Skeletons at the Feast (14 page)

Her father took his fingers off her shoulders and clapped his hands together with the sort of exuberance he might have exhibited if he were about to build a snowman with her. It was so sudden that it caught her off guard. Then he picked up the two shovels from the ground, brushed the snow off them, and said--his voice almost mirthful--"You are the world to me, Anna: you and your brothers and Mutti. I hope you have always known that. At this point, you're all that matters. Everything else? Irrelevant. Those plates in the snow? The wineglasses? The carving knives? The Russians can have them, for all I care."

"Grandmother wouldn't want that, of course," she said, trying to sound equally cavalier about all they were losing. Though she hadn't known her grandmother well, the woman's inordinate affection for the family crystal and china was legendary, and a source of running jokes at holiday meals. The woman had been dead for nearly a decade, and still everyone would look warily toward the stairway that led to her long-empty bedroom and sitting room whenever someone accidentally broke a glass or discovered a chip on one of the plates. They half-expected to see her gliding down the steps and into the dining room, her nearly floor-length dark skirts sweeping across the heavy carpets and polished wood.

Her father smiled at her small joke and Anna was pleased. "No, she wouldn't," he agreed. "But your grandmother was not completely unreasonable. Unlike your uncle Karl, she would see that we haven't any choice but to leave. To go west. She would . . ."

"Yes?"

"She would have been a veritable whirlwind of organization and efficiency," he said and then sighed. "I don't know what the next weeks or months hold for us. For any of us. All we can do is our duty. I'm sorry it has come to this. But it has, and there is nothing else to be done. Now, since we can't bury these valuables, please start loading one of the wagons with feed for the horses. I think that should be the next task. Leave room in the other for the suitcases and trunks, and whatever your mother will pull from the pantry."

"How many horses will be coming?"

"Four. Two wagons. Four horses."

"Bogdana won't be one of them, will he?" she asked, referring to Theo's pony. She knew how this would sadden her brother.

Her father shook his head ruefully. "I'm sorry for that, too. I realize how disappointed Theo will be. But I want only the strongest horses we have."

"What about Balga? I know when you think of him, you think only of his speed, but--"

"I know how powerful Balga is. Plan on having him help lead one of the wagons. Also, bring Waldau. Theo likes him, too, doesn't he?"

Anna nodded. Theo wasn't a strong enough rider yet or even physically large enough to manage Waldau outside of their training ring, but he did indeed love that animal. Bringing that horse would be some consolation for the boy.

"Pair him with Balga," her father continued.

"And the other animals?"

He hesitated. Then: "The Russians will be here soon enough. The horses won't go hungry."

"And the car, Father?"

The car--the vehicle that her father and Helmut had driven to Uncle Karl's that morning--was a BMW sedan from 1934. It was big and roomy, and Anna had fond memories of long drives in which she had dozed in the deeply cushioned backseat. It had grown nearly impossible to find replacement parts for the engine as the war had dragged on, however, and there was no longer a spare tire.

"No car. We don't have much petrol left. We used almost the last we had this morning when Helmut and I went to your uncle's." Together they started back toward the house, and the snow felt heavy on her boots. She noted once again how differently her father moved in his army uniform: His strides were longer, his posture more erect. "And I can't imagine petrol will be easy to come by in the coming months," he added. "Whatever Germany has will be needed by the army."

There was one final question pressing upon her, and she wasn't sure how to broach it. Whether she could broach it. But it was a subject that had been troubling her for days: their prisoner. Her Callum. Neither her father nor Mutti had given her any indication at all of their plans for the man. He had been living inside the house for over a month now, but his room was the slim maid's quarters off the kitchen and she had been careful to give her parents no inkling that he was anything more to her than a field hand she found entertaining in the absence of other, more appropriate companions. He had dined with them while her father and Helmut had been gone, but now that they were back to load up the house, once more--with an unspoken understanding of his real position--he had vanquished himself from the dining room.

"Father?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

"There is one thing we haven't talked about," she began tentatively, aware that she could still raise a different topic if she proved unable to ask about the POW.

"The Scotsman," he said.

"How . . ."

"How did I know?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "This farm works because I do. I'm sure I'm not aware of everything that goes on under my roof," he said, and she glanced at him, but he seemed to be consciously averting his eyes. "But I do think about the people who live here. My family. My servants. My farmhands. I try to do what's best for them--what, in my opinion, is best for them."

Behind them there was a particularly loud blast, but her father seemed almost oblivious of it. He continued, "And that includes the Scotsman. A part of me thought it would be best for everyone if we just left him behind. Allowed the Russians to find him--emancipate him, if you will--and let them send him home to his Scotland. The Russians are, after all, his allies."

"But you're not going to do that," she said, hoping there had been no trace of entreaty in her voice and it had sounded to her father as if she were merely continuing his train of thought.

"No, I'm not," he told her. "I'm not because I don't trust the Russians. And, in truth, I don't trust the Germans. At least all of us. The Russians are slaughtering virtually everyone in their path, and we--SS, SA, Wehrmacht, it no longer matters--wouldn't look much more kindly on a British soldier wandering aimlessly in our midst. But Callum is a good man. And he has value."

"As a worker?"

"As a Brit. We're going west, Anna. Your mother and I agreed last night that to keep you and your little brother safe, we will trek as far west as we have to. And that means that eventually we may reach the British or the Americans at the western edge of the Reich. If we do, it would be helpful to have Callum with us to, well, vouch for us. Speak on our behalf."

She said nothing because she knew her voice would betray the giddiness and the relief she was feeling. She couldn't imagine where she would be in a week, but the idea that Callum would be with her made the future less ominous.

"Go get him," her father said. "Have him help you load the feed."

She nodded carefully, biting her lower lip so it wouldn't transform itself into a smile. It was starting to spit snow once again, and it was possible to imagine that the field guns in the distance were merely the echoes of an approaching storm.

normally in the night they might have played music or unraveled sweaters to make mittens for the men fighting at the front. Anna and Mutti would knit, and Theo would write the soldiers small notes. It was part of the total war effort, and now that Theo was old enough to be a member of the Hitler Youth, his contribution was the letters. He liked writing the notes, because it meant that he had something to bring when he attended the meetings. And that, in turn, lessened the chance that the boys who led the group would find reasons to pick on him. But he also liked the challenge of finding something to say to a stranger that might make him feel better. Perhaps make him feel a little less frightened. Theo knew he would be scared if he were a soldier. All he had to do was envision his brother Werner's scarred legs to know how dangerous it was out there, or think of the long list of neighbors and cousins and the older brothers--and fathers!--of schoolmates who were dead or missing in action to know how hazardous it was to be a soldier. He didn't honestly know if more people were dying now than two or three years ago, because he wasn't sure how aware he had been of what was occurring when he was seven and eight years old. But you couldn't go into the village, it seemed, without seeing a young man on the street with an empty sleeve where there should have been an arm, or the pants leg of his trousers pinned up as he hobbled along on a pair of crutches. It was awfully clear that he had to be certain that what he wrote to the soldiers was uplifting.

Sometimes, he would begin with the suggestions of the older man who was in charge of their unit. The ideas were bland, but the words nonetheless seemed to give him momentum. Thank you for protecting us from our enemies, he would begin. Or Thank you for serving the Fatherland. Heil Hitler! But then he would allow himself a little creativity.

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I hope these mittens keep you warm.. My sister knitted them. She's the prettiest girl I know.

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I hope these mittens keep you very warm,. My sister knitted them. The wool is from an old sweater my brother doesn't need anymore.

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I hope these mittens keep you very warm,. My sister knitted them. The wool is from an old sweater my brother doesn't need anymore, but only because he's gotten very big in the shoulders from fighting and marching. He was hurt once when he was riding on a tank, but he's fine now. He has scars on his legs, but he can walk and run.

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I hope these mittens are the warmest you've ever had. My sister knitted them. The wool is from an old blue sweater my brother doesn't need anymore, but only because he's gotten very big and strong in the shoulders from fighting and marching. He's an excellent soldier. He was hurt once when he was riding on a tank and a Russian fired a shell at it, but he's fine now. Mostly he's fine. He has bad scars on his legs, but he can walk and run and I know he is very proud to serve the Fatherland. He wants to be a farmer when the war is over, like our father. I hope you are safe. Heil Hitler!

.

There were always more notes than there were mittens, because it took a lot longer to knit a pair of mittens than it did to write a note--even when you were as conscientious as Theo. As a result, the care packages were supplemented with decks of playing cards and hard candies and whatever trinkets a local family could spare. Almost everything of value was scarce, but the group leader said it was the notes that mattered most--which left Theo even more worried that his letters were painfully inadequate, and thus resolved to spend even more time on each one. It also left him wondering why in the world some young man hunkered down in Italy or behind the Siegfried Line wanted to hear from some boy from the middle of nowhere. Didn't they have families of their own to write them? Their own girlfriends and wives and, in some cases, children?

Evidently not. At least not always.

Still, he had to be careful not to write notes that were too long, because he had a quota he was supposed to bring to each meeting. If he brought too few notes, he would be yelled at. If he wrote notes that were too brief, he would be yelled at. It was a balancing act and--like everything else, it seemed--a source of pressure.

He thought there had once been a time in his life when his days had been fun. Wasn't he smiling in the photographs taken when he was a very small child? But he honestly wasn't sure.

And now tonight, instead of gathering with his family in the ballroom or the parlor, he was alone in his room and he was supposed to be packing--though he wasn't supposed to pack much. Again, the mixed message: Be thorough, but bring as little as you can. And so instead of watching Anna knit or listening to his mother or Callum play music, he was finding his warmest clothes and his favorite books and trying to wedge everything into a suitcase. Not even a trunk. A suitcase. It just didn't seem possible.

Tomorrow they were going to leave, but he hoped it was only for a short while. He wasn't sure how he was going to say good-bye to his pony. When his father had told him that Bogdana wasn't coming, he had had to fight hard not to cry. Same as when he had been mucking the animal's stall later that afternoon. He had felt his eyes welling up, and he'd had to look away from the animal as he worked. Who was going to care for him until they returned? Everybody was leaving. His father had suggested that Basha--their cook--and her brother would care for the animals, but he had his doubts. He detested Basha. Thought she had never liked the Germans. Her brother, too. The man was a mean-spirited giant with a single eye and an arm that was always twitching, which was probably the reason why he was even still around, rather than working in a coal mine or a factory in Silesia. He certainly couldn't--or wouldn't--help much with the animals. And neither Basha nor her brother was about to stand up to the Russians if they asked for the horses.