The Major's Daughter (28 page)

“Don't talk about her like that,” he said.

“You poor, stupid ass. You like it. You like having the scraps of her, don't you?”

“Don't talk about her that way. That's all I'm saying.”

“His German dick.”

Henry moved his foot up until it pressed on Amos's neck. He put his weight on his leg and Amos spread out and laughed. Henry kept pressing. The black night saturated him; he felt cold, icy air lifting off the water, and he wondered, absently, if he could crush his brother's windpipe without a second thought. He listened to his brother choke. Amos did not try to fight. He appeared to surrender, to take death, if death was to be the sentence, from his brother.

If Amos had struggled, Henry reflected, he might have killed his brother there and then. It was Amos's acceptance of the death at his brother's hand that made Henry pull his foot away. Amos coughed and took a large gulp of air. Then he lay back and laughed. He dug his pint out of his pocket and sat up enough to drink from it. He emptied it and threw the bottle back at the water, where it crashed on one of the logs and made a small splash as a portion of it went into the black river.

Chapter Twenty-one

“H
e's really quite a remarkable fellow when you get right down to it,” Colonel Cook said over the phone. “Been living in New York all this time . . . walked away from the potato farm up in Houlton and managed to make his way to New York. That's where he proved himself cleverer than most. He didn't try to get anywhere special, you see? Just decided to make New York his home, and what with all the Germans and Italians and every other kind of creature roosting in that city . . . he blended right in. Actually had tickets for the opera when they found him.”

“How did he make a living?” Major Brennan asked.

He spun in his chair and watched the dull late-afternoon sunlight make its way across the parade ground of the prison. The tale Colonel Cook told was familiar in its outline from general accounts, but this was the first time Major Brennan had heard the story in detail. It was fascinating to hear, but he was also aware of the clock. Collie was due back on the six o'clock train.

“Petty larceny, mostly,” Colonel Cook said. “Stole some items. He got a new suit of clothes first thing, and that was the making of him. Blended in . . . looked downright prosperous, they tell me. He spoke English, too, though I guess with a heavy accent. Of course that won't raise an eyebrow in New York. He was a college professor back in Germany. Biology or some sort of science. He had lined up a job at Bellevue, but that's when they caught him.”

“Ingenious.”

“Anyway, that's the scuttlebutt. I guess the lesson is to be aware of the quiet ones. They're more slippery than the gruff birds. The guy had studied American history in the public libraries so that he would come across as a citizen. Pretty tricky fellow.”

“Luckily we haven't had much in the way of escapes up here. Too cold for them.”

“Most of them don't have the guts for it. Hell, I wouldn't if I were in their shoes. Where will they get to when it comes down to it? This fellow in New York City was a shrewd customer, but even he got caught in the end.”

“Well, it's an interesting story. Thanks for telling me. Now I'm afraid I have to hurry to pick up my daughter. She's coming back this evening from Ohio.”

“What was she doing out there?”

“A wedding . . .”

“Well, one more thing before you go, John. Can you give me one more minute? I'm sorry to keep you.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Well, it's about the postwar world, John. Your name has been coming up these last few months in our discussions. You've done good work up there and we're going to need more of that kind of work in Germany in the next few years. This war's going to end sooner or later and Germany's going to be the right place for you.”

“I'm flattered, but in what capacity?”

“Not sure yet,” Colonel Cook said in his stiff, workaday voice that was decidedly different from the voice he had used to relate the story of the escapee. “We'll have prisoners. Hell, we have them already. Reconstruction? It will likely come with a significant promotion, John, one you deserve. I guess what I'm asking at this point is whether you would consider reassignment. We could probably get someone else up there to run the camp. Or maybe we'll just call you up when we need you. So take this as an opening salvo, if you would, John. How does it strike you?”

“I'm not entirely sure what you're offering me, Colonel.”

“Neither am I, John. I'm simply feeling you out about various options. I'm hoping I can count on you as we go forward. We'll need you, John.”

“I'm certainly open to anything, Cecil,” John Brennan said, using the Colonel's Christian name. “I've lived overseas before.”

“That's one of the reasons you're in the discussions. Okay, that's enough for now. Go grab your daughter. I understand she's been a tremendous help up there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank her for us, then. We'll be in touch, John. Keep doing the good work we need.”

“Yes, sir,” John Brennan said, and hung up the phone.

He sat for a moment looking out the window, not stunned, exactly, but nervously pleased. If he could divine what Cecil had been beating around the bush about, it meant a command in Germany. Perhaps a diplomatic appointment. Cecil Cook was prescient; the war would end and Germany would be in desperate need of management. All of Europe would need reshaping, and it was a place for ambitious men to make a mark. He did not know how he fit into that scheme, and neither did Cecil Cook, apparently, but it was thrilling to be considered for inclusion. As he stood and swung into his coat, he felt a pleasant wave of satisfaction that put him in an excellent mood.

In the main office, Lieutenant Peters had slipped a cloth cover over his enormous typewriter and now he tucked it in around the edges. Closing time, Major Brennan realized. Even in prisoner-of-war camps the standard work schedule held sway.

“Running in to meet Collie. You know where to find me if you need me.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Peters said. “Shall I call the driver?”

“No, I think I have time to walk. I could use a little exercise. I'm growing stout from all this desk work.”

“I understand, sir.”

Although Major Brennan wanted the short walk to be alone to think, he regretted his decision to walk almost the moment he stepped off the front porch of the administration building. Really, it was too cold. He tucked his neck down deeper into his overcoat and cursed that he didn't have a hat. It was foolish not to have a hat in such weather, but he never liked wearing one. He walked quickly to the main gate and saluted the guards there. They looked nearly frozen as they kept sentry. Still, that was their job, and it would do no good to let them find a softer way to go about it. He slid through the gate and headed toward the river.

From south of the village he heard the train whistle and he quickened his step as a result. The lights of the village pushed out against the darkness. The pale white covered bridge hung over the river like a swan's wing. When he reached the platform, he found three soldiers waiting. He saluted them all, then watched as an employee from the train company stepped out on the cold platform and checked his watch. It would be a bitter night, Major Brennan realized. The stars glittered with the cold and no wind moved the bare tree branches. It was the type of night that made the mercury drop in the glass. No one in his right mind would try to escape tonight.

Then the train came puddling in, massive and spewing smoke, its bright front light nearly blinding. A conductor swung down as soon as the train slowed sufficiently, and he lifted a folding staircase down to the platform. Two soldiers immediately jumped off, one smoking a cigarette so that the soldier had to squint at the smoke. They looked young, and Major Brennan saluted them quickly. He walked the platform a few steps, hoping to see Collie as she made her way down the train to disembark, but the smoke from the undercarriage obscured everything. Arrivals and departures came in clouds, he reflected.

At last he spotted Collie.

“Oh, Papa, how nice of you to meet me!” Collie said, stepping off the train and into his arms.

“Did you get Estelle married off?” he asked, taking her bag and putting it onto the platform. “Was it a good trip?”

“It was a wonderful trip, thank you. Estelle is married, and I've come to like George,” Collie said, her eyes happy and alive. “He's not any girl's dream, exactly, but he's quite dependable.”

“Dependability is a great trait in a man,” Major Brennan said, feeling the ridiculousness of his remark as it passed his lips. He touched his handkerchief to his mouth and coughed at the cold air, then shifted topics. “You must be weary. And it's horribly cold tonight. The barometer is nearly bursting. Come along.”

“It feels haunted when it gets this cold,” Collie said, breathing in long pulls. “Ghostly.”

“That's exactly right,” Major Brennan said, “that's exactly what it is.”

 • • • 

Descending in the elevator at the Biltmore in Chicago, Estelle felt the strangest sense of division. Or perhaps that was the wrong word for it. She felt of two minds, of two bodies, as if she had split down the middle and had calved a twin. On one side was the same girl she had always been, the girl she had seen in the mirror for her entire life, the girl with secret thoughts and opinions, a girl who read and spoke a smattering of French, and on the other . . . what was the other? A wife, she supposed. Mrs. Samuels. George's helpmeet. Even the elevator operator, a graying, glimmering old man who wore an organ-grinder's monkey's hat, seemed to regard her differently. Mrs. George Samuels of Suite 372. She felt this wifely demeanor was a costume she could don and use to her benefit, yet it threatened to grow into her skin and become impossible to remove. Somehow a bargain had been struck, but what the terms of the agreement might be, what it meant in the long run, felt as cloudy as a poorly explained insurance policy. One had a sense of it, but scarcely any of the details.

The elevator stopped twice, each time admitting soldiers. Chicago, she had discovered, was overrun with military personnel. One could not go anywhere in the city without seeing uniforms of every description. It was like a parade, really, the men plumed in their wool finery, their obvious satisfaction at being involved in the world's great affairs contained in every movement. Even now, between floors, two young navy ensigns smiled and tipped their hats, their white uniforms glowing in the elevator light. Everything seemed in transit, the men nearly interchangeable, the uniforms the only constant.

When they reached their destination, the military men stepped aside to let her pass into the lobby. George had already gone down to breakfast. She had argued to have breakfast in the room, but he had made an appointment to meet with someone from Midland Bank, a mortgage specialist whose business, she must understand, was invaluable. It was the only opportunity to see the man while in Chicago, and so they had a date for breakfast, where surely she would be a third wheel. That was another confusing feature of being married; one was not always sure if one was wanted. Nevertheless, she found the dining room easily enough and stood for a moment at the maître d's station while she scanned the various tables and chairs. She spotted George and the other man—a sleek, seallike man of about forty with white-blond hair and a slightly arched back—seated in a banquet looking out on the street. They appeared rapt in conversation, but as she approached the table they looked up and stood, the business associate's napkin falling off his lap onto the floor.

“Estelle . . . may I present . . . ,” George started, but then stopped when he saw the comedy of proceeding while the man bent over to get his napkin.

“Sorry,” the man said when he retrieved the napkin. “Harry Palconowski.”

He held out his hand. Estelle shook it. It was a dry, light hand.

“I ordered you coffee,” George said, stepping out and making room for her to slide in between them. “We were just saying, the breakfast is quite smashing for wartime.”

“Smashing?” Estelle asked, unable to help herself.

“Good, then,” George amended. “Harry here was saying we must see the Field Museum. They have a
Tyrannosaurus rex
on exhibit. Best in the world.”

“If you like that sort of thing,” Harry hurried to assure her. “I happen to take an interest. When I was younger, I thought I'd like to be a dinosaur hunter.”

“And then what happened?” Estelle asked, trying to conceive of this man—yes, he reminded her of a seal, with a sharp nose and soft eyes and heavy lashes—living and working anywhere except in a five-block radius from where they sat.

“The usual hubbub of life. Isn't that always the case? One makes plans, then the world intrudes. I can't kick, though. Midland has been fine to me.”

“Harry is the vice president in charge of the entire Midwest,” George said, looking up to catch the eye of the waiter now that everyone was at table. “At his age, that's practically unheard of.”