Take Me Home (9781455552078) (7 page)

“Too small for me,” Otto said, holding up one of the shirts.

“I could wear it,” Peter replied.

Otto nodded. “We've got to get out of these first,” he said, rattling his cuffs.

“Let's look outside.”

The first outbuilding they checked was empty, but the second had been used to store tools. A scarred workbench stood against one wall, littered with nails, a paintbrush missing half its bristles, and a bucket with a hole in the bottom. Tools hung between nails pounded into the wall. Most of them were covered in rust, untouched for far longer than the cabin; Peter hoped they were still solid enough to gain them their freedom.

From the wall, Otto snatched a weathered hatchet. Gauging its heft in his hand, he cleared a space, spread out the chain, and began to hack away at it. Over and over he swung, the clangs loud in the small space. Occasionally, sparks flew, but Peter couldn't see any damage being inflicted.

“Damn it all!” Otto barked, beads of sweat dotting his forehead.

“That won't work,” Peter said. “It's not strong enough.”

“The hell it isn't,” the other man argued, doubling his efforts. After only a couple more blows, the handle suddenly snapped, worn through with rot, causing the hatchet's head to fall onto the ground.

Otto was just about to retrieve it when Peter stopped him.

“Let's try something else.”

Peter grabbed a metal rod leaning against the wall. It was a couple of feet long and about as big around as his thumb.

“That won't fit though the chain links,” Otto observed.

“It doesn't have to.”

Peter slid the length of metal between his wrist and his one remaining cuff. The restraint had been damaged during the crash and he was able to squeeze it through. Fortunately, the rod wasn't rusty like the other tools; his wrist was still bloodied from the crash, so he was glad that he didn't have much risk of infection. Placing his wrist on the workbench, Peter grabbed the edge with his manacled hand, tightly gripped the metal rod with the other, and took a deep breath. Straining with all of the strength he had left, Peter began to push the bar to the side, prying against the broken clasp of the handcuff. The pain was tremendous. Soon, the wound reopened, staining his hand with blood, but he didn't let up, desperate to be free. Slowly, he felt the metal begin to bend. The tendons on his arms stood out, his muscles burned, and sweat beaded his brow. Finally, just as he began to fear that he would break before his bonds did, he yanked his hand out of the contorted steel. He'd done it.

“My turn,” Otto growled.

Unfortunately, the same trick wasn't going to work twice. Because Peter's restraints had been loose, there was room to insert the bar; Otto's were clasped too tightly around his wrists. They'd have to find another way to get him out.

“Damn it!” Otto hissed angrily. “Let's make another handle for the hatchet,” he suggested. “If we keep at it long enough, it'll give.”

Peter shook his head. “Right now, we've got bigger worries. That little bit of food wasn't enough. We need more.”

Otto reluctantly agreed, shaking the chain in frustration. Peter understood; if he was the one still bound to it, he imagined that he'd feel the same.

“So what do we do?” Otto asked.

“I'll put on those old clothes and take the money into town,” Peter explained. “With my English, I can pass for an American. Hopefully we're far enough away from the crash that no one's looking for us. Once we have more to eat, we can figure out how to get you free.”

“Make it fast!” Otto snapped. “The sooner I'm out of these damn chains, the sooner we can get about striking fear into these weak Amerikaners' hearts!” Flashing a sadistic smile, he added, “It won't take long to show them just how superior we Germans are!”

Peter nodded. The truth was that he had no intention of coming back for Otto, at least not in the way the other man expected. He was going to march to town, find the nearest lawman, and turn himself in. Peter knew that running from the train had been a mistake. He was done fighting. The last thing he wanted was for anyone else to get killed. If necessary, he would lead them to the cabin himself, anything to keep this murderous psychotic from causing any more harm.

Their war would soon be over. This time, for good.

I
CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE
getting married!”

Olivia only had time to smile weakly before Sally Albright embraced her tightly, jumping up and down in her arms. Standing on the street corner in front of her house beneath the bright morning sun, a dented wagon on the sidewalk behind her, Olivia could only imagine what the two of them must look like to anyone watching.

“And to Billy!” Sally continued, pulling back to look at Olivia but not letting her go. “I never would've imagined he would propose!”

That makes two of us…

Besides Billy and Grace, there was no one whom Olivia had ever been closer to than Sally. Since they were the same age, they'd been together for as long as she could remember, sharing a desk at school, singing in the church choir, and taking long walks beside the creek, whispering about boys. They'd always confided in each other and that trust had never been broken.

Sally took Olivia by the hand and held her ring up to the light. Unlike her mother, her friend didn't see anything wrong with the simplicity of the golden band; instead, she saw it as romantic.

“I'm so happy that I'm going to start crying!” Sally gushed.

Watching her friend wipe a tear from the corner of her eye, Olivia understood why Sally had always been considered one of the prettiest girls in all of Miller's Creek. She was full figured and tall, and her curly red hair fell down across her shoulders. Her green eyes were wide with long lashes. When she smiled or pursed her lips, most men behaved as if they'd just met a movie starlet, either clamming up or talking so fast you couldn't understand a word they said. She was even more beautiful on the inside. But for all the attention she received, Sally had always had eyes for only one man; Chuck Albright. Four years ago, they'd been married; Olivia had never seen Sally happier than that day. But it was that love for Chuck, that desire to be forever by his side, that had aged her friend, causing many a sleepless night.

“Tell me everything!” Sally demanded, her own problems forgotten because of Olivia's engagement.

“We can talk while we walk,” Olivia answered, grabbing the handle of the wagon and starting down the sidewalk.

“Come on, Olivia! Stop holding out on me!”

“More working means more talking.”

For more than a year now, Olivia and Sally had spent one day a week walking up and down the streets of Miller's Creek collecting anything that could be recycled for the war effort. They picked up newspapers, toothpaste tubes, tubs of cooking fat, and glass bottles. They scrounged up tinfoil and whatever pieces of scrap metal happened to be lying around. When they were doing their rubber drive, they'd taken everything from children's tire swings to women's girdles. With the men off fighting, they'd wanted to do their part, so they trudged all over town, dragging their wagon in the sun, rain, and even snow.

While they walked, Olivia told Sally about Billy's proposal. With every telling, it seemed to get a little easier, if no less believable. For her part, Sally peppered her with questions, trying to squeeze out every last detail.

“How do you feel about Billy going off to the Navy?” Sally asked.

“I'm worried,” Olivia admitted.

Sally took a deep breath. “You have good reason to be,” she said.

Ever since Chuck headed off for basic training, Sally had been living with the fear that he would die in combat. He was a Navy Seabee, operating a bulldozer as his unit cleared jungles in the South Pacific, making roads and airstrips for the march to Japan. Each time there was a knock on her door, she was terrified, certain that it was someone from the military coming to tell her of her husband's death, to offer condolences that wouldn't begin to fill the void in her heart. Every night, she said her prayers for his safety. Every morning, she wrote him a letter, trying to stay positive, to not show her fear. In public, she maintained a smile, but Olivia knew her friend was hurting. Unfortunately, she'd soon know just how much.

“When does Billy leave for his training?” Sally asked.

“Five weeks.”

Olivia's friend gave her an encouraging smile. “Maybe the war will be over by then,” she said. “In his last letter, Chuck said it wouldn't be much longer.”

“I hope not, for all of our sakes.”

“So when's the big day?”

“I don't know,” Olivia answered. “We didn't set a date.”

“Well, you're going to have to hurry,” Sally said. “There isn't much time if we're going to do this right.” She then began to talk about engagement announcements, invitations, what type of decorations they could have, dresses, music, food, and even whether she and Billy should try to make time for a honeymoon; strangely, listening to Sally talk about such things wasn't as upsetting to Olivia as when her mother did so; still, there was so much said so fast that it made Olivia's head spin.

Because of Sally's excitement, Olivia didn't have the heart to tell her about her doubts. The night before, as she had stared at the ceiling above her bed, the hours slowly crawling past, Olivia had thought about everything she wanted to say to Sally; that she was afraid she'd committed a terrible mistake in accepting Billy's proposal, one she had no idea how to fix. She worried that admitting such things would make her look foolish, as if she didn't take the institution of marriage seriously, something that she feared would insult Sally, to whom it was her whole life.

So instead she held her tongue.

Besides, just as when she'd told her family, Olivia knew that it was too late to change anything. No one in all of Miller's Creek, friend or otherwise, would ever understand why she'd be reluctant to marry a man like Billy Tate.

So she would become his wife. Like Sally, she would just have to hope for the best. Her path had been chosen, and nothing, and no one, could change it now.

Peter made his way down the gently sloping hill and away from the cabin. Though there was still a chill in the early spring air, the sunlight on his skin was enough to keep him warm. The clothes that he'd put on, a blue button-down shirt and a pair of dark work pants, smelled just as musty as the place in which they'd been left, but he was happy to get out of his prisoner garb all the same.

He was also relieved to be away from Otto. Before leaving, Peter had listened to the man go on about what he should and shouldn't do in town; truthfully, he hadn't paid much attention, but just nodded his head. Ever since they'd been shackled together, Peter had been uncomfortable, listening to Otto's tirades against Americans and Jews, as well as his unwavering belief in Hitler and the Nazis. But it was all over now. Soon, both of them would be where they belonged, where they would have been had it not been for the crash.

So I might as well enjoy what little freedom I have left…

Soon, Peter found a road and began following it, staying along the shoulder. Towering trees rose on either side, the sun shining through their nearly bare branches, many of them only now showing the first buds of spring. Ahead, he could look down at a meandering stream of water winding its way toward the town he'd seen from the cabin. It was like most of the others he'd seen from the prison train; a clump of buildings with a church steeple towering highest of all. Homes spread out in every direction, many following the flow of the creek, eventually dwindling as they met the countryside. While it was certainly different from German towns, Peter was struck by its beauty, as well as the feelings of community it raised in him. He thought of his mother, as he often did. He doubted that Rothesburg, the town in which she lived, looked this lovely; it had probably been bombed into rubble by now. Worse yet, he had no idea if she was alive or dead.

Walking along, lost in thought, Peter was startled when a man suddenly stepped out into the road from behind a hedge. He was older, wearing a worn tweed coat and carrying a bundle of sticks, which he dropped into a larger pile. Noticing Peter, the man cheerfully said, “Good morning.”

Momentarily stunned, fearful that he would do or say something to betray that he was German, it took Peter a second to recover. Somehow, he managed to find a friendly smile. “Morning,” he replied.

“Out for a walk?” the man asked.

Peter noticed the man give him a subtle look-over. His eyes lingered for a moment on Peter's wrist; he'd tried to clean where the handcuff had dug into his flesh, wiping away all of the blood, but he knew that the cut looked red and angry.

“Actually, I was in a bit of an accident,” Peter replied, the English coming to him surprisingly easily. Pointing back up the road behind him, he added, “Something darted out in front of my car a couple of miles back. I had to swerve to keep from hitting it and ran right into a tree. I've been walking ever since.”

“Probably a deer,” the man said with a compassionate nod. “This time a year they start to get a little frisky, if you know what I mean.”

“Could've been,” Peter replied with a chuckle. “There wasn't much light and it all happened so fast I'm afraid I didn't get too good of a look.”

“You all right?” he asked, nodding at Peter's hand.

“I'm fine. Nothing broken, at least. It looks a lot worse than it feels.”

“You should still head into town and get it looked at.”

Running a hand through his hair, Peter said, “The truth is, I'm not exactly sure where I'm at.”

“This here's Miller's Creek,” the man explained. “It ain't much more than a spot on most folks' maps, but it's a fine place all the same.”

Peter wasn't sure, but he thought he must be in Wisconsin. Still, he didn't ask; it would be far too suspicious. “Do you know where I might find a lawman?” he asked instead.

“You mean the sheriff?” the man asked, his eyes narrowing a bit.

“I thought I should let him know about my accident,” Peter answered quickly. “The wreck is off the road, but come dark, someone driving along might not see it. There's already been one crash. I'd hate to be the cause of another.”

The man nodded, accepting Peter's explanation as the truth. “The sheriff in these parts is a good man. Name's John Marsten. The police station's across from the bank on Main Street. You get yourself turned around, I expect anyone you ask could point you in the right direction.”

“Much obliged,” Peter answered. The two men shook hands and he was again on his way.

Walking along, Peter smiled to himself. He'd learned where he was, as well as where he might find someone who could put an end to all of the madness he'd gotten into with Otto. But in talking with the older man, he was relieved that his English had betrayed no hint of his true identity. He'd grown up listening to his father, talking with him, thinking that he sounded like an American born and raised, but he'd always wondered if he spoke with an accent or some other tell that would give him away as a foreigner, but apparently, there wasn't one.

Eventually, Peter crossed a rickety bridge that spanned the waterway that must have given the town its name, and entered Miller's Creek. Using the tall church steeple as a landmark, he headed in that direction. A deliveryman drove past in his truck, giving a short tap on his horn and a friendly wave; Peter returned the gesture without thinking.

He walked down a street divided by a row of trees. Houses lined both sides of the road, many with automobiles parked out front. From nearly every home, an American flag fluttered in the breeze; the sight felt very different from what Peter was used to in Germany, where the red, black, and white swastika was everywhere. Back home, while there were thousands of people who flew the Nazi symbol out of a love for what it represented, there were many who did so out of fear of what would happen if they didn't. He doubted that there was any such dilemma here.

Peter turned one corner and then another, the church steeple drawing steadily closer. He was trying to figure out what he was going to say to Sheriff Marsten when he saw something up ahead. Two young women were hauling boxes of newspapers toward a large wagon on the sidewalk. One of them stopped on the walk, clearly straining with the weight of her load, before dropping it down at her feet with a plop. She leaned back, stretched her aching muscles, wiped the sweat from her brow, and then looked up, catching Peter staring at her. He froze, his heart beating faster.

She was beautiful, almost breathtaking. In all of his life, he'd never seen a woman who could make him feel the way he did in that moment. And then she smiled at him, a gentle upturn of the corners of her mouth, her blue eyes narrowing as her blond hair swirled across her shoulders, and Peter's feelings for her intensified. In his head, he knew that he should just continue to the sheriff's office, turn himself in, and then assist in Otto's capture in any way he could. What he
shouldn't
do was go over and talk to that woman.

But he wasn't listening to his head.

What he wanted was coming from his heart: to know her name; to hear the sound of her voice; to look for a bit longer on her beauty; to say something, anything, that would make her smile a bit brighter. Afterward, he could keep walking, find the sheriff, and do just as he'd intended.

But only after…

The next thing Peter knew, he was walking toward her; he could no more have resisted her lure than a bee could a flower.

Olivia grimaced as she carried another load of old newspapers from Delores Wright's garage. Her muscles ached from the weight of the boxes. Sweat beaded her brow. But whatever discomfort she felt was well worth it. She and Sally had been coming to see the widow for more than a year, always asking if she would hand over her papers to be recycled. Delores and her late husband, Frank, had owned Miller's Creek's mercantile for more than twenty years; for almost every one of those days, Delores had faithfully brought home a newspaper. Whenever they asked her about surrendering her trove, Delores had always turned them down, clinging to the belief that she might need them someday. Still, they'd never stopped asking; surprisingly, today the old woman had finally relented.