DEFIANT HEART
BY
MARTY STEERE
Published by Penfield Publications
2533 Eastwind Way
Signal Hill, California 90755
ISBN: 978-0-9854014-3-6
Copyright © Marty Steere, 2013
Cover illustration by Edward Lum
Cover design by Ben Lizardi
e-book formatting by Guido Henkel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
For Martha
1
May 1941
From the top of the slope, the sergeant watched flashlight beams reach out through the darkness, occasionally crossing one another as his patrol officers picked their way through the underbrush at the bottom of the embankment.
Lightning flashed, followed a second later by the crack of thunder, and the ground beneath the sergeant’s feet shook momentarily. In the instant the hillside was illuminated, he saw the car clearly. It had come to a stop halfway down the incline, about thirty yards below where he now stood, its fall arrested by the trunk of an immense oak. The garish light briefly exposed mangled metal and shattered glass, and it appeared as though the entire frame of the vehicle had been twisted at an impossible angle.
In the pool of light cast by his own flashlight, his corporal appeared near the top of the ridge. The man planted a foot against an exposed tree root and held on to a low hanging branch to avoid sliding back down the hillside. Raising his voice so he could be heard above the sound of the rain, he said, “Three people. A man and a woman. Thirties or forties. And a boy, maybe seventeen, eighteen.”
“They’re all…” the sergeant paused with the sudden irrational thought that by uttering the word he would somehow dictate the outcome.
“Dead,” the corporal confirmed. “Afraid so. No one could have survived that.”
A shout from the bottom of the hill drew the sergeant’s attention, and, as he watched, the beams below converged on a single spot. One of the patrolmen called out, his voice faint against the roar of the storm. “Found a body.”
After a moment, he added, “He’s alive.”
A miracle, thought the sergeant. Must have been thrown from the car as it had rolled down the embankment. He’d seen that happen in bad accidents before. Fate could be so random.
“Sergeant,” his patrol officer shouted from below. “The kid’s asking about his parents and his brother. What do I tell him?”
The sergeant closed his eyes for a moment. Oh, God, he thought. Poor kid.
#
As the train whistle blew, the green of the trees that had been sliding by the windows slowly fell away, and a small wooden building came into view. A sign on the structure read “Jackson, Indiana.” On the platform in front stood the solitary figure of an elderly woman.
The door at the front of the passenger car opened, and the conductor stepped through.
“Jackson,” he called out, starting down the aisle. When he got to Jon, he nodded and said, “We’re here.”
Jon raised a hand in nervous acknowledgement, then stood as the train came to a stop and gave a slight backwards lurch. Steadying himself, he reached into the alcove above the seat and retrieved a large brown suitcase. It was old, the sides badly scuffed and the four lower corners worn and discolored. He collected the brown paper sack from the seat next to him. It contained two apples and half a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, all that remained of the food that was in the bag when the lady with the sad eyes had handed it to him as he’d boarded the train in Penn Station. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Then, hefting the suitcase, he made his way down the aisle to the door at the rear of the car.
As he stepped out onto the sunlit platform, he saw that the elderly woman was still standing where he’d first noticed her. Though she was looking directly at him, she made no gesture of greeting. He took a few hesitant steps toward her, set down the suitcase, and asked, uncertainly, “Grandma Wilson?”
The woman seemed to wince. She looked away for a moment. Then, gathering herself, she turned. Over her shoulder, she said, “It’s not far,” and she began walking. Surprised, it took Jon a moment to react. Not sure what else to do, he lifted the suitcase and followed.
They crossed the dirt-packed road in front of the train station and, after a short distance, started up a paved commercial street. The woman walked briskly, and it was an effort for Jon to keep up with her. He was still favoring his left leg. With each step, the suitcase banged into his right knee.
She spoke without turning her head or breaking stride. “You will address me as ‘ma’am.’ Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They turned onto a tree-lined street. When they came to a small white clapboard house, trimmed in blue, the woman climbed the steps to the porch and entered without saying a word. Jon stopped to catch his breath, then, with some effort, slowly limped up the steps and entered the dwelling.
He paused in the foyer. To his left was a living room, the far wall dominated by a fireplace with a large wooden mantle. By the front window stood a baby grand piano. The other furnishings were spare. To the right was a dining area, with an opening beyond which he could see a kitchen. A hallway off the foyer led to the rear of the house.
A framed photograph on the piano caught his attention. It was an old ferrotype, featuring a man and a woman. The woman was seated in a straight back chair, wearing a white dress with a high collar and full sleeves, her hair swept up and pinned in an elaborate bun. The man stood to the side and slightly behind, one hand resting on the back of the chair. Dressed in a high-buttoned suit and looking stiff and slightly uncomfortable, he held a hat in his other hand.
There was something familiar about the picture. Jon couldn’t quite place it. And then he remembered. On her dresser, his mother had kept a small photograph in a silver filigreed frame. It was the same man, in the same suit, holding the same hat. A slightly different pose, yes, but the same stiff and uncomfortable bearing. His Grandpa Wilson.
Jon had a vague memory of Grandpa Wilson. Not the man in the picture, but an older man, with gray hair and rough hands, a mischievous smile and a twinkle in his eyes. Jon and his brother, Sandy, were in a park with a big lake. They were feeding the ducks. Hundreds of ducks. And one big swan…
“Your room is the first one on the left.” The woman was standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She’d removed her hat and tied an apron around her waist. “Dinner is at five sharp.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, picking up his suitcase.
The room was tiny, the space almost completely filled with a writing desk and a small bed, not much more than a cot really. Folded neatly and lying on the bed were a pair of sheets, a blanket and a towel. A cedar chest at the foot of the bed offered the only storage. The walls were devoid of pictures. The desk was empty, as was the chest, which he discovered when he lifted the lid. There was simply nothing to indicate that anyone had ever lived in the room before. It was as sterile as he imagined a prison cell would be.
Jon closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath, concentrating as he did on keeping his body steady. Try as he might, though, his chest still rattled, both on the intake and exhalation.
As it had many times since the accident, something his father once said came back to him. They’d been gathered f
or the shiva following the funeral for Grandpa Meyer, and his father had put his arm around his shoulders. “I know you’re sad, Jon, and that’s ok. But he wouldn’t want you to be too sad. Better to celebrate the time you had together.” Jon had understood that then. And he’d accepted it. Though his grandfather had been a magnificent part of his life, it had been time for him to go.
But his mother and father? That made no sense. And what about Sandy? Sweet, wonderful Sandy. Under the circumstances, how could Jon possibly celebrate anything? It simply wasn’t fair. Everything that had been his life had suddenly gone away. Not temporarily. Not for a long time.
Forever.
As he formed the thought, he was again overwhelmed by a tremendous guilt. He squeezed his eyes tight, willing away the odious thoughts.
He felt a tear escape the corner of one eye and trace a path down his cheek.
After a moment, he opened his eyes and, with the back of a hand, roughly brushed away the offending drop. He would not feel sorry for himself. He would be strong.
He lifted the suitcase, placed it on the bed and opened it. Lying on top of his clothes were a series of books. One by one, he removed them and lined them up carefully on the desk.
As he was putting the last of his things in the chest, he heard voices from the front of the house.
“Honestly, Dick, I would expect you of all people to feel empathy…”
“I do. Of course I do. But when is it appropriate to put our people’s lives at risk? We did it once before, remember, and what did it get us? They’re at it again. It’s a never-ending cycle. I submit to you, Tom, that the world will be better off if all of Europe is united.”
“Well, then you’d better start practicing your German, Dick, because Hitler isn’t going to be satisfied with just Europe.”
Jon stepped into the hallway and saw two men in the foyer. The shorter man wore a dark suit with a minister’s collar. The shorter man spotted him.
“Hold that thought, Tom,” he said, stepping forward and putting out his hand. “Jonathon, I’m Reverend Mayfield, the pastor at St. Luke’s here in Jackson.” He gripped Jon’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “I’ve known your grandmother for fifteen years. I also knew your grandfather. A fine, fine man.”
“Tom Anderson,” said the other man, also offering his hand. “Welcome to Jackson. Sorry about the circumstances.” Anderson spoke with a deep, gravely baritone. “Do you prefer ‘Jonathon,’ or is it ‘Jon’ or…”
“Jon. I much prefer Jon.”
“Jon it is then,” said the reverend.
Before anyone could say anything further, his grandmother’s voice called from the kitchen. “Dinner is served.”
#
As a lawyer, Tom Anderson had encountered all manner of people in stressful circumstances. Out of occupational necessity, he’d become something of a student of human nature. Over the years, he had, for example, developed a strong and fairly reliable instinct for when a client or a witness was being evasive, telling half truths or, far too frequently for his taste, outright lying. He had a keen sense for emotions. They included the more base passions such as fear and anger, but he also had an uncanny ability to ferret out more subtle undercurrents.
Through this prism, he found the interaction between Marvella Wilson and her teenage grandson fascinating.
He had known Marvella for many years, and she was one of the most enigmatic persons he’d ever encountered. She was a brittle, opinionated dynamo who had never lost the toughness that came with growing up on a farm. Yet, she had won the heart of Ernie, who had been one of the most endearing men Anderson ever had the privilege to know. Ernie and Marvella had made such an odd pair. And, yet, they had adored each other, she in her way, and he in his.
Anderson could see little of Marvella in her grandson. To him, the boy was the spitting image of Ernie.
Watching her now with the young man was a challenge. As incomprehensible as it was, something in her demeanor told him there was an aspect to Jon that she found unacceptable, even, God forbid, repulsive. It seemed, under the circumstances, to be so out of place.
When they had all taken their seats at the table, the reverend cleared his throat and said, “Let us give thanks.”
Anderson noticed that, as Marvella bowed her head, she gave her grandson a sideways glance.
“Lord,” the reverend began, “we thank you for allowing us to welcome Jon Meyer to this fine house, and we pray that you will help look over him in these difficult times. We thank you for giving our sister, Marvella, the strength and wisdom to take in Jon. And we pledge ourselves as your humble servants to do what we can to make Jackson a place Jon can truly call home.”
He concluded with, “In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit. Amen.”
“Amen,” they all repeated, and Anderson again noticed Marvella giving Jon a look out of the corner of her eye.
“So, Jon,” Anderson said, folding his napkin and placing it in his lap. “Have you been following the events in Europe?”
“I have, yes sir.”
“And what do you think we should be doing about Mr. Hitler?”
Jon paused a moment before answering. “Sir, he’s a monster. I think we should be doing everything we can to stop him now.”
Nodding, Anderson said, “But what about those who say it’s none of our business? Why should we get involved?”
Again, Jon paused briefly. “I don’t think it’s a question of if, but rather when, we’ll become involved. We won’t have a choice. Like it or not, we’ll be dragged in.” He stopped for a moment, searching for the right words. “Eventually, it’ll come down to us versus them. The longer we wait, the stronger they’ll get.”
“And who is ‘us’?” Marvella asked sharply.
The intensity of her look clearly shook Jon. “Us, all of us… Americans,” he stammered.
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
“Well, I happen to agree with that,” Anderson said. “But just to play devil’s advocate for a moment, why do you believe,” he asked, throwing a meaningful look at Mayfield, “that Adolph Hitler won’t stop with just Europe?”
Clearly grateful for the opportunity, Jon turned to Anderson. “Because he said so in his book.”
“You’re talking about Mein Kampf,” Mayfield said. “I’ve heard of it.”
Jon nodded. “Hitler wrote it before his rise to power. According to him, it’s all about world domination, and he intends for Germany to rule the world.”
“How do you know that’s what it says?” Mayfield asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve read it.”
“I have. Yes, sir.”
The reverend sat back, a surprised expression on his face.
“That’s very impressive,” Anderson said. “But, still,” he added, thinking about it, “if you’re reading a translation, you’re getting one man’s interpretation, don’t you think?”
Jon hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I think that’s probably right, yes, sir.”
Obviously picking up on Anderson’s point, Mayfield asked, “So what makes you think world domination is really what Hitler intends? Wouldn’t it be a convenient way to whip up support for the war if the English translation were skewed in that direction?”
Jon considered that, then replied slowly, “It could be. I haven’t read the English translation, so I don’t know how accurate it is.”
Not sure he had followed that, Anderson asked, “You’re not saying you read the book in German, are you?”
Jon nodded.
Startled, Anderson said, “You know how to read German. How in the world?”
“My grandfather.” Jon stopped suddenly, glancing at his grandmother, then clarified, “My father’s father. He was born in Bavaria, and he came to the United States as a young man. He worked in a bakery in Chicago. But he was very educated. He had a degree in literature from the University of Munich. When I was nine, he came to live with us. He started teaching me one day. It was fun
, and we just kept at it. He’d bring home books for me, simple ones at first. I’d read them, and then we would go for long walks and talk about them. In German.
“He died,” Jon said, the words catching in his throat, and everyone was silent. “He died a little over a year ago,” he continued. “I’m just, I guess, lucky to have known him.”
No one spoke for a few moments. Then Mayfield broke the silence. “Do you speak any other languages we should know about?” he asked, with a smile.
#
In the morning, Jon discovered he was alone. He took a few minutes to wander through the house. At the end of the hall, he opened the door and stepped into the back yard.
To one side was a trap door to a basement and on the other a lean-to shed, about ten feet by ten feet, with a tin roof and wood siding. The door to the shed was secured by a simple latch that lifted easily when Jon tried it. The door opened with a squeaking protest from the hinges, and he was greeted with a dry blast of stale air.
Jon stepped up into the shed. To his left was a broad workbench, to his right a pegboard wall on which hung a series of tools. At the rear were dozens of small drawers laid out in neat rows and columns. Selecting one at random, he opened it and found that it contained a collection of nuts, all the same size. He opened the drawer next to it and found it also contained nuts, these slightly larger than the first. The drawers immediately above each contained bolts with diameters corresponding to the nuts in the drawer below. The lengths of the bolts increased as he moved up the column of drawers.
The person who worked here—his Grandpa Wilson, obviously—had been extremely neat and organized. To Jon, there was an undeniable elegance in the way his grandfather had organized his workplace.
A noise outside caused him to start. Moving quickly to the front of the shed, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. He saw no one in the rear yard, and there did not seem to be any sound coming from the house.
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