The Major's Daughter (16 page)

“And your parents would object. . . .”

“I would be ostracized from everything I know. It's true, believe me. No one would mean to do it, not in their conscious minds, but they would think twice about inviting me to a party, or a wedding, or any social occasion if it meant also inviting Mr. Kamal. Then in time they would persuade themselves it was out of kindness toward me . . . because they would not want to make me feel awkward. You know how these things go, Collie. Little by little I would be on my own island with only Mr. Kamal for company. And if we had children . . .”

“I get your point. But I will always be your friend, Estelle. I promise that.”

“Yes, I know you would. I've always known that about you. Now here we are, and if you don't mind I am going to go up to the room and read Mr. Kamal's letter. You know, I think it's time I stopped calling him Mr. Kamal, don't you? He has invited me to use his first name, and I do sometimes, but with others . . . it's easier to use Mr. Kamal.”

“What is his first name?”

“His full name is Neem Karoli Kamal. His mother calls him Neem.”

“That's beautiful.”

“It reminds me of rainfall. I don't know why, but it does. A soft rain on a spring morning.”

“Go read your letter. I'll tell Mrs. Hammond you are hungry. Now, go. I'll build a moat around you.”

Estelle hugged her friend again. Then she ran up the porch stairs and went straight to their room, her hand against the letter to keep it from sliding out by accident.

 • • • 

The moon rose above the Devil's Slide. August sat on the porch of the refectory and watched it climb above the last brow of pines. A summer moon. He fanned the apron to bring air under his clothes. The kitchen had been mercilessly hot all afternoon and evening, and one of the men, Simon, had become light-headed and had to be sent to his barracks to rest. The cutting crews talked of swimming in the many woodland creeks when they came back for mealtime, but that was not permitted for the cooking detail. August had worked straight through, first peeling potatoes, then carrying service ware to the tables, and finally washing an avalanche of dishes. His hands felt scarred and raw, and the front of his apron pushed its sodden weight against him. A funny thing, he thought, to spend the war washing dishes in a military prison somewhere in the United States. Nevertheless, he felt grateful for the work and to be alive to see the moon climb into the sky. He hoped his brother and his parents watched the same moon. He prayed they still lived and that they had not given up hope.

He started to rise to his feet when Red came out for a cigarette, but Red grabbed him by the shoulder and kept him where he sat. Red pulled an upside-down bucket close to August and handed him a beer. The beer sweated with glistening rivers of ice; the label had slipped away from the brown bottle.

“Lousy beer,” Red said, his fingers reaching into his pockets for a cigarette. “But lousy beer is better than no beer. Skoal.”

August tilted the tip of the bottle toward Red, then took a deep drink.

The beer tasted watery.

“Not as good as ours,” August said.

“Not close. Pig piss. What I wouldn't give for a few Bavarian lagers.”

“It's a pretty moon just the same.”

“Yes, very pretty.”

Red lighted his cigarette. In the flash of the match, August saw his profile. He appeared older in the dim light, as if the man beside him was a faded copy of the chef who ruled the kitchen.

“I'm not sure how many of these I would have to drink to feel drunk,” Red said, alternating between sips and puffs from his cigarette. “They are weak. Hopelessly weak.”

“They have different tastes, I suppose.”

“Yes, but there are plenty of Germans in this country. You would think they could teach the Americans how to brew a proper beer.”

“We only know this one place.”

“True,” Red said, apparently giving up on his condemnation of American beer. He blew a white funnel of smoke into the air. A few June bugs rattled the light over the back door. For a time neither of them spoke, and August concentrated on the coolness finally touching his skin.

“How is your Fräulein?” Red asked. “Have you seen her?”

“Earlier today. At break time.”

“She came to see you?”

“She heard the piano.”

“Ah! Music is the cheese for your little trap!”

“It's not a trap.”

Red laughed, then took a large drink of beer. He rolled the empty bottle into a corner, then went inside and brought out two more beers. August finished his and rolled it after Red's. The bottles clinked. Red lighted another cigarette as he sat.

“Women . . . ,” he said, then lost his thought or his tongue.

“What about them?”

“What else do we have but women? That's the great misery of war. What sane man puts himself in a barracks full of men miles away from available women? We must like it, because we continue to do it. War turns us into bachelors whether we like it or not. It makes no sense.”

“Did you ever marry, Red?”

“I did, but she didn't!” he answered, and then gave a loud, hearty laugh. August guessed he had employed that remark many times.

“My Fräulein is the commandant's daughter.”

“So? Everyone is someone's daughter or son. You can't let that get in the way.”

“I can't approach her.”

“But you already have, don't you see? The heart always finds a path. It's like water . . . it keeps seeking its own level. You two will not be able to stay away from each other. Trust me.”

“They'll send us back afterward.”

Red shrugged.

“Who knows what will happen?” he said. “We all may be dead tomorrow. Hasn't the war taught you that much at least? Enjoy each other. If it doesn't work,
pffft
. It's not the end of the world. But if you don't take her seriously, you may regret it. Do what you can and see where it takes you.”

“Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for. It's nature, that's all. All the wars in the world won't prevent men and women from finding each other. You watch. Your Fräulein will find a way. She has more freedom than you. And the war is ending. You can feel it, can't you?”

“It's not finished yet.”

“No, not for a time yet, but the end is inevitable. Hitler should have stopped a long time ago and sued for peace. He should have taken his gains when he had them.”

“That's not his personality.”

“No, of course not. He's the great Napoléon of our age. He had bad counsel around him. That proved to be his Achilles' heel. They made him believe he was invincible, that the German people would sacrifice anything for him. But there is a limit to what people can endure. His counselors should have warned him.”

“What waits for you at home, Red?”

“More kitchens,” he said, flicking his final cigarette away. He drank off his beer. “For me, the world is a kitchen. For you, maybe it is that Fräulein's sweet arms. Now come on, let's finish. I'm tired and I want to go to bed.”

Chapter Twelve

E
stelle waved for as long as she could still see the station. Twice she watched Marie jump into the air, her lovely young face covered with tears. Then Estelle saw Amy gather her little sister into her arms. The poor child, Estelle thought. Marie had been inconsolable at the thought of them all separating. She had asked repeatedly why Estelle needed to return to Ashtabula, and it did no good to remind her that Estelle had always meant to visit, not change addresses permanently. To every reason put forward—time, money, missing her parents, her home life—Marie had countered with a cry from her heart. She wanted Estelle to stay, that was all. Estelle had never felt more admired by anyone in her life.

So she waved and she watched her three friends wave in return. The train moved up a slight grade and then turned gradually around a bend. Pine trees blocked her view of Percy Station at last. Her friends disappeared. She fell back into her seat and felt a wild mixture of emotions clawing in her chest.

She was going home. Back to her house in Ashtabula. Back to her parents. And, of course, back to Mr. Kamal.

Nothing had changed, she realized. Even now she carried his letter in her purse. How many times had she read it? Rocking slowly in the train, the pines clustered and rich in either direction, she drew out the letter and read its opening again. Besides giving the news of Ashtabula, the gossip among the merchants, a few mentions of the society page, it contained, buried in several lines, expressions of his feelings. She had showed those passages to Collie and Collie had concurred; they had been placed carefully in the letter to convey his feeling for her. He could not simply declare himself, and so he had hinted, and made references to earlier conversations, all of it expressing to her his deeper, truer feelings. He waited for her; he looked forward to resuming their afternoon teas; he had new plants to show her; he had thought of a concert they might attend. All innocent, all friendly, and all an invitation to step closer.

She had not replied. She had tried several times, coached in several attempts by Collie, but words failed. She did not want to encourage him; she did not want to encourage herself. The letter remained like a burning ember wherever she carried it. She did not dare expose it to common air for fear it would explode into fire.

With an act of will, she pulled down the window of her train car and dangled the letter out the window. She let the sheets go one at a time. She did not care what other passengers might think. The pages flung themselves rearward along the train, swirling back like memory or loss. She watched them go and told herself it was for the best.

 • • • 

Marie insisted on dancing. She had lingered at Mrs. Hammond's boardinghouse all afternoon after Estelle's departure, depressed and unhappy, and to buck up her spirits Collie had agreed to a single wish if Marie would simply smile. Amy had cautioned against it, but Marie had jumped on the offer and moved immediately to the radio in Collie's room and turned up the volume.

“It's too hot for that nonsense,” Amy said. “People don't need to hear us tromping around up here like a herd of elephants.”

“You promised!” Marie insisted.

“I didn't promise,” Amy replied. “I hate to say it, Collie, but this is your ticket to punch. She'll dance your legs off.”

“What else do we have to do today?” Marie asked. “We can't just sit around for the rest of our lives.”

“You're the one who was moping all afternoon,” Amy said.

“I'll dance,” Collie said, “but not forever . . . do you promise, Marie?”

Marie nodded and turned the music up louder. The windows stood wide open, but barely a touch of wind found them. It felt like rain coming. They had already watched the clouds forming, spotting shapes and animals in the thunderheads, but the rain refused to fall. Collie used a folded newspaper for a fan. The humidity clung to her and made her feel as though she wore a second skin.

“I'll be the boy,” Marie said, standing in front of Collie with her arms open.

“It's too hot,” Amy said, and fell back on the bed.

“You're a funny-looking boy,” Collie said as she stepped into Marie's arms, “but I'll dance with you anyway.”

Marie counted them off, then pushed Collie away and made her spin. Collie burst out laughing and stopped.

“What dance are we doing?” Collie asked.

“You have to follow, that's all.”

“But shouldn't we have some idea of what we're trying to do?”

“You wouldn't ask that of a man, would you? That would be terribly rude. Now come on, you promised.”

It felt ridiculous at first, but gradually Collie found the fun in it. She allowed herself to be pushed away, spun, then nearly strangled in a complicated hand exchange that Marie had learned somewhere. Amy laughed and clapped from the bed. On the second dance, they both kicked off their shoes as a dark, gusty wind began pushing against the house.

A crack of lightning suddenly sprang across the Devil's Slide and Amy let out a little whoop. Marie used the lightning as an excuse to dance faster. She began holding her finger up and wagging it, saying
hidey-hidey ho
over and over again, when suddenly she jerked Collie's arm hard and pulled her to the window.

“Look!” she said.

“What?” Collie asked.

Amy jumped up from the bed and crowded to the window with them.

It took only a moment for Collie to see August running through the rain with his shirt off and his trousers in his hand. The men wore their khaki undershorts, but nothing else. Obviously his cutting team had been at the river for a swim when the rain hit. The American guards trotted behind them, fully clothed, their rifles held loosely in their arms. The men laughed and shouted; Marie pulled the girls down lower in the window so they could watch without being observed. Collie thought she had never seen men so free and wild. This is what they are like, she realized, when there are no women around. It felt as though they watched a herd of deer, or a flock of birds, and Collie felt enormous attraction.

August carried a bouquet of wildflowers in his right hand. For an instant he disappeared under the eave of the roof, and Collie heard his heavy tread on the porch stairs. An instant later he had returned to running with his mates. They greeted his brief departure with hoots and laughter. One man ran close to him and ruffled his hair. The American guards laughed, too, and then their voices mixed and became jumbled with the squish of muddy steps and the clink of a canteen. At last they passed down the road far enough so that they could not look back and catch them watching from the window.

“Men are always laughing at a joke I don't understand,” Amy said, sitting on the bed again. “I comprehend English well enough, but it's as if they speak a different language.”

“I'm going to run to the porch and get the bouquet,” Collie said.

She hurried down the stairs. The porch door stood open except for a screen, and Collie watched as water poured off the roof. It made a curtain, a prismatic sheen of dark light. She saw August's bare wet footprints on the porch boards; the footprints shimmered in contrast to the wood when a stroke of lightning touched the mountainside. She found the bouquet on the glider. He could not leave a note, naturally, but he had tied the bottom of the bouquet with strands of grass, so that it did not fall apart when she lifted it to her nose. Wild black-eyed Susans, tansy, Queen Anne's lace, a stalk of cornflower. She didn't know all their names. Flowers from her suitor, she told herself. She carried the flowers quickly upstairs, where Marie examined them for hidden meaning. She made Collie pluck off the petals of the black-eyed Susans and repeat the ageless questions
Love me? Love me not?
while the rain fell in hurried gusts and the smell of the summer became locked in her memory.

“My father would kill me if he knew an Austrian soldier had delivered flowers to me,” Collie said. “I can't encourage him. I should speak to him and tell him to stop.”

“Are you insane?” Marie asked, her voice riddled with disbelief. “It's the most romantic thing I've ever seen. He thought of you and he didn't mind showing all those other men that he wanted to bring you flowers! He's perfect!”

“He's German,” Amy said.

“Austrian,” Collie corrected, although she knew that wasn't the point.

“It's a dangerous game you're playing,” Amy said, turning down the music. “What does my father always say? A falling knife has no handle. Be careful, Collie. You may reach for something and it might cut your hand.”

“Oh, you're as old as a dinosaur already!” Marie said. “I swear, what kind of old wet blanket are you?”

Amy smiled, but the corners of her mouth remained tight. Collie met her eyes and nodded.

 • • • 

“Thank you for agreeing to see me again,” Henry Heights said a week later from his seat in Mrs. Hammond's parlor, his hat in his hand. “I can't begin to apologize sufficiently for my brother and for our behavior the other night. It was unforgivable. My brother suffers from dipsomania. He cannot control himself when alcohol is present.”

“I understand. You've made that point.”

“He's promised to get treatment. This last incident brought that plainly to light. His condition worsened after his return from the war. This is all a family matter, and I'm sure it's tiresome to you, but he is not the man he was the other night. He's changed from the war.”

Collie nodded, her gaze carefully assessing him. She granted that he had made a heartfelt apology. He had sent flowers twice, both times with accompanying notes asking to see her. He had also sent a note to Estelle, begging her forgiveness, but it had arrived too late. She had forwarded it to Ohio, and then Estelle had reported on the content. Collie still did not know what to make of the evening with Amos. It had been sordid and terrifying, certainly, but it had not been Henry's fault. She believed he was as appalled by his brother's behavior as he claimed to be.

He twirled his hat lightly in his hand. Collie heard Mrs. Hammond clank something in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. It was half past seven and dinner was over. Agnes occasionally passed through the room with a tray in her hand to set the breakfast table. Henry Heights fit his apology into the gaps when they were alone.

“I appreciate your good intention, Mr. Heights . . . ,” she said, but he cut her off.

“Henry, please.”

“All right, Henry then. I do appreciate your intention. I won't say all is forgotten, because I won't soon forget that evening, but I accept your apology. I can't speak for Estelle, but I don't suppose it matters. She won't be back here again. We could have brought legal action against your brother.”

“Yes, I know.”

“If my father had known what jeopardy you placed us in, he would have taken serious action.”

“You didn't tell him?”

Collie shook her head. She still wasn't sure they had been correct to not inform her father or any authority. It seemed better at the time to put the entire evening out of their minds. Estelle refused to speak of it afterward.

“Give me another chance,” he said, then stopped when Agnes swung through with a tray of silverware.

“A chance?”

“I have a feeling that we could get along very well,” he said. “We could not have gotten off to a more horrible beginning, I grant you, but please don't hold that against me forever. The Woodcutters' Ball is in a month's time, and I was hoping you would accompany me. It's a gala evening . . . well, at least it was before the war. Now we've had to cut back, but it's the social event of the season in Berlin.”

“I don't think so, Henry.”

“Tell me, are you saying no because you have no interest in me, or because of my brother's abhorrent behavior?”

He appeared so vulnerable as he asked that she couldn't help but feel pity for him. And what did she really feel? It was true that her heart felt on loan to August, but he was a prisoner of war, a German, and it was unrealistic to place her hopes on such a thin string. Henry, on the other hand, came from a prominent family in New Hampshire. He was an American, college educated, attractive, and he seemed sincere in his repentance.