Hope at Dawn (16 page)

First I lose Blanche, then Robert, and Tom, and now Friedrick.

Hot tears stung her eyes, but she refused to shed them. Thoughts of Tom sacrificing his life on the field of battle reminded Livy that she also had a duty to perform. It was teaching—she wasn’t here to make or keep friends. She was here to do a job.

She sprang up from her makeshift seat and marched toward home. The walk was much shorter this time. She collected the bond poster from her cabin and returned to the school.

Livy nailed the poster to the front wall and stepped back. Her fury paled as she read the bold words through again:
ARE YOU 100% AMERICAN? PROVE IT. BUY U.S. GOVERNMENT BONDS.
She would likely offend some of her students’ families—and Friedrick—but she’d been asked to do something by the superintendent and she needed to do it.

Her chin high, she headed for the door. From now on, she’d concentrate solely on her teaching position—and avoid interacting with Friedrick as much as possible.

H
ere’s your breakfast,” Sheriff Tate called out as he approached the cell where Friedrick and his cell mate, an old man, were both lying on their cots.

Friedrick stuffed his book beneath his pillow, grateful the sheriff still hadn’t noticed it was printed in German. He sat up, the worn cot creaking in protest, and stretched his sore muscles. The bed was anything but comfortable, and sleep hadn’t come easily the last three nights. He kept half expecting, half fearing, the superintendent to march into the jail and fire him. No one had come, though, except the old man the night before.

The sheriff unlocked the door and slid two trays across the floor. “You’re free to go this afternoon, Wagner,” he said, locking the door again.

Friedrick’s stomach rumbled from the smell of the mush. The food was tasteless and uninteresting, but he forced himself to eat it anyway. The jail inmates were fed only twice a day. What he wouldn’t give for some of Elsa’s delicious cooking right now.

Balancing the tray on his knees, Friedrick wolfed down the bland oatmeal and overcooked toast. His cell mate continued to snore softly. He probably ought to wake the old man since the breakfast would be a thousand times worse once it cooled.

He didn’t know much about his cell mate. The man had come in after dark, and after a friendly nod at Friedrick, he’d curled up onto the other cot and gone to sleep.

Friedrick finished eating and set his tray near the door. He hoisted the full one to give to the old man. Even as unappetizing as it was, the untouched food called at him to sneak a few bites to ward off the hunger still clawing at his belly. But he couldn’t do it.

He cleared his throat loudly and approached the old man’s cot. When the noise failed to rouse him, Friedrick gave the bony shoulder a gentle shake with his free hand.

The man’s eyes flew open, a wild look in their gray depths. He tried to rise, but his stiff body wouldn’t cooperate. He collapsed onto his side once more.

“Sorry to wake you,” Friedrick said. “The sheriff brought breakfast, and I figured you might want to eat it while it’s hot.”

The old man allowed Friedrick to help him sit up. “
Danke schön
.”

“
Bitte schön,
” Friedrick responded automatically as he handed over the tray. He hadn’t expected his cell mate to be German-American, too.

Friedrick returned to his cot and his book as the old man began slurping the mush.

“Does the sheriff know you’re reading a book in
German
?”

Friedrick studied the stranger. So that’s how he’d known Friedrick would understand German. He hadn’t expected such keen eyesight in one so old. “No, he doesn’t, and he won’t if neither of us tell.”

The man barked a loud laugh. “Hah. I like you, boy. Vhat is your name?”

“Friedrick. And you?”

“Peter Hoffmann. My farm is due east of town.” He spooned up more mush. Between swallows, he asked, “Vhat landed you in jail? Resisting enlistment?”

Friedrick shook his head. The matter-of-fact question from one of his own didn’t incite the usual guilt. “No, I have a farm deferment, since my father’s sick.” He ran his finger over the lettering on the book’s spine, thinking of Elsa and how much she prized these books. “My mother was overheard talking German on the telephone to Dr. Miller. She was needed at home, so I came in her place. What about you?”

The old man’s barking laughter preceded his answer again. “This is the second time I have been thrown in jail for refusing to buy bonds.”

Friedrick set his book aside, his interest peaked. No one he knew had resisted the wave of hate toward the Germans. “You told them no?”

“Ve are Mennonites, the vife and me. Ve do not support violence. That is vhy I vill not buy their bonds.”

“Didn’t you fear for your life by refusing?”

“Perhaps once or twice.” Peter shrugged, but a determined glint filled his gray eyes. “I think they fear having my death on their hands, so they do not threaten real harm. They have ransacked my barn and house and painted them yellow. But I vill not give in, even if it means long days in this place.” He waved his spoon at the stone walls and metal bars.

Peter’s story infused Friedrick with the hope of vindication. What if he and his family were to resist? What if they refused to buy liberty bonds next time, refused to let someone rob them of their savings because they were German-American?

Peter wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and bent forward, his gaze focused intently on Friedrick. “Listen here, though, Friedrick. That is not always God’s course, to make a stand. Every man has his own course to follow. This is mine, but you…” He pointed at Friedrick. “You must find yours.”

Friedrick offered him a noncommittal nod and lay back down on his cot. He feigned interest in his book again, but inside, his optimism had changed to despair. Peter’s last words echoed Pastor Schwarz’s.

When would it be Friederick’s time to resist—like Peter—his time to act against the injustice sweeping through their town? The idea of somehow avenging his people was dangerously tantalizing.

What of your family, though?

The simple question cooled his desire for revenge faster than water in winter. Friedrick couldn’t bear the thought of his siblings or parents coming to harm or persecution because of his actions.

No longer glorying in thoughts of retribution, his mind ran through the questions he’d been asking himself for weeks. Was there nothing he could do to stem the tide of anti-German sentiment? Would he have served his people better by fighting overseas?

The old frustrations threatened to engulf him until a thought, quiet but reassuring, slipped forward.
There are those who need you here.

“You mind helping me, Friedrick?” Peter asked, his words a near perfect echo of those in Friedrick’s head. “I vould like to lie down again. My head is hurting something fierce.”

Friedrick hurried to his feet. He took Peter’s breakfast tray and set it on the floor beside his own. The man’s toast hadn’t been touched and Friedrick almost wished he’d eaten it earlier. He helped the old man lie back down on his cot, but before Friedrick could return to his own bed, Peter gripped his arm with surprising strength.

“You did right by coming here for your mother,” Peter murmured, his voice low enough it wouldn’t carry to the other cells. “You keep looking after those you love and you vill know if that means resisting or not. God vill let you know and make you stronger for it either vay. Remember that, boy.”

Peter released him and shut his eyes. Friedrick walked back to his cot, marveling at the old man’s perceptiveness. The way ahead might not look clear to him, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t plain as day to the Lord.

His mind more at ease than it had been in days, Friedrick settled down to read. Sometime later, a low groan from Peter jerked his attention from the page. The wan light coming through the barred window made judging the time difficult, but Friedrick guessed a few hours had passed since the man had fallen asleep. The temperature inside the cell had dropped, too. There had to be a storm brewing outside.

Friedrick sat up and swung his legs over his cot. “Are you all right, Peter?”

Another groan emanated from Peter’s side of the cell followed by a loud whisper, “Is it varm in here, Friedrick? I feel so varm.” Peter pushed his blanket to the floor. A sheen of sweat shone on his lined forehead.

Friedrick moved to Peter’s cot and placed his hand on the man’s brow. He wasn’t just damp with sweat; he was hot to the touch. “Hold on, Peter. I’ll call for the sheriff.”

Hopefully the man would release Peter and let him return home to rest under his family’s care. Friedrick went to the cell door and hollered for Sheriff Tate. After a long minute, the sheriff lumbered over, a deep frown on his clean-shaven face. “What’s all the fuss, Wagner?”

“It isn’t me. Peter Hoffman here is sick.” Friedrick curled his hands around the cold bars. “He’s got a fever and was complaining earlier of a headache.”

The sheriff muttered a curse and unlocked the door. He stood over Peter for a moment, then touched the man’s forehead as Friedrick had done. “Jiminy. He’s roasting.” Peter coughed and rolled onto his side. “I’d better phone Doc Miller.”

In his hurry, the sheriff forgot to lock the cell door behind him. Friedrick eyed the unlatched door. He might be tempted to slip out early, but he wouldn’t. Not until he’d seen his new friend cared for.

As he waited for the doctor, Friedrick placed Peter’s forgotten blanket onto the end of the man’s cot. He walked to the window and peered through the bars and glass at the sky. Dark clouds crowded against one another like frightened animals. He considered telephoning his mother to bring the wagon, then changed his mind. Elsa and the children would be busy getting the farm ready for the storm.

Friedrick returned to his bed and attempted reading again, though he wished he could do something to help Peter instead. By the time he heard the sound of footfalls coming down the hall, the cell had grown dim from the storm, making it difficult to see the words on the page. He stuffed the book under his pillow and stood.

Dr. Miller entered the cell, the sheriff right behind him. The doctor showed no surprise at finding Friedrick there. Elsa must have explained the situation to him when he came to visit Friedrick’s father Sunday night.

The doctor examined Peter, then returned his instruments to his black bag. “He may only have a cold,” he said to Sheriff Tate before climbing to his feet. “But I think you would be wise to send him home, Walter.” There was a note of urgency in the doctor’s voice that belied the simple prognosis.

“A little cold, huh?” Sheriff Tate drew the doctor toward the cell door, though Friedrick could easily overhear him. “Is that all it is, Hans?”

Friedrick sat back down on his cot and feigned interest in his bag as he waited for the doctor’s answer. The familiarity between the two men wasn’t lost on him. Had they been friends for years or only since the doctor had changed his name? Would the sheriff be so quick to throw the doctor in here if he spoke German in public?

Dr. Miller blew out a heavy sigh, his face haggard. He leaned toward the sheriff and spoke in hushed tones. Friedrick caught a few words—something about influenza and different symptoms. It didn’t mean much to him. Now that the doctor had encouraged Peter’s release, he was anxious to be going himself.

“What do you mean, possible
casualties
?” the sheriff barked at the conclusion of the doctor’s speech. The word seemed to echo in the small cell. Friedrick chanced a look at Dr. Miller, but the man’s solemn gaze remained on Sheriff Tate.

“I do not know the whole story, Walter. But I would send the old man home—for good.”

“But Hans—”

“I would send them all home. We do not want this thing spreading. Drive Mr. Hoffmann back to his farm. Do you have a mask here?”

“One of them gauze things?” The sheriff shook his head.

“Go buy one at the drugstore if you do not have one and then drive the man home.” He stepped toward Friedrick. “Be careful around your father, Friedrick. If any of you catch a cough or fever, stay away from him until you are well.”

Friedrick answered with a nod, though he didn’t understand all the fuss over a possible cold. At the offhanded mention of a scratchy throat, Elsa would quickly make one of her herb poultices and quarantine the person to bed. Friedrick disliked wearing the potent concoction, but he’d long ago realized the benefits. He and his siblings were rarely sick for very long and never with anything serious.

“I guess you’re free to go then, son,” Sheriff Tate said to him.

Friedrick gathered his things, slung his bag over his shoulder, and crossed to the other cot. “Take care, Peter.” He gently squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Get well, friend.”

“Good-bye, Friedrick,” Peter whispered.

Friedrick followed the doctor and the sheriff from the cell. Neither one paid him any attention as he let himself out the jail’s main door. Rain splattered the sidewalk outside. Ducking under the eaves of the building, Friedrick removed his coat and cap from his bag and put them on. He hunched his shoulders against the damp and set off down the street.

The drops changed to sheets of rain before he’d even cleared the block. Soon the street emptied of its few occupants. Friedrick kept his head bent, though that meant the rain slipped down his coat collar.

He trudged along, doing his best to avoid the puddles, past the homes and farms at the town’s edge. Before long, his legs and back began to ache. Friedrick stopped to stretch his sore muscles. Clearly the inactivity of three nights in jail and two unsatisfying meals a day had drained him of his normal stamina.

Soon sweat broke out on his neck and arms. Friedrick loosened his coat and took it off, welcoming the rush of cold, wet air that swirled around him. He’d put it back on in a moment. The plummeting rain made it difficult to see very far down the road, but he figured he was nearing the school when a feeling of complete exhaustion stole over him. He tripped on something and nearly fell.

Friedrick removed his cap and let the rain wash some of the sweat from his forehead. Perhaps he was coming down with a cold, too. He returned the soaked hat to his head and continued on despite the sweat and fatigue. When he caught sight of Livy’s cabin, he halted again.

He didn’t like the idea of asking Livy for assistance, not after her coldness toward him in town. But he instinctively knew he wouldn’t make it home in one piece if he didn’t rest for a few minutes, out of the rain.

Once he’d dried off a bit and had some water to drink, he would head out again. He could surely be home by supper. The thought of something warm and filling to eat spurred him the last hundred yards to Livy’s doorstep.

Livy glanced up from her sketchbook at the rain spattering against the windowpane. Thankfully the weather hadn’t turned stormy until after she’d dismissed the children for the day. She didn’t like the idea of canceling school—again—due to the weather, though she imagined the children might welcome another respite after yesterday.