

  Karl picked up his napkin and touched his lips. “During the fight, so much is going on, being shot and . . . one does not have the time to think.”

  “In the heat of the battle,” Thomas said. “And now that you’ve had time to think?”

  “Here, American people are gut.” He took a drink of water. “But not Americans I saw over there.”

  “That’s not true. Our Ben—” Charlotte blurted.

  Thomas put up a hand. “Karl hasn’t met Ben.”

  After a pause, Karl said, “Germans are gut too.”

  “Hitler?” Charlotte challenged. “You think Hitler is good?”

  Becker went pale.

  Thomas gave Charlotte a stern look.

  Maybe Thomas was right. Over there the only Americans Karl saw were shooting at him. She watched this man, so solemn now, and chastised herself for trying to shame him here in her own home.

  Becker took a bite of pork. “Very tender, Mrs. Christiansen.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “Mrs. Christiansen lays out a fine table, even in the hardest of times.” He patted Charlotte’s hand.

  Becker put down his utensils. “Most prisoners are not true Nazis. Hitler sent to the front those who were opposing him. To be first killed or captured. But . . .” he hesitated. “Some are not to trust.” He paused. “What I tell you, I would not say this to the others.” He motioned in the direction of the migrant camp, then spoke quietly, conspiratorially, scanning the faces around the table. “I feel safe to tell you here.”

  This man was saying exactly what Big Mike feared, what the county officials feared, what Charlotte herself feared.

  Kate squinted. “That crazy one . . .”

  Becker swirled gravy through his potatoes.

  After some silence, Kate said softly, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “Kate,” Thomas held up a hand.

  Charlotte held her fork in the air, waiting.

  Becker hesitated, then took another bite of roast, his eyes fixed firmly on his plate.

  WHEN KATE ROSE TO CLEAR THE DINING TABLE, Charlotte stood. “I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you and . . .” she couldn’t bring herself to say his name. “How about if you work on your lessons in the kitchen?”

  At the kitchen table, Charlotte motioned for Becker to sit facing the parlor, away from the sink and stove where she would be working. As she washed the dishes, Charlotte took in the breadth of Becker’s shoulders, the thickness of his dark hair, the skin on his neck pink from the sun, the sweat stains on his collar. She wondered if he had a woman in Dresden, a sweetheart, a wife perhaps. Someon
e to wash his shirts and rub those shoulders and put salve on the burn. Someone lying in bed right now, longing for him.

  Lightning crackled outside and thunder rattled the house.

  Becker handed Thomas a pouch of tobacco. “I would like for you to enjoy this.”

  Thomas put the pouch to his nose and breathed it in. He picked up his pipe and filled the bowl, struck a match. Puff puff puff. That old familiar sound. Once the tobacco caught, he drew it in. “Ah. Thank you, Karl.”

  Charlotte had always associated Thomas with that fragrance. Now she realized how she had missed it.

  “You are most welcome.”

  “I have my trigonometry book.” Kate offered Becker the textbook from her senior math class.

  “First, Miss Kate, I have a present for you.” Becker reached into his pocket. He brought out a piece of paper folded like an envelope and opened it on the table. “Cocoa with sugar.” He opened another pouch. “And here is the powdered milk to add.”

  Chocolate! How long it had been since Charlotte had tasted chocolate. A sweet after supper. Hot cocoa. And yet . . . No! He’s not entitled to . . . to be so familiar. She came around to face Becker. “You will not bribe my daughter.”

  “Mother!” Kate’s eyebrows rose.

  Thomas put down his pipe. “Charlotte, Karl was only offering a gift in gratitude for your generous meal. Isn’t that right, Karl?”

  “I didn’t want to . . .”

  Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron. “If it’s in return for the meal, well . . .” She accepted the envelopes from him.

  Thomas took the pipe from his mouth. “I’m enjoying my tobacco. You two gals share the hot chocolate.”

  As Charlotte added water and steamed the cocoa, her mind raced. Why was the Army giving this treat to prisoners? These murderers were enjoying better provisions than tax-paying citizens. Her hand shook as she poured half the cocoa into a cup. She should have waited until Becker left before making it so he wouldn’t see how they enjoyed it. No, she wouldn’t have hers now. She wouldn’t have any at all. She wasn’t going to accept any gifts from this man who shouldn’t be in the position of giving.

  But oh, the steamy aroma! She breathed it in. She glanced toward the table to make sure he wasn’t watching and breathed in again. That was all she needed.

  She put a cup of steaming cocoa on the table and Kate picked it up and blew on it and took a sip. “Mmm.”

  Just then, hailstones pelted the windows. Thomas rose and hurried to the back porch.

  Charlotte followed, her hand to her mouth. “The cherries . . .”

  Thomas put an arm around her waist. “The new buds should be hardy enough to hold up. Thank God the trees haven’t blossomed yet.”

  When the hail turned to rain, Charlotte realized they had left Kate alone with the prisoner. “Kate!” She rushed back into the kitchen.

  The two sat across from each other at the round table, just as they had before. Karl had already begun the lesson. He spoke with his hands, large capable hands that made shapes in the air. Where Thomas’s hands were long and delicate, Karl’s were square and thick, a farmer’s hands, designed to work the land.

  When she was done with the dishes, Charlotte didn’t want to leave the room. She needed to keep her eye on this man. The wind had abated, but the rain continued, fast and hard. She pulled a log from out of the wood box, added it to the stove, and poked the fire. She heated water and mixed in vinegar and began washing countertops and cupboard doors, inside and out.

  “This room. How would you figure the height?” Karl asked.

  Kate laughed. “With a ladder and a ruler.”

  Becker cleared his throat. “Let us take something more difficult. The lighthouse. How far is it from here?”

  Charlotte froze. Marta had warned her that the PWs would try to set up communications with Nazi submarines.

  “Half a mile maybe?” Kate looked to Thomas.

  “About that,” Thomas said.

  “To learn how high the tower is—”

  Charlotte swung around the table to face the prisoner. “Why do you want to know about the lighthouse?”

  The three of them stared up at her. “Mother?” Kate said.

  Heavy rain fell in a shimmering curtain outside the window, insulating the little kitchen from the rest of the world. Anything could happen. No one would know.

  Becker hesitated before he spoke. “It might be of interest for Miss Kate to know how high is she when she sits with her friend.”

  “Not the lighthouse. Choose something else.” Charlotte turned back to the cupboards, heat rushing through her veins.

  After a pause, Thomas said, “The silo. Kate’s not about to measure the silo.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Find the height of the silo.” She felt jangled. Was she reading too much into these questions? Or not enough?

  “Miss Kate, my assignment to you is to find three solutions to the height of the silo. Algebra, geometry, trigonometry.” He went on a bit longer, giving Kate details to guide her.

  Kate took notes, then asked, “When are you coming again, Karl?”

  Karl? She’s calling him Karl?

  “When you are finished, do you have a place to post up your lessons, out of the rain?” he said.

  Charlotte stiffened at the thought of personal messages between this man and her daughter. But before she could respond, Kate said, “In the barn. I’ll tack my homework to the rabbit hutch.”

  Thomas nodded.

  Charlotte’s blood pulsed hard near the surface. Thomas was giving this prisoner permission to enter the barn at will. The butchering tools! “Thomas?”

  Lightning flashed, exposing rain like silver needles.

  Thomas put down his pipe. “Best I walk you back to the camp.”

  The men stood. Thomas gave Karl a rain slicker to wear—Ben’s slicker!—and the two of them went out the door. Charlotte stood on the porch, hugging herself, as she watched them disappear into the storm. This Nazi war criminal, this charming man-boy, had put them all under his spell. Be careful, husband.

  Back in the kitchen, Charlotte noted the excitement in Kate’s face.

  “Mother, what do you think?”

  “I think we don’t want to get too close.”

  “Too close?”

  “He may be a good teacher. But he’s the enemy. And don’t you forget it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  PROPPED AGAINST BED PILLOWS, Kate turned the page, regretting the novel’s end: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

  She gazed out at the lake and imagined herself in West Egg at one of Gatsby’s enchanted parties, “among the whispering and the champagne and the stars,” where guests mingled in witty conversation and “yellow cocktail music.” If there were ever to be a motion picture, Kate would want Katharine Hepburn to play Daisy Buchanan.

  Kate used to go to the picture show nearly every Saturday afternoon, a nickel for the matinee. She marveled over Hepburn’s characters in Morning Glory and Alice Adams and The Philadelphia Story. She memorized Hepburn’s best lines and sometimes stood in front of the mirror, mimicking her snappy repartee.

  A shaft of light swept across the ceiling. Gusty winds rattled her bedroom window. She closed the book and waited.

  The radio down in the parlor resonated with the top-of-the-hour newscaster’s familiar voice, and soon after, the big-band sound came on. Mother would be mending or knitting, Father reading a book. Soon they would switch off the Philco, take turns in the outhouse, wash up at the kitchen pump. Kate had learned to be patient.

  Finally, she heard them climbing the stairs.

  Mother peeked through Kate’s open door. “Better get to sleep.”

  “I will. Good night, Mother.”

  She waited longer, until the light went out in the bedroom across the landing, until she could hear Mother’s sleep-breathing, Father’s soft snore. She closed her door and stepped
into overalls and pulled two woolen sweaters over her cotton blouse. She would have liked to put on her wool jacket, but she didn’t want to risk going down the squeaky stairs. She opened the window.

  The rain clouds had cleared and the sky was filled with stars, but a gusty wind whipped through the dark night and trees creaked in warning. She reached for the thick oak branch.

  Down onshore, waves crashed up hard and loud. The path was flooded, so Kate left her bicycle in the barn and set off on foot, winds from the south pushing her forward through ankle-deep water.

  When she finally reached the channel, the black water between the mainland and the island churned with whitecaps. She didn’t bother rolling up her pant legs because they were already soaked. She grabbed for the safety rope secured to the fallen bridge and started across. Within a few feet, a wave rose up and slapped her. She held fast, pulling herself hand over hand, to the opposite shore. Once on the island, Kate struggled from the water, fighting against her weighty clothes, and made her way along the path through the woods to the lightkeeper’s house.

  Only minutes after Kate had thrown the stone, Josie opened the door and pulled Kate in. “You’re soaked. You must be freezing.”

  Trembling, Kate followed Josie up the circular stairs. At the top of the tower, Josie took her father’s thick storm jacket from a hook—“take off those wet sweaters”—then opened the door to the gallery. They moved around to the north side, away from the wind. Kate pulled her sweaters off and snuggled into the warmth of the jacket, which smelled of black tea and kerosene. She pushed up the collar and stuffed her hands deep into the pockets. After the two friends settled on the cast-iron floor, Josie lit a cigarette and handed it to Kate, then lit one for herself. Kate drew the fiery smoke deep into her lungs and watched the shaft of light beaming out from above them reveal the world in circular bursts of dark sky, angry water.

  “It’s as wild as the Atlantic,” Josie said, recalling her time in Boston. “You wouldn’t have come out in this storm unless you wanted to tell me something important.”

  Kate realized the folly of her trip. Yes, she had wanted to tell Josie something important, but now she was too cold and tired to explain it all, to convince Josie that Karl wasn’t a Nazi, just a math professor. No, she would stay a bit to get warm and go home, come back when the sun was out. She put up a hand to ward off any questions, then took a drag on her cigarette and closed her eyes.