The Cherry Harvest (8 page)

“You'd rather be on the farm? Well, that's ironic.” Thomas said, almost to himself.

Karl nodded. “These potatoes and gravy, very delicious. This meal, it reminds me of home.”

Yes, Charlotte had made a substantial meal. Not only for Becker, of course, but it was gratifying to hear a stranger compliment her cooking. Thomas was always generous with praise, but that was because he was a good husband. Becker recognized the art of Charlotte's gravy, the tiniest measure of flour and water mixed into the drippings slowly and carefully until it was creamy and rich and you wanted to pour it on everything.

“You miss your home,” she said.

“I do.” He stared off into space.

“Well, let's hope this war's over soon so you can go back.”

In the silence that followed, Charlotte realized how rude that had sounded. “I didn't mean to . . . Are you comfortable here in the camp?” Why did she ask that? She didn't care whether he was comfortable or not.

“Until the war is over, I want to stay here in your camp more than return to Deutschland.”

“You'd rather stay in prison than go home?” Kate said, eyes wide.

“Back home, I would be sent to the Russian front. That would
be the final end.” He stared straight ahead. “The Russians, they are not Americans.”

“I hope you're still here when Ben comes home,” Kate said. “I know you'd like him.”

“That would be
gut
.” Karl nodded.

“What town are you from, Karl?” Thomas asked.

“Dresden. My family is safe there. The enemy—excuse me,” he cast about, “the Allied forces—they would never get that far . . .” His words drifted off. He looked down.

Of course they will!
Charlotte didn't say it out loud. She watched this presumptuous man who expected that Hitler would hold Europe and then attack America from the Atlantic as the Japanese had from the Pacific. They were already out there, Ole had said, German submarines lurking. Her mind flashed on the daily radio broadcasts from London, Edward R. Murrow, and behind his voice, air raid sirens, swooping planes, pops and blasts. No, that can't happen here.

A stormy gust shook the windowpanes. No one spoke for some time, until Kate broke the silence. “Did you want to be a soldier, Mr. Becker?”

Becker put down his fork and knife. “All the boys went to
der Hitler-Jugend,
like your Boy Scouts. We played games, marched with rifles. Learned to shoot. All in fun. Until the war began.”

“So you didn't want to go?” Kate asked.

“We grew up with the pledge to fight for the
Vaterland
. Fight against
die Übeltäter
.”

“Ubel . . .
?” Kate tried to say. “What's that?”

Karl paused and swallowed hard. “I am sorry . . . it means . . . evildoers.”

All was quiet except for the wind.

Karl picked up his napkin and touched his lips. “During the fight, so much is going on, being shot and . . . one does not have the time to think.”

“In the heat of the battle,” Thomas said. “And now that you've had time to think?”

“Here, American people are
gut
.” He took a drink of water. “But not Americans I saw over there.”

“That's not true. Our Ben—” Charlotte blurted.

Thomas put up a hand. “Karl hasn't met Ben.”

After a pause, Karl said, “Germans are
gut
too.”

“Hitler?” Charlotte challenged. “You think Hitler is good?”

Becker went pale.

Thomas gave Charlotte a stern look.

Maybe Thomas was right. Over there the only Americans Karl saw were shooting at him. She watched this man, so solemn now, and chastised herself for trying to shame him here in her own home.

Becker took a bite of pork. “Very tender, Mrs. Christiansen.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “Mrs. Christiansen lays out a fine table, even in the hardest of times.” He patted Charlotte's hand.

Becker put down his utensils. “Most prisoners are not true Nazis. Hitler sent to the front those who were opposing him. To be first killed or captured. But . . .” he hesitated. “Some are not to trust.” He paused. “What I tell you, I would not say this to the others.” He motioned in the direction of the migrant camp, then spoke quietly, conspiratorially, scanning the faces around the table. “I feel safe to tell you here.”

This man was saying exactly what Big Mike feared, what the county officials feared, what Charlotte herself feared.

Kate squinted. “That crazy one . . .”

Becker swirled gravy through his potatoes.

After some silence, Kate said softly, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Kate,” Thomas held up a hand.

Charlotte held her fork in the air, waiting.

Becker hesitated, then took another bite of roast, his eyes fixed firmly on his plate.

WHEN KATE ROSE TO CLEAR THE DINING TABLE
, Charlotte stood. “I'll take care of this. Why don't you and . . .” she couldn't bring herself to say his name. “How about if you work on your lessons in the kitchen?”

At the kitchen table, Charlotte motioned for Becker to sit facing the parlor, away from the sink and stove where she would be working. As she washed the dishes, Charlotte took in the breadth of Becker's shoulders, the thickness of his dark hair, the skin on his neck pink from the sun, the sweat stains on his collar. She wondered if he had a woman in Dresden, a sweetheart, a wife perhaps. Someone to wash his shirts and rub those shoulders and put salve on the burn. Someone lying in bed right now, longing for him.

Lightning crackled outside and thunder rattled the house.

Becker handed Thomas a pouch of tobacco. “I would like for you to enjoy this.”

Thomas put the pouch to his nose and breathed it in. He picked up his pipe and filled the bowl, struck a match.
Puff puff puff
. That old familiar sound. Once the tobacco caught, he drew it in. “Ah. Thank you, Karl.”

Charlotte had always associated Thomas with that fragrance. Now she realized how she had missed it.

“You are most welcome.”

“I have my trigonometry book.” Kate offered Becker the textbook from her senior math class.

“First, Miss Kate, I have a present for you.” Becker reached into his pocket. He brought out a piece of paper folded like an envelope and opened it on the table. “Cocoa with sugar.” He opened another pouch. “And here is the powdered milk to add.”

Chocolate! How long it had been since Charlotte had tasted chocolate. A sweet after supper. Hot cocoa. And yet . . . No! He's not entitled to . . . to be so familiar. She came around to face Becker. “You will not bribe my daughter.”

“Mother!” Kate's eyebrows rose.

Thomas put down his pipe. “Charlotte, Karl was only offering a gift in gratitude for your generous meal. Isn't that right, Karl?”

“I didn't want to . . .”

Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron. “If it's in return for the meal, well . . .” She accepted the envelopes from him.

Thomas took the pipe from his mouth. “I'm enjoying my tobacco. You two gals share the hot chocolate.”

As Charlotte added water and steamed the cocoa, her mind raced. Why was the Army giving this treat to prisoners? These murderers were enjoying better provisions than tax-paying citizens. Her hand shook as she poured half the cocoa into a cup. She should have waited until Becker left before making it so he wouldn't see how they enjoyed it. No, she wouldn't have hers now. She wouldn't have any at all. She wasn't going to accept any gifts from this man who shouldn't be in the position of giving.

But oh, the steamy aroma! She breathed it in. She glanced toward the table to make sure he wasn't watching and breathed in again. That was all she needed.

She put a cup of steaming cocoa on the table and Kate picked it up and blew on it and took a sip. “Mmm.”

Just then, hailstones pelted the windows. Thomas rose and hurried to the back porch.

Charlotte followed, her hand to her mouth. “The cherries . . .”

Thomas put an arm around her waist. “The new buds should be hardy enough to hold up. Thank God the trees haven't blossomed yet.”

When the hail turned to rain, Charlotte realized they had left Kate alone with the prisoner. “Kate!” She rushed back into the kitchen.

The two sat across from each other at the round table, just as they had before. Karl had already begun the lesson. He spoke with his hands, large capable hands that made shapes in the air. Where Thomas's hands were long and delicate, Karl's were square and thick, a farmer's hands, designed to work the land.

When she was done with the dishes, Charlotte didn't want to leave the room. She needed to keep her eye on this man. The wind had abated, but the rain continued, fast and hard. She pulled a log from out of the wood box, added it to the stove, and poked the fire. She heated water and mixed in vinegar and began washing countertops and cupboard doors, inside and out.

“This room. How would you figure the height?” Karl asked.

Kate laughed. “With a ladder and a ruler.”

Becker cleared his throat. “Let us take something more difficult. The lighthouse. How far is it from here?”

Charlotte froze. Marta had warned her that the PWs would try to set up communications with Nazi submarines.

“Half a mile maybe?” Kate looked to Thomas.

“About that,” Thomas said.

“To learn how high the tower is—”

Charlotte swung around the table to face the prisoner. “Why do you want to know about the lighthouse?”

The three of them stared up at her. “Mother?” Kate said.

Heavy rain fell in a shimmering curtain outside the window, insulating the little kitchen from the rest of the world. Anything could happen. No one would know.

Becker hesitated before he spoke. “It might be of interest for Miss Kate to know how high is she when she sits with her friend.”

“Not the lighthouse. Choose something else.” Charlotte turned back to the cupboards, heat rushing through her veins.

After a pause, Thomas said, “The silo. Kate's not about to measure the silo.”

“Yes,” Charlotte put a hand on Thomas's shoulder. “Find the
height of the silo.” She felt jangled. Was she reading too much into these questions? Or not enough?

“Miss Kate, my assignment to you is to find three solutions to the height of the silo. Algebra, geometry, trigonometry.” He went on a bit longer, giving Kate details to guide her.

Kate took notes, then asked, “When are you coming again, Karl?”

Karl?
She's calling him Karl?

“When you are finished, do you have a place to post up your lessons, out of the rain?” he said.

Charlotte stiffened at the thought of personal messages between this man and her daughter. But before she could respond, Kate said, “In the barn. I'll tack my homework to the rabbit hutch.”

Thomas nodded.

Charlotte's blood pulsed hard near the surface. Thomas was giving this prisoner permission to enter the barn at will. The butchering tools! “Thomas?”

Lightning flashed, exposing rain like silver needles.

Thomas put down his pipe. “Best I walk you back to the camp.”

The men stood. Thomas gave Karl a rain slicker to wear—Ben's slicker!—and the two of them went out the door. Charlotte stood on the porch, hugging herself, as she watched them disappear into the storm. This Nazi war criminal, this charming man-boy, had put them all under his spell.
Be careful, husband
.

Back in the kitchen, Charlotte noted the excitement in Kate's face.

“Mother, what do you think?”

“I think we don't want to get too close.”

“Too close?”

“He may be a good teacher. But he's the enemy. And don't you forget it.”

PROPPED AGAINST BED PILLOWS
, Kate turned the page, regretting the novel's end: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

She gazed out at the lake and imagined herself in West Egg at one of Gatsby's enchanted parties, “among the whispering and the champagne and the stars,” where guests mingled in witty conversation and “yellow cocktail music.” If there were ever to be a motion picture, Kate would want Katharine Hepburn to play Daisy Buchanan.

Kate used to go to the picture show nearly every Saturday afternoon, a nickel for the matinee. She marveled over Hepburn's characters in
Morning Glory
and
Alice Adams
and
The Philadelphia Story
. She memorized Hepburn's best lines and sometimes stood in front of the mirror, mimicking her snappy repartee.

A shaft of light swept across the ceiling. Gusty winds rattled her bedroom window. She closed the book and waited.

The radio down in the parlor resonated with the top-of-the-hour newscaster's familiar voice, and soon after, the big-band sound came on. Mother would be mending or knitting, Father reading a book.
Soon they would switch off the Philco, take turns in the outhouse, wash up at the kitchen pump. Kate had learned to be patient.

Finally, she heard them climbing the stairs.

Mother peeked through Kate's open door. “Better get to sleep.”

“I will. Good night, Mother.”

She waited longer, until the light went out in the bedroom across the landing, until she could hear Mother's sleep-breathing, Father's soft snore. She closed her door and stepped into overalls and pulled two woolen sweaters over her cotton blouse. She would have liked to put on her wool jacket, but she didn't want to risk going down the squeaky stairs. She opened the window.

The rain clouds had cleared and the sky was filled with stars, but a gusty wind whipped through the dark night and trees creaked in warning. She reached for the thick oak branch.

Down onshore, waves crashed up hard and loud. The path was flooded, so Kate left her bicycle in the barn and set off on foot, winds from the south pushing her forward through ankle-deep water.

When she finally reached the channel, the black water between the mainland and the island churned with whitecaps. She didn't bother rolling up her pant legs because they were already soaked. She grabbed for the safety rope secured to the fallen bridge and started across. Within a few feet, a wave rose up and slapped her. She held fast, pulling herself hand over hand, to the opposite shore. Once on the island, Kate struggled from the water, fighting against her weighty clothes, and made her way along the path through the woods to the lightkeeper's house.

Only minutes after Kate had thrown the stone, Josie opened the door and pulled Kate in. “You're soaked. You must be freezing.”

Trembling, Kate followed Josie up the circular stairs. At the top of the tower, Josie took her father's thick storm jacket from a hook—“take off those wet sweaters”—then opened the door to the gallery. They moved around to the north side, away from the wind. Kate pulled her sweaters off and snuggled into the warmth of the jacket,
which smelled of black tea and kerosene. She pushed up the collar and stuffed her hands deep into the pockets. After the two friends settled on the cast-iron floor, Josie lit a cigarette and handed it to Kate, then lit one for herself. Kate drew the fiery smoke deep into her lungs and watched the shaft of light beaming out from above them reveal the world in circular bursts of dark sky, angry water.

“It's as wild as the Atlantic,” Josie said, recalling her time in Boston. “You wouldn't have come out in this storm unless you wanted to tell me something important.”

Kate realized the folly of her trip. Yes, she had wanted to tell Josie something important, but now she was too cold and tired to explain it all, to convince Josie that Karl wasn't a Nazi, just a math professor. No, she would stay a bit to get warm and go home, come back when the sun was out. She put up a hand to ward off any questions, then took a drag on her cigarette and closed her eyes.

“Well, I have some news.”

For once Kate was grateful for Josie's self-absorption.

Josie took a folded paper from the jacket she wore over flannel pajamas. “I have a letter from Ben, in Italy.”

“I've always thought of Italy as romantic,” Kate whispered.

“Romantic?” Josie gave a sarcastic laugh. “He's in the mountains, freezing.”

Kate shivered from within the big coat. She was freezing too, but her warm bed was only half a mile away.

Josie held the lantern to the pages and read about hiking up an icy trail. That was followed by a blacked-out section. “You can imagine what the Army doesn't want us to know. The strategic positions, the danger, boys dying.”

“Poor Ben!” Kate longed for her brother to be home.

“See here, where the black pen smooched—‘ . . . buddy . . . lost . . . crippled . . .' He can't even tell us how he's suffering over there. Does that sound romantic?”

Then she read aloud the part that wasn't blacked out, about Ben
loving Josie, wanting her. “I'll never forget our last night at the cottage—” Josie brought the pages to her lips.

Kate leaned in. “What night?” She stared at Josie's face and saw a secret reflected behind those dark eyes.
They've done it!

Josie put her arm through Kate's. “I like to think of you as my sister.”

“What did you do in the cottage?” Kate was both fascinated and fearful. After all, this was her brother. She didn't want to think of him like that.

“You'll know one day. You'll find someone. Then you'll know how beautiful it is to love.” Josie closed her eyes, her face pointing toward the stars.

Kate saw tears running down her friend's cheeks. “He'll be back soon,” Kate said. “That's what Mother says. She senses things, things that come true.”

Josie sucked in on her cigarette before she spoke. “Ben's so popular. He must have had a lot of girlfriends before I came to town.”

“Girls were interested in him, sure, but Ben didn't pay much attention.” When the school bell rang after the last class, Ben would go right home. “He had chores to do.”

“But when he met me . . . did he ever say why he chose me?”

Kate recalled the potluck supper that had welcomed the new lighthouse keeper and his family to the community that summer, the square dance at the armory. Josie's flirtatious eyes and the way her body moved in a snug tease of a dress that promised something exotic, mysterious. She didn't know how to square dance, so Ben took her into a corner and taught her the steps. She stayed with him all evening, even through the slow dances. Other boys cut in, but when the band played the final number, she was with Ben.

Then came the August hayride. Boys and girls piled into the wagon, enveloped together in a dusty fragrance of hay and autumn leaves. When the driver gave a whistle, the horses clip-clopped down the road. The glow from the full moon edged every tree with silver.
One of the boys strummed a guitar. Josie snuggled in next to Ben against the breezy night air, and soon his arm was around her shoulders, their heads close.

At the beach, the football captain lit the bonfire. After the cheers died down, the fellow with the guitar played and everyone sang along—“Fools Rush In,” “When You Wish Upon a Star,” and other favorites from the Hit Parade. Though Kate sat with them, Ben and Josie sang to each other as if they were alone, Ben's strong tenor harmonizing with Josie's husky alto. Ben put an arm around Josie's waist and drew her to him, his eyes shining in the firelight.

The next day, Josie arrived at the Christiansens' dock in her father's motorboat. Kate ran down to meet her.

“Ben told me you like to read,” Josie said, handing Kate a dog-eared pocketbook.

“
Fanny Hill?
What's it about?”

“It's filled with secrets,” Josie whispered conspiratorially. Before she could say more, Ben came strolling down the dock, smiling. Josie motioned for Kate to hide it. “Go and read it now.”

Kate put it into her sweater pocket and left the two of them alone.

Yes, it was full of secrets, and the beginning of a friendship. A loner by choice, Kate trusted Josie to advise her about intimate things she didn't dare ask anyone else, and Kate reciprocated with information Josie sought about Ben. Now, since Ben's departure, the two friends had become even closer.

“Kate!” Josie gave her a poke, bringing her back to the present. “So what attracted him to me?”

The lighthouse beam swung out across the lake.

Kate flicked her cigarette butt over the rail. “Maybe he was intrigued with your ways.”

“What ways?”

“I don't know, Josie. You'll have to ask him.” Kate didn't want to think about what might attract Ben.

After a short silence, Josie continued. “Does he ever say anything about me, in his letters?”

Josie had asked this so many times, Kate merely shook her head.

“You said he likes chocolate. Brownies or chocolate chip cookies? Which do you think?”

“Cookies.” Katie closed her eyes.
Oh, to have a chocolate chip cookie!

“Let's make them together. Come for lunch tomorrow.”

Kate didn't want to think about tomorrow. She just wanted to be warm in her bed.

Josie gave Kate another poke. “You came out in this storm for a reason. You have something to tell me.”

A raw wind blew around the lighthouse.

“I don't think this is a good time . . .” Kate hesitated. “I should get home.”

“But why did you come?”

Might as well say it. She'd tell her eventually. “I have a math tutor, that's all.”

“A new tutor? There must be more. Are you in love?”

“No! It's not like that at all!” Kate laughed. “I just wanted to talk with you because”—she swallowed, then whispered—“he's a PW.”

“In your house?” Josie jerked away. “You must be joking. How could your parents ever—”

“It's all right,” Kate said wearily. “He likes America now—”

“Of course he'd say that. My father said that those Nazis are from Rommel's panzer troops. Don't you get it? That's who Ben's fighting.” She was shouting, her face contorted. “They're professional murderers!” She jumped up. “I'm not allowed to go to your house because of those Nazis. Did you know that? Not as long as they're on your property.”

So that was why Josie hadn't been over to visit.

A light went on in the house below. Kate's heart caught. Josie's parents would tell Kate's parents, and that would be the end of that.

Josie's eyes were wild. “Go now!”

Kate threw off the lightkeeper's jacket and grabbed her sodden sweaters. She ducked through the passageway and hurried down the winding steps, teeth chattering.
She doesn't understand. I have to make her understand
. Kate feared losing her friend.

Out in the yard, after pulling on the wet sweaters, she ran along the path to the channel, tears raging down her cheeks.
I'll introduce them. Yes, that's what I'll do. When she meets Karl, she'll see. I have to find a way
.

Teeth chattering, Kate stepped into the cold water. A blast of wind nearly knocked her down. She grabbed for the rope with both hands. The wind would be against her all the way home. About halfway across the channel, a volley of hard waves swept up and caught her by surprise, pulling her off her feet. Though she held tightly to the rope, her body floated on the fast current, feet pointing northward, icy hands simply holding on now, not advancing, just holding on. She squinted toward the mainland. Not so far away, not so far.

She would have to move forward on the rope, hand over hand. The only way. One hand had to let go. Let go! She opened her left hand and reached out, but spray and rain blinded her and a wave tugged her away, and when she grabbed forward again her right hand slipped and the lake swallowed her whole.

She went under and up and under and up, gulping for air, trying to keep her head above the choppy swells. She was a strong swimmer, but the waves were stronger. They pulled her down and forward and under and tossed her up again. She flailed her arms but the current had her. The deep black lake was in charge. She screamed into the darkness but there was no one to hear. Water over her head, in her ears, her nose. Ben's voice coming to her, singing for her to wake up, floating away, Mother scolding about broken eggs, Miss Fleming beckoning—
Yes, I can swim. I can make it! Miss Fleming is waiting. The girls in the dorm. Father!

A wave tossed Kate toward shore. She grabbed for an overhanging
branch and held on but the lake ripped her away, the rough bark burning her hand. Ben! She strained to envision his face as she gulped air and then gulped water and floundered toward the surface, muscles aching.
This is what it feels like to drown. I'm going to drown!
The shore was near but rushing quickly past, farther and farther from home, and the sky was bright with stars so far away that Kate watched herself as if from above, tiny in the huge lake, as insignificant as a water bug. Arms and legs heavy, leaden, barely moving.