Christmastime 1943

by Linda Mahkovec

  There was Jessica, all bright and pretty, and Ursula would wear her blue dress that so set off her coloring. Kate was proud of her daughters and was happy that everyone would get a chance to see how lovely they were becoming.

  Kate inspected her reflection in the mirror. Not bad for being in her fifties, she thought, smoothing down her burgundy crepe dress. She adjusted the poinsettia brooch her husband had given her – goodness, it must be twenty years ago. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, and though she had her doubts, Ursula insisted that it added a touch of elegance to her trim figure.

  Jessica stood in the doorway waiting for Shirley, who had stopped to chat with Ed, Otto, and the prisoners out in the farmyard.

  Mrs. Bloomfield eased herself out of the car and made her way to the group. “Evenin’!” she said to Otto. She glanced up at the late afternoon sky. “Well, almost, anyway. Gutten dag, to you two,” she said to Karl and Gustav.

  They smiled and nodded to her. Friedrich watched from the barn where he was finishing up painting the repairs.

  “You coming to the dance, Otto? You have to come,” said Shirley. “We’ll be selling raffle tickets and if you’re lucky, you just might win my date nut bread or Sue Ellen’s famous apple strudel.”

  “Or my gingerbread house,” said Jessica, joining her friend.

  “Just wait’ll you see it!” said Shirley. “A gingerbread house complete with snowdrifts, a snowman, and gum-drop trees.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there, all right. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Otto. “Zack’s still down with bronchitis, so I’ll be pickin’ up the boys at the other farms and takin’ them back to camp. But I’ll be there in time for dinner, you can count on that!” He hooked his thumbs behind his overall straps and turned to Ed. “You’ll be there, won’t you Ed?”

  “Indeed, he will!” Mrs. Bloomfield answered for him. “Opal’s in charge of the dessert table and needs his help. I hear tell the hall’s already filling up – and dinner doesn’t start for another hour.”

  Ed smiled and nodded. “I’ll drop off Kate and Ursula, then I’ll go home and change. We’ll be right behind you all.”

  “Evenin’!” Mrs. Bloomfield called to Kate, who now stood on the porch with the door open.

  “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?” asked Kate.

  “Heavens no!” Mrs. Bloomfield answered, hoisting herself up the stairs to the porch. “Orville is already in a stitch that he has to wear a suit for tonight. The sooner I get him to the hall, and get some food in his stomach, the better for us all,” she laughed. “I just came to help with the desserts.”

  She made her way into the kitchen, and gasped with pleasure on seeing five assorted pies laid out on the table. “Look at those! No one bakes a pie like you, Kate. Make sure I get a piece of that one,” she said, admiring the pecan pie.

  Kate beamed at the compliment, and took out two baskets from the pantry and set them on the kitchen table. Mrs. Bloomfield gently placed two pies in each of the baskets, while Kate stepped over to the stairs.

  “Ursula!” she called. “Come down. We need your help!” She came back to the kitchen and put an arm around Jessica and Shirley. “You girls can take the baskets, and I’ll carry the gingerbread house to the car. I’ll set it between you two, and, for heaven’s sake, make sure it doesn’t fall.”

  “No chance of that,” said Jessica. “Not after it took me so long to make.”

  Amid all the commotion, Otto directed Friedrich and Karl to set some of the paint supplies just outside the kitchen door on the back porch. Karl was talking cheerfully to Otto, observing the bustle in the kitchen.

  Friedrich set down a paint can, and when he looked up he saw Ursula walk into the kitchen, wearing the blue dress.

  She stopped suddenly on seeing him there.

  He tried to look away, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She stood framed in the doorway, the light from the living room illuminating her hair. A shadow of pain filled his face, as if his heart would break – he had never seen anything lovelier. He couldn’t look away.

  Ursula hadn’t expected to see him. She stared back, unable to move, while her hands clenched the fabric at the sides of her dress.

  “Ursula,” said Kate. “Don’t just stand there – go and get the box for the gingerbread house.” Then seeing Friedrich and Karl, Kate asked them, “How about a cup of coffee to warm you up before you leave? Coffee?” she asked loudly, mimicking drinking a cup.

  “Nein, danke,” they said, shaking their heads. Karl grinned widely, enjoying the preparation for the festivities. Friedrich said something in German to Karl, and went back out to the barn.

  Kate set the gingerbread house into the box Ursula had set on the table, and surrounded it with some cotton batting. She made a few adjustments to keep it from shifting, and then she gently lifted the box.

  “I’ll carry the pecan pie,” said Mrs. Bloomfield. “Ursula, dear, can you open the door? My, but you do look lovely!”

  Ursula smiled and held the door open for them. She watched as they carefully walked to the car, fearful of slipping and ruining all their hard work. She glanced over at the barn. Friedrich had been watching her, but turned away when she saw him, and went inside the barn.

  Kate greeted the uncomfortable looking Mr. Bloomfield, and set the box in the middle of the back seat. Once the girls were settled, she closed the car door.

  “We’ll be right behind you!” she hollered, waving goodbye.

  Ed and Otto touched their hats in goodbye, and then Otto went back into the barn.

  Ed took a moment to look around at the farmyard, all quiet now. He took off his hat, smoothed his hair, and adjusted the hat back on his head, feeling a little younger and eager to be standing with his wife at the dessert table as they had done for the past several years. He smiled to know that she would be there waiting for him. They would make sure everyone had their dessert, then they would have their dinner and watch the young folk dance. He gave a little chuckle knowing that he, too, would take a spin or two around the floor. After all, his wife was still the best dancer in town. He gave a final glance around the farmyard, and returned to the kitchen to fetch Kate and Ursula.

  Kate gave a sigh of relief, happy that the pies and gingerbread house were safely on their way to the hall. She put on her coat and hat, glancing periodically at the stairs for Ursula to come back down. Then she lifted her purse and gloves.

  She glanced at the clock. “Ursula! We have to help set up.” She put one hand on the banister and called up the stairs. “I thought you were all ready.”

  All day Kate had kept an eye on Ursula. Something was not right. She had missed dinner more than once this past week, saying she was tired. She was often distracted, often gazed out of the windows, or looked out into the farmyard. Kate didn’t know what to make of the girl; but now was not the time to worry about it. They were going to be late if they didn’t hurry.

  Ed came into the kitchen. “Otto and the boys are just finishing up – be another half hour or so. I’ll go get the truck and pull up in front.”

  “That’s fine,” said Kate. “I’ll leave the kitchen light on in case they need anything.” She looked around, growing impatient. “Ursula! We’re ready to leave – get your coat.”

  She was just about to call again, when Ursula came into the kitchen, looking pale and distraught.

  “What is it?” asked Kate, putting her hand on her daughter’s forehead. “Don’t you feel well? I was afraid you were getting sick.”

  “I’m fine. I just – I just don’t feel up to the dance. I’m sorry, but – I’m just tired.”

  Kate’s face fell in disappointment for her daughter. “It’s the big dance of the season – are you sure you want to miss it? We could leave early. We don’t have to wait for the Bloomfields. Ed would be happy to give us a lift back when you want.”

  “No. Please. I – I really don’t want to go.”

  “You’ll be disappointing the boys – some of them
home on leave. They’ll all be asking about you.”

  “I know, but – I can’t. I just – can’t.”

  Kate put her arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

  “No. You have to go. And besides,” Ursula added with a forced smile, “I’ll want to hear all about it, and your version will be much more accurate than Jessica’s. I’m fine, really. I think I’ll just sleep for a bit.”

  Kate saw the dark circles under her daughter’s eyes and the pale cheeks. “All right then. Go lie down. Maybe a rest is what you need. But make sure you have some dinner when you wake up.”

  Kate slipped on her gloves and saw that Ed had driven the pickup truck around to the front porch. “I’ll bring you back a piece of Sue Ellen’s famous apple strudel.”

  Ursula gave a small laugh. “I’ll be waiting up for it.” She watched her mother get into the truck and drive off, and then she closed the door. The house was strangely quiet after the bustling activity of the last few days. She welcomed the silence as she climbed the stairs back to her room.

  She stood at her window and gazed out over the late afternoon fields. The stubble of the corn fields shone a rosy gold in the setting sun. The sky filled with sweeping bands of deep blue and gray – at the horizon a shimmer of pink pulled at her heart. The sad beauty of the day filled her with longing.

  Movement from outside the barn caught her attention, and she stepped back. She saw that Otto and the POWs were carrying some tools to the machine shed. From the darkening window she watched them, praying for a glimpse of Friedrich. And then the ache in her heart deepened – there he was – tall, straight, strong – then he went back into the barn. She remembered her hand on his chest, the look in his eyes. He was all seething passion and desire and – she let the curtain fall.

  Ursula lay down on her bed, too tired to take off her dress, and pulled the quilts over her. Through the lace curtains she could see the bare tree limbs – she knew they would bloom again in the spring, but now they appeared utterly dead.

  He is the enemy, she told herself again. She thought of the day in October when she had first seen him; of sitting so close to him milking the cow, their fingers linked; his hand clasping her arm, her chin; the look in his eyes tonight in the kitchen. “Friedrich,” she dared to whisper.

  She heard voices and the squeaky opening and slamming of Otto’s truck doors, and then heard the gears grinding, and the truck drive off. She wanted to sleep, but her mind was filled with stirring images. His eyes – my God, but they haunt me so. How is it that he leaves the farm – and yet remains here with me?

  A heaviness pressed down on her and she thought of her brother Francis, of all her brothers out there in the harsh world. They were not fighters; they were farmers, in love with the land and the rhythms of the seasons. She thought of Joe and his limp, and of the boys at the dance tonight, all in desperate search of love and happiness. She thought of all the sickening horror in the world.

  But overshadowing everything was a deep sense of betrayal, and anguish at a problem that had no possible solution. Work, exhaustion, and a constantly stoked attempt at hatred were the only antidotes for the hopeless longing inside her. She felt ill at the churning emotions. No. She couldn’t even look at it. It was too awful, too traitorous, too unthinkable.

  Sick at heart, she drifted closer to sleep, aware of the growing silence. Peace. Just the small sounds of the end of day: a few cawing birds, the milk cows gently lowing. The entrance to sleep finally welcomed her.

  Only minutes earlier, Otto had been checking his watch, concerned about getting the prisoners back on time. Friedrich was nearly finished painting, but it made no sense to stop now – the brushes wouldn’t be dry by tomorrow. Better to finish today – another ten or fifteen minutes would do it.

  Otto scratched his head and looked around, settling the dilemma by discussing it aloud.

  “Can’t leave the painting unfinished. Yet I can’t leave you all here.” He would bend the rules, just a bit. “Friedrich – you finish up. Gustav, Karl, you come with me to pick up the others from the other two farms.” He looked around and nodded in approval to himself. “We have to come back this way anyway. Nobody’s home. Can’t see as it’ll do any harm.”

  In rudimentary German, and with a lot of tapping at an imaginary watch, he explained his plan to Friedrich, miming washing brushes at the pump and bringing them into the house.

  Friedrich nodded, barely looking up from his painting, his mind full of Ursula.

  Otto and the others hopped into the cab of the truck, and headed off.

  Friedrich finished the painting, and washed out the brushes at the pump. Then he took a moment to look out over the fields, and raised his head to the fading sky, grateful for the chance to be alone.

  He should have felt free, but something stronger than chains bound his heart. He looked over at the house, dark now, except for the light coming from the kitchen window. Out of habit, he looked up at the window with the lace curtains. He had often seen her standing there, and once or twice had caught her looking at him. But she always quickly moved away. If only once she had stayed there, if only once she had –

  He stopped his thoughts, as he had learned to do, and picked up the brushes and paint can. Then he carried them up to the house, and set them inside the porch. The warmth from the kitchen beckoned him; he would wait there until the truck returned. He looked at the archway between the hallway and kitchen where she had lately stood framed, and tried to conjure up her image again. He imagined her moving about the kitchen, and wondered which seat was hers. He moved from one chair to the next, letting his hand rest on each.

  Then he closed his eyes. Just being in the space she had lately stood suffused him with peace. Words from one of his beloved lieder filled his mind, so closely did they express the yearning in his heart. You are peace, gentle peace. You are the longing, and what stills it.

  He could see into the living room where a lamp had been left on. It cast a soft golden light onto the piano and the photos on top of it. He walked into the living room where he had been only a few times. Though he felt like an intruder, he stood before the piano and lifted the photo of Ursula. He pressed it to his heart, and then raised it to his lips and kissed it. “Ursula,” he said softly. He felt as if his heart would break. He set the photo down in front of him, and lightly touched the keys. Du Bist Die Ruh, he sang in a whisper.

  He felt that his pain would lessen if he could hear the words, feel them through his fingers on the keys. With his right hand he played the simple melody, but it only intensified his pain – and yet he wanted more. He sat down on the piano stool and, with his eyes on the image of Ursula, he indulged the pleasure-pain of his heart. While he played, he allowed the silent words to fuel his dream of her, knowing that it could never be. And yet it brought solace to his yearning, to imagine what could have been, in another world, in another time. Come live with me, and close quietly the gate behind you. Then, aching from desire and love and longing, he began to sing the words, feeling in some way that he was giving himself to her.

  He gave his voice to the melody and filled his heart with the dream of Ursula. Then he stopped. She hated him, or wanted to. There was something between them that should not be, could not be. And she hated him for it. Rightly so. And yet he could not deny what was between them, and he began the song again.

  Now, surrendering to the beauty of his dream, he allowed his voice to fill and rise, losing himself, escaping from time and place, from war and pain. Drive other pain out of this breast . . . . Oh, fill me completely. Ursula. Ursula.

  Upstairs in the fading light, Ursula tossed in a fitful sleep. Weeks of misery and remorse stormed inside her troubled mind.

  Then, from some distant place, a simple strain of loveliness washed over her – a melody of such unearthly sweetness that it took away all pain and trouble. A dream melody that answered to her anguish and brought her peace.

  She opened her eyes, and reali
zed that it was real music, coming from downstairs. Then a voice joined the strain, a stirring song of words she didn’t understand, but knew were words of love. Wrenching words of yearning and tenderness. And she knew it was him; she had stepped into a waking dream.

  Then it stopped. She held her breath, willing it to continue, pleading for it to continue. Slowly, it began again, more fully now.

  All worry and sadness vanished in the beauty of the song. And she softly smiled at the simple answer, the only answer, to all longing and bitterness and regret. Love. Love that rose above the wounded world and soared high above earth’s sorrow.

  She sat up, overcome with the beauty of life, of all that is pure and noble and striving. And she understood that the only thing that can heal and connect and lift us is love. The answer to her anguish had been there all along. In that moment, she knew that she would risk all for him. Nothing else mattered. To lessen his pain, to feel his love, was all she wanted. To be in his arms and to feel the sweetness of life.

  The house, the evening, the world became imbued with utter loveliness, and she rose, moving in the waking dream. She walked down the hall, willing the music to go on and on; to stay in it, her only desire, to exist in that earthy yet unearthly beauty.

  Down the stairs, following the song of love, she approached the room. There he was. There was her love. There, in the golden lamplight, strong, beautiful, his voice filled with longing and love – for her.

  The aching words rose, then fell, then rested – and he suddenly became aware of her. He stood so quickly that the piano stool toppled over. Horrified that he had sat at their piano, singing his love to her, her photo there before him.

  He remained absolutely still, fearing her words, her anger – until he saw the gentleness in her eyes. He didn’t apologize or make excuses or try to flee, but held her gaze, astonished that this time there was no barrier between them.