The Cherry Harvest (30 page)

THE TRAIN SWAYS GENTLY SOUTHWARD
through snow-covered fields and forests, frozen lakes and rivers, backyards with tire swings and bedsheets stiff on clotheslines.

Kate stares out at the passing scene.

She could have stayed, could have run the farm with Father, taken care of Mother, but Father said no. Her staying would make no difference. “Your mother lives in a dark place. Nothing more we can do.”

Kate touches the cold window, wipes away a patch of fog. Snow devils gather and stir across the darkening landscape. A coming storm.

She reaches into her satchel and pulls out the notebook Father gave her. Like everything else in his little campus bookstore, it smells of cherry tobacco. She enjoys working with Father between classes, and joining Father and Miss Fleming for Sunday dinners.

When she can, she spends time with her new friends—sharing meals in the student union, sledding on Bascom Hill, walking in the Arboretum. She often stays up late with the girls in her dormitory,
sitting in their pajamas, smoking cigarettes, talking about literature and philosophy and politics and the meaning of everything. So many opinions about so many ideas she'd never even thought of before. They share hopes and dreams and letters from boyfriends off at war. Everyone has a story.

Kate has shared some of her letters from Clay, certain parts anyway. And she's shared stories about growing up on the farm, but not the bad parts, not the parts about Mother and Vehlmer and Karl and Ben and Josie. Not yet. Maybe never. Telling them about the cherry orchard was bad enough. One of the girls piped right up: “I remember reading about a Nazi murder at a cherry orchard . . . a boy shot, the mother went crazy . . . wasn't that Door County?” “The details were exaggerated,” Kate told them. “Journalists angling for a lurid headline. Badgering the poor family, can you imagine?”

The train rushes through a tunnel, darkening the compartment. Kate glances toward the window. Staring back, her mother's face.

“Takes after her mother,” they all said.

She shivers into her sweater, opens the notebook, and picks up her pencil. “The last time I saw her, a face in the window . . .”

When did Mother's darkness begin? That mad Nazi attacking her in the barn?
Dear Mother!
No, it was before that. Before the prisoners ever came. That first year without the harvest, when Mother had to sell two of her goats. No, that wasn't it. It was about Ben. When Ben left, that's when it started.

And when he came home . . .

Kate closes her eyes and drifts along with the sway of the train, the rhythmic sound of the wheels.

Birds cry and flutter. A pistol shot? Not a rifle for deer or pheasant, but a pistol. Running to the barn . . . faster . . . Ben! Mother . . . no! Karl's eyes wide. The second shot. A scream—

She jerks forward. The whistle screams again. Outside, bare-branched oaks cast long shadows across snowy fields.

Everyone agreed about what happened, what must have happened.
The Nazi killed Ben, and Mother shot the Nazi in a fit of grief. Crime of passion.
Poor Charlotte. For a mother to witness such a thing!
That was what they said aloud, but Kate heard the whispers too, noted the looks.
That woman brought it on herself, inviting those Nazis onto her land, into her home even!

The sheriff came with questions, but Mother only cried and moaned and rocked and whispered gibberish about the barn, the stain, the root cellar, the boat. Kate heard the clues, but the sheriff didn't seem to pick up on them. Or maybe he didn't want to.

Whether Father made any sense of it, Kate couldn't tell. When the sheriff finally turned to Kate, she didn't confess what she thought she knew. It didn't matter anymore.

The Army took Karl's body away, took all the prisoners away. The harvest was nearly finished. Kate and Father picked the last of the cherries.

Ben lay in the parlor for viewing. Mother sat close, rocking, muttering, fingering his collar, smoothing his hair. When reporters came with intrusive questions and flashing bulbs, Father smashed one of the cameras and shouted at them to go away.

Fire and ice. If only she could burn away the images. Kate turns from the dark thoughts and looks out at the icy world rolling by. No, they're frozen in her mind.

Karl coming from the root cellar—the more she thought about it, the more she was sure that Mother must have been down there with him. If only she had confronted Mother then, if she had told Father, Karl would have been sent away, Ben would be alive, and Mother . . . If only . . .

The train slows and settles into the next station. A man in the compartment a few seats ahead stands, gathers his things, and disembarks. Another boards. They move about as if nothing's happened. The way Kate once moved about.

A blond woman with two children hurries into the car and sits across the aisle, excitement in her face. The brother and sister scramble
to the window, giggling over some secret. We used to do that, Ben and I.

The whole town came to his funeral—Mrs. J, Old Man Berger, Olga the butcher's widow, plenty of girls who once pined for Ben, Craig with his caved-in face, and a few other war-wounded boys.

Josie cried inconsolably. “It's not your fault,” Kate tried to convince her.

The doctor sedated Mother so she could go.

Afterward, people brought food and flowers to the house, tiptoed into the parlor where Mother sat staring at the War Mother's Flag. They whispered among themselves, the townspeople, how terrible it all was. Then there was nothing more to say. After an awkward time they got up and left and the house was quiet.

A few days later Kate found Mother in the root cellar tearing apart a good woolen blanket with the edge of a broken jar, tomatoes and blood dripping from her hands.

It was Father who saved her from the burning barn, carrying her into the house, with Mother screaming, “Leave me to hell!”

Kate sold all her rabbits, save for Mama Bunny, which she gave to Josie. When it was time to leave, she packed up her clothes and books and bicycle. That was all she needed. She went upstairs for a last look and chose one of Ben's carved figurines—the rearing horse he had started before he left.

The locomotive gives a last toot and a young couple pushes through the door. The boy, not much older than Kate, wears a tan Army uniform. They sit close, holding hands. The girl's been crying. She drops her shoes to the floor and tucks her legs up under her plaid wool skirt on the leather seat. The boy puts an arm around her shoulders. Must be shipping out. He strokes her hair. Will he come back as sweet, as loving as he is now?

When the couple kiss, Kate turns away. She pulls the worn photograph from her sweater pocket—Clay, so handsome in his officer's
uniform, standing next to his plane somewhere in the Pacific. Far away. So far away.

“We'll go flying,” he told her that day in the cherry shack. “Wherever you want to go.” She closes her eyes, her skin tingling with the memory of his touch, rain all around, lights flashing beyond the storm. Electric.

She sends him stories, and he comments thoughtfully on each one. “The mermaid—that was you, wasn't it, finding your way to my party. How awkward you must have felt, swimming through the land without legs among the leggy ones. I had no idea.”

He writes to her nearly every day, mailing packets of notes whenever he's able. “The dewy soft valley of your back . . .” “How your eyes smile at me over your shoulder . . .” “The way you plunge right in . . .”

She opens his latest letter and reads it yet again. “I do not have the words to describe the lush islands I see from the air—rugged jungles, deep purple waters, tall grassy meadows flowing like rivers. I want to bring you here, after the war. You will find the words. That's what I love about you, Kate.”

It used to be, “That's what I like about you.” Now it's “love.”

That one word doesn't matter. No, not nearly as much as the way he shares his world with her, imagines a world for them together. He will be flying, she will be writing.

Her story is just beginning.

FOR THEIR STEADFAST EDITORIAL
support and inspiration, I'm indebted to Brent Barker, Kevin Arnold, and most importantly, Antoinette May, who never stopped believing.

To my agent, Harvey Klinger, who made it happen, I am truly grateful.
Onward!

To my editor, Rachel Kahan, for pushing me to go deeper. I thought that the great literary editors of old had left the building—what a fabulous surprise.

I thank Ann Jinkins and Maggie Weir, curators of the Door County Historical Museum, for their review and advice on the historical accuracy of the manuscript. I thank Cliff Ehlers for sharing his experience in working a cherry orchard in Door County during World War II. Also, Laura Kayacan, at the Door County Library, for providing a wealth of information about the place and time.

I'm also thankful to writing buddies Rob Swigart, Sandy Towle, Sally Henry, Jim Spencer, Robert Yeager, Pam Mundale, Monika Rose, Genevieve Beltran, Kathy Fellure, Amy Smith, Sally Kaplan, Lou Gonzalez, and Jennifer Tristano.

For their input on the final manuscript, I thank John Sanna, Pam Sanna, and Ann Iverson.

For deepening my writing experience, I am grateful to Vermont Studio Center for a month-long residency, to Middlebury College for Bread Loaf in Sicily, and to Squaw Valley Community of Writers.

To Larry Greene, longtime friend, advisor, and writing pal, for steering me in the right direction time and again.

To Mom and Dad, who have always been there for me.

And hugs to my daughter, Katie, my greatest fan.

LUCY SANNA
has published poetry, short stories, and nonfiction books, which have been translated into a number of languages. Born and raised in Wisconsin, Sanna now divides her time between Madison, Wisconsin, and San Francisco.
The Cherry Harvest
is her first novel.

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Cover design by Amanda Kain

Cover art: barn © by Eva Ricci/Trevillion Images; cherry trees
© by Manrico Mirabelli/Getty Images; loose cherries © by Anna Nemoy
(Xaomena)/Getty Images; woman © by Irene Lamprakou/Arcangel Images

Author photograph by Hope Maxwell Snyder

Art used throughout by Astromonkey/Shutterstock,Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

THE CHERRY HARVEST
. Copyright © 2015 by Lucy Sanna. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

EPub Edition JUNE 2015 ISBN 9780062343642

ISBN 978-0-06-234362-8 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-06-241118-1 (international edition)

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