by Cathy Gohlke
“Wait until your aunt counts the money and bestows the kitty for the new ambulance on the WI. They’ll all come round.”
By the time Claire and David stepped onto the dance floor, Claire discovered that David was lauded as a bit of a hero by some of the workers who’d been invited from the factory, while disdained by a few. Men slapped him on the back in welcome and more than one girl batted her eyelashes, rolling a shoulder in coy invitation.
One man bumped his shoulder deliberately. “Sitting pretty on these grounds, are you, Campbell? You Yanks stick together and glide through. Parties and fetes won’t win the war.”
Claire stood ready to challenge the man, but David pulled her away. “Don’t get your dander up.”
“He’s all but calling you a coward.”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” he whispered, taking her by the arm. “It’s because the US is taking so long to come into the war. The people here have waited a long time for Roosevelt to act. I can’t blame them for feeling the way they do. In fact, I’m feeling a coward—a hypocrite, sitting comfortable here, working at the factory, while Brits are giving their lives left and right. I’m thinking about joining up.”
Claire nearly tripped in her heels.
“I talked it over with my supervisor yesterday. I can’t sit here and let other men do my fighting. Not when everything we know and love is at stake.”
“You came here from Scotland to do your bit because America hadn’t joined the war. What you’re doing is invaluable to the war effort—you said so yourself. You’ve been trained for this very thing.” Claire no longer felt like dancing. She pleaded for David’s sanity.
David drew a long breath and released it, leading Claire into a fox-trot. His breath near her ear and his hand on the small of her back raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “That’s what he said—that I’m more needed here.”
“You agreed, right?”
“I told him I’d think it over. Look, I’m sorry I said anything now. Guess it’s just on my mind. Let’s forget about it and enjoy the afternoon.” He begged her with his eyes. “Please. I want to dance with the prettiest girl in the Lake District.”
Claire smiled as best she could and pinned her gaze to his shoulder. But she couldn’t stop the rapid beating of her heart. What will I do if you leave?
She couldn’t answer that question, but carried its weight in her heart around the dance floor through the fox-trot, even the fast-paced jitterbug and jive. By the time they reached another fox-trot, a brazen village girl walked up and tapped Claire on the shoulder.
Claire was so surprised she stepped aside, despite the question in David’s eyes.
She found a seat at a nearby empty table and watched, determined to keep the smile pasted on her lips. The couple had barely made it round the floor when another girl tapped the first one on the shoulder and pushed herself into David’s arms. Is this a game? Some invention to humiliate the American girl or compete with one another?
Claire watched, undecided.
“Your boyfriend seems to be in high demand.” The voice behind her was deep, suave, with a trace of Irish.
“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just friends.”
“Ah, well, then you’ll not mind me joining you.”
Before Claire could answer, he claimed a seat on the other side of her. “Ian Kennedy, at your service. Can I get you a drink? A little whiskey?” He pulled his jacket aside to reveal a pocketed flask.
“No, thank you. It looks like you’ve had enough for both of us. We’re not serving alcohol here, you know. There are children present.”
“Beauty and a quick wit. What’s not to like about American girls?” He laughed and leaned too close.
Claire stood. “Excuse me.”
“Ach, no, lass. Where are you off to? And us just getting acquainted.”
“I’m off to retrieve my dance.”
“Ach—your dance, but not your boyo.”
“No, he’s not my ‘boyo.’” It was a recognition that both steadied and unsteadied Claire.
She walked directly to David and tapped the bleached blonde in his outstretched arms on the shoulder.
“We’re not finished with our dance,” the girl objected.
“Yes, you are.” Claire squeezed between the village girl and David, pushing him gently backward.
“At last, a woman who knows how to lead!” He grinned. “I thought you’d never come rescue me.”
Claire felt a blush rise to the roots of her hair. “I wasn’t sure you wanted rescuing. The girls here are mighty brazen.”
“The first one was my boss’s daughter.”
Surprised, she stopped midstep and they both tripped, laughing. “You’re serious?”
“Never more!” He spun her out and back into his arms.
“Ohhhh, sorry I interrupted. What about the last one?”
“The boss’s cousin once removed.” He grinned, and she swatted his chest, just as he pulled her close, his chin resting on her head for a slow dance. “Stay close, Claire. I won’t let anybody step between us again.”
Claire swallowed. Does he know about Josephine and Arnaud? Did Aunt Miranda tell him? Or is that his wish? Regardless, Claire closed her eyes and determined to give herself over to the music, to hear only the sweet romance of “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.” Every moment in David’s arms turned to moonlight and magic, despite the afternoon sunlight that dappled through oak limbs. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that nightingale break into song, or to see the moon rise from the punch bowl.
She looked up into his face. David winked, smiled, and closed his eyes, then nestled his cheek against her hair. The pressure of his hand on hers, the moment when he pulled her closer still and rested his chin on her head—melted into one long, sweet memory. Let this never end. Let it always be like this. The thought was real and honest enough, Claire knew, but was it right? She closed her eyes and, breathing deeply, pulled away, ever so slightly, determined to remain true to Arnaud.
Once they’d played through David’s collection of gramophone records, a man from town pulled out his fiddle and a few of the villagers stood for impromptu sings. The crowd joined in, swaying in time to the music. A trio of sisters belted out perky war songs in perfect harmony. Feet picked up the beat the moment the sisters began “Run, Rabbit, Run.”
David pulled Claire to her feet once more and she gladly followed in a less-romantic quickstep. “This song reminds me of Aimee and her bunny. I’m so afraid Mr. Dunnagan will forget one day and shoot Mr. Cottontail for rabbit pie!”
“Oh, man—hope I’m far away the day that happens!” David lamented.
“I hope you’re never far away,” Claire whispered.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
And then the fiddle music slowed again. Love songs became the order of the afternoon. Men and women and teens danced toe-to-toe and cheek-to-cheek. Despite the war, despite the brazen village girls, the austerity and rationing and uncertainty of all her tomorrows, it was the happiest day Claire could remember.
Josef had agreed to participate in the Virginia reel, as long as Aimee was his partner. He felt a certain protective care for the younger girl, and it was one of the few dances she seemed able to learn. But he’d stoutly refused when Elise begged him to try the fox-trot with her. He’d no notion of returning the girl’s flirtations and didn’t want her fawning over him.
Children vied for the honor of taste-testing the jam and tarts made by local ladies, but those privileges went to the doctor and the vicar. The girls loved the flower arrangement competition, but the real action, Josef felt, came in the intense marble game a group of boys from the village had set up beyond the maze. They’d heeled a dirt circle out of the lawn. Mr. Dunnagan wouldn’t like the destruction, Josef knew, but he’d never played marbles before and was drawn to the game like a moth to flame.
“Teach me,” Josef ordered, standing behind the group, doing his best to sound con
fident.
The game stopped. The boys, who’d been hunkered down and cheering one another, turned. The boy with the largest marble only lifted his head. “Oh, I don’t think so. No Nazis allowed.”
Josef felt the blood drain from his face. “I am not a Nazi . . . no more than you.”
The other boy stood slowly and, squaring his shoulders, turned. “Don’t you ever say that about me. Me brother’s over there, fightin’ back those Jerry Huns.”
“And mine is here, because they killed mein Vater, and if we’d stayed, we would have been next.” It was the thing Josef feared, the thing he dreaded. He knew his father and uncle had been arrested, beaten, and taken by train to some faraway work camp, somewhere in Poland, the German police had said. They’d not heard from either of them for three long years before leaving Germany, and Josef had decided it was easier to pretend his father was dead than to wonder and worry. After living through that, he wasn’t about to back down from an English boy who knew nothing.
“You’re Jewish. It’s because of you we’re in this war. If it wasn’t for you—”
“Hitler. It is because of Hitler.”
Another of the boys nudged the first and cupped his hand to whisper in his ear. The bigger boy cocked his head and challenged, “He says you been diggin’ Hitler holes, settin’ traps for the invasion. Show me.”
Josef stared him down. “The vicar’s wife stepped in one and broke her ankle. We had to fill them in and reconnoiter. New tactics are in order.”
“It’s true. I seen her with her leg plastered up and him and that French boy weedin’ the paving stones at the church . . . clear to the road and back toward the vicarage as penance.”
“That’s a lot of weedin’,” the older boy gave grudging respect. “Me mate and me had to do it a couple o’ years ago. Got caught pinchin’ the Communion wine.”
“There’s a lot of paving stones,” Josef agreed.
The two stood, staring at one another until the older boy held up the large marble. “I’m Wilfred Cooper. This here’s me tolley. You knuckle down, like this, and flip your thumb, sending the other chap’s marble clear of the ring. As long as you clear the ring, you’re good, and you capture that marble. You keep goin’. Miss that, and the turn goes to the next. At the end of the game, whoever has the most marbles wins and gets to keep what he wants—keepsies.” He looked back at Josef, hefting his leather pouch of marbles. “You can’t play without marbles.”
Josef swallowed. He hadn’t thought of that. But he knew where he might find some. “I’ll be back.”
Once Josef had followed Gaston into the room Frau Langford kept locked, the room belonging to her grown boy, now dead. He’d seen a leather pouch with a red drawstring—just like the one Wilfred Cooper held. He’d bet his last teaspoon of Marmite that the bag held marbles.
Josef made it into the great house and up the stairs without a word or second glance from anyone. Everyone knew he belonged there, which pricked his conscience just a little.
The sun had already traveled to this side of the estate, and the light through the window at the end of the hallway shone on him like a spotlight. He swallowed, but pulled a slim blade from his pocket and inserted it into the lock, twisting gently, lifting—just barely—until he heard the tumblers click into place. He pulled the blade from the door and turned the high knob.
The room was dark, blackout curtains drawn taut, even in daytime. It didn’t matter. Josef knew exactly where to find the pouch. The moment his fingers clasped the lumpy form, he smiled. Marbles, certainly.
Josef silently closed the door, not bothering to lock it. He’d return the marbles before the others came in from the fete. They’d never be missed and his borrowing would never be known.
Five minutes later Josef and Wilfred stood on either side of the ring, a great pack of marbles clustered in its center. Wilfred lifted his chin, planting his solid brownish-red tolley on the tip of his nose, then let it roll down, dropping into the dirt. It rolled within three inches of the ring before it came to a stop. “Now you do it—tolley off. Whichever tolley lands closest to the ring goes first.”
Josef solemnly nodded. He stood straight, lifted his chin, and let Christopher’s agate tolley, brown and shot with bands of light as it rolled, drop from the tip of his nose. It rolled toward the center of the ring, catching sunlight as it went—a thing of beauty.
Wilfred licked his lips. “I go first.”
Josef nodded again, suppressing a smile. He didn’t mind Wilfred going first. He could learn a great deal of strategy from the older boy.
Wilfred squatted, dropped one knee to the dirt, and took aim. He shot off the edges of the pack, sending one, two, three . . . ten marbles easily outside the ring.
And then Wilfred’s magic streak broke: His next shot grazed the pack but didn’t send the intended marble from the ring.
Josef knuckled down, just as he’d seen Wilfred do, and flicked his tolley. It wasn’t much different than the skill required for a game he and Peter played with coins. The first marble barely crossed the ring. Wilfred grinned. Josef’s mouth formed a grim line, and he flicked again, this time from the position of the tolley. One, two, three, four marbles and counting sped outside the ring.
By the eighth marble Wilfred’s smirk had gone. Other boys shifted their stance. Josef did his best to ignore them. On the eleventh marble his tolley missed. Wilfred’s sigh of relief came audible.
Seven marbles later it occurred to Josef that if he lost Christopher’s marbles, he must confess that loss to Frau Langford. She had been generous with her son’s cricket ball and bat, but taking her son’s precious marbles without permission—breaking into his room and “borrowing” them—was another thing. Borrowing? Nein, she will see it as stealing. Sweat beaded above Josef’s lip. He might have prayed, but something about praying over stolen marbles smote his conscience.
One of the boys coughed, and Wilfred fumbled. His tolley missed the marble altogether.
“You made me flick too soon! I should have a do-over!”
“Nein. That’s surely not the rule,” Josef challenged.
“He’s right.” One of the village boys crossed his arms. “Hard luck, but there it is.”
Josef breathed. Wilfred dared not go against his peers, but mumbled, “Cheaters,” under his breath.
Josef bent to his task. Five marbles outside the ring before he missed. Fifteen!
Wilfred again, and the tension increased. The marbles rolled. At last he missed.
Josef did his best. Seven more. He needed three to win. Just as he flicked, Wilfred clapped and stomped near his ear. Josef’s tolley ran wild, flying outside the ring. A groan of disbelief rose from the watchers.
“Dead. Your tolley’s dead.”
“What does that mean?”
Wilfred smirked. “It means you can’t use it. It means you must flick and shoot without it.”
“Oh,” sighed Josef. “That’s not so bad.”
“That’s part of it. Your tolley’s like any other marble shot outside the ring now. Winner can take all, if he’s a mind.”
Josef froze.
“You can’t. They’re not mine.”
“I recognize that aggie. Every bloke in school’s wanted it since me older brother played Master Christopher in primary school. Lady Langford’s not likely to have given it to an orphan, now is she?”
Josef wanted to throttle him, but what he’d said was true. The darkness of what he’d done, of the thief he was and would always be, overran his soul.
“You ought to give him another chance, Wil,” the boy nearest Josef said. “It’s his first time.”
“All’s fair in war.” Wilfred stood with feet spread for a fight and crossed his arms. “Grindin’ a Kraut to the dust sounds like war to me.”
“Well, he’s not won yet.” The other boy punched Josef in the arm. “Mind how you go.”
It was Wilfred’s turn.
Josef was tempted to clap, to shout, to stomp and push h
is opponent over, but he stood still, sure that fate or God was dealing him the blow he deserved.
The first shot went outside the ring, neat as you please. Two more marbles and Wilfred would win. Josef couldn’t watch.
“Oohh, too bad,” the group commiserated. Josef opened his eyes. Wilfred’s shot had reached the edge, but not gone across the ring, his tolley resting just behind the marble.
Wilfred paled.
Josef blinked. “So, if I knock his marble and his tolley out, that counts as two marbles? Then, there’s just the one left.”
“Aye,” said the youngest boy in wonder. A couple of the boys stepped back, eyeing Wilfred’s fists.
“You daren’t,” Wilfred said, but he sounded worried.
“How could I?” Josef asked. “You’ve been so gracious as to teach me this game.”
He knuckled down and sent Wilfred’s marble and tolley flying past the ring. It was nothing to send the last marble out. No one cheered, but the boys huddled close, waiting.
Josef stood and stared at Wilfred. The relief of winning, of not losing Christopher’s marbles, might have been enough, would have been enough, if Wilfred’s eyes had not narrowed and he’d not spat, “Dirty Jew. Always cheaters, that’s what me da says, and it holds.”
Josef’s heart raced in fury, but he didn’t say a word. He bent and collected Christopher’s marbles, one by one, and returned them to their pouch, placing the coveted aggie on top with a silent vow never to risk such a thing again. Then he rolled Wilfred’s tolley between his thumb and forefinger. It would make a fine gift for Fräulein Claire.
He stood up and said, “Keep your marbles.”
Wilfred’s arms dropped to his sides.
“I’ll keep this tolley.” He tossed it in the air and expertly caught it.
“Oh.” A mix of dread and admiration swept the watchers. Wilfred’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Josef walked away, determined to return the marbles to Christopher’s room before the singsong and dancing ended.
“Wait!” Wilfred called. “Best two out of three! I challenge you!”
“As you said, they are not my marbles.” Josef kept walking.
