The Major's Daughter (6 page)

The last interviewee was August Wahrlich. He spoke English—he often served to translate English into German around the camp—and her father told her she could go back to the outer office. She passed close to the young German, measuring herself against him. She came to his shoulder.

She kept her head down and pretended to be busy at her desk, but her attention remained locked on the voices coming from her father's office. When Lieutenant Peters asked her a question, she answered it quickly, wanting silence so that she could hear August's voice through the walls. His English was only fair, she realized. It made her smile down at her paperwork to hear him say,
“Alles hangt vorl Kommandanton ab
,” then translate it into English,
Everything depends on the commandant
.

At last she heard him dismissed. The door opened and he stepped out.

“Good morning,” he said in English.

Collie realized he greeted them both. The guard from her father's office stood beside him. Collie could not stop blushing. She kept her eyes on her paperwork, but gradually she grew aware that he remained in front of her desk. When she glanced up, he handed her a piece of paper.

“It is a translation of a poem,” he said, the accents on his English phrasing somewhat blocky. “Ludwig Uhland. I remembered it from my school days. Do you like poetry?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“Your father said I could give this to you. I thought you might like it and perhaps help me with my translation to English.”

He extended the paper farther. She took it and felt herself trembling.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'm sure I will enjoy it.”

“The translation was difficult and it is not very good, I'm afraid. I have the other German put there.”

“The original?”

“Yes,” he said.

Then the guard told August to step out. August smiled, and she smiled in return. She kept the poem folded and put it to one side, the paper nearly burning her skin when she touched it.

 • • • 

He did not like to do it, but Major Brennan issued the order to put the Germans on bread and water. It was a shotgun approach, one he doubted would be particularly effective, but he felt helpless in the face of the escape. The prisoners would not respect weakness, nor would they take the reduction in rations lightly. He was in a bind; they all were. Little had been gained by the interviews of the work party. A tall, thin German by the name of William Zimmerman had made good his escape. That was the long and short of it. From all accounts, he was an unlikely candidate for escape. He had always followed orders willingly, had labored with a good heart in the initial phases of the work, and had caused no trouble that anyone could point to. He had trusted no one with his plans, from what Major Brennan could determine, nor had he been part of any larger conspiracy. His approach had been clever. He had slipped away before evening roll call, just as the men returned from work, stepping behind a wagon or into the tree line beyond the camp, and from there he had until reveille to get away. Major Brennan did not imagine he would get far, but you never knew.

Meanwhile, he waited for the Brown Paper Company to get back to him. It was a ticklish predicament. By putting the men on bread and water, he undermined their ability to work, thereby reducing the available labor force for the extraction of pulp. Geneva Conventions had specific guidelines about nutrition and what was required in order to let a man labor. A diet of bread and water would make the men weak. It was a muddle, certainly, and he waited for the call from Sherman Heights, president of the Brown Paper Company, with a headache building along his scalp line.

“Collie?” he called into the next room. “Are you there?”

She came in a moment later.

“Could you bring me some aspirin and a glass of water, please?”

“Of course, Papa.”

She disappeared and returned quickly. Coming through the door, he recognized her mother in her movements. He smiled softly to see it. He wondered if she knew how much she resembled her mother, his late wife, and wondered if she knew how beautiful she had become.

“Sit with me for a moment,” he said, taking the pills and the water from her. “Thank you.”

“Quite a day,” Collie said, sitting in front of the desk.

“They'll be on bread and water for a time,” he said, putting the pills on his tongue and then washing them down with water. “My hands are tied.”

“Can they still work?”

He shook his head.

“I can't put them to that kind of work if they're not eating.”

“How long will you keep them on it?”

He shrugged. He took another sip of water.

“You look like your mother sitting there. Do you know how much you resemble her? I'm not sure I've told you.”

“I have some idea.”

“You do, you know. It's in your movement as much as anything, and sometimes in your voice.”

“Is it painful to see?”

“No, not at all, sweetheart. It's a delight. One of the few I can count on these days.”

He looked out. The harsh light of midday had given way to the mountain shadows of early evening. He rubbed his temples. He watched her brighten.

“Well,” she said, “if some good news will make you feel better, I should tell you that Estelle is coming for a visit. She confirmed it today in a letter. She'll arrive in a week or so. So now you'll have two young women to escort around the camp.”

“Oh, I'm glad to hear that. She'll keep good company with you.”

“I'll take her everywhere. I already have a dozen things planned out.”

“Good. You need to consort with some people your own age. Maybe you could host a small reception to introduce her to people. Mrs. Hammond would let you use the parlor, I'm sure.”

“I thought of that. But who would I invite?”

“Oh, the Chapman girls, and some of the guards. I don't know. Perhaps you'll invite your German beau.”

He watched her blush. He smiled.

“He didn't pass along a secret plan for mutiny, did he? He's not asking you to spy, I hope. He said he had a poem for you.”

“Papa! He gave me a poem and asked me to go over his translation of it.”

“I see. Well, I probably shouldn't have permitted it. Be careful. The last thing we need is the story of the daughter of the camp's commandant becoming involved with a German prisoner. You understand that, don't you?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Papa.”

“All right. But just the same, he's very handsome. Even as an old man, I can see that. But we're still at war with the Germans. These men were pointing rifles at us not long ago. Keep that in mind. Sometimes with the everyday routine of the camp, it's hard to remember, but keep it in mind.”

“You don't have to remind me of that, Papa.”

“Yes, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Help him with the poem if you like, but that will be the end of it, all right?”

“You're lecturing me like a schoolgirl.”

“I don't mean to. Sorry, I'm annoyed with this bit of business about the escaped prisoner. The press will slaughter us over it. And I'll doubtless have to speak to the town fathers. It just makes for more work all the way around.”

“I understand. Let me know if I can help.”

Major Brennan stared at his daughter. It was rare to see her so uneasy about a young man. She blew air over her top lip and stood. Before she left the room, he sounded her out on something else.

“I'm expecting a call from the Brown Paper Company; they've invited us to a party and I didn't know what to tell them. Would you like to attend? I guess it's a small birthday celebration for the mother, Eleanor, I think it is. I can beg off without any problem, but I wanted to run it by you.”

“When is it?”

“The day after tomorrow, I think. It's not particularly formal. No need for fancy dressing.”

“We should go, shouldn't we? But I wouldn't mind dressing up, you know. It would do us both good.”

“Probably,” he said, and then the intercom buzzed. “That's the old man now. I'll tell him we'll attend, if it's okay with you. Give us a night out, anyway.”

He watched his daughter leave the room. Then he pushed a button and listened as Sherman Heights's secretary informed the major that she had Mr. Heights and that she would pass him to the president immediately.

 • • • 

Henry Heights watched his brother, Amos, dance with a girl named Dolly, both of them drunk and vining around each other. Now and then Amos ran his hand up Dolly's side, trying to touch her breasts, and Dolly, in a gesture like a person pushing up on a wall, moved his hand away and put it back on her waist. She had performed that same act a dozen times during the dance. Amos was too intoxicated to care or take notice, Henry knew. Henry was drunk himself, and he had consumed only half of what Amos had consumed.

The girl next to him, Charlene, watched Amos and Dolly dance, too. She wore strong lilac perfume and drank a gin fizz. She smoked Camels and constantly dug in her handbag; that seemed to be her chief occupation. Henry could not quite remember her background: she worked in Mexico, Maine, or maybe it was Rumford, and she was up visiting Dolly for the weekend. She had leaned into him twice and put her hand on his thigh. Now, he supposed, she was inattentive because he had not responded. Amos responded instantly to women, staking out territory as if a date were a military campaign, but Henry simply felt uneasy in the haze of hands and drinks. He always had. Besides, he was tired and wanted to turn in, but he imagined Amos was set on having a big night and he doubted they would make it home much before dawn.

Amos and Dolly returned to the table when the jukebox flipped over onto a new record. Lester Young began singing “Stardust.”

“You two not dancing?” Amos asked, his voice drunken and tight and watery. “What's wrong with my brother? Is he being a wet blanket, darling? He sometimes is, but he can't help himself. Is he being a wet blanket?”

Amos asked the question of Charlene, but she missed it for digging in her purse. Like a badger or groundhog, Henry thought drunkenly. Like an animal trying to dig into the earth.

“Let's have another round,” Dolly said, wobbling a little on her feet. “We could use another round.”

“Now you're talking,” Amos said. “Now you're making perfect sense.”

“We may have had enough,” Henry said, though he knew it was futile to say it.

“Enough? Now come on, Henry, we have to have a little fun, don't we? This is our first night out in the old haunts in a long time. We're haunting the old haunts,” he said again, evidently amused at his construction, then straightened and called to the bartender. “Ernie, another round, my good man. The same poison. The same concoctions. We'll keep trying till we get it right. Until we perfect them.”

Amos sat and dragged Dolly onto his lap. Dolly was a Berlin girl, younger than any of them. She worked in the restaurant at the local bowling lanes. She had dark hair and a slim waist and she wore a bright black-and-white-checked skirt that made Henry think of checkers. She leaned back onto Amos's lap, yawning as she went. Some of her hair had come loose on the right side of her head and it dangled down. She fit Amos's lap like a viola. Now and then, despite her drowsiness, she shot a hand down to stop Amos from exploring too freely beneath the table.

“You're horrible,” she said to Amos after one of his attempts and just before the next round arrived. “Did you know how horrible he is, Henry? Just the devil, your brother. Charlene, didn't I warn you? Didn't I say Amos is a devil?”

Charlene nodded. She looked up only when Ernie, the bartender and owner, appeared with the next set of drinks.

“This place is for the birds,” Charlene said after Ernie withdrew. “Just for the birds. I thought we were going out someplace special.”

“This is special,” Amos said, nuzzling Dolly's neck. “This is where everyone goes. This is where the elite go to meet.”

“Well, if this is the elite, I don't know where that puts me,” Charlene said, taking her gin fizz off the cork-bottomed platter Ernie used to serve them. “Some big night out.”

“This is the only place open this late,” Amos said. “Stow that gab.”

“Let's drive over and see the Krauts,” Dolly said. “You said we could. I want to see them!”

“They'll be asleep now,” Amos said, his hand beneath the table, making Dolly shift quickly on his lap. “They went nighty-night.”

“I wouldn't mind getting out of this dump,” Charlene said.

“You're a picky one,” Amos said, turning a drunken eye on her. “Dolly, your friend is a picky one.”

“They'll be waking up by the time we get there,” Dolly said. “Can't we go? Can't we please, please go?”

She kissed Amos and wiggled a little deeper into his arms. Henry felt resigned to whatever happened. The last thing he wanted was to drive to Stark to see the German prisoner-of-war camp in the middle of the night, but he couldn't think of a way to get out of it without being again called a wet blanket.

“Your wish is my command,” Amos said, chucking Dolly up onto her feet and grabbing his drink. “Let's go. You have to promise not to get fresh in the car, though.”

Dolly laughed and slapped his arm lightly. Amos drained half of his drink. He took a big, breathy inhalation to steady himself. Henry stood and said he'd drive.

“The hell you will,” Amos said. “I'm your big brother, so it's up to me to drive. You take a ride in the backseat with Charlene. Charlene, you promise to keep your hands to yourself in the dark?”

“Sure I do,” Charlene said, coming alive a little at the prospect of a drive. “I love a car ride.”

In no time Henry found himself standing beside the family Oldsmobile, its front wheels jammed up on the lawn beside Ernie's Tavern. Amos had wheedled a bottle of rye from Ernie. He grasped it as if choking its neck, the brown paper bag around it rolled back as a collar. Amos held the door open for Dolly and she slid inside. Henry did the same for Charlene and then climbed in beside her. She had apparently refreshed her lilac perfume, because she gave off a haze of fragrance, slightly tinged by the scent of gin.