The Major's Daughter (17 page)

Before she could answer, Mrs. Hammond appeared. She said hello to Henry but took no time to hear his reply. She carried a sewing bag over one shoulder and a quilt against her chest. Collie knew Mrs. Hammond was headed out for a night of quilting and gossip at Mrs. Cutrer's. It was her regular Tuesday night, her one break in her demanding week.

“Almost forgot,” Mrs. Hammond said at the door, “our little Marie is ill. Her mother called over this afternoon from their neighbor's house. They don't have a phone, you know.”

“Is it serious?”

“Apparently it is. They thought it was the simple influenza, but it's taken a turn. It's hard to know how these things will go.”

“But she'll get well?” Collie said, sitting up.

“I expect so, but the girl wanted to see you. She thinks the world of you, you know?”

“She's a dear. Henry, you'll have to excuse me. She'll think I've abandoned her.”

“Give her my best, and tell her mother I'll do anything I can to help,” Mrs. Hammond said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond.”

“We're all in God's hands,” she said, and then walked off, the quilt like the soft prow of a ship.

“I'm sorry, but I have to go to her,” Collie said. “May I think about your invitation? I'd like to sleep on it.”

“Certainly,” he said, rising. “And I hope your friend has a speedy recovery. Do you need a ride?”

“No, she lives close by, thank you.”

He nodded and turned to go. She gave him credit for not dragging things out.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she said as he opened the door.

“I'd always bring you flowers,” he said, then he left.

 • • • 

Estelle dressed carefully, slipping into a peach-colored gown that suited her, she knew. It was not a new gown, but her mother had it cleaned and ready; Estelle slid it over her head, adjusted it past her hips and breasts, then turned and watched the fall of it as she moved. Yes, it worked. It had always worked, that was the point, and she understood her mother took pleasure in seeing her daughter “come to her senses.” That had been Estelle's resolve, formed as the train left Stark and confirmed as she traveled closer to home: she was done resisting. She comprehended what her parents wanted from her,
of her
, and she endeavored to give it to them. She had not seen Mr. Kamal except briefly, and then only out of politeness. She had stopped by casually, ducking in to buy an arrangement of irises for her friend, Ginny Babcock, and she had braved it through with Mr. Kamal despite his pleading eyes. Her coldness had wounded him; it had wounded her as well, and on returning from the shop she had gone directly to bed, claiming a headache. She had cried until her eyes had become pale, sandy deserts. She had lost her taste for everything, and now the world seemed dull and flat and empty. She moved through her days, but she felt herself an imitation of what her true self might have been previously. In giving up Mr. Kamal, she had forfeited herself.

Nevertheless, she must put a brave face on things, she thought, turning again to see the dress in the mirror. Of course the meeting had been strained; he had wanted more from her, a greater indication of her interest, but she had retreated to a cold, lofty place in her consciousness, and she had treated him with an attitude bordering on condescension. He was a merchant, that was all. He had expressed his hope that she would visit again soon, and that he was eager to hear more about her experiences in New Hampshire. She smiled and accepted the bouquet of flowers. She promised nothing.

And now she had a date to a country-club dance with George Samuels. George, dear George, was not unlike the peach dress she modeled for herself in the mirror. He was tried-and-true. He came from the right stock, from the right schools, was determinedly heading in the right direction. Nobody found anything exotic about George, which, she confessed to herself, was a relief. It made her parents happy to see her dressing for a dinner dance with George Samuels, and it was not a deficit of character for parents to want the best for their daughter. Even his name, in its blandness, seemed a relief to her mother; several times Estelle had caught her mother emphasizing the correctness of his name when she mentioned her daughter's plans to friends on the phone. George and Estelle. George Samuels, of course, the boy left out of the war due to some form of hernia.

Estelle sat at the vanity in her room and applied the last of her makeup. She spritzed a tiny cloud of Chanel from her atomizer and ducked her head through it. The lighting proved flattering; she looked, she admitted, like a young woman going out with a man to a country-club dinner dance. Her mother's pair of small diamond studs glittered in her ears, and a triple string of cultured pearls dangled at her throat. If she could not feel the part, then she would have to act the part until feeling came. That was her plan.

Her mother entered as Estelle put a wrap around her shoulders. Mrs. Emhoff was a tall, graceful woman in her late forties, with a blond bubble of hair that had recently tilted toward gray, and a pale complexion that burned easily in the sun. She wore dramatic red lipstick that occasionally left a pink sheen on her teeth.

“Oh, you did go with the peach,” her mother said, although why she should be surprised Estelle could not imagine. They had discussed it a thousand times.

“It's what we talked about, wasn't it, Mother?”

“Yes, of course. You look so lovely in it. And George just pulled in. Your father is answering the door.”

“I'll be down in a moment.”

“Let him wait a little,” her mother said. “Men hate to wait, and that's why it's good for them.”

“I wasn't aware we were playing a game.”

“Always, dear, always. Now, yes, the pearls are just right. Spin and let me see you.”

Estelle did as her mother requested. When she finished she watched her mother's happiness spread like something spilled and expanding on a kitchen floor. Her mother wore a dark gray at-home dress, and it was possible, Estelle thought, that she had selected it to provide contrast to her daughter's pastel outfit. It tired her to think such a thing, and she took her mother's hands in sympathy. It seemed unfair that she, Estelle, had such power over her mother's happiness.

“It's just George,” she said, “and just the old country club.”

“George is making his way, make no mistake. You look lovely, dear. You'll meet the Elvinsons at the dance? You'll make quite a smart set.”

“A dream come true,” Estelle could not prevent herself from saying.

“What is it that you're looking for, dear?” her mother asked, bending to flounce the hem of her daughter's dress a little. “Why this fatigued-with-the-world demeanor? It's very tiring and not particularly attractive. You're a lucky girl to be going out to a dance while a war . . .”

“I know, Mother. I'm sorry. I promise to behave.”

“George is a perfectly nice young man, with a good future in front of him. You grew up with him, Estelle. His parents are friends.”

“You're right, Mom. I'm sorry.”

“Now go down and save the poor young man from your father. He'll probably be in a full sweat by now.”

Estelle hugged her mother. She didn't mean to be cross and difficult. If anything, she should be grateful to her mother, she knew, but her mind felt like a scramble of warring emotions. She had been cruel to Mr. Kamal! Yes, cruel. And now she wanted to be cruel to her mother, and to George, the ox of a man who wanted nothing more than to be her escort for an evening, and maybe for life. Estelle knew herself to be a difficult daughter, and as she went down the stairs she scolded herself that she would be better, would improve, and that George, her bovine boyfriend, would be the first step in her self-reclamation.

She found them in the living room drinking highballs. They had not bothered to sit but stood next to the portable bar, their glasses like bronze candles in their hands. George wore a dinner jacket over a white shirt with a crisp black bow beneath his chin. He had put on weight since college and his face looked fleshy and supple, a camel's neck and face, with eyelids that fell over his eyes and achieved a sleepy, bemused expression. He seemed always to be tilting his head backward, as if his vision needed the flat expanse of his cheeks to see things properly.

“There she is,” her father said. “Would you like to join us, dear?”

“A short one, please. Hello, George.”

“You look smashing,” George said.

George borrowed English phrases and made them part of his vernacular; she had forgotten that about him until her recent reacquaintance with him. His immersion into business had only made it worse. She imagined he thought it made him more refined, or continental, or merely different.

“Thank you, George. You look very handsome.”

“Is your mother coming down?” her father asked, shaking out a highball.

“Right here!” her mother said, whisking into the room. “Hello, George. You're a picture!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Emhoff.”

“Who's playing tonight?” her father asked.

“The Jefferson City Two Tones,” George said, his voice a tad watery. “They've got a smashing brass section.”

“Do they?” her father said. “I've never heard of them.”

“Yes you have, dear,” her mother said. “You've even danced to them, but you don't remember. They have that Puerto Rican trumpet player who everyone admires.”

“You can't beat Puerto Ricans on horns,” George said. “You know the band, don't you, Estelle?”

“Yes, sure. Didn't they play last New Year's?”

“No, that was the Walker Brothers,” said George.

He passed along a highball to Estelle's mother, then raised his glass.

“Here's how,” he said.

“It's so nice to see you again, George,” her mother said. “And doing so well.”

“It's a dog-eat-dog world, but it turns out I'm a bit of a dog myself.”

That brought a laugh. Estelle smiled and drank. She decided she would need several drinks to make it through the night. She looked at the faces surrounding her. This was the path she was meant to take. Her mother stood between the two men on one side of the circle, directly across from where Estelle stood. Boy-girl, boy-girl, like a game on a children's playground. For an instant she tried to imagine Mr. Kamal standing here. He would not drink, for one thing, and he would wear his turban and pass his doleful eyes over everything. Like a crow trooping among doves. Wasn't that what Shakespeare said? She drained her glass and passed it to her father.

“Knock me again, please,” she said.

“Steady on, old girl,” George said, smiling.

Chapter Thirteen

I
n the center of his barracks August stood on the outside of the circle of men, listening to the stories told by the newcomers. They were all hungry for news of the war, news from
their
side, not the versions given by the American press, and now, almost by magic, two newcomers had arrived from Normandy. They were young men, nearly identical, with red cheeks and golden hair, both with dented chins as if screws had been inserted into their jawlines to secure something deeper in their skulls. Their arrival had caused a stir; even the American guards had been interested in their reports, because they brought firsthand knowledge of the fighting. They had been captured near Coutances in France. It was a hellish battle, on that everyone agreed, but here were two young German soldiers, fresh from the Fatherland, their fates bringing them to this tiny camp thousands of miles away. So miraculous was their arrival that some of the men had believed them to be infiltrators. If they were, August decided, then they possessed theatrical skills beyond anyone's comprehension.

“We killed over a thousand Americans and Allies, and they gained a mere two hundred meters of ground. They paid with blood, believe me,” the youngest of the pair said. “Our tanks are better than theirs.”

“They outnumber us, though, isn't that true?” a voice from the ring of men asked.

“Yes,” the older of the pair said. “Like ants on a wedding cake.”

“The British Second Army tried to forge into the Cotentin Peninsula, but we pushed them back,” the younger said. “You would be proud of our forces. They are fighting like demons.”

“We never hear that from our guards,” Liam said.

He was a short, blunt man who had moved onto August's cutting team the week before.

“What of Germany itself?” August asked. “What news do you have of our countrymen?”

“They are Germans. They stand united,” the older boy said.

“Yes, but are there supplies and food?” Gerhard, August's friend, asked.

“Not as much as is needed . . . and medicine is in short supply. Very short supply. But we soldier on. You will not hear protests.”

August studied the speaker. He could not determine if the young soldier, the one who had finished speaking, told the truth. Or, rather, he could not say if the young soldier merely repeated things he had been told or heard.

He met Gerhard's eye and motioned with his chin that he intended to step outside. Gerhard nodded and went with him.

“What do you make of those two?” Gerhard asked when they had moved a safe distance from the barracks. Gerhard lighted a cigarette. Night had come at last, and a soft rain fell and made tiny explosions on the camp's metal roofs. It smelled wonderful and fresh and August thought of his parents' kitchen garden for an instant, the earthy scent of newly turned soil and manure.

“They believe what they're saying, but they don't know any more than we do,” August said.

“That's how I took it. But I believe them about the fighting. Even the Americans say it's bloody.”

“We're lucky to be out of it, really,” Gerhard said, blowing smoke into the air. “We're not supposed to say that, of course.”

“I wonder if my brother is in the middle of it,” August said. “He was too young when I left, but he's at least as old as those two.”

“They're babies.”

“We were babies once.”

“I don't think Germany can hold out forever, and Hitler is too prideful to strike a peace agreement. He'll lead us off a cliff, I'm certain.”

“The time to sue for peace may already be gone. The Allies will want revenge. It's only human nature.”

Gerhard shrugged. At that moment August spied a familiar shape coming through the guarded gate. Collie ran past the guards and jangled a key, obviously coming to open something in the administration building. August put his hand on his friend's shoulder and turned him slightly. Gerhard strained to see, then nodded. August left him and went to see what had brought Collie to the camp so late in the evening.

A guard stepped forward and challenged him.

“What do you want?” the guard asked.

Then the guard, a middle-aged man named Howard, recognized August, because he lowered his rifle.

“It's you,” the guard said. “I still can't let you approach the gate.”

“I wanted to speak to the commandant's daughter.”

“Who doesn't?” Howard asked with a quiet leer. “She's in to use the phone.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Well, if it is, she didn't tell me.”

“We've talked sometimes,” August tried to explain.

“Yes, and I'm Kaiser Wilhelm. Go back to your barracks. I don't want to put you on report.”

August started to turn, but Collie reappeared on the porch. August could not see her well, but she seemed in distress. Her usual calm had been eradicated, and she paced on the small porch, obviously impatient for something.

“Collie?” he called. “It's August Wahrlich.”

She came to the edge of the porch and peered into the darkness.

“Let him pass,” she said quietly to the guard. “I know him.”

“It's against regulation, miss. At this time of night . . .”

“He may be of help to me. Now, please, do as I say. I won't keep him more than a minute.”

The guard moved off to resume his usual position near the center gate. August stepped quickly to the small porch where Collie waited.

“What is it?” he asked. “You look upset.”

To his astonishment, she walked into his arms. He heard the loud wracks of sobs passing through her body. He wondered for a moment if something had happened to her father. At the same moment, the sensation of having a woman in his arms, even with such sadness attached to it, felt overwhelming. It had been years since he had experienced such comfort. He couldn't help it; he kissed her hair and tightened his arms around her. In time her crying slowed and she pushed away, bringing a handkerchief out of her pocket to dab at her eyes.

“I'm not usually like this,” she said, “but Marie . . . the young girl. You know her, don't you? We talked about her.”

“Yes, the one I danced with?”

Collie nodded.

“What is it? Is she all right?”

“She's very ill and they're not sure she will make it through the night. The family doesn't have a phone, so I came here to use the office phone, but now the doctor is out delivering a baby. He is supposed to call and I'm to wait here, but I feel as though I'm about to explode. She's raving. Her fever is horrible.”

“I'm sorry.”

“The doctor is at least an hour away, and that's if he could leave this moment. The delivery could go into the small hours. It's a first birth, his wife said, and those are typically the slowest.”

“We have a medic who could look at her,” August said. “His name is Schmidt. Wilhelm Schmidt, and he's a good man.”

“I've seen the name, but I didn't know he had a medical background.”

“He was a doctor, or a medical student in Hungary. I don't know which. But he takes care of the men here. I could fetch him and ask if he would go see the little girl.”

“Yes, please, would you do that? It can't hurt. I'm afraid she's going to die and we won't be able to do anything for her.”

“I'll be back in a moment. Stay here and I'll bring him.”

August hurried off. He hoped he had not promised too much. He found Schmidt in the middle of a chess match against another Hungarian. They sat on opposite bunks, cigarettes burning, a cloud of smoke obscuring the checkerboard propped on an empty bucket between them. The game appeared advanced; only a few pieces remained on the board.

“It sounds like the Spanish flu,” Schmidt said when August finished describing the situation. “If it is, she'll be lucky to survive it. I've seen many cases.”

“Will you come and look at her?”

“The doctor may not like such interference.”

“I think it's critical.”

August watched Schmidt weigh the information. He was a good, kind man, August knew, but he suffered in camp life. He was older, for one thing, and the work exhausted him. Apparently he felt some apprehension; if the girl died, August realized, then the fault might be laid at Schmidt's feet, and who knew where that might lead? But eventually Schmidt stood and ran a hand through his bushy gray hair. He stubbed out his cigarette in an old B&M bean can. He knelt with difficulty to retrieve a suitcase from under his bunk. He handed it to August.

“Where is the girl?” Schmidt asked.

“In a house nearby.”

“Will they let us off grounds?”

“They must.”

Schmidt stopped in the latrine for a moment, and when he emerged he had obviously washed his face and run a wet comb through his hair. He looked better, more groomed, and his demeanor had become crisper. August spotted the glimmer of what the man must have looked like before the war, before Africa and the dirt and heat. It heartened him to see it.

August led him to Collie and introduced him.

“Do you think you can help?” Collie asked.

“I can look. I make no promises,” Schmidt said in German.

“She's very ill.”

“We need to break the fever or she won't survive. I've seen this illness before.”

August stood beside Schmidt as Collie went to speak with the guard. He heard Howard's reluctance; it was against protocol. August could not imagine what it required on Collie's part to persuade an American guard to permit two Germans to wander off from the prison at night. He heard her speaking emphatically, her voice slightly raised. She mentioned her father, who was apparently unavailable at the moment. That much he overheard.

In the end, August listened as they summoned a second guard, a young man named Jules, to accompany them to the girl's house. The young guard appeared nervous as a kite string. He stood with his hands roaming over his rifle as if he expected the Germans to make a break for the woods at any moment.

It rained a little as they walked to the white house at the base of the orchard. August realized he had not been off the camp at night in months, and then only to return from a job that had taken them far away. He looked up at the stars; rain obscured them, but the moon, a half-horn, rolled slowly through the passing clouds. When the wind blew, the trees rocked and sent down showers of water from their boughs. The ground underfoot felt sodden and slippery with summer grass.

“You can keep watch on the porch,” Collie told the young guard. “I'll call out if they make an escape attempt.”

Schmidt laughed. The young guard, August saw, seemed troubled but lacked the confidence to suggest anything else.

August followed Collie inside. A young woman met them. It looked to be an older sister to the little one he knew as a frequent passerby. The house, August realized, had become abnormally quiet.

“It's not good,” the woman whispered.

“This is Amy,” Collie said, to introduce the young woman. “Marie's sister. Marie is the sick girl.”

Schmidt bowed slightly from the hips. August did the same.

“This man, Herr Schmidt, he is a medical man. A medic.”

“Where is the doctor?”

“Dr. Shepherd is delivering a baby. I spoke to his wife. He will be here as soon as he can make it, but in the meantime I thought it wouldn't hurt to let Herr Schmidt take a look. He's familiar with Marie's condition.”

August watched Amy study the old medic. Here, exactly here, the entire war resided, August understood. All the deaths, the combat, the blood pouring into the rivers of Europe, were represented by the look of mistrust that sugared the appraisal of the young women gazing at a German doctor. What hope did any of them have for peace if they could not even trust one another in this providential moment? He watched as Collie squeezed Amy's hand and nodded. It was meant as reassurance. Amy took a breath and whispered that her mother was upstairs and that her father had gone out, unable to stand the agony of watching the illness advance. They suspected he had gone for the priest, but they didn't know for certain.