The Major's Daughter (4 page)

But his cutting crew, at least, had no grudge against the Americans. August had already served as a translator to ask questions of the American guards: when did they think the war would end, and what did they miss the most from their wartime privations, and girls, what were American girls like? The questions had been lighthearted for the most part, and the Americans had slowly warmed to both the questions and the crew. Now isolated in the woods, at least two kilometers from camp, August felt at ease, though his hands had already blistered and his arms and shoulders ached from dragging the saw back and forth and limbing the trees with an ax.
Eine klafter pro kopf,
one cord per man per day. That was the camp's motto.

“All right, back to work,” one of the guards, Private Mitchell, said when Gerhard returned with the horse. “We'll be here until nightfall at this rate.”

Gerhard turned the horse in the clearing they had forged at the base of the small rise. Flies swarmed all over the poor animal, and the horse flicked his tail and lifted his hind leg to brush them away. The horse's name was Bob. Gerhard, the only farmer among them, had immediately taken charge of the animal. Gerhard was a solid, doleful character, who happened to be one of three Austrians among the prisoners. August felt a natural affection for him. He had known many men like him back in his home country—good, honest souls with square heads, men whose hands worked the soil and woodlands. Often Gerhard spoke longingly of the dogs he left behind, a breed he had fashioned himself by crossing wolfhounds and spaniels. He called them
bread-dogs
,
kruh
-hounds, and he outlined the animal's family tree as though they were human relatives.

“Ask them if we work on Easter, too,” William said.

William was tall and skinny, with bad skin and a long nose above teeth too prominent for his narrow face.

August called the question up to the guards. The guards did not seem to know the answer. They discussed it for a moment before the second guard, Private Ouellette, responded that he didn't think so.

“Against the Geneva Conventions,” Hans said, picking up the saw and extending the other end to Howard, the last member of their crew. Howard and Hans had similar builds, short and blocky, and they had both been meatcutters in civilian life. They went everywhere together, and talked about their trade before the war, and how, in time, the meat had grown rarer and coarser. Their discussion of meat seemed to be endlessly fascinating to them; they seemed determined to ride out the internment together.

“They must observe holidays. It's mandatory,” Howard said.

“You put too much faith in the Geneva Conventions,” Hans said. “They can bloody well do what they like with us.”

“Not if they want their own boys looked after.”

“There's a lot of ocean between here and there.”

Listening, August wondered if anyone knew what the Geneva Conventions permitted or disallowed. Everyone talked about them as if they knew them to the last letter, but he doubted anyone in the barracks had ever read them. He certainly hadn't. Nevertheless, it was a magic wand that entered every conversation, used however it was needed for the moment. The Nazis in the camp laughed at the mention of the Geneva Conventions. They claimed such covenants were for weaklings.

August began limbing the next tree, a thick spruce with a sharply braided trunk. He used a broadax, chopping the smaller branches easily. Once he had the tree cleared of obstacles, Hans and Howard would saw it into five-meter lengths. Finally they would attach a chain to the trees and drag them down to the landing. From there a truck would eventually come and transport them to the mills in Berlin. But the truck would not come until they had a sufficient load, and so the day went round and round, not unpleasantly, but not easily, either. The work satisfied August, at least to some degree. It was straightforward and uncomplicated; it required none of the moral philosophizing that the war had carried with it day to day.

They worked until four o'clock. It was only their fourth day on the job, and August felt his legs tremble as he joined the crew for the walk back to camp. He felt hot and sweaty, and his hands stung horribly from blisters. In time, perhaps, they would grow accustomed to the work, but for the time being he marveled at the exhaustion that poured through his body. The guards, fortunately, behaved sensibly: they did not force the Germans to move faster than necessary.

In fact, the guards gave them permission to wash in Mill Stream, the small brook that ran down into the oddly named river at the base of the camp. When the guards first mentioned it, August watched the other men tighten. They worried about a trick, or some darker impulse that let the guards suggest a washup, but the guards' faces remained friendly and open.

“Go ahead, tell them they can wash here if they like. They worked hard today,” Private Mitchell said, directing his comments to August.

“Does he mean it?” William asked.

“I think he does,” August said. “If they meant to shoot us they could have done so already.”

August stripped out of his shirt and shoes and dipped his face in the water. It felt wonderful. He stood on the bank and slipped out of his trousers, then stepped into the water and fell into a kidney-shaped pool that had been carved out of a stream bank. The others did the same, wading in and splashing, shouting and laughing now that they felt secure in taking a quick bath. August lay back and let his body float in the stream, and for a moment he remembered the heat of Africa, the burned bodies dangling like fuses from the Panzer tanks outlined against the wadis. It had all been hideous, not at all like the war they had been promised, and when the Anglo-American forces had surrounded them, the German company had surrendered on its knees like so many headstones. Yes, that was what he remembered as he lay in the water, feeling the coolness restore his body, the taste of soil and grasses mixed with the ripe scent of the stream. In the silence won by putting his ears beneath the water's surface, he saw the men splashing and laughing, watched the guards smiling, cigarettes in their hands, and a beam of light falling gently through the treetops. It called to mind a painting, something he had seen as a schoolboy, but now he failed to recall the name. It had been an impressionist, likely, a concentration of paint and light and bright colors, and as he let the water carry him to the heel of the small pool, he felt himself flying over the ocean, returning to his home, to his mother and father and his brother, Frederick. He did not know if they had survived, but in the stream light it seemed possible they may have lived, and he felt a moment's relief from his anguish and worry.

When he sat up, the men had turned, like so many weather vanes, to the sight of the commandant's daughter walking from the camp.

“There she goes,” Hans said, and he did not have to identify further who he meant. She was the object of every eye in camp.

August sat up quickly to see her. She hurried past, obviously embarrassed to see men—German prisoners!—bathing in a stream. He watched her walk away, her form lovely and so different from the endless men who surrounded him. He smiled and looked at the other men and they all smiled as well. Even the guards could not pretend disinterest.

“
Sie ist hübsch
,” Howard said.
Very pretty.

“What is her name anyway?” Gerhard asked, then revised himself in English. “Her name?”

He rested on his arms in the stream. He looked like a seal to August.

“Collie,” Private Mitchell said. “Short for Colleen.”

 • • • 

Mrs. Hammond served Easter dinner at two o'clock and it came off beautifully, with sufficient food for every taste. That was one benefit of having the prisoners, even Mrs. Hammond admitted: the War Department sent train cars of food into Percy Station. People grumbled that the German prisoners ate better than the American population, and that was partially true, Collie imagined. She had read the editorial, printed just the day before, concerning the scarcity of food across the country, the ceaseless rationing that touched every facet of their lives, while the Germans had food and gasoline made available to them. It seemed a grave injustice to the editorial writer, but Collie wondered if the author had seen the German prisoners up close. They had been through a great deal, obviously, and no one with an ounce of charity in his heart could begrudge them decent food. Besides, the men required the food for work.

Collie glanced out the window at the gloomy day. The weather was mixed and a cold front had lowered over the mountains to reclaim the last memories of winter. Collie sat with her father beside the sparkling fire. Her father, she saw, dozed off now and then, his head drifting rearward against the large chairback before he snapped forward and straightened it once more. He resisted sleep, she knew, because he wanted to visit the camp again before darkness. She had plans to go riding with the Chapman girls, though she was not certain if the weather would curtail the outing.

Meanwhile, she wrote a letter to Estelle, outlining in broad strokes what had occurred in the camp over the last several days. It was difficult to know where to draw a line in what she told her friend. She had already clipped out a number of the pertinent stories from the
Littleton Courier
and the
Berlin Reporter
; she had even drawn arrows on the photographs the paper published to show Estelle where the men went and how they lived. It felt like doing a report for school, and she realized, as she came to the last paragraphs of the letter, that she had perhaps taken greater delight in assembling the report than might have been entirely friendly. She had loved doing such work at Smith, and she was aware of allowing her friend to serve as a surrogate professor. Estelle, her faithful friend, would read every word of it and respond in kind. But Collie knew she did the report for her own benefit at least as much as she did to service their communication. She couldn't help it.

The phone rang somewhere in the house, and Collie heard Mrs. Hammond's voice speaking. A moment later Mrs. Hammond came in and said the Chapman girls would arrive by three. The weather, she said, promised to clear. Mrs. Hammond's voice stirred her father, who groggily climbed to his feet and put his back to the fire.

“Excellent meal,” he told Mrs. Hammond before she departed. “Thank you for a lovely Easter dinner.”

“It came out fairly well,” Mrs. Hammond said, her face blushing a little at the compliment. “Tell me, though, Major, I've heard the Germans have a professional cook up at the camp.”

“It's true. He was the head chef at a hotel in Munich. Apparently he's quite gifted. You have competition in your small valley here, Mrs. Hammond.”

“I'm sure I'm not competition for a professional chef,” Mrs. Hammond said, obviously in a little turmoil at the news. “What hotel was that?”

“I don't know, but I'll ask and let you know. I guess he intends to plant a garden for the mess kitchen, which is a good idea in any case. He requisitioned a few packets of seeds.”

“A garden is a good thing.”

Mrs. Hammond left.

“That's quite a letter you have there,” her father said, nodding at the papers surrounding her. “Is that for Estelle or the
New York Times
?”

“Estelle, Papa.”

“Well, she'll be glad to have your news, I'm sure. This war can't last forever, you know. You can go back to Smith when it ends.”

“Oh, I think that day has passed, Papa.”

“Not necessarily. The Germans can't hold out too much longer, from what I hear. Their situation isn't good.”

“We'll hope for a quick ending.”

“So you are going riding with the Chapman girls? It was nice of them to invite you. You'll be riding the big draft horses, I'm afraid.”

“Still, it will be fun.”

“There have been cars all day up at the camp. People are using their gas rations to take a ride past the fence and stare at the Germans. It's like a zoo to them.”

“The girls want to see the soldiers, too.”

“So I've heard. We have a couple romances brewing. I've made it clear there will be no fraternization. That's the last thing we need.”

“Life goes on one way or the other.”

Her father's face suddenly turned solemn.

“Life should go on for you, too, Collie. I feel selfish that I have you up in this small village. You didn't enlist.”

“We all have to do our part.”

“That's true, but I worry that you should be leading a different kind of life. A life with parties and culture and—”

“And eligible men,” Collie said, smiling at the theme he came to often when he turned serious.

“Yes, well, maybe. Why not? Your mother would be cross with me for bringing you up to a tiny hamlet like this one with nothing to do socially but go riding with the Chapman girls.”

“You worry about it more than I do. I don't mind, Papa.”

“I know you don't. You're not like that. That's one of your grand traits. You get along no matter what, but I shouldn't trade on your good will.”

“We're lucky to be able to remain together as a family.”

He looked at her softly, then nodded.

“I'm going to take this letter upstairs and get ready for the ride. Are you leaving? Going back to camp?”

“I suppose so. That fire felt awfully good.”

“Well, you needed a little break from the camp. And Mrs. Hammond outdid herself. I think she may have a crush on you, Papa.”

“Oh, good grief.”

Their eyes met and they both began laughing. Mrs. Hammond was many wonderful things, certainly, but she wasn't a proper match for her father. Collie gathered the last of the clippings together, then kissed her father and carried the odds and ends up to her room. She washed quickly before climbing into a pair of old trousers and a heavy sweater. She peered out the window to check the weather. The Chapman girls had been correct: the sun had worked over the mountains and now bright sparks flashed on the Ammonoosuc River, and the afternoon shimmered like an animal lifting itself from the water and shaking itself dry.