My knees buckle as I make for the door, the whiskey I’d drank making its way through my body. My brain sloshes around in my skull and for a moment, I wonder what I’d been thinking about just a second before. Another knock.
I open the door and just stand there.
“Mister Oakes. May I come in?”
Without thinking, I step to the side and allow him to enter. I squint, trying to see his expression better in the dark light of my porch. My dulled senses are slowly flooding with anxiety. Professor Fournier, the man who is so closely linked with the enigma Kurt Klein, is standing inside my porch. He glances around as he removes his hat. His eyes find the whiskey bottle and the nearly empty glass next to the ashtray. My smoldering cigarette remains inside the clouded blue glass.
I move past him and pick up the cigarette. If it’s rude to smoke in front of him, I don’t care at the moment. “How do you know where I live?”
“I’m a professor at the university you attend. I can find out a great many things about you, John.” He motions to the chair opposite mine and asks, “May I?”
“Yes, of course.” I sit down when he does, finish my cigarette and snub it out. After knocking back the remains of the glass, I set it down as I look back at him. “Do you remember the class I had with you?”
The professor tilts his head, a stray strand of black hair falling over his forehead, making him seem younger than he has to be. He pulls a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket. I watch him as he very carefully removes a cigarette and lights it.
“I remember you were quite smart and made valuable contributions to the discussions.” I smile at his words. It is a compliment coming from such an esteemed professor. “What sort of man are you, John?”
I answer quickly. “A good man.”
“Why are you frightening Kurt?”
I keep my cool, although it is difficult given the way my heart is racing, and my muscles are seizing. Of course his visit is about Kurt. I’ve overstepped the line with him. I don’t need a professor to tell me I’ve scared him. Instead of owning up to anything, I challenge the man across from me. “He’s not your brother.”
Fournier raises his eyebrow and takes another pull from his cigarette. “That may be, but the question remains unchanged.”
“How far from the truth you are, Mr. Oakes.” Rising out of his chair, he leans forward far enough to enter into my space and crush his cigarette in the tray. “You have frightened an already frightened man,” he says as he settles back down in the chair. “I have taken it on as my duty to protect him. I
will
protect him from you.”
I let out a deep breath, then allow my body to sag in the chair. My head falls back, and I look at the ceiling. “I don’t mean him harm. It’s just….” I pause midsentence, deciding how much to share. I no longer have much to lose, so there is nothing keeping my mouth shut. “I fought in Europe. Italy, France, Germany, and I saw the horrors of the Nazis. I can’t get them out of my head. Seeing Kurt, in my town, at my school, has awakened something.”
“Something good or bad?” His tone is neutral, but it seems to push at my emotions. They are suddenly threatening to spill out of my eyes.
“Bad. I can’t sleep. When I
do
close my eyes, all I see is death. It’s all around me. I did horrible things in the name of survival.”
When I work out what it is that he said, it doesn’t make much sense to my alcohol-saturated mind. “Hmmmm?”
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, then sit up, needing a cigarette and another drink. I lift the bottle, then hold it out to him, offering him a bit of whiskey. “Yes, please.”
I’m in the kitchen getting him a glass and back outside quickly, pouring him two fingers of whiskey. We sit in silence. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I can feel him examine me. I wish I could put more energy into presenting myself better, but I am lacking in oomph at the moment.
“So,” he finally begins. I’m not sure whether to be thankful for the break in the tense quiet, or if I’m agitated by the disruption of it. “Tell me about your piece of the war, John.”
I am unsure of what to call him. He is a professor at my university. While I don’t currently have classes with him, I did study under him in the past. A professor commands and deserves respect, but he is here in my home late in the evening. It is not quite a social call; it’s more of a shakedown of sorts. I know his first name—I’m just unsure if I should use it.
Deciding to wait until he asks me to call him by his first name, I say, “Professor Fournier, I had more than just a
piece
of it. I was in combat for over five hundred days. That’s a lot of bullets flying at you. It’s a lot of bullets flying
from
you.”
“You say you were in Italy?”
“Yes. We started in North Africa, but there wasn’t much for us to do, so we took the island of Sicily. After that, mainland Italy, after that France
and the final push into Germany.” I bring the glass to my mouth and swallow the contents in one gulp. My body is tired, and my mind exhausted. It is too easy to slip into memories of those times.
I don’t so much
remember
how my feet ached from boots that were slightly too small, so much as I can
feel
it. It is as if my body holds the memories instead of just my mind. As I sit and smoke my cigarette, my feet throb, the arches stretched painfully. It is the same with my hands. They are cold, not from the cool Berkeley night, but because years ago, they were nearly frozen from the winter nights.
“You said you’ve seen the horrors of the Nazis. What were they?”
I sit up straight and stare at him. He asks the question as if he already knows what I’ve seen. I have to decide in this moment if I want to share it with him—with
anybody
. I feel sick at the thought. A glance at the whiskey bottle makes my stomach lurch. It has helped all it is going to tonight. Even the thought of the cigarette that burns between my fingers does nothing to help calm the rise of panic.
I shake my head. “They were something people ought not’ve seen.”
His eyes narrow for a moment, then he adds, “Something people ought not’ve lived through.”
He nods, finishes his whiskey, and sets the glass on the small table between us. “Mr. Oakes, you’re scaring Kurt. I don’t fully understand what it is you think he’s involved in, but—”
“He’s
not
a Nazi.” The Frenchman’s voice is harder than it’s been this entire conversation. He means business.
“Because I know. He’s
not
a Nazi, John. He could never hurt anyone—especially in the ways you’ve witnessed.”
I didn’t tell him what I’d witnessed. Anything he
thinks
he knows is nothing but assumptions. But why would this man assume
anything
? If he thinks he knows what I’ve seen, then he might be able to help me. If I just
tell
him,
confirm
what he thinks, then someone else will know. Maybe it’s the pressure of the silence that haunts me. Maybe sharing something with another person would allow me the tiniest bit of peace.
“This!” I yell. “I liberated a camp, Professor! I
know
what they did. I
saw
. I can’t break free from it. I can
never
break free, and this man,
Kurt Klein
, he can help it go away. I know he can.”
“I don’t know,” I say. I honestly don’t know. Tears spring hot in my eyes and roll down, leaving cool tracks on my cheeks. “I can just
feel
it.”
I’m ridiculous for breaking down like this in front of someone—especially an esteemed professor—but I cannot help it. I am far too sleep deprived to stop it. I bury my face in my hands, trying to steel my emotions against the chaos of my mind.
I don’t know how long I stay in that state, but when I hear the other man take in a deep breath, I look up. There is some kind of expression on his face that I can’t read. Maybe it’s pity, perhaps compassion. It could be disgust, but I’m not sure.
“Come to my house tomorrow at six thirty in the evening. You will have dinner with my family and myself. I will introduce you to Kurt, so you will no longer have to linger behind books or corner him in remote areas.” He sighs deeply as he situates his hat on his head. “But be forewarned, Mr. Oakes: Hurt him, cause him to suffer in any way, and I will kill you. Don’t take it as an idle threat. I have endured far worse than the American penal system. Do not think I am exaggerating. I
will
kill you.”
I’m so shocked at the dinner invitation and the sincere threat that I remain silent as I follow him to the door. Before he goes through it, he turns back to face me. “Be on your best behavior, or I swear —”
“You’ll kill me,” I finish for him.
“Precisely.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
After he leaves, the idea of having dinner with people I don’t know and a German who haunts my nightmares leaves me feeling sick. I stay on the edge of slumber most of the night, sitting in my chair on the porch. Finally, I drop off. The exhaustion and the alcohol give me a dreamless sleep.
I awake in the morning wondering if the day before had even happened. Two empty glasses sit next to the ashtray with a cigarette butt that is not a Winston. The previous night
did
happen. I just wish I remembered what I said.
As the late morning becomes early afternoon, I begin to remember the professor’s assertion that the German, Kurt Klein, was not a Nazi, and his invitation to dinner.
The day speeds by, and I am troubled by the anxiousness I feel at having dinner with Kurt. There will be others around—Professor Fournier absolutely, but I could only assume his wife and child will be there as well.
My afternoon nap ends with me drenched in sweat. By six o’clock, I am sitting in my truck, wondering why I’m going. Bits and pieces of the previous night come back to me. I recall telling the professor that Kurt held the key. I still believe that to be true; however, I’m not sure of what it all means. He was in my dream today too. This time, he was back to being a German soldier, who ended turning into a prisoner before I shot him.
What will we speak about at the dinner table? How can I soften myself to the point of being less frightening? I know Kurt is scared, but how can I live with myself if I frighten Fournier’s wife and child?
I got the feeling last night that no one needed to protect Fournier from the harsh realities of the world. He had the look of someone who had experience in protecting himself. I wonder where he was a few years ago during the second great war. If he’d still been in France, chances are he’s seen his own horrible piece of war.
Arriving early is a bit of a character trait of mine. My mother always told me that to be fifteen minutes early is to be on time. I sit in my truck, dressed in my gray suit, looking around the professor’s property. The yard is moderate sized, adorned with items that make it beautifully domestic. A tricycle sits upturned at the edge of the drive. A garden gnome stands protectively by potted plants at the base of the stairway which leads above the garage. Wildflowers and shrubs separate the land from other properties around it. In the summer, it is probably quite hidden.
It is a lovely home. I could let myself imagine living here. The privacy would be nice. I love my house and the improvements I’ve made, but it comes with neighbors who are constantly trying to peek into my world. Most of them know precious little about me. They know I was a soldier. They know I am a student. They know I lead as quiet of a life as I can create.
The side door of the house opens. A lady with dark hair pinned up steps out, pleasant grin gracing her soft features. When we moved through towns in France, there was no shortage of pretty girls and young women waving us on. She looks like she belongs in a battle ravaged town, offering the liberating armies fresh baked bread and a cup of coffee.
I always found it amazing—still do—that people who had been subjected to rationing, sometimes in the extreme, still managed to offer us soldiers what food they had.
A knock makes me jump. Wrestling myself away from the memories that seem to flood my mind at the slightest provocation, I push a smile onto my face. The woman smiles back at me, then opens my door.
“Mr. Oakes. My name is Flori Fournier. We are expecting you.”
I continue to smile, but have to force myself from the truck. I have no idea where this evening will take me. “Flori? Like flower?”
“Parlez-vous français?”
I adjust my thin tie and answer, “No.”
A slight blush rises on my cheeks. I learned the little French I know from a young Frenchman I met during a short rest period near Rambervillers. I know parts of the body and dirty words used during sex. “Just a few words.”
As I shut the truck door, she places a hand through the crook of my arm, as if we’ve been friends for many years. “I like to speak English. It helps me remember my new home.”
At the pace of a leisurely stroll, we make our way to the house. When I step through the door, I find I’m in a wonderful smelling kitchen. A home cooked French meal smells like heaven. “Jules is with Kurt. They’ll be in later.”
Mrs. Fournier releases me and moves to the stove to stir a pot. I am about to ask her if there is something I can do to help when she says, “As you can perhaps imagine, the idea of someone new for dinner needs to be broken to Kurt delicately.”
At Kurt’s name I focus all of my attention on her. She’s stirring casually, as if she hasn’t a care in the world. Perhaps she doesn’t. Whatever Kurt’s story is, she is used to it. I am the outsider here—the one with the questions. I decide to ask. “Why is that, exactly?”
She turns back to me, obviously sizing me up as she smiles. “The war years have been hard on many people. My husband says that you understand. Perhaps more than most.”
I don’t quite know what to say. I understand the effects of war, but I have no idea what Kurt’s experience during it has been. “What exactly—”
A dancing child entering the room interrupts my question. She is young, probably only four or five, and clothed in a pale blue dress that comes to her knees. White socks and patent leather black buckle shoes and a small tiara finish out her attire. I can’t help but smile at the sight of her. I haven’t been around children in ages. The last time was overseas, and those children didn’t have the spirit left in them to dance about in fine clothing.
This girl looks like her mother.
When she stops dancing and looks up at me, I smile back at her. It sends the little girl scurrying over to hide behind Flori’s legs. The woman laughs. “Adéle, this is Mr. Oakes. He is a friend of your papa.”
The girl peeks out at me, but when she sees me looking back at her, she buries her face in the fabric of her mother’s skirt.
“She is a shy girl,” Mrs. Fournier says, “until she knows you, then you’ll scarcely have a moment’s peace.”
“Can I help you with anything?” I offer.
“No, it’s almost finished. My husband and Kurt will be in soon. Would you care for a drink?”
When I accept, she points out of the kitchen. “Do you mind? The bar is on the far side of the dining room.”
“Not at all,” I say, happy that the awkward pleasantries could end now that I have a task to focus on. “Can I make you something?”
“No, thank you. I’ll have a glass of wine with my meal, but please, help yourself.”
The dining room is already set for dinner. The décor is simple. One wall of the room is taken by a beautiful oak display cabinet filled with elegant white china. The straight rectangular table is covered with blue and white linen, surrounded by high-back chairs.
The bar is small but functional. With the stress of being here, a drink sounds wonderful. I mix a John Collins, using the metal shaker as if I am a professional at it.
Drink in hand, I wander about the room. Through French doors, there is a sitting room. It is also elegantly decorated in a simple style. I wonder if it’s rude to go exploring uninvited, but throw out all thought of it when I catch sight of a book of photographs on the coffee table.
Inside the book are all of the photographs one would expect. Family vacations, snapshots of Mrs. Fournier walking, pictures of the little girl on a rocking horse, photographs of professor Fournier smoking a pipe. There are a few of them together, and a few others that feature the German. In all of them, he is very serious-looking and is always looking away from the camera, his jaw set tightly. Sometimes his hands are clasped in front of him, and in some photos, he’s touching his left forearm with the fingers of his right hand.
“Papa! Oncle Kurtsy!”
I replace the book on the table and move back into the dining room to look in on the kitchen. The little girl has taken to dancing again, but this time, she twirls around her father and the German. “Curtsy with me, Oncle Kurtsy!”
I cannot help but smile at the apparent nickname. Of course, a child who pretends to be a ballerina would call him something such as that. To my surprise, Kurt takes her offered hand and does a small bow while she performs a more formal curtsy. He doesn’t smile, but there is a light in his eyes that is unmistakable. He cares for the child. I imagine it to be hard not to, but I find it odd for the very strange man I’ve encountered.
“Jules, Kurt, our dinner guest is here,” Flori says in a light voice. I can’t imagine they didn’t notice my truck, but Kurt’s reaction makes it seem as though he has had no warning of my presence.
He stands up as straight as he can, his expression showing his distress. He looks as though he could be sick at any moment.
Professor Fournier places a hand on his shoulder and reassures him quietly, “It will be fine. We spoke of this, Kurt.”