“Maybe Mom is right about Pete staying home. He’s just a farm boy,” I said, wondering if we should go after him before the train left.
Daddy nodded. “Maybe when he comes back he’ll be a soldier.”
I didn’t want Pete to change. And the house felt empty without him.
“He will come back, won’t he, Daddy?” I clenched the dishcloth and felt my lower lip tremble.
Daddy readjusted his cap and wiped the back of his hand across his damp forehead. “We pray to God he will, sweetheart.”
He headed toward the door. “I’m going out to the fields. Watch after your mother.”
It didn’t take much to send Mom to her bed. Her moods were like the weather, unpredictable and unrelenting. And I was left to take over the housework during those stretches.
I’d rather have been in the fields with Daddy, and had offered to help when Pete left. There was no way he’d get the baling done on his own. The last month he’d kept a grueling schedule: up before dawn and out late at night, managing to just kick off his work boots before falling asleep in the easy chair, sometimes not even eating, he was so tired. But Daddy wouldn’t hear of me missing school and I had plenty of chores as it was.
Mom’s feet shuffled across the floor above me. I grabbed a bowl off the shelf and plopped it down on the small, square wooden table in our kitchen. I didn’t have the knack for making biscuits like Mom, getting them perfectly round in the pan the way she did, but it would be up to me to keep Daddy fed until she was recovered enough.
After I got the biscuits rising, I made strawberry Jell-O, Daddy’s favorite dessert. Then I took out chicken and breaded it and put it in the oven. I’d learned from Mom to do the cooking before the sun got too hot and made the kitchen unbearable. I sang as I worked, softly so as not to wake her. I imagined myself on the stage of the Surf Ballroom belting out “We’ll Meet Again” while Benny Goodman’s band played behind me.
Pete owned that record. He’d told me not to touch his record player, but I felt drawn to his room, as though his leaving was a dream and he’d be sprawled out on his bed reading a Dime Detective magazine instead of on a train bound for another continent.
I snuck up to his room and sat down on his unmade bed, the sheets tangled like he’d been in a hurry. I ran my fingers across the ribbing of his blue bedspread and brought his pillow to my face, breathing in his boyish, sweaty smell. I studied the pin-up of Rita Hayworth that shared wall space with a Sacred Heart of Jesus picture. A suede bag filled with marbles and an old model airplane were perched on a blue bookcase next to some worn mystery comics and paperbacks, proof to me that my brother was still just a boy. His phonograph sat atop the dresser, records stacked neatly beside it. I remembered how he’d paid twenty-five cents a week for eight months to buy that record player. How long before it would be played again, before I’d hear music seeping underneath his bedroom door?
I opened the tan luggage-style case. Pete had left a record on the grille, the needle still in position. I turned the switch and it sputtered, then came to life as Dick Robertson’s tenor reached out to me.
Oh, how I hate to get up in the morning!
Oh, how I’d love to remain in bed!
I shuddered as I thought of Pete. I missed him so much already.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I jumped at the shrill sound behind me and flicked off the switch.
Mom stood in the doorway, red-faced, her eyes ablaze with indignation. “He’s gone one hour and you’re rifling through his belongings?”
“I was only…”
“You’re violating your brother’s room. Get out! Get out!”
I’d never heard her yell like that before. I ran past her down the stairs, through the stuffy kitchen with its fried-chicken smell, out the back door and into the yard, not stopping until her screams were out of earshot.
I bent over to catch my breath and vowed not to set foot in Pete’s room again until he returned.
Three
1944
A week later Mom found her way downstairs. There was no mention of her yelling at me, but Pete’s door was closed and the curtains in his room were drawn.
Daddy was finishing his morning coffee when a truck emblazoned with a white star on the door turned into our long driveway. Daddy flashed a worried look at Mom before he hurried out the door. I followed him before Mom could object. In the rear of the truck were men dressed in green fatigues, their shirts rolled up to the elbows. There were five of them, some wearing caps, all of them looking ruffled and disoriented and a bit malnourished. Algona was a good forty miles from our farm.
Beside them sat a man in military uniform. He held a rifle.
Daddy shook his head. “They’re a poor-looking lot, if I do say so. But they’ll have to do.” He directed the truck to park over by the barn.
“Lorraine!” Mom’s voice drew me back inside.
“Stay indoors,” she told me. “I don’t want you outside while they’re here.”
“But the cows need to be milked twice a day,” I complained. “And I have to collect eggs and feed the chickens. How am I going to do my chores?”
Mom just stared down at the table, her head in her hands. “God forbid! Nazis on our property. What was he thinking?”
I sighed, hoping she wasn’t headed toward another spell. “I’ll wait until Daddy has them in the fields before I go out to do chores.”
I went up to my room and peeked out from behind the curtains of my open window. I could hear Daddy’s deep voice, the familiar twang in the back of his throat and the slow speech he used when explaining something.
Another man was interpreting Daddy’s words, one of the prisoners who wore a beret. They were a ways off so I couldn’t hear much of what they were saying. I saw Daddy step forward and shake each of their hands as they introduced themselves. Mom would throw an absolute fit if she saw that!
One of the men glanced my way. He had dark hair combed to the side, just like Hitler, but without the mustache. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of me and I ducked, pressing my body into the wall as the curtains fluttered above me. My heart raced at the thought of the enemy just yards away from our own house. What was Daddy thinking?
Daddy didn’t act scared. But when he didn’t come back for his noonday meal, I began to worry.
“Daddy must be awful hungry,” I remarked to Mom as I stood watch at the kitchen window.
Mom didn’t look up from her crocheting. “He’ll come in when he’s hungry enough.”
When she went upstairs to lie down, I wrapped a clean towel over a plate of cold chicken, two biscuits, and an apple, and headed out to the pasture. I walked across the flat gravel toward the fields behind our barn. My nose twitched at the smell of the chicken coop, which desperately needed cleaning, but that would have to wait.
The cows had drifted toward the far fence that bordered Mr. Murphy’s property. They’d broken through enough times that Daddy was considering replacing the wooden fence with barbed wire. I summoned them back, using Daddy’s call that sent them running.
The sun beat down enough that my skin glistened and my ponytail stuck to the back of my neck. I cut through the thick grove of trees behind the barn, then stopped in my tracks, almost dropping the food. Right in front of me was a man. No, not a man. He was more of a boy, not much older than Pete.
His blond hair was messy and he wore a sleeveless T-shirt stained with grass and dirt. I could see the outline of muscle through the shirt. His green jacket lay crumpled next to him. He was sitting against a haystack, smoking a cigarette, staring out at the field with a faraway look in his eyes.
I took in a breath at the sight of the enemy right in front of me. I thought of turning back and running, but this was our farm. I couldn’t hide forever.
“You’d best be careful or you’ll burn down the farm,” I said, remembering how Daddy warned us to be mindful where we burned trash.
He jumped and almost dropped his cigar
ette, seemingly as spooked by my presence as I’d been by his.
He composed himself and looked at me as though I was a curiosity.
“Your cigarette?” I said.
He shrugged and kept on smoking.
I imitated his smoking motion.
He offered me a cigarette.
I shook my head. “No.”
He pointed to the cigarette. “Verboten?”
“Yes, whatever you said.”
“Nein.”
“No smoking,” I said again, a bit louder.
He pointed across the field where other workers were taking a break. Several of them were smoking, too.
“We’ll see about that.” I walked on to find Daddy.
“Fräulein,” he called after me. I turned back.
He pointed at an apple on the ground. “Haben Sie einen Apfel für mich übrig?”
I picked up the apple and pointed at his cigarette. “If you get rid of that.”
He tossed his cigarette on the ground and rubbed the toe of his boot across it.
I tossed him the apple.
He caught it and smiled as though I’d given him an exotic fruit. “Danke.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, but I didn’t smile back. It seemed disrespectful to smile at the enemy.
I walked between the ribbons of freshly cut hay waiting to be pitched. Daddy stood next to the hay rack wagon. It was hooked up to the horses and the hay was piled as high as the pitchforks could reach.
I stopped and petted Prince and Pauper, who despite Daddy’s training had never become well-broke for farm work. Daddy said it was because they’d been mail carrier horses, and working in the field was different work than clomping down a road.
Daddy was trying to get the prickly hay out from inside his cuffs. He gratefully accepted the food. “I was hoping you’d come.”
“You got a lot done, Daddy.”
“Ten times as much as I could do alone.” Daddy looked at his full plate. “They’ll be working here awhile and you know what hard work this is,” he said in a low voice. “Seems we could feed them. They don’t get more than a rabbit’s portion of rations, not enough to keep up their strength doing this kind of work.”
“You want Mom to cook for them?”
“It wouldn’t be asking too much, seeing as how much work they’re doing. I’d never get this finished if I had to do it alone.”
“Mom won’t…”
“I’ll talk to her about it when she’s more accustomed to the sight of them. But maybe tomorrow you could rustle up a little extra grub?” He gave me a wink, one that meant that this would be our secret.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, not making any promises. Maybe I could round up some apples and bread and molasses, things Mom might not notice were missing.
“Should they be smoking out here?” I asked. I knew Daddy liked his Lucky Strikes, but he could be trusted to be safe with his smokes. These Germans couldn’t. The POW with the Hitler haircut snarled his lips around his cigarette, giving credence to my fears.
“They’re fine. You worry too much,” he said, patting my back.
Maybe Daddy didn’t worry enough. I walked back the way I’d come, tramping through the plowed field, bits of grass sticking to my socks. The boy with the apple nodded at me. I ignored him. Didn’t want him getting too friendly just because I’d given him an apple. But I couldn’t help but look back at him after I’d passed. He was still watching me, and waved. I ran the rest of the way to the house.
Four
1944
I put my towel and swim cap in the basket of my bike and tucked ten cents in my pocket for a Coca Cola as I escaped the heat of the farm and set off for town. My red braid bounced behind me as I focused on avoiding the ruts in the gravel. My only thoughts were of the cool lake water and Scotty Bishop. He hadn’t asked me out yet, but recently he’d been particularly attentive. Today might be the day.
I traveled along the road next to the ditches filled with long grasses and spindly chicory plants, their pale blue flowers reaching up to the sky. I didn’t meet any cars until I reached Highway 18, which cut across the full length of North Iowa from the Big Sioux River in South Dakota to the Mississippi River on the Illinois side. The highway ran parallel to the train tracks.
My back was hot and sweaty by the time I passed the Burma Shave sign and turned down the leafy, shaded roads leading to downtown Clear Lake. I rode past the Surf Ballroom and the library, then biked around the town square, where the bandshell stood across from the beach. People sat on benches, licking ice cream cones and catching the light breeze off the lake.
Clear Lake was an oasis in the middle of the flat Iowa landscape. The Sioux and Winnebago had used the spring-fed lake as a summer home before Nathan Boone, Daniel Boone’s son, mentioned it in a land survey in 1832. Although it was a tourist attraction, our population remained small except in summertime.
The war made things quieter than normal, but people still flocked here on hot days. Some rode over on the trolley from Mason City. Others stayed at beachside resorts. Along the sides of the town square were small stands serving cotton candy, popcorn, and root beer floats.
I parked my bike and searched the crowded beach. I had almost given up hope that Scotty was ever going to ask me out. He was going to be a senior, and this summer might be my last chance to find out if he really liked me.
I arrived not a moment too soon. I spotted Stella sitting next to Scotty on the beach. Stella was leaning into him, giggling at something Scotty said, until she saw me. Then she bounced up and ran over, grabbing my arm. I quickened my step.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Stella said. “What with your chores and all.”
“Couldn’t miss our last hurrah of the summer,” I said. “Don’t tell anyone, but Daddy called the POW camp. They sent some men to help.” Stella was my best friend, but she liked to gab. I didn’t want the whole town knowing that Germans were working on our farm.
“Ooh,” Stella said, faking a shiver. “I wouldn’t want those monsters on my property.”
“Well, don’t mention it to anyone,” I repeated. “Mom’s not too happy about it.”
“Who can blame her?” Stella said. “But my lips are sealed.”
Stella tugged at the bottom of her red swimsuit, the same one she’d had for the last two years. It was too small, spilling excess cleavage out the sides. Her family never had two cents to rub together, and Stella babysat to buy her own clothes.
Stella was four inches shorter than me, but nine months older, and she knew how to get boys to notice her. Her wavy dark hair curved around plump cheeks and bright red lips.
I smoothed back frizzy hair that had escaped my braid and fixed my gaze on Scotty as he flipped his brown hair out of his eyes. He was tall, his long legs lean from running back and forth across the basketball court, and had an easy confidence about him that came from excelling at everything. He stood up, took my towel, and set it down next to his. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
How glad? Was he ever going to ask me out? I smacked my lips that had never worn lipstick and looked out at the lake, its blue hues reflecting the hot sun. Shouts and screams floated toward shore as Lance Dugan splashed water on girls and dunked the younger boys. He never got in trouble, of course. His dad owned the bank, and had given Lance a Packard for his seventeenth birthday.
I pulled off my top and pants and kicked off my shoes. Scotty’s wet arm brushed mine as I sat down. I felt exposed in my white one-piece suit and tugged at the halter top.
Stella scooted away toward the other girls, making it appear as though she wanted us to have some privacy, although she was still close enough to hear everything we said.
“The beach is packed,” I said. “Good thing you saved me a spot.”
“I was saving it for you,” he said reassuringly. “Stella just came over to tell me that the Monaghans were moving.”
Stella lived blocks away from Scotty and they k
new all the same people. Even though I only lived a couple miles out of town, it was a different world from city life.
“Have you been in the water yet?” I asked Scotty. “Is it cold?”
“Feels great,” he said. “Want to go for a dip?”
I nodded and stuck my thick braid into my bathing cap, then followed him down to the water. The hot sand bit at the bottoms of my feet and I hurried to get to the wet slush at the lake’s edge. The water was cool but not cold, and I couldn’t help but remember the last time I’d been here with Pete. Last year on the Fourth of July, we’d gone to Bayside Amusement Park and then met Mom and Daddy at this beach later.
I glanced over at the dock where we’d sat with Mike Schmitt for the fireworks. Mom and Daddy had stayed on the blanket at the park but we’d wanted to be closer, to feel the boom of the explosions, and had crowded onto the dock. Now both boys had gone off to war and they’d banned fireworks this year because of the wartime need for powder and explosives. Pete would be watching a different type of fireworks.
“Come on.” Scotty pulled me out deeper, past the rocks and seaweed that curled around my toes, to clear water and a sandy bottom. The lake stretched out before us like a blue carpet, still except for a passing sailboat and the swimmers splashing near the edges. We walked out until we were even with the end of the dock, until the water finally reached our necks, right before the drop-off.
“I’m not a great swimmer,” I warned him. “I never learned properly.”
Scotty ducked his head under the water, disappearing for an instant. Then he reappeared, closing the distance between us. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you drown.” He was inches away, the water lapping against his bare chest, his wet hair dripping down the sides of his face, looking at me with his reassuring chestnut eyes. I felt aware of his body in the water, of our limbs nearly touching. I had a sudden urge to kiss him right there in front of the whole beach crowd.
But would he kiss me back? Scotty hadn’t even asked me out, although he had walked me to class last year. Maybe he was like Pete, who had been shy until he’d finally gotten bold enough to ask Mary Scholl to dance at the Surf one night. That had seemed to break the ice with Pete, who had danced with many girls since then, and had gone on plenty of dates.
Stars Over Clear Lake Page 2