by Cathy Gohlke
“I need that back! Stop! This is not over, you dirty pig—”
Josef knew he should keep walking, knew he should turn the other cheek as Frau Langford had preached often enough. But Wilfred had uttered the despised label once too often. Fury for what had been done to his father, his mother, to all those left behind in Germany and those with whom he shared refuge at Bluebell Wood rose within him. He stopped, stuffed the pouch of marbles into the maze, turned, then charged, a bull with horns bent, into Wilfred’s stomach, sending the bigger boy flying backward into the dusty marble ring.
A fist-pounding, eye-gouging, nose-bloodying fight ensued, cheered on by every other boy who closed ranks around them. The noise and stomping egged Josef on. He pounded Wilfred’s face, his chest, his neck. He gained a foothold and kicked Wilfred’s knees with his boots, hard as he could, bringing the bigger boy’s knees to his chin in a cry for protection, and calling grown-ups no one wanted into the ring.
The last thing Josef remembered was David dragging him—a wild tangle of thrashing arms and legs—from the ground, and the bitter tears streaming down his own face.
Chapter Twenty-Four
THAT NIGHT wasn’t the first time Claire had despaired of squabbling children, but she feared Josef’s fight might mark the end of the line with the villagers. Both boys were in need of Dr. MacDonald’s attentions. Wilfred had suffered a broken rib, and Josef, two black eyes.
“The afternoon was going so well! The play was a hit, the food amazed everyone—what Mrs. Creedle can do with a ration book is beyond me! The dance was a true success. And your hamboning—they’d never seen the like.” Claire’s flood of words ended in a wail. She washed the last platter from the fete and handed it to David to dry.
“The afternoon was a smashing success with everybody—even the vicar’s wife said so. And all boys fight, sooner or later,” David defended, tossing his dripping tea towel over the hanger. “From what I heard, Josef had good cause to pummel his opponent.”
“David! That’s not the attitude we’re fostering here.”
“Did you hear what that Wilfred character said to him? He practically begged Josef to fight.”
Claire pushed damp and disheveled hair from her forehead. “He can’t give in to that. We can’t give in to that. We’re all foreigners here.”
“That doesn’t make us doormats. We’re raising young men, not—”
“We’re not raising them—we’re housing them.”
“No, Claire. Face it: the war is nowhere near over. We may be the only family, and this may be the only childhood, that any of these kids have left. It’s up to us to make men and women of them.”
She shook her head, her jaw tightening. “The war will end and they’ll leave; they’ll go back to their families, or what’s left of them.” Claire didn’t want to pursue that line of thought in either direction.
“But we need to help them distinguish right from wrong, and I don’t think that standing up for yourself is wrong.”
“Your Mr. Lewis doesn’t see it that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lewis said, ‘From the moment a creature becomes aware of God as God and of itself as self, the terrible alternative of choosing God or self for the centre is opened to it.’”
“I don’t think Josef was choosing between God and self. I think he was standing up for himself and his family. But you’re right. We all do it—we all struggle with self or God.”
Claire nodded. “Lewis also said that the reason our cure of self-will is so painful is that it’s like a death. I see it every day in the children—in their very faces as they wrestle with right and wrong.”
“We’re all children, then.” David grinned, but his eyes were pinned to hers. “I didn’t know you were listening that closely to his broadcasts.”
Claire shrugged, turning away. “What you mean is, you didn’t know I believed in God.”
David said nothing.
“I’m not sure what I believe. But I’ve been reading a little. . . .” Claire wanted to change the subject. “About the children, you said, ‘us’—that we’re raising them—not that I agree. But does that mean you’re staying?” She held her breath.
“I don’t know yet. I don’t know about enlisting. And I don’t know if I can stay here, even if I keep working at the factory. I may not have a choice, once the village housing is finished. They’re creating pretty much a company town for the workers.”
“I’ve heard. Calgarth. It sounds like a million miles away.”
“It’s not.” David ran his fingers through his hair and stepped closer. Claire loved those waves, thick and dark, hair that girls would fight for. “It’s just down the road, not even a half hour by bus.”
“They’ll want you to stay there and save the petrol.”
“Probably, and for security reasons. I’d come back often.”
Claire bit her lip. She wouldn’t cry. That was stupid. Of course David must leave. She turned away, needing to put some distance between them before she kissed him or cried. She could tell her movement confused him.
“There’s one thing I’m a little concerned about, and should probably mention, especially if I’m not able to stay.”
“And what’s that?” She tried to sound light, and bit her lip again, blinking back the moisture in her eyes.
“The fete’s brought the kids closer to one another, formed a camaraderie. For some of them—like Jeanine and Franz—it’s the first time they seem to have found their place in the group or a place to shine. I think Jeanine will continue to blossom. Now that she feels free to frequent the piano whenever she likes, she’ll have her music. But Franz, for all his surprising tailoring skills, might be a little left behind . . . no more costumes to create from abandoned drapes.” She could hear David’s half grin but still could not turn to look at him. “We need to find ways to draw him into the band, help him discover more skills, or encourage his natural interests. Josef and Gaston, for all their competitiveness, have formed an alliance. Franz stands outside that. I’d hate to see the little fellow shrink back into himself.”
Claire sighed, forcing her attention to the subject at hand. “You’re right. . . . I should have noticed, should have thought of him more.”
“Well, you did have one or two things on your plate,” he teased. “Maybe nothing to worry about, but he bears watching.”
Claire could not help herself. She turned and smiled. “You really are the fatherly type, aren’t you?”
David’s color deepened. “Maybe the older brother type.”
Claire felt her own blush rise. “It’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She didn’t intend to meet David’s eyes again. She wanted only to get away before embarrassing herself further, but he caught her by the arm just before she reached the kitchen door.
“Claire,” he whispered. “It’s been a good day. You pulled together a fantastic event for everyone and a lot of good connections were made. You can’t control what every person does or doesn’t do with their opportunities, least of all kids. You’re not meant to.”
Claire felt a lump rise in her throat, so thick it might have choked her if she hadn’t pulled away.
Tired as she was, Claire couldn’t sleep. By 2 a.m. she gave up the struggle and slipped from the house with her cloth-covered torch. Though barely a sliver of moonlight shone, her feet made their journey by memory. She inserted the key into the secret garden door, then found her tree and climbed it, its footholds now as familiar as objects in her room. Gaining her resting place, she leaned back against the trunk and tipped her head, immediately enveloped in the night sky awash with stars . . . millions of stars . . . millions too many to count.
There’s comfort in knowing that something is so big, so brilliantly beyond me that I can’t comprehend it, can’t control it—that I need never try. This night sky will always be here, moving its pattern with the seasons but never leaving, never changing in its existence or its all-consuming beauty. If only life cou
ld be so clear, so stable, so sure.
Claire breathed deeply of the last of the woodbine honeysuckle and shivered in the cool of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Five
JOSEF’S SWOLLEN EYES and purple jaw did not keep him from the first day of school. He didn’t mind so much. It was a relief to be away from Bluebell Wood. He’d disappointed Fräulein Claire, and though she seemed to have forgiven him, he could not forget the shame he’d brought on the family.
It was to protect her and Frau Langford and little Aimee that he’d dug the Hitler holes. It was for Fräulein Claire that he’d wanted Wilfred’s aggie. If he could not impress her with his military strategies and intent to protect her, he could have impressed her with the winning tolley. Now he daren’t show her his prize. She did not approve his fighting and would not approve his stealing marbles. He could not blame her.
Josef sighed. At least he’d been able to retrieve and return Christopher’s marbles, no questions asked. He wouldn’t take them again. He’d lost his taste for gambling.
Josef’s woeful distractions brought unwanted attention from Miss McCoy. He was kept after school that very first day to finish his arithmetic problems, wash the blackboard, and sweep the classroom floor. Josef didn’t mind that, either. More than punishment for schoolroom infractions, the labor represented penance for those things he dared not confess.
He finished his tasks as shadows lengthened through the classroom window. With a freer conscience, he set off for Bluebell Wood.
Halfway home, just around the corner that freed him from the village and began the long stretch of narrow, winding road, Wilfred stepped out from behind a tree.
Charging Wilfred had been one thing when Josef stood on his own turf, full of fury for his family and friends. Now he saw the deepening shadows, the loneliness of the road, and that Wilfred was half a foot taller and twenty pounds heavier than he. Josef swallowed. His spit tasted of cardboard. “I’ve not got your tolley on me, so there’s no need to ask.” Not that he imagined Wilfred would ask. Josef gripped his lunch satchel and gas mask kit, praying the older boy wouldn’t pummel him into the ground.
“I want to play again. I’ve got to win that tolley back.”
“I’m through playing. As you said, they weren’t my marbles. I shouldn’t have taken them in the first place.” Confession felt good to Josef’s soul, and the vow helped him stand his ground.
“I might tell Lady Langford that you stole them.”
Josef swallowed again. He didn’t want that. But losing the marbles to Wilfred would be infinitely worse. “Go ahead, then.” And he dared to walk on, past Wilfred, leaving the older boy standing in the middle of the narrow road.
“I’ve got to have it. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back.”
Josef kept walking. He imagined Wilfred meant that he would beat him up, that he’d have to live under the threat of torture for the entire school year. Worse yet, Wilfred might take it into his head to torture one of the others, someone at Bluebell Wood that Josef cared about. That had been the tactic of the brownshirts in Germany. If they couldn’t get you to do as they wished, they threatened your family until you complied. The ringing started in Josef’s ears and he hurried his steps.
“Wait!” Wilfred called, but Josef kept going. “Wait!” He jogged to catch up. “It wasn’t mine.”
Josef stopped. “You stole your marbles?”
Wilfred had the decency to look ashamed. “The marbles are mine. The tolley belongs to me brother, Jim. It was our da’s—a gift from his own da. Look, I should have used mine, but I didn’t. I’ll play you for it, or I’ll trade you mine. It’s just as good . . . well, nearly.”
“Why did you play with it at all?” Josef knew why he’d taken Christopher’s marbles. But why risk something so precious when you had your own?
Wilfred looked away, then scuffed at the dirt. “It was the first time any of us were invited to Bluebell Wood.”
“You were showing off.” It was a statement, one that Josef tried hard to center in his brain. Wilfred had wanted to show off in front of him and the others at Bluebell Wood, the ones he’d called “dirty Jews.”
Wilfred shrugged. “I have to get it back. If you won’t play, then trade.”
“What?” Josef wasn’t opposed to a good trade, especially if he could come up with a redeemable gift for Fräulein Claire.
Wilfred’s eyes searched Josef’s, as if taking his measure. “I have somethin’ . . . I mean, I can get somethin’ really swell, somethin’ nobody’s ever seen before.”
Josef huffed, certain Wilfred had nothing, and pushed past him. “Ja, ja. Telephone me.”
“I mean it. Can you get out after eleven? After the Home Guard makes its rounds?”
“Are you crazy?”
“This is secret . . . top secret. Meet me tonight—in the cemetery behind the church. Bring the tolley . . . unless you’re chicken.”
Josef did not understand much British slang, but he understood the challenge. He was not a coward and would not be accused. He walked on a few steps, stopped, then partially turned. “Do not be late. Come alone.”
Wilfred nodded—nervously, Josef saw, even in the dimming light.
Gaston turned out the lamp in the center of the room, then ran, diving into bed. He’d memorized how many steps it took in the blacked-out room and had never missed his cot. He clasped his hands behind his head and lay staring at the ceiling. The blackout curtains cut off the stars. It was like living in a cave. Only the breathing of the other boys told him anyone else was near. He could identify Bertram’s breathing easily. He was his brother, after all.
At first he and Bertram had been alone in one room. When the German boys came, Madame Langford insisted they move to a larger room and all the boys share. She said it was a dormitory, like boarding school. Everyone had resisted at first, this mixing of French and German. But as the weeks and months piled onto one another, Gaston did not mind so much. Sometimes they stayed awake long into the night, telling one another stories to curdle the blood. Sometimes they spoke of their families. Often, each fell asleep with his own thoughts, his own memories to sort.
Gaston’s eyes weighed heavy. It had been a long day, a good day, despite school and lessons, and owing especially to the evening reading. He loved to hear Mademoiselle Claire read. He loved everything about her—the way her hair fell across her forehead and over her eyes when she was perturbed or concentrating. He loved her laugh, which came too seldom. The way she spoke of Monsieur Arnaud might be a thing to be envied, but he saw, despite all she said, that she had eyes for Monsieur David.
He didn’t mind so much losing her affections to such a man as David, but Josef’s vying for her attention annoyed Gaston. He turned over. Josef wasn’t worth thinking about, so why did such a thing keep him awake? He needed sleep for his English history test tomorrow. Why he needed to learn English history was beyond his imagination, but there it was, as immutable as Churchill.
Half an hour may have passed before Gaston counted the regular breathing, the sure sign of sleep, of Bertram, of Peter, of Franz. But what of Josef? Perhaps his rival had turned on his stomach.
Not five minutes later Gaston heard the slow cranking open of the window at the far end of the room. He felt the cool air for just a moment as the blackout curtain was pulled aside, long enough for a boy to slip behind and disappear.
Josef! Gaston nearly called his name aloud. More than wanting to report him or waken the others to join in the questioning, Gaston wanted to know what Josef was up to now. Wasn’t he in trouble enough? What might possess him to steal out into the night after curfew? If Madame Langford or Mademoiselle Claire or even Monsieur David caught him—or the Home Guard—ooh la la! Gaston winced to think of the reckoning Josef would face.
Curiosity won. Gaston slipped from his bed, pulled on his pants, and shoved his feet into his shoes in one smooth motion. He took his jacket from the hook by the door and crept to the window. Peter turned over and coughe
d, his sleep interrupted. Gaston froze. He waited for the older boy’s rhythmic breathing to resume.
By the time Gaston reached the window and slipped beneath the blackout curtain, he just glimpsed Josef’s sprint across the lawn in the pale moonlight.
Gaston hoisted himself through the window and onto the ledge, closing the window behind him as best he could. Step by step he slid toward the ivy-covered stonework, grabbing the vines, catching his feet in the tangles, and climbed down. He and Josef had discovered the strength of the vines when devising plans of escape in case of invasion—a secret they would keep from the others until the need arose.
Gaston made it to the ground. Had Josef left the drive? Had he detoured to the maze? Where would he go in the middle of the night? Why?
By the time Gaston reached the drive, Josef was nowhere to be seen. Gaston stopped, steadied his breathing, and listened. Far off he heard the shuffle of gravel. That meant that Josef was still on the drive. Gaston stepped onto the moss-covered shoulder and sprinted toward the road.
Josef waited in the black shadow of the church’s spire, behind the cemetery gate. He was in no hurry to enter the Christian sanctuary of the dead.
Ten minutes passed. Tree limbs, now bare of their leaves, bent in the gathering wind, scraping the cloud-painted black sky, precursor to a storm. Perhaps this was a ruse, a prank on Wilfred’s part to embarrass or frighten or chagrin him.
A sound—like a muffled cough—came from somewhere behind.
“Who’s there?” No answer. Josef gulped. Louder, Josef called, “Wilfred? Is that you? Come out, like a man.” Still no answer. Cold chills flew up Josef’s arms and down his legs. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning crackled across the sky, far away. Josef decided he’d waited quite long enough. Wilfred could forget his tolley.
Josef had just gained the road when Wilfred nearly bumped into him.
“You’re late.” Mostly Josef was relieved to see another human being.
