Take Me Home (9781455552078) (6 page)

“Do you love him?”

Grace's words shook Olivia because she had no answer. Oddly enough, neither of her parents had asked; she doubted that it mattered to her mother and figured that her father just assumed she did, otherwise,
why else would she have accepted?
But the truth was far more complicated than that.

“I do…and I don't…” she admitted.

“That doesn't make any sense,” Grace said, shaking her head.

“Billy is the best friend I've ever had,” Olivia explained, “and for that, I love him with all my heart.” She paused, struggling to find the right words. “But when it comes to romance, to loving him like a woman should love a man, especially one who wants to be her husband, I…I…”

“You don't,” her sister finished for her.

Once again, Olivia could only nod.

“Then why didn't you turn him down?” Grace pressed.

“I couldn't break his heart,” Olivia answered. “I just couldn't. Not now…not just before he leaves for the Navy.”

“That's crazy!”

“If you could've seen the look in his eyes when I hesitated, you'd understand,” she said, remembering the way Billy's smile had faltered, his hope fading. “If I'd turned him down, it would've killed him.”

“But what about you?” Grace asked. “You're not supposed to marry someone you aren't in love with because of what it would do to him!”

“It's too late now.”

“No, it isn't!”

“Yes, it is,” Olivia insisted. “If I tell Billy that I've changed my mind, it'll be even worse than if I'd turned him down in the first place.”

“So instead you'll just go along with it and hope that someday you fall in love with him?” Grace argued. “It doesn't work like that.”

“What do you know about love?”

“Not much,” her sister admitted, “but what you're describing sounds like something straight out of the movies.”

Even as bad as she felt, Olivia couldn't help but laugh. Still, a part of her was impressed by her sister's argument. She and Grace, despite the very different ways in which they dealt with their mother and her demands, had remained close, defending each other at every turn. In many of Olivia's earliest memories of her friendship with Billy, Grace had been there, tagging along as they splashed in the creek, laughing at Billy's stupid jokes, and chasing fireflies through the summer night. In some ways, Grace's trouble in understanding her decision to marry Billy was the most damning of all.

“What did Mom say when you told her?” her sister asked.

Olivia sighed. “She was as happy as I've ever seen her,” she answered. “She thinks Billy is the best husband I could ever find.”

Grace didn't say a word, but Olivia knew just what she was thinking; that her mother was wrong and that if it were her, she would, just as with most everything else the two of them disagreed about, fight against it with all of her might.

What she couldn't understand was why her sister wasn't doing the same.

In a way, neither could Olivia.

P
ETER FELT UNEASY
being on a train again so soon after the crash. Even as the memories of darkness and the screams of men teased at the corners of his mind, the steady clickety-clack of the rails was trying to rock him back to sleep; he'd been dozing fitfully for hours. His feet were splayed out on the floor of the mostly empty freight car and his clothes were still damp and dirty from running through the thunderstorm.

His back rested against the rail car's wall. He sat beside the open door, chilled by the wind, his face turned to look outside. The spring morning was glorious; the sun was rising in a sky colored the blue of a robin's egg. Low-lying fog clung to the riverbeds and fields, slowly burning away as the sun continued to climb. Peter had no idea where they were, only that they were heading back the way they'd come, going east. Even as shaken as he was, he could still see the beauty of this land, the country of his father and therefore his own, if by nothing more than blood.

Otto sat silently beside him; the chain that still bound them together wouldn't let him get too far away. His fellow prisoner stared silently at the passing landscape. He looked wide awake; Peter hadn't seen him yawn once or close his eyes for longer than a blink. Occasionally, he leaned forward and peered out of the freight car in the direction the train was heading.

Neither of them had said a word for hours.

After leaving the wrecked prison train and escaping into the woods, they had run for hours, dodging fallen tree limbs and outcroppings of rock, forcing their way through sharp thorn bushes, all while getting drenched by the
ragin
g storm. With every step, Peter kept expecting to hear their pursuers bearing down on them, soldiers shouting for them to stop, followed by the crack of a rifle as it was fired. But all he ever heard was thunder and their heavy, weary breathing. Eventually, they came to a broad river, swollen from the storm.

“Are we going to cross?” Peter had asked.

“Not here,” Otto answered. “The water's moving too fast. We'll follow it upstream and see if there's a bridge or some sort of narrowing.”

As they ran, Otto had Peter periodically step into the cold water, the river filling his boots in seconds.

“If they use dogs to track us,” he explained, “it'll throw off the scent.”

On and on they went.

The storm finally lessened, then fell away altogether; the clouds broke apart, allowing the moon to drift in and out of sight. Rain glistened from every surface. Peter was soaked to the bone, and the night chill made him so cold that his teeth chattered. Hours later, they came to an old rail trestle; in the faint moonlight, it resembled the skeleton of some wild beast. Climbing the rocky embankment, they carefully crossed the bridge and entered the forest beyond.

“How much farther are we going to go?” Peter asked.

“As far as it takes,” Otto answered; in unspoken anger at having his decisions questioned, he pushed them harder, tugging on the chain whenever Peter lagged behind.

Then, just as Peter's exhaustion had gotten so bad that he thought he would collapse, the night was filled with a familiar sound. Hiding in the bushes, they watched as another train chugged down the tracks, its light cutting through the darkness.

“We have to get on it,” Otto said.

Peter was too tired to answer.

Freight cars whizzed past. Watching down the line, Otto saw one whose door stood partially open; without hesitation, he was on his feet and running toward it. Peter followed, stumbling over the broken rock beside the track, struggling not to fall. The train was moving fast enough that he knew he would only get one try. Otto leaped first and scrabbled his way inside. Then it was Peter's turn, but even as he tried to time his jump, he knew it was too late; running from the wrecked train had sapped all of his strength. He was going to fail. Suddenly, he was pulled from his feet, the clasp of his remaining handcuff biting deep into his wrist. He looked up to find Otto pulling furiously on the chain that still bound them, reeling him to safety. With a loud grunt, Peter collapsed onto the train car floor. He knew Otto hadn't saved him out of compassion or friendship, but for self-preservation; because of the chain, if Peter wasn't in the train, Otto couldn't be either. He was thankful all the same.

Peter didn't know how long he'd slept, but now that he was awake, watching America race by outside, hunger had become a more pressing concern. His stomach grumbled, empty. It had been a long time since he'd last eaten; the prisoner train had stopped the previous afternoon, providing sandwiches and weak coffee. Running through the storm, he and Otto had drunk from the river, but there'd been nothing to eat. Though his hunger was uncomfortable, Peter tried his best to ignore it; after all, there was no telling how long it would be before something could be found.

Unexpectedly, Peter felt the train shudder; almost imperceptibly at first, they began to slow. Otto reacted quickly, sticking his head out to see what was happening; from the look that passed over his face, it wasn't good.

“We have to get off,” he explained.

Surprise filled Peter. “Why?” he asked; after all that they'd done to get inside, he didn't like the idea of leaving.

“There's a town ahead.”

“So?” he asked. “We've passed through others.”

Otto shook his head. “That was during the night,” he explained. “Chances are that no one was looking for us then. It'll be different during the day. Flashlights can't illuminate everything in the dark, but under this sun,” he said, nodding toward the sky, “there'll be nowhere we can hide.”

“Then how do we get off?”

“We jump.”

Sticking his head out, Peter looked ahead. A town
was
quickly approaching; in the distance he saw a church steeple and a few houses. The depot might be in the center; if they waited, there'd be nowhere for them to run. They'd be found out.

They stood at the edge of the freight car, the chain hanging between them. Even though the train continued to slow, Peter knew that they were still going fast enough that their landing wouldn't be an easy one.

“Now,” Otto hissed.

When they leaped from the train, Peter had the sensation that they were hanging in air, frozen in place, but it only lasted for an instant. Then they began rushing toward the slanted embankment of dirt and rock, hitting the ground hard before rolling. Something struck Peter's hip, causing it to burn with pain. They scrambled for cover in some bushes and then quickly turned back toward the train; they watched intently for a sign that they'd been spotted, but the cars just rolled by.

“What do we do now?” Peter asked.

“Scout around,” Otto answered. “Look for something to eat or an automobile we can steal.” Jingling the chain, he added, “Maybe we can find a way to cut this damned thing.”

In that, Peter couldn't have agreed more.

Like a pair of foxes trying to sneak their way into a chicken coop, the two German soldiers moved carefully and quietly as they skirted the edge of town, looking for something to eat or a means to further their escape. The town wasn't much; there were a couple dozen buildings clumped together, with the depot in the center of it all, just as he had suspected. There weren't any outlying farms, either; the land was too hilly, the soil too rocky. But there were a few houses that were far enough away from the others to be worth checking; unfortunately, at each there were people at home or dogs that barked when they neared. After a couple of hours, they gave up and climbed to a small outcropping on a hillside that provided them with both cover and a view of town. They both plopped down, exhausted.

“We'll sneak onto another train once it's dark,” Otto explained, “then move on to somewhere else.”

“And then what?” Peter asked, fatigue loosening his tongue. “We're in the middle of the United States. What do you think we're going to do, keep hiding ourselves in freight cars until we reach the coast, slip onto a boat heading to Germany, and then go back to fighting again?”

This was the argument that Peter had thought about ever since he and Otto had escaped from the wrecked train. Even though they were no longer prisoners of the United States Army, they were far from free; the truth was that they were thousands of miles from home, without any food or shelter, still shackled together, and with no idea where they should go. Deep down, Peter knew that the best course of action was to turn themselves in. The war in Europe would soon be over; it didn't matter how hard Hitler's most fanatical supporters fought, they'd be overwhelmed soon enough. Peter wanted no part of their suicidal plans; for him, even if he spent his days locked up behind barbed wire, watched day and night, at least he'd be safe. Unfortunately for him, he doubted that Otto felt the same.

“What would you have us do, march back to the Amerikaners and surrender?” the brutish man snapped. “We will continue to serve the Fatherland and our Führer until we draw our last breath!”

“We won't be able to for long if we keep running,” Peter argued.

“That is why we will soon stop.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You are right to say that we cannot hope to make it all the way to Germany,” Otto admitted. “It would be pointless even to try. We would be captured for certain.” He paused, his eyes boring holes at Peter. “That is why we will fight.”

“With what?” Peter asked incredulously, holding up his still-cuffed hand so that the chain rattled between them. “We have no food, no weapons, and only the clothing on our backs, nothing more.”

Otto nodded slowly. “For now,” he answered. “But soon we will have everything we need to stay alive, all of the things you speak of. We can quit running. With only a rifle, we can hurt them. We will do what those damn Jews did in Mother Russia, fighting them from our hiding spots, picking them off one at a time, making their fear and frustration grow.” Otto smiled cruelly. “Hitler will give us medals once the Amerikaners are defeated.”

Listening to the hatred and venom that Otto was spewing, Peter knew without a shadow of a doubt that it had been a mistake to leave the prison train with him. But he had been rattled, shaken by the crash and the destruction it had wrought, unable to think straight. For Otto, death wasn't something to avoid, but rather to embrace; nothing would please the man more than to die for Hitler and his ridiculous cause, but not before he'd killed plenty of his enemies first. If he continued on his chosen path, he wouldn't survive; if Peter was still beside him, he, too, would perish.

He had to get away, and quickly. But until the chain that bound them was broken, he'd have to go along with Otto's nefarious plans.

Peter nodded, trying to act as if he saw the truth in the other man's words. “So we keep heading east?”

“Once it's dark, we'll make our way back down to the trains,” he explained. “Until then, rest.”

Leaning back against a tree's trunk, Otto folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. Even though Peter was tired, as much from a lack of food as from exhaustion, he found it hard to do as Otto had suggested. The man he was chained to was dangerous, the sort who had to be watched closely. Peter knew he had to be smart and to take a chance to get away only when the time was right.

His very life depended on his making the right decision.

Once night fell, they made their way to the depot. There were lights on in some of the houses but they didn't see anyone. The locomotive hissed at the head of the tracks; it wouldn't be long before it departed. But then, just as Peter was taking his first step toward the open door of a freight car, he was grabbed hard from behind and hauled backward as a hand clamped down over his mouth. Shocked and surprised, he began to struggle; a sliver of fear raced through him that Otto had decided he was no longer worth the trouble and intended to kill him.

“Quiet!” Otto hissed in his ear.

Peter stopped struggling. A couple of moments later, he understood why Otto had taken hold of him. A lone guard made his way up the line of track, swinging his flashlight slowly up one side of the train and then back across the platform. Otto had pulled them between a couple of crates, out of sight. No more than ten feet away, the man stopped, fished out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one before inhaling a deep drag and blowing smoke into the sky. Behind him, Peter felt Otto's body tense; he knew that if the guard noticed them, Otto would attack like a wild animal, trying to kill him before any alarm could be raised. But after a while, the man moved off, whistling a tuneless tune. Finally, once the guard was far enough away, they cautiously entered the dark freight car.

Eventually, the train began to roll. Under a blanket of stars, it traveled farther east. Peter tried to sleep, but found it too difficult, not because of his concern about Otto or what they were doing, but because of hunger. More than a day had passed since he'd last eaten and he felt as weak as a kitten. With every rumbling of his belly, pain filled him. By morning, the feeling had become unbearable. One look at Otto told Peter that the other man felt the same. It was decided that they had to get off the train and forage for food, no matter the risk.

As they had the day before, they jumped off the train just before they reached a town. Unlike then, they soon had better luck. In the hills north of the rail line was a cabin with a couple of outbuildings. They watched quietly for a long time, listening to the squirrels chatter and the wind gently rustle the boughs of the evergreen under which they hid. Nothing happened. Finally, they decided that they'd waited long enough. Breaking out one of the windowpanes, they forced their way inside.

The cabin looked to have been unoccupied for some time. Dust covered every surface and there was a musty smell in the air, as if it had been shut up for months. Immediately, they rushed to the cupboards in the small kitchen and rifled through them. They found a tin of sardines and a can of beans that they forced open and ate ravenously. Peter's stomach was so empty that it hurt to put something in it, but he ignored the ache and kept eating. Checking the rest of the cabin, they found some clothes in the bedroom and a couple of dollars in the back of a drawer.