The Major's Daughter (9 page)

“Thank you again,” she said to his mother, “it was so nice to be away from that dreary camp for an evening. I can't tell you.”

“Well, you'll have to visit again. Next time bring your friend . . . was it Estelle?” his mother asked.

“Yes, Estelle.”

“Please think of us as a port you can use whenever you need it. We have plenty of room.”

“You're too kind.”

Her hair dazzled. She wore a dark navy wool coat pulled close around her neck. Henry stepped forward and smiled, trying to act casual. He had wanted to speak to her alone throughout the evening, but the opportunity hadn't presented itself. Now he bowed slightly from the waist, and that, he understood, was absurdly out of place. His mother, however, apparently sensing the situation, moved away to bid farewell to the other guests. Collie glanced out the window, checking for their car.

“Do you like the cinema?” Henry asked. “I thought perhaps we could take in a movie. . . .”

“I love the cinema, but I'm afraid . . . ,” she said, looking back.

“Your friend is visiting, that's right. Well, the more the merrier. Perhaps some day next week.”

“That's very kind of you. I'll look forward to it.”

“I'll call you then. I know where to reach you.”

He meant it as a joke, but she hardly smiled. She looked out again for the car. He had overstepped, he thought. She had accepted—she
had
accepted, hadn't she?—merely because he had cornered her. It felt confusing. He didn't know if convention now meant for him to withdraw, or to stay and keep her company while she waited.

Fortunately her car arrived in time to save them both additional embarrassment. She smiled and pulled open the door.

“Thanks again,” she said, stepping out. “It was a treat to get away.”

“Thank you for coming.”

His face felt flushed. He closed the door after her. When he looked back into the party he spotted his brother, Amos, shaking his head.

“So did she say yes?” Amos asked.

Amos had consumed more whiskey, Henry knew. Amos's face became lupine when he drank, heavy and slack, while his lips turned scarlet.

“Leave me alone and give me a drink,” Henry said.

Amos passed him the thick flask he carried perpetually in his coat pocket. Henry poured a double shot in his punch glass.

“You'd be better off with Dolly and Charlene, but you won't listen to me,” Amos said. “Your big brother knows a few things.”

“You're all wet.”

“That may be,” Amos said, “but you'll come around to my way of thinking.”

“Mom likes her.”

“Of course, everyone likes her. She was made to reign in heaven.”

“Is my brother being poetic?”

Amos shrugged. A group of departing guests cut off the conversation. Henry shook hands, helped with jackets, said good-byes. His thoughts remained on Collie, however. He pictured her stepping into her coat, her delicate throat covered by the topmost button. He didn't care what Amos said. She was the kind of woman he wanted, and he planned to do what he could to make her his own.

Chapter Six

A
ugust heard the beating in the middle of the night. He knew the tactic: the squad of Nazis pinned the blankets down around the victim, then beat him with their handheld boots. The boots bruised the sufferer less than fists or kicks might do. Boots never broke bones, and therefore the Americans could pretend not to notice. But the boots beat the skin and muscles mercilessly, and August had seen more than one recipient walk with difficulty after such an ordeal. The Nazi squad especially liked to ram a boot into the prone man's testicles. The pain was shattering, August knew, but the injury could not be traced to the guilty men.

The beating lasted forever, August felt. He closed his eyes and trembled, guilty that he lacked the courage to stand and fight. But then, of course, he would be next. That was the Nazi advantage. They thrived with stealth and secret communication, employing their aptitude for violence as a tool. If all of the other men organized and stood together, the Nazis would be powerless. But it required one man, maybe ten, to stand up and risk a harsh beating. August hated himself that he was too cowardly to do so.

He pushed his head deeper into the pillow. The beating went on with broad huffs, air ejecting out of the victim in violent, explosive puffs. From the sounds alone, August could not determine who received the beating. In all likelihood, it was Erich, a small, mouselike man, who had made the mistake of challenging a Nazi's contention that the war progressed properly for the German forces. They had entered a dispute over a radio report that Mussolini and Hitler had met at Klessheim Castle near Salzburg. The report was propaganda, according to the Nazis, because it called Mussolini “dispirited and unconvinced” of the Germans' ability to bring London to its knees. Erich, stupidly, had countered; he had not known he spoke to a Nazi, and so his name went on the list of “soldiers in need of discipline.” That, at least, was as much as August could know for the moment. The beating might have been doled out to anyone, even to an innocent, simply to thicken camp discipline.

Finally it stopped. August heard the Nazi crew withdraw. The men stole out of the door and disappeared. When he was sure they were gone, August slipped quickly from his bed and went to find out who had been beaten. He had been correct: Erich, small and weak, lay bleeding in his bunk. His nose had been bloodied, his eye smashed with a boot. He seemed to have trouble breathing. August hardly had a chance to take an inventory of Erich's injuries when Gerhard arrived with a wet cloth. Carefully, they pulled the blankets back. Erich breathed in quickly from the pain of removing the blanket. It was like beating dough, August thought, the ribs and long muscles of the legs pummeled until they could not function properly.

“Don't move,” Gerhard said quietly. “Rest.”

“Dirty pigs,” Erich hissed.

“Shhhhh,” Gerhard whispered.

The other men in the barracks gathered around. They took one look at Erich and cursed. Many of them went back to bed. It was futile to stay and cluck, August knew. What could anyone do? Besides, some of the men might be Nazis themselves. They might simply pretend to sympathize, because the beating crews never came from one's own barracks. The Nazis were too shrewd for that. By raiding at night, they could administer their discipline, then leave behind spies to report the effects of their handiwork. Clever work, August conceded.

It took nearly an hour to staunch Erich's wounds and make him reasonably comfortable. By the time they finished, light had already begun to fill the eastern windows. August did not feel he could return to sleep. He invited Gerhard to go to breakfast. They would have to wait a half hour for food, he knew, but perhaps they could get coffee from the kitchen staff.

“We have to stop them,” August said when they were clear of the barracks. “We're behaving like cowards.”

“For all you know, I'm a Nazi,” Gerhard said. “I may report you.”

“If you are, then I despair about knowing anything.”

“Their day will come.”

“The Americans should step in. We could report them.”

“And be beaten doubly for making trouble? It's not worth it. The war will be over before the year is out.”

“You think so?” August asked, trying not to let his voice sound too hopeful.

“It's inevitable now. The Allies are too many against one. Italy is impotent. Trust me, the Nazis will have their sunset sooner than you think.”

Gerhard's words caused mixed emotions in August. He did not want Germany to lose, of course, but he did not see any way left to win. Win what? he sometimes wondered. With difficulty he forced such thoughts from his head. He was hungry and in need of coffee. The morning, he felt, was sharp and clear. He looked up to see the stars still glittering in the pale sky.

Near the refectory, he nearly stumbled on Bruno. The bear had been tied to a stake beneath a large maple tree. The prisoners had built him a small house and had secured toys for him. He had a deflated ball near him, and an assortment of bear replicas made of sticks and cloth. The entire enterprise had become slightly tawdry. What had begun as an amusing diversion now struck August as an act bordering on cruelty. How ironic, he thought, that men imprisoned a creature while being imprisoned themselves. A groundswell of protest had begun to bubble beneath the surface, but for the time being, at any rate, the bear still served as a mascot. Even in its short time in captivity, however, the creature had grown beyond mere cuteness, so people did not willingly play with it. It could rake with its claws, and if its teeth sunk into a bystander's leg, it was no longer a puppy bite.

“Shall we let it go?” August asked Gerhard.

The bear was plainly visible in the dull light of the refectory porch. It chewed on a bone someone had given it, its paws curled around the white surface like a dog anchoring a leg bone for a better bite. August saw the cooks and kitchen staff passing by the lighted windows. He looked around carefully. No one was about.

“It may not leave,” Gerhard said, “and besides, it can't get over the fence.”

“It's a crime to keep it here.”

“There are people who dote on him.”

“They should have left it where they found it. The mother would have come back for it.”

“People won't look kindly on your letting him go.”

“Who will tell them?”

August looked directly at Gerhard. Gerhard returned his look for a moment, then shrugged.

“Go ahead,” he said.

August worked quickly. Someone had downsized a belt to serve as a collar. August slipped it off and gave the bear a quick rub of affection. The bear didn't move at first, but gradually it stood and sensed its freedom from the collar. It made a deep, whining sound, then it moved back into the shadows and blended with the remaining darkness. August doubted it had the good sense to leave. It would likely circle around the camp, causing mischief wherever it went, then someone would return it to its post and collar. Nevertheless, it felt good to see the bear go free. He smiled at Gerhard. Gerhard patted him on the back.

“Let's see if we can get coffee,” Gerhard said.

 • • • 

Collie had difficulty containing herself as she dressed for the day. Estelle was due to arrive later in the afternoon! Despite the quick telegram affirming her arrival dates, Collie could hardly believe her friend, her former classmate at Smith, would simply step off a train and find herself in Stark, New Hampshire. It felt as remarkable as time travel from a science fiction novel. She could hardly grant that a person might get on a train in Ashtabula, Ohio, spend a day or two traveling, and then, without any great fanfare, step onto a train platform hundreds of miles away. It struck Collie as profoundly normal, something so prosaic, at the same time so extraordinary, that it thrilled her to think of it.

It was all a whirl. Somehow the speed of news had increased. It seemed every day now brought news of a recent conquest over the German forces. Her father opined privately that the Germans could not hold out much longer. Eisenhower was said to be planning something formidable, something that could happen any day, and it would be a hammer blow that would send the Germans reeling. Collie fervently hoped so. She felt tired of the war, as tired as if she fought it herself, though she knew she needed to maintain a strong front for her father.

When she finished dressing, she made the bed carefully with fresh sheets. She had already tidied the room and cut flowers—irises and ox-eyed daisies—and placed them in a vase near the bed. She worried, briefly, that Estelle would find the accommodations rather humble, but then she scolded herself for thinking such a thing. It was unfair to expect Estelle to be judgmental about her housing. She knew very well what she was coming to see.

Downstairs, Collie helped Mrs. Hammond and the serving girl, Agnes, serve breakfast. The weather was fine, and the windows let in a cool morning breeze that seemed to wait for the heat of the sun to catch up to it. Mrs. Hammond had fewer boarders now. More men had gone south to the munitions factories. If not for the German prisoners, Collie knew from her father, the Brown Paper Company would be forced to cease production.

“There was a man by here this morning with a piano in his truck,” Mrs. Hammond said, stirring porridge. “He was looking for you.”

“Where did you send him?”

“Up to the camp. I figured someone would tell him where to unload it.”

“What kind of piano was it?”

Mrs. Hammond looked up from her cooking. Clearly she had no idea.

“I requisitioned a spinet,” Collie explained. “It's the most portable.”

“Well, he had quite a list of things in the truck, but the piano had your name on it.”

So that was the second great feature of the day. A visit from her friend, plus a piano! The idea of a piano called August to mind. She longed to see him play. He had not told her yet what he thought of her translation. They had not had an occasion to speak; it was complicated by his status as a prisoner. In quiet moments she imagined him reading the poem as carefully as she had, but that might have been a delusion on her part. It was possible, she imagined, that he read it once and then put it aside. She chided herself from making too much of the poem in the first place. She vowed to keep a better leash on her imagination.

Outside, the weather could not have been more perfect. She paused on the porch to look out at the river. It ran calmly by, its spring torrents gone to the sea by now. The deciduous trees had leafed out; everything shone green and promising. Before she could take a step toward camp, Marie suddenly appeared, dressed for school. She looked a proper schoolgirl, Collie thought, outfitted in a simple navy pinafore with a straw hat pinned to the back of her hair. The outfit made Marie appear younger, more a girl than a young woman. She clamored up the stairs and immediately began peppering Collie with questions about Estelle.

“Do you think she will be too tired tonight to have visitors?” Marie asked. “I won't stay long. I have to see her, though. I feel as if I already know her!”

This was a common theme by now and Collie tried to be tactful.

“She's come a long way. We'll have to see.”

“You said she was very elegant,” Marie said, as if confirming a mental picture she had adorned with her imaginings. “I wonder what she'll wear. Traveling clothes, I imagine. But what
are
traveling clothes?”

“She's very beautiful and very refined.”

“And her father is a physician?”

“Yes, Marie, a physician. They live in a large Victorian house in Ashtabula, Ohio. Her mother is in charge of the local Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. They have a hundred pets about their house.”

“I'd love to see that!” Marie said, leaning without a single bone in her body against the porch railing.

“A piano came today,” Collie said, wanting to give the girl some satisfaction. “A spinet, I think. That's what I ordered, in any case, but with the war on one can never be sure. I didn't know if the order would ever be filled.”