Farmerettes (21 page)

Helene realized how much she missed their evening routine of snuggling into bed and reading a chapter. She was ready to agree, but her mother interrupted.

“No, boys. Helene will come home later. She has an important job here. Without her and the other girls, our soldiers would not get enough food. We can't let them down.”

Both boys regarded their sister with respect. “Okay,” said Willy. “But promise you'll be back at the end of the summer.” He climbed into the car behind his brother.

“I want to come home now,” Helene whispered to her mother.

“No, dear,” her mother said gently. “Your duty is here. Your letters glow with happiness about the farm and the friendships you've made. Don't let one setback change that.”

As their families drove off, Peggy and Helene waved until the car disappeared over the horizon. Arm in arm they returned to the dorm. Peggy went to the recreation room, and Helene headed for bed. She tried to read another chapter of
Gone with the Wind
instead of thinking about Monday at seven.

Monday, July 26, 1943

X

“Ooops! Catch it!”

She stretched her arms farther left, and a head of lettuce flew into her hands, splashing cool water over her chest and face, a welcome shower on this hot day. She placed the lettuce in a crate with the others and stood up in time to catch the next one.

“Sorry, bad aim,” called Kate.

“Loved the refreshing shower,” she called back, laughing.
And I love everything else about this place too,
she thought as she caught another wet lettuce. The crate was full. Mr. Grant picked it up and left an empty one in its place.

She called to Kate. “New crate. My turn to cut and toss you a bath.” She hopped over the row of green heads and Kate handed her the knife. The air was fragrant with the scent of fresh hay. She felt strong, healthy, content. She loved the steady routine of farmwork, long walks through the countryside finding places to sketch, and the companionship of the girls. Sure, she missed Isabel a lot, but everyone did. She enjoyed the banter, the crazy songs they made up as they worked, the tricks they played on each other. Life here was clean, simple, good. Maybe she was finally cured. Maybe she'd even go to Romeo's with the girls this weekend.

Helene

Helene filled her last basket of cherries, handed her card to Mr. Belding, and hopped on the wagon to go home. All the girls were hot, exhausted, and wondering what might be served for supper tonight.

Lost in her own apprehension, Helene sat quietly on the wagon. What would Dan say tonight?
Sorry if you thought there was anything to our conversation, but I'm not interested in you, you're too young, too thin, too boring, too…
Or,
I already have a fiancée.
Or maybe,
I'm too messed up from the war to care for you or anyone else.

Even though dinner was Swiss steak, she couldn't eat a bite. Canned prunes for dessert made everyone miss Isabel even more. Helene left the dining room early, took special care to shower, comb her hair, and borrow Peggy's best blouse.

“You look lovely,” said Peggy.

“Yes, I do,” Helene had answered with some amazement. “At least I'll make him regret turning me down.”

“If he does, he's an idiot,” said Peggy. “You're by far the best person I know. Remember that when you talk to him.”

Helene took her book outside, and settled in a chair where she pretended to read. She wanted to be ready, but appear busy, unconcerned, when he came—if he came.
Gone with the Wind
could have been written in Greek for all she comprehended as she sat, staring at her book, calm on the outside, stomach churning, heart beating too fast.

And then he stood before her.

Her surprise was real. “I didn't hear you drive up.”

“This month's gas used up. Had to ride the bike.” He looked embarrassed, boyish. The hero, galloping in on a bicycle. Not the image he probably wanted, but it helped Helene relax.

She hesitated. “There are bikes in the barn,” she said softly. “Do you want to go for a ride?” When he nodded, she felt better. He wasn't in a hurry to run away.

Soon they pedaled along the road, side by side. Helene felt glad to be with him and not to have to talk yet.

They reached the lake, leaned their bikes against a tree, and stood, looking at the waves charging the land and retreating again.

Dan skipped stones across the water and finally spoke. “First of all, I apologize for my rude brother. He was wrong. You didn't deserve such a mean trick, and I told him so.”

She looked at his battered eye, now faded to green, and the small bruise on his jaw. “I'm sorry you had to do that.”

He shrugged. “I'm not.”

The humiliation and anger Helene had felt since Thursday began to seep away. “Let's forget it happened. I'm okay now.”

Dan took a breath and cleared his throat. “And I'm sorry for my dismal behavior too.”

Helene was about to meekly accept that, but then she blurted, “Why?”

Embarrassment and doubt crossed Dan's face. His eyes were dark with regret. “It wouldn't work, Helene. I'm trying to spare you.”

“Shouldn't I have a say in that decision?”

“You're so young, so kind. You don't know how rough it can be. War does things to people. We may have survived, but there's still damage. You shouldn't have to deal with that.”

Helene took his hand—the one with the scar reaching just far enough below the cuff to show the world that it was there. “I have lived with it.” She closed her eyes a moment. “My father. He survived the Great War, Vimy Ridge. No scars on the outside, but such damage inside. Shell shock. His moods ranged from depression to gentleness to angry outbursts. I never knew how he'd greet me when I came home.”

He looked at her with sympathy. “You don't have to tell me this.”

“I want to.” His warm hand in hers made her feel strong.

“Mama told me he was once a quiet, thoughtful man—worked in the lab at Proctor and Gamble. He loved research, his garden, and her. Before the war, he wanted a big family; afterward, the noise of a crying baby—his crying baby—could set him off. I learned to stay very quiet.”

Dan squeezed her hand gently.

“On his good days he read to me, took me for walks in the woods to identify plants, pick mushrooms—as long as it was peaceful. Then the Depression hit Hamilton hard and my dad harder. He lost his job, tried day labor here and there, but he wasn't suited for that. He borrowed money. When my brothers came along—twins—it was too much for him. They rarely saw his kind side, and only remember his silent moods, the horrible shaking, sudden rages. When he finally headed for Kingston to work building highways, we were relieved.”

Helene had just spilled the story she never shared. She paused to inhale deeply. “Sorry, that was too much about me.” She tried to release her hand.

But Dan held on. “I underestimated you.”

“People usually do.”

“Not if they know you.” He gazed at her, his eyes full of admiration. He let go of her hand and frowned. “Helene, I'm much older than you, in many ways. The war does that too. I saw dead and bloodied French babies, and German children burned to a crisp. I met people at their best and their worst. Their very worst.”

He took a deep breath. “My farming ability is limited—this arm, my leg—are scarred, weak. I'll never earn the income to buy my own farm, to support a family properly.”

“We don't have to think that far ahead.”

“It's unfair for me to even start with someone.”

A small song began in Helene's mind. He wasn't rejecting her. He was rejecting himself. “Are you sure you have no temper?” She remembered seeing him argue with his father and brothers, the fight he must have had with Matthew on Friday, her own father's outbursts.

He nodded, puzzled. “Helene, I have sad moments, some nightmares, disagreements with my family, but I don't get melancholy or violent. I promise you that.”

“And that black eye?”

“Any man would have done that for you.”

Only someone gallant.
She was aware of his breath, his scent of clean soap and masculinity. “Then there's really only one thing that matters, Dan.” She looked directly at him. “How we feel about each other. Everything else will fall into place.”

“Dear, innocent Helene…”

“Don't tell me I've read too many novels. I watch people and listen too.” She paused, then blurted, “Dan, do you care for me?”

“From the minute you whizzed through Agnes Fraser's interrogation. She likes you too.”

“I fell for you as you quoted Robert Frost. Harder when we talked outside, and completely when we shared the ice cream.”

“It tasted that good?” He grinned at her, his whole face changed.

She nodded.

He stopped smiling and asked seriously, “Is it that easy?”

She regarded the arm dangling at his side. “Roll up your sleeve.”

He hesitated, then slowly undid the button and pulled up his sleeve.

Helene gazed at the long, ugly burn scar, the skin puckered and mottled red, pale yellow, with shiny ridges. It looked horrible. But it was a part of him. She took his arm, stroked it gently. On sheer impulse, she lifted it to her lips and kissed it.

Dan put his other arm around her, drew her close, and held her tight. She felt his heart beating against her cheek. This felt so right. She wanted to stay there, holding him forever.

After a moment, Dan backed away some. He cupped her chin with his strong hand, leaned in, and kissed her. If she had ever worried how to kiss a man, she now realized it was the most natural, wonderful thing to do.

The two walked hand in hand along the shore. For now, no more words were needed.

When they finally pedaled home, the colors of the evening sky glowed more vivid than ever. They rode past orchards bursting with fruit and birdsong, Helene's heart singing right along.

At the spreading elm tree just before the dorm, they stopped, dropped their bikes, and embraced.

“Do you want to see me again?”

Dan's question was answered by her broad smile.

“Is tomorrow too soon? We could buy ice cream in town.”

Standing with him in a wet ditch would have sounded fine to Helene. “I'll see you after dinner. Seven o'clock?”

Their kiss was cut short by the slam of a screen door. Peggy ran past them, toward the darkening orchard, head down and sobbing.

Dan and Helene quickly said goodnight, and Helene hurried after her friend.

Peggy

Peggy watched Helene pedal down the lane with Dan. Not as romantic as a horse-drawn carriage, but she felt hopeful about this.

She headed back inside, humming a tune. A card game would be fun. First she'd go upstairs for her Count Basie record—pleasant background music—then she'd find some partners.

As soon as she reached the top of the stairs, she knew something was amiss. Stella and a group of girls stood around her bed, deep in conversation. When they saw her, they stopped dead.

Peggy tried a smile. “Anyone for euchre?”

“Not with you.” Nancy tossed back her head and marched past Peggy to the stairs.

Puzzled, Peggy looked at Millie. The girl glanced away, but not before Peggy caught the fear in her eyes.

What have I done?
Peggy turned to Stella, who waved an envelope at her. Then she knew. This was the moment she'd dreaded all summer.

“You thought you could sneak in here, pretend you're one of us,” said Stella, her cheeks red with self-righteous indignation. She shook the envelope at her. “You left this on your nightstand.”

It was the letter from Oma. The gothic script was the first clue. The address to Margarete Pigeon was the second. The return address, Mrs. Otto Reichholtz, made it certain.

Stella narrowed her eyes at Peggy. “You're German—a Nazi.” She almost spat the words.

Peggy stood tall. “I was born in Canada. My father is Canadian…with English parents.”

“Ha! I see German names!”

“Yes. My mother was born there. She came to Canada when she was twenty, became a citizen, and her parents followed. We're all loyal, proud Canadians.”

“You've been very sneaky about this, hiding behind your Canadian name. Why should we believe you?” Stella was in her glory. This was about more than patriotism for her. This was revenge for Harry. “Our fathers and brothers are overseas risking their lives to stop your people, and all the while we're facing danger in our own beds.”

“Don't be ridiculous. My dad works for the war office. I buy war bonds and work here as hard as any of you,” Peggy defended herself to the suspicious faces.

“Really? Then how do you explain this? Once we suspected you, I searched for more evidence.” With a look of triumph, Stella reached into the top shelf of Peggy's orange crate and pulled out the photo of Michael. “You keep a picture of a Nazi soldier! Even now he could be shooting at my dad.”

Suddenly Peggy had to blink back tears. “He isn't shooting anyone. He's dead. Put that picture back, please.”

“Don't you people belong in a camp somewhere?” said Grace. “How do we know you aren't spies or saboteurs?”

Two girls nodded.

Peggy looked at the girls facing her. They were her friends. But Millie frowned in confusion. Ruth stared at her, open-mouthed. The others watched her with cold, appraising eyes.

It was the same as when they left Greenvale four years ago. In Hamilton no one knew. They thought Oma and Opa were Swiss. It was no use reasoning with these girls. Stella had done her work well. Soon everyone at the farm would hear about her. She would have to endure suspicion and hostility—or slink home in disgrace.

Peggy glared at Stella until she put Michael's picture back onto the orange crate. Holding back tears, Peggy fled the room. She rushed downstairs, out across the barnyard to the far orchard, and, finally exhausted, she stopped and slid down a gnarled old peach tree. There she sat with her head in her arms, and cried, the ugly word
Nazi
ringing in her ears.