Dorothy Garlock (3 page)

Who were the hooded men? Why had they committed such acts?

These questions haunted Sophie every bit as deeply as the events of that night. From the moment she woke every morning to
the instant she fell asleep at night, she thought of the men who had hurt her family. She waited, fearful that they would
return to make good on their horrific promise, but every night their failure to reappear made her all the more fearful. Her
dreams had also been poisoned; gone were the visions of wildflowers, replaced by biting laughter and hungry flames.

Even in this store, Sophie’s eyes sought out the hated men, straining to find them hiding behind the stacks of washpans or
for sight of their reflections in the dark glass of the wall of compartments. To her, they potentially lurked behind every
corner, across every street, and even within every nod, smile, or stare that came her way.

They could be anyone… anywhere.

Her thoughts were broken by the ringing of bells as the door to the store was opened and a pair of men entered, one of them
nearly as large as one of Mr. Ambrose’s display cases, the other as reed-thin as a broom. Sophie immediately recognized them
and smiled brightly.

Charley Tatum was nearly as wide as he was tall, with a personality that was more than a match for his girth. A farmer who
worked the land just south of Victory’s limits, he was a familiar sight to the town’s inhabitants. He was quick to laugh,
and his voice boomed over every conversation he joined and filled the church with a deep baritone every Sunday morning. Dressed
in dark overalls, he wiped his sweat-beaded brow and flushed red cheeks with a handkerchief before burying it deep in his
pockets.

“Well, I do declare, Miss Sophie!” he bellowed, breaking into a toothy grin. “You get more lovely just about every time I
see you! ’Fore long, the simple folks of this here town are gonna see you on one of them there movie posters!”

“My mother says it’s not nice to tease,” she chided him.

“Who’s teasin’? Why, there ain’t but nothin’ any of them Hollywood beauties has got on you! Not that Betty Grable, Ginger
Rogers, Marlene Dietrich, nor that Vivien Leigh neither!”

“My pa ain’t lyin’, that’s for sure,” Will Tatum offered in defense of his father’s proclamation. Unlike his larger-than-life
father, Will was timid and skinny, still boyish in many ways though he was nearly a man. His personality was just the opposite
of Charley’s, his voice almost a whisper spit in the face of a storm.

“Then you’re
both
teasing me!”

“Am I going to have a problem with you harassing my customers?” Mr. Ambrose kidded as he stepped from the storeroom. His eyes
rose from her father’s list just long enough for the businessman to give Sophie a knowing wink. “I’d hate to have to call
the sheriff.”

“I swear this might be the first time I ever heard of a woman complainin’ about a man sayin’ she was pretty,” Charley cackled,
slapping one wide hand upon his knee. Leaning back, he rested his weight against one of the long display cases. Sophie felt
sure that she could hear the old wood groan with the load. “What is the world comin’ to?”

To that, they all laughed heartily.

“I was mighty sorry to hear what happened to your barn,” Charley offered in a more somber tone. “With a tipped-over lantern,
it’ll only take a few shakes of a sow’s tail ’fore the whole thing is ablaze. That happens, ain’t but nothin’ you can do but
stand back, watch, and pray for rain.”

“And we sure ain’t gettin’ much of that,” Will added.

“We should all be a mite extra careful this time of year,” Robert said as he wiped his glasses on his apron. “As much as I
appreciate the business, it’s a shame to lose a building like that.”

“An outright shame,” Charley echoed.

Sophie nodded solemnly. The story that had been given, the
outright lie
that had been created, was that Hermann had accidentally tipped over a lantern when checking upon their animals. Before he
could hope to contain it, the fire had raced out of control. The entire Heller family had agreed that this was the story they
would tell, but Sophie still felt the shame of their untruth coloring her cheeks.

“I appreciate your kind words.” She smiled at them. “But my father says that we shouldn’t feel sorry about what happened.
We just need to roll up our sleeves and get back to work making it all right again.”

“That’s the spirit!” Charley exclaimed. “Why, if I know Hermann, he’ll have that barn back up so fast that you’ll wonder if
you imagined that pesky fire! It’ll look better than new, what with a fresh coat of paint and all!”

“I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute,” Robert Ambrose agreed.

“And you make sure to tell Hermann that if he needs any help gettin’ that barn of his back together, he shouldn’t hesitate
to ask us,” Charley offered, patting his son so heavily on his shoulder that the boy’s knees sagged. “We ain’t against hard
work to help out a neighbor. Ain’t that right, boy?”

“Darn right, Pa!” Will agreed.

“After all, an accident like that could have happened to anyone. ‘There but for the grace of God’ and all. I sure ain’t the
most graceful man alive,” the large farmer chuckled, patting his ample stomach. “It could just have easy been me knocking
over that lantern and you can bet a helping of my Martha’s biscuits that I wouldn’t have hesitated a second to ask for a touch
of help.”

While Sophie appreciated Charley Tatum’s sentiment, that it could have been any of Victory’s many farmers who had lost their
barn, she knew that his words rang hollow. What had happened a week before would only have happened to them.

Because we came from Germany…

“Thank… thank you, Mr. Tatum,” Sophie stammered, forcing a smile. “I’ll make sure to tell my father of your offer.”

“You do that.” He nodded. “Anything at all, just let us know.”

After making arrangements with Mr. Ambrose for her father and brother to pick up the supplies they would need to rebuild the
barn and saying her good-byes to the Tatums, Sophie hurried from the hardware store and again stood under the awning. She
gulped the hot air as waves of heat rose from the pavement. She knew that she should begin the long trek home but her feet
would not move. A persistent, gnawing fear had grabbed her. Stomach-churning thoughts flashed across her head too worrisome
to ignore.

Could Charley Tatum know anything about what had happened to their barn? Could Mr. Ambrose? Was it possible that they were
involved? While Charley undoubtedly would have stood out like a sore thumb, would she have recognized Will if he had been
one of the men? What if—

Struggling with the effort, Sophie put a stop to her panicked thoughts. Her breathing had started to come in fits and her
heart pounded hard in her chest like a jackrabbit’s. What was she thinking? The very idea of such things was sheer madness!
Would she wonder about everyone she knew? Would she look at friends differently? Was hurtful intent hiding behind every face
or kind word, even those of the people she had known nearly all her life?

R
OBERT
A
MBROSE TURNED
the key in the lock of his hardware store, tried the door to make sure it was secure, and stood back to look in his storefront
window. How he liked the look of those posters! Both of the posters’ colors had already started to fade in the sun’s glare,
but he swore that they, or ones like them, would remain in the window of Ambrose Hardware for the duration of the war. He
would do his part, by God! Why, if he were a younger man, he’d have been the first in line to enlist the day after Pearl Harbor!

“Damn heat,” he muttered under his breath.

Far enough along on its path through the sky to be past the awning’s protection at four o’clock in the afternoon, the sun
blazed down on him relentlessly. It had already been a hot summer with little rainfall. The grumblings of the farmers who
frequented his store were getting louder by the day. August and September surely promised more of the same. Pulling a handkerchief
from his pocket, Robert wiped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t have time to dally in this heat.

A quick glance at his pocket watch showed that he had less than twenty minutes to get to the train station. It had been a
hard decision to close the store early, but he supposed there wasn’t much of a choice to be had. Cole would expect him to
be there. Still, he hated the idea of losing a sale; he hadn’t gotten where he had by ignoring customers! Robert knew it was
the right thing to do… but he didn’t have to like it.

It was hard to admit to himself, but this was a day he had been dreading ever since he’d received the telegram from Chicago.
Even with all there was for him to be proud of in life, his successful business and Jason’s accomplishments, he had always
feared that this day would come. And, like the rising and falling of the sun above, it had.

With a sigh and a resignation that galled him, Robert set off for the station.

For better or worse… Cole was coming home.

“And then he punches him in the face!”

Cole Ambrose turned in his seat on the train and looked across the aisle. A young boy—he guessed him to be no older than seven—stood
in the space between the seats and was wildly throwing punches into the air. His blond hair was as tousled as his clothing.
A comic book was rolled up and clutched tightly in one small fist. Cole could just make out the words
Fight Comics.

“That Japanese soldier tried to hit that lady but then Rip Carson grabbed him by the arm and tossed him over the edge of the
cliff!” the boy continued, his voice high and animated. He’d been so impressed by the goings-on in the comic book that he’d
been unable to contain his excitement, choosing instead to act it out. “He screamed the whole way down until he went splat!”

“That’s nice, dear,” his mother answered absently from behind her
Ladies’ Home Journal
, her eyes never leaving the page.

“Take that, you dirty Jap!”

Pulling his attention from the phantom fight beside him, Cole looked over the rest of the railcar. The space was packed tightly
with people, their bags piled high in the seats beside them, many spilling over onto the floor. Traffic to the Mississippi
River was always high; boats led to the scores of ports that dotted the great waterway. The air inside the car was stiflingly
hot, even for July, and several passengers were fanning themselves with newspapers or handkerchiefs. Few spoke, content to
be lulled by the heat and the constant rocking of the train. Somewhere behind him, a baby cried a soft wail that was occasionally
punctuated by an old man’s cough.

Three seats ahead of him and on the opposite side of the aisle was a young man dressed in the khaki tan of the United States
Army. The soldier’s head lolled to one side as he tried to sleep through the miserable heat of the railcar. Cole guessed them
to be of a similar age; he was twenty-four, but there was something about the man in uniform that seemed to be older, wiser,
and even stronger. Had the experience of basic training changed him or was it the simple fact that he was willing to risk
his life for the sake of his country?

At the last stop, an older woman had climbed aboard the train and handed the soldier a small bag full of fruit. As the young
man dug into his pocket to find some money to pay her, she shook her head and gently touched his cheek before getting off
the train.

Before even seeing combat, the soldier was a hero.

More than anything, Cole Ambrose wished that he could wear that uniform, could fight for the United States of America, and
that someone, anyone, could look upon him as a hero. But that was impossible! Men like him weren’t able to do those things.
Coming to grips with that fact was proving to be difficult, hell, just about impossible. His impotence and frustration made
him nearly sick with anger. Like nearly every other American man his age, Cole had wanted nothing more than to run to the
nearest recruiting station after the Pearl Harbor attack… but he couldn’t run
anywhere
! He tried as hard as he could to stop thinking about what could not be and instead focus on what lay ahead. His future would
be different from that of the soldier, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be fulfilling.

“On to Tokyo!” the little boy shouted.

Cole still felt a twinge of amazement that he was returning to Victory. After everything that had happened, after all of the
difficulty and hardship, he had devoted all of himself to leaving. Escape had been his only ambition. With every fiber of
his being, he had thrown himself into his schoolwork. He had excelled in English and history, but had found his true passion
in mathematics. The numbers had literally danced before his eyes, the complex theories and equations easily giving up their
secrets. He supposed that he had fallen in love with math because the field was based on order, an alluring thing to a young
boy whose life had none. After high school, he had gone off to college in Chicago, where he had earned honors and the respect
of his peers. He had been poised for greater things when a phone call had changed his life. Clarence Collins, his high school
math instructor, was retiring after thirty years and Cole had been offered the job of replacing him. Without even a moment’s
hesitation, he had accepted the position. He’d spent the last month trying to figure out why.

Glancing out the window, Cole watched as the landscape slowly became more familiar. Tall grasses whipped by in a rush of greens,
browns, and yellows. The ribbon of Sunner’s Creek, its bed laid bare by the scorching summer heat, began to wind its way toward
Victory. Cows congregated beneath the shade of a scattering of trees that dotted the river’s edge. Off in the distance, next
to a thick stand of elm, he could see the distinct shapes of the buildings on the Kent family farm. Someone, he was too far
away to be sure who, was leading a horse toward a pair of open barn doors.

As the sights became more recognizable, a feeling of apprehension began to form in the pit of Cole’s stomach. One particular
sight in Victory would be familiar to him as his own face; the disapproving look of his father. When he’d phoned to tell him
of the job and his decision to return, there had been a long moment of awkward silence from the other end of the line. That
he would be staying with his father until he could find a place of his own only made matters worse. Every day in that house
would be a reminder of what they both had lost. Much had changed since the last time they had lived under the same roof. What
concerned Cole was that he knew just how much remained exactly the same.