by Dean Hughes
It was the time of day when the district president, Elder Dunford, sometimes stopped by, so Elder Thomas wasn’t surprised at the knock. But when he opened the door, he saw President Meis, from the Frankfurt Branch. “I must talk to you,” he said, and he stepped forward.
Elder Thomas shut the door and then invited President Meis to sit down, but President Meis stood where he was. “There’s something you must know,” he said. “Bruder Goldfarb was questioned last night. And beaten.”
“What? Who did it?”
“That’s not for me to say. And that’s not important.”
“It was the Gestapo, wasn’t it?”
Suddenly President Meis’s voice sharpened. “It was you, Elder Thomas. It was you who got him in trouble. You have been going there even though I told you not to.”
“Yes. But . . . only to. . . .” Elder Thomas couldn’t believe this. An avalanche of guilt was coming down on him. “Why should they beat him?”
“I don’t know that. I only know that a Gestapo agent was at my door early this morning. He warned me. If members of our church contact Bruder Goldfarb again, we won’t be allowed to hold our meetings. We’ll be disbanded. And I could be arrested.”
“Was it Kellerman? Is that who came to your door?”
“That’s not your concern.”
Elder Thomas saw what was happening. “Elder Mecham and I had trouble with an agent named Kellerman,” he said. “But his leaders won’t let him arrest us—because we’re Americans. He must be trying to get at us some other way.”
President Meis was a stout man, a builder by trade. He had a square, solid face, but he also had a kindly smile, with a flashing gold tooth, when he was in the mood to smile. Now his lips were pressed tightly together. He pointed a finger at Elder Thomas. “You have no idea the trouble you are causing. You must never go there again. Bruder Goldfarb might have been killed.”
“Why didn’t they take him away, the way they do the others?”
President Meis looked shocked. “These are not questions for you to ask, Bruder Thomas. They are none of your business. Nor mine. If we want the Church to continue here, we must watch our every step.”
Elder Thomas glanced at Elder Sawyer, who was still sitting at the table. His face had lost its color, and he was staring up at President Meis, obviously concerned.
“President Meis,” Elder Thomas said, “we did nothing wrong. We visited a member of our branch. He made a suit for me. This is all crazy. What’s wrong with this Kellerman? How can he—”
“Stop this!” President Meis said in a fierce whisper. “Soften your voice. You have no idea what you’re saying. You are a foreigner. You have no right to tell us what we should do.”
Elder Thomas couldn’t believe this. But he said more quietly, “President Meis, people are being beaten for no reason. Do you defend that? Do you think it’s right?”
President Meis took his time answering. And he spoke with care. “Bruder, I haven’t said I like everything that is happening. But I must deal with reality. To the Nazis, Bruder Goldfarb is not one of us. He is a Jew. We must not do anything that will bring harm to him. And we must protect the Church. That’s simply how things are.”
“How badly is he hurt?”
“It’s hard to say. Herr Kellerman wanted me to know that we had brought injury to him by contacting him, but he didn’t offer any details. And I don’t dare approach Bruder Goldfarb. I only hope he was not seriously hurt.”
“I’m sorry, President Meis. I didn’t think they would hurt him.”
“I understand that. But you must stay away.”
“We will. I promise you that.”
President Meis looked at Elder Sawyer. “Do you understand what I have said?”
“Yes.”
“And you also promise not to visit him again?”
“Yes.”
President Meis turned and walked to the door. But he stopped and looked back. “Do your missionary work and speak of nothing else. I will check on Bruder Goldfarb, if I can.” And then he left.
As the door shut, Elder Thomas turned and looked at Elder Sawyer. “I didn’t think they would take it out on him,” he said.
“I don’t understand anything about this country,” Elder Sawyer said.
The elders went about their tracting that morning, ate lunch, and then went back to the doors, even though they met with the usual reception. In the afternoon, as they returned to their apartment, Elder Thomas, rather automatically, followed a familiar routine. He rode past the Stoltzes’ apartment on the off chance that he would see one of them. He had made this little side trip several times, but he had never gotten lucky. Today, however, he was overjoyed when he and Elder Sawyer coasted around the corner just in time to glide past Anna, who was apparently on her way home from school. Elder Thomas braked and pulled over. Then he stepped off his bike and turned around. “Anna,” he called out.
She walked quickly toward him. She looked radiant with the cool air brightening the color of her cheeks and her blond hair hanging down over the collar of her dark brown coat.
“How are you?” she said.
“Good. This is my new Mitarbeiter,” Elder Thomas said. “Bruder Sawyer. He’s new, from America.”
“Very nice to meet you,” she said, in English. “Where do you come from?”
“California,” he said.
Elder Thomas could see her struggle to think of another English phrase. Finally, she said, “California has oranges,” pronouncing the word “or-on-juzz.”
Elder Sawyer smiled a little. “Ja. Sehr Gut,” he said.
Anna laughed. “That’s about all my English,” she said, in German, to Elder Thomas. “But how is Elder Mecham?”
“I talked to President Wood this morning. He said Elder Mecham is doing fine. All recovered. He’s in Stuttgart.”
She lowered her voice. “And the Gestapo have left you alone?”
“Yes.” Elder Thomas thought of telling her what had happened to Brother Goldfarb, but he decided not to.
“And your faith is as strong as ever?”
Elder Thomas shrugged. “I don’t understand a lot of things that are happening,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. But I believe in the things we teach.”
She smiled, and he could see the irony in her eyes, the pleasure she found in goading him. “You’re a good boy,” she said, teasing, using the familiar form of the language.
“Anna, there is a God, and I know what a difference he can make in your life. You need that. Your whole family does.”
“I don’t know what I believe, Bruder Thomas. Sometimes I pray, the way you told us to do. But I don’t get any answers—not that I can recognize.”
“Something will happen if you keep praying.”
She rolled her eyes. “We’ll see.”
“What would happen if we came by again? Would your father let us in?”
“No, Bruder Thomas. Don’t do that. He wouldn’t be happy with me for speaking with you on the street.” She lowered her voice. “Things are happening. Hitler thinks he can get away with anything. He made all those promises about Czechoslovakia, and now he’s occupied the whole country—and no one is doing one thing to stop him. Now he’s tightening down on all of us here in Germany. By law, I must join BDM, and Peter must join Hitler Jugend. My father is very upset. And worried.”
Elder Thomas was holding his bike by the handlebars. He tightened his grip. “Does he think war will come soon?”
“This year.”
Elder Thomas nodded. “Well, we won’t come by, but we’ll pray for your family. And for you. If you keep praying, something good is going to happen. You’ll get your answer.”
She didn’t argue. She smiled with a sort of “if life were only that simple” look in her eyes. But what she said was, “It was wonderful to see you again,” this time sounding sincere.
As the elders rode away, Elder Sawyer pumped hard to pull up alongside Elder Thomas. “That’s about the prettiest
girl I’ve ever seen,” he said with surprising enthusiasm.
“Oh, really? I didn’t notice,” Elder Thomas said.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Elder, I judge a girl completely by her spirit. I pay no attention to her earthly tabernacle.”
Elder Sawyer laughed. “Well, you were taking a very good look at her spirit, it seemed to me.”
Elder Thomas didn’t say anything for a time, and the truth was, he was embarrassed. “The problem with Anna,” he finally said, seriously, “is that she doesn’t care much about the Spirit. Nothing we’ve said seems to reach her.”
“I could see that,” Elder Sawyer said. “But, wow, what eyes!”
“She uses them to see all the wrong things,” Elder Thomas told him.
Chapter 6
Wally and Mel were at the track behind East High. Mel was sitting on the grass with his leg bent outward in a hurdler’s position, and he was reaching for his toes. Wally was lying on his back, letting the sun heat his body. He wanted Mel to think that he was relaxed, just working on his tan a little, but in fact he was very nervous.
“Are you running a relay or just the four-forty?” Mel asked between stretches.
“The coach wanted me to run the mile relay, but I told him I couldn’t do two four-forties.” A little wave of nausea passed through Wally as he thought of the race. He sat up. “So he put me in the two-twenty leg of the medley relay. I don’t mind that.”
“I’m doing the highs and lows again, and the coach told me to try the broad jump. I don’t know why. I’m no good at it.”
“That’s okay. You’re no good at the hurdles either.”
Mel smiled, and he didn’t defend himself, even though Wally had struck a little too close to the truth. Mel only said, “Are you going to try to break your brother’s record?”
Wally took a deep breath. “I’ll give it a try,” he said, but that’s not what he was thinking. He had made up his mind, absolutely, that he would do it. He had been reasonably close in some of his practice runs, and today the weather was just right—only a light wind, and the warmest day of the spring so far. Four years before, Alex had set the city record, but Wally was almost sure he could beat the time. He had never done as well as Alex at any sport, so this was the one chance he had left to beat him.
Wally looked toward the bleachers. Maybe a hundred people were in their seats and others were coming in—mostly parents of athletes but also a few students. President Thomas had told Wally that he would try to come, but Wally couldn’t see him. Wally knew he didn’t need that extra pressure of having him there, but he couldn’t help recalling Alex and Dad talking about Alex’s track meets after the two had come home together.
This was a duel meet against West High. Later, East would run against South, and then all three teams would meet in the city championship. So Wally knew he would have other chances to break the Big Three record, but he wanted to do it now and not let the pressure build all season.
Wally shut his eyes and concentrated on the smell of the cut grass and the wintergreen smell of the analgesic balm he had rubbed on his thighs, but he felt tight, and so he got up. “Come on,” he said. “Run a lap with me.” Wally usually had to be prodded to do warmup laps, but right now he wanted to get moving.
“Just a sec.” Mel grabbed a towel from his bag and wrapped it around his neck. The two stepped onto the track and began a slow trot. More athletes in warmup suits were showing up now.
The loud speaker, high on a pole above the bleachers, buzzed, and then a deep voice intoned, “Testing. One, two, three, testing.” And after a moment, “First call for the shot put, broad jump and pole vault. Report to the scorer’s table at the center of the field.”
The sound was set too loud, and the vibration shook through Wally’s body. He wished he could run right then and get this whole thing over with.
“It’s only March,” Mel said. “You don’t have to get the record today. You’ve got all season to do it.”
“I know. It doesn’t matter that much to me anyway.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s why all the color’s gone from your face.”
Wally didn’t answer. He listened to the crunch of the cinders under his feet. He thought how different this same backstretch would feel when the race was on. He picked up his pace a bit and Mel had to hurry to catch up.
“You let Alex worry you too much,” Mel said. “Sometimes you sound like you hate him.”
“That couldn’t happen, Mel. No one hates Alex. Dogs love him. Grandmas. Little kids.”
Two boys in faded blue warmups sprinted past Wally and Mel, really pressing. “What are they trying to prove?” Wally asked.
But Mel didn’t answer. “Wally,” he said, “Alex is Alex, and you’re you. It’s not a contest.”
“Tell everyone else that.”
Mel let it go, and the two continued their trot around the turn and onto the straightaway. Some girls Wally knew were standing near the track in front of the bleachers. “Wally, Mel—good luck,” one of them yelled, and then the others waved and called out encouragement. Wally looked at Gwen Larsen, a girl he had dated a couple of times. When he waved to her, she brightened considerably.
“Win a ribbon for Gwenny,” Francene Clegg called out. Gwen slapped Francene’s shoulder, then turned to hide her face. All the other girls laughed. Most of them were wearing cotton school dresses, but Gwen had on a dark skirt that hit her above the knees, and long, white stockings. This was the new bare-knee look that college girls were wearing—or so Gwen had told Wally. He liked the style just fine, but he paid even more attention to the way Gwen filled out her pretty yellow sweater. He also noticed that Francene was wearing Chuck Adair’s letter sweater. Chuck was East High’s all-around sports star. Setting a record in front of Gwen and the other girls would be nice, but outshining Chuck for once would even be better.
“Gwen’s got it bad for you, Wally,” Mel said.
“Not too bad. She won’t let me kiss her.”
“Hey, you just started going out with her.”
If Wally had been in a different mood he might have vowed that he would kiss her on his next date with her, but he let it go. He glanced again at the bleachers, which were filling up.
“I’ll tell you the girl I’d like to go out with,” Mel said. “Wait a minute.” He stopped, bent over and stuck a finger into the side of his shoe. “I’ve got a rock in here.” He stepped off the track, sat down on the grass and pulled his shoe off.
The loud speaker boomed again, and Wally jerked in response. It was the second call for the field events. Wally still had upwards of an hour to wait for the quarter mile. “Which girl?” he asked, even though he wasn’t that interested.
“Lorraine Gardner.”
Wally had seen her with the other girls, standing back a little, laughing, but not as involved. He thought she was the best looking girl in the senior class. She had long, slender legs and a little waist, and she had a wonderfully bright smile. But she was not easy to read, and she never showed much interest in Wally. In fact, he always suspected she didn’t like him.
“Mel, don’t try to play in the big leagues until you’ve put in a couple of seasons in the minors.”
“Hey, I know. I wouldn’t dare ask her out. I just think about it sometimes.” Mel had his shoe on, and now he got up and stepped back on the track. “But I’ll tell you what. She’s even big leagues for you, chum. You wouldn’t get a kiss from her.”
All this chatter was not easing Wally’s nerves. He needed to move. “Look, I’m going go to take a few starts,” he said.
“Okay. I’ve got to check in for the broad jump.”
Wally was glad to get away from Mel. He ran to his gym bag and got his spikes, sat down and put them on, and then he took some starts on the grass. He broke hard each time, and ran all out for twenty yards or so. Then he did some exercises, took some more starts, watched the hundred yard dash, and then jogged around the middle of the track enough to stay
warm. When the announcement for the four-forty finally crackled over the sound system, his nerves sent a reaction through him like an electric shock. At least it would soon be over.
He reported at the scorer’s table, waited for the end of the two-twenty, and then pulled off his old gray warmup suit. He took another look along the bleachers, but he knew his dad was not there. He walked onto the track and waited for the starter to call out the names and set the lanes. As it turned out, he was in the middle of the track, a good spot, where the cinders were firm. He gouged out a couple of holes with his spikes and then stepped in to test them. Then he dug the back hole a little deeper, a little farther back, and he took a start. The holes seemed fine, but he wished he hadn’t gotten ready so fast. Some of the other guys were still just pulling their warmups off.
“Good luck, Thomas,” a boy from West told him—a guy named Farrell. He was strongly built, more like a football player than a runner, but he and a spindly guy named Williamson were supposed to be Wally’s toughest competition.
“Yeah. You too,” Wally said, and the two shook hands.
Wally turned and walked up the track a few yards and then reached and touched his toes a couple of times.
“Wally, what pretty legs you have!”
Wally straightened up and looked at the girls, who were still standing next to the track. Gwen was laughing, but he knew she hadn’t said it. It was probably Francene again. He told himself he was going to fly down that straightaway this time—right past all those girls—and they were going to think he was dazzling, like an ancient Olympian.
He smiled at them, or at least tried to, but he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and his stomach seemed full of helium.
“Runners, take your marks.”
Wally turned and walked back to his starting holes. “Good luck, Wally,” he heard Mel call out.
As the runners began to place their feet in their marks and crouch for the start, quiet fell over the field. Wally leaned forward and held his arms out for balance.
“Get set!”
Wally tensed. He felt the presence of the runners near him, but his focus was down the track, as though he were looking through a tunnel. No one was going to beat him to that first turn.