The Copper Series

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Legend had it that their chief, Cochise, was buried in the mountains nearby with his favorite horse and dog. I recognized the name Cochise as the county in which Copper Springs resided. I learned that copper was discovered in the 1870s, which brought countless fortune hunters, escalating the territory disputes between the settlers and the Indians.

  As William and I checked out books, Miss Bentley handed me an old, weathered book on sign language she had received from the traveling library. “And here is that address you wanted, Louisa,” she said as she handed me a slip of paper. She looked victorious, like a hunter returning with game.

  Then, suddenly, I felt someone stand close behind me.

  “Guten Tag, Fräulein,” said Herr Mueller.

  It didn’t surprise me that he was one of those men who stood too close to a woman, crowding her space, either dense or delighted about making her feel uncomfortable.

  “Good day, Herr Mueller.” I stepped away from him and turned to sign my name on the check-out slip.

  “I see that you have the Reverend’s kleiner Dumkopf with you. A tragedy, no?”

  I spun around on my heels to face him, temper flaring. “Nein, Herr Mueller. Wilhelm ist nicht ein Dumkopf!” I grabbed William’s hand to march out of the library, but William wouldn’t budge. Just as I turned to look at William, wondering why he wasn’t coming, I saw him spit on Herr Mueller’s shoes.

  Without a doubt, I knew there was nothing wrong with William’s mind. I just had to find a way to reach into it.

  The following Sunday, as we were having supper after the church service, Miss Gordon said, “That was a wonderful sermon today, Robert. Wasn’t that a wonderful sermon, Louise?”

  “Yes, it was fine,” I lied. “And there’s an ‘a’ on the end of my name. It’s Louisa,” I explained for the hundredth time.

  “Just fine?” she asked, almost combatively. “I suppose you’ve heard better sermons in Nazi Germany?” Her lips pursed together in that downward, disapproving look that was now quite familiar to me.

  “Aunt Martha, what is on this bread?” Robert said, grimacing, looking at the bread as if it were poisonous. William tried a bite and spit it out, dramatically.

  “Oleo. We’re supposed to use it now instead of butter. You’ll soon get used to it.” She turned back to me. “So…”

  “Aunt Martha,” interrupted Robert. “Louisa is entitled to her own opinion.”

  I was grateful he didn’t press me. Robert’s sermon was as lacking in flavor as the oleo.

  Later that evening, after Miss Gordon went upstairs to bed, Robert came into the house from his office. For a long while, he searched for a book in the parlor bookshelves, but it was obvious something else was on his mind. Finally, he sat down on the davenport where I was curled up reading.

  “Tell me the truth. What did you think about my sermon?”

  Oh no.

  I searched carefully for my words. “I…um…I thought you had good points. It was all biblically accurate. I just…”

  “You just…what?” he persisted, leaning forward.

  I hesitated, hunting for painless adjectives. Well, I told myself, he did ask for my opinion. “I just felt as if you didn’t encourage the people to see how God is at work in their lives. To depend on Him in their everyday activities.”

  Without expression, he leaned back on the davenport.

  “It’s one thing to believe that God is in His heaven. It’s another thing to believe that He is also here, closer to us than our own breath. I believe God is seeking each one of us, if only we have the eyes and the heart to see Him. Isn’t that the question everyone is truly asking? Deep inside? Do I really matter to God?”

  He rubbed his chin, mulling over my remarks. After a long moment of silence, he abruptly stood up. “Thank you, Louisa, for your candor. Good night. You’ll turn off the lights?”

  I nodded. He turned to head up the stairs. Robert kept surprising me. I never expected a conversation like that.

  * * * *

  At church the following Sunday, after Robert gave the Benediction and people stood milling around, chatting, Herr Mueller cornered me against a pew, oozing charm. “Good day, Fräulein Louisa. I’d be delighted to have the pleasure of your company at lunch tomorrow. Come to my house at one o’clock.”

  Was that an invitation or an order? Just then Robert walked past us, carrying hymnals to the shelves in the back. “The Reverend and I would be delighted to join you,” I answered.

  Robert stopped abruptly and looked at me, puzzled.

  “Herr Mueller would like us to have lunch with him tomorrow,” I explained.

  “Oh? Well, that sounds fine,” he said, though he didn’t look like it sounded fine. He looked like he felt trapped. I felt the same way.

  Herr Mueller politely nodded to Robert, as if including him was always his intention.

  The next day, Robert and I walked over to the Mueller’s house right at one o’clock.

  “You don’t like Friedrich Mueller, do you?” Robert asked.

  “Is it obvious?”

  His facial expression told me “yes.”

  “There’s something about him that seems rather…disagreeable. You don’t sense it?”

  “No, not really. Our interaction is always business-like. Well, except for incidents involving William. But this is the first social engagement he’s initiated with me. Any idea what he wants?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t want to confess that I had contrived a way for him to attend this particular invitation.

  Just as Robert knocked on the door, a maid in a black uniform, complete with crisp white apron, opened it and showed us in. The house’s interior was just as elaborate as its exterior. The décor was impeccable, punctuated with priceless antiques, uncommon in a humble town like Copper Springs. Obviously, Herr Mueller had a taste for fine things.

  His little brown sparrow wife, Hilda, joined us. We sat down to a flawlessly set table: polished silverware, fine china, crystal glasses. At each of our settings was a single blue hydrangea in a silver bud vase. The maid served chicken salad with capers and peeled grapes along with warm croissants. To top it off, she brought champagne flutes filled with cantaloupe melon balls, sprinkled with balsamic vinegar.

  “Reverend, did you notice my beautiful roses out front? They are just about to open their buds, perhaps another day or two,” Herr Mueller pointed out with evident pride.

  “Yes, yes. They’re always the talk of the town,” Robert responded congenially.

  I was relieved Robert was here. Perhaps the two men would chat, and I could remain invisible, not unlike Frau Mueller. I took a bite of the chicken salad and started to relax a little.

  Then Herr Mueller turned to me. “Fräulein, I am curious to know of your impressions of Berlin before you left.”

  I nearly choked on the chicken. “Pardon? What do you mean, Herr Mueller?”

  “There must have been great ebullition in the country after Hitler’s latest victories.”

  I put down my fork. “Quite the opposite! Berliners are suffering from great shortages and rationing; many are sick or starving.”

  Herr Mueller looked skeptical. “There is also rationing in the United States. We, too, have gasoline shortages, sugar, butter, and canned foods. It is the duty of every citizen to sacrifice for their country during times of war.”

  “Oh, but it’s more than just shortages, Herr Mueller. I think Hitler has been on the defensive for quite a few years, since 1940, when the Luftwaffe took such a beating from the British in the Battle of Britain. Hitler has spread himself over too many fronts. Germany is fighting a losing battle.”

  I picked up my fork, pushing the chicken salad around on my plate, thinking back to that pivotal year. The German newspapers only reported propaganda, so I had to scour underground news reports for credible updates. Somehow, after six long months of steady bombardment, the little Royal Air Force beat back the attacks of the Luftwaffe. Hitler turned his focus away from Britai
n toward Russia.

  I picked up my croissant and spread it with butter, remembering the joy I felt when it became apparent the tide had finally turned.

  With a jolt, I realized I had been day dreaming. “Anyway,” I continued, picking up where I had left off, “I think the end is on the horizon for Hitler’s Third Reich. Though I doubt he would ever surrender. He will fight to the finish and try to take Germany down with him. It is like Satan’s last gasp in the book of Revelations.”

  I took a bite of my croissant. Then a peculiar piece of trivia bounced into my head, something that had always gnawed at me. “But would you believe, Hitler has a dog? He is wonderful to that dog. He suffers no guilt about sending millions of innocent people to their death, but he has the ability to be kind to a pet.” I shuddered in disgust.

  Satisfied that I had thoroughly answered Herr Mueller’s original question about the condition of Berlin, I picked up my fork to concentrate on my lunch.

  As I started to take another bite of my chicken salad, I suddenly had an odd awareness. Glancing up, I discovered that everyone had stopped eating and was staring at me, their forks held suspended in mid-air. Herr Mueller’s face was now drained of color, except for one lone blue vein bulging on his forehead. Even Robert looked at me with an astounded expression on his face. Frau Mueller’s eyes darted from her husband to Robert to me.

  Something flickered across Herr Mueller’s face. Abruptly, he stood up to excuse himself. “Foolishly, I have forgotten a very important business call that I need to make. My apologies, Fräulein Louisa. Reverend Gordon.” And just like that, he left us alone to eat the remainder of the meal with his silent little wife.

  “That seemed rather peculiar,” I said to Robert as we walked back home.

  “Which part?”

  “Herr Mueller. He seemed upset about my remarks about Hitler.”

  He stopped. “Louisa, did it ever occur to you that you were answering questions no one was asking? Why did you launch into a monologue about Hitler at the dinner table? That could give anyone indigestion. It did me,” Robert said, placing a hand over his stomach as he made a dyspeptic face. “And why on earth did you have to say that Hitler was nice to his dog?”

  “Well, Herr Mueller did ask for my opinion about Berlin.” Then, meekly, I added, “and I love dogs.”

  Slowly shaking his head, Robert said, “You do have a tendency to speak your mind, don’t you? It’s a wonder you didn’t get yourself shot in Germany. I think I’m starting to understand why Dietrich sent you to the other end of the earth.”

  I looked at him and frowned. It was true. I was far too outspoken.

  On Friday morning of that same week, we were eating a tranquil breakfast on a beautiful spring day when Herr Mueller stormed up to the parsonage and banged on the kitchen door. Robert jumped up, alarmed, knocking his chair to the floor.

  “Gordon!” thundered Herr Mueller. “That boy of yours! He’s at it again. He cut off all of the buds on my roses! Every single one is gone! All that is left are green stalks.” He continued to rant and rave, his face reddened with rage. Miss Gordon, William, and I clumped together on the other side of the kitchen, timorously watching the interchange.

  “Now, now, Mr. Mueller,” Robert soothed, “how do you know William cut your roses? Perhaps deer ate the buds.”

  “And when was the last time you saw a deer in Copper Springs? Never!” he bellowed. “It was your imbecile child. The next time he plays another prank on me, I am calling the authorities and having him taken away. Have I made myself clear?” And away he stomped, marching down the street, green stalks sadly devoid of flowers in his hands.

  Robert closed the door and slowly turned back to face us with a very unhappy look on his face. William bolted up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door.

  As we sat back down at the kitchen table to finish our breakfast, Miss Gordon didn’t say a word and I followed her lead.

  It seemed as if this battle between William and Herr Mueller was epic and two-sided. Privately, I was on William’s side.

  * * * *

  Miss Gordon made an effort to be kinder after the unpleasant episode in the kitchen about the choir robes. Well, maybe kinder wasn’t the right word. Less hostile.

  One day I found a package on my bed of four yards of satin and velvet, thread, and her Singer Featherweight sewing machine placed on the floor. Just enough material to make one choir robe. And there was a note attached in her spidery handwriting: “Treat this machine well. They aren’t making them now like they used to. P.S. Because of the war.”

  For Miss Gordon, it seemed a kind of olive branch. It was the closest she could come to apologizing. In turn, I thought decidedly, I was going to sew the most professional looking choir robe in all of Arizona.

  I knew the Gordon ancestors were Scottish, but often I thought there must be Teutonic blood somewhere in Martha Gordon’s lineage. She was more Saxon than I, running the household like a Swiss clock. The house was painfully clean. Dinner was served promptly at 6 p.m. Bath and bedtime for William at 7:30. She retired to her room at 8:00.

  She liked to listen to a soap opera program on the radio called “Painted Dreams.” She’d been listening to it for years; I think it was her only vice. That and going to Bisbee to the picture show once a month to see the latest movie. She adored movie stars: Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart. She often talked about their characters as if they were real.

  Unlike every German hausfrau, however, as important as the inside of the house was to Miss Gordon, the outside was another matter. She didn’t bother with it.

  So outside was where I spent my time.

  It was such a pleasant afternoon that I couldn’t help but want to work out in the garden and see if I could bring it back to life. During my train trip across America, I had seen government posters in the railroad stations that encouraged Americans to have a Victory Garden, to grow their own vegetables so farmers could send more food to the soldiers fighting overseas.

  I was eager to do anything to help the Americans win this war. I fought a persistent feeling of frustration that I was useless here. In Germany, despite the danger of working with the Resistance Movement, at least I was doing something. Here, I waited. I was just waiting out the war until I could return to Germany. And I have never waited well.

  I went into the darkened shed to look for garden tools, lifted up one of the dusty boxes, and opened it. Inside were photographs, clothing, and some books. Out of curiosity, I picked up one photograph and looked at the face. It was of a woman with coloring that resembled William. My heart started hammering. William’s mother! I peered into the box filled with her belongings. The clothes still held a lingering scent of expensive perfume she must have worn. I held up her sweater to my face and breathed in the sweet smell.

  I went over to the window to examine the photographs more closely. Her hair was honey blond, like William’s, but shoulder-length and wavy. Her features looked finely sculptured, like delicate porcelain. She was beautiful, with that kind of elegant beauty I envied in some women, so unlike my own ordinary looks. She looked directly at the camera, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere. Probably had a touch of mystery, too, I thought, wistfully. Just the kind of woman I longed to be.

  Suddenly Robert’s voice startled me. “Put those things away.”

  I dropped the frame. “I’m so sorry—I was looking for garden tools. Your aunt said I could find them in here.”

  “The tools are on the shelf above the bench. Please leave those boxes alone.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait. Robert—shouldn’t William have a picture of his mother in his room? My mother died when I was young, too, and I know how much I cherished her picture.”

  He stiffened his back, turning his head slightly to the side to look back at me. “Louisa, William’s mother is not dead,” he said coldly, in a tone of voice that made it abundantly clear the subject was closed. He walked back into the house.

  Two feelings welle
d up within me, and I didn’t know which one was stronger—being embarrassed to have been caught snooping or being shocked at this latest revelation.

  * * * *

  Polite but cool. That’s how Robert treated me after finding me in the shed, prying through the box of his wife’s belongings. Mealtimes felt strained between us, though I doubted Miss Gordon even noticed. One evening, I tried to see if I could thaw things out and get a conversation started at the dinner table. “I’ve been reading an interesting book about the local history of this area. It’s about Chief Cochise and the Apache Indians.”

  “All I need to know about Cochise is that he’s a bloodthirsty warrior,” said Miss Gordon.

  “Actually, the truth is he was known for his integrity, and he kept his word with treaties. Later in his life, he was able to negotiate to get the reservation established near here, to the land where the Apaches had originally lived.”

  “If the Indians would just stay on their reservation, then there wouldn’t be so many problems for them,” advised Miss Gordon, insinuating that if she could only run the Bureau of Indian Affairs, things would be much better managed.

  “Can you really blame them?” I asked. “Imagine how awful it would be to have the government insist you must go live where they want you to and that you may not leave. How different is a reservation from a relocation camp in Germany?”

  My comment caused Miss Gordon’s temper to flare. “Oh for Pete’s sake, Louise! America is not Nazi Germany. We are civilized here.” Under her breath she muttered, “sometimes I think you knit with one needle.”

  Knit with one needle? How could anyone do that?

  Robert saw the look on my face and rose to my defense. “Aunt Martha, I think it’s good for us to see the United States through Louisa’s eyes. She’s watched Germany change very quickly. Don’t forget Germany was a democracy in the 1920s. Shaky, but still a democracy. There’s wisdom in paying attention to other countries’ mistakes.”

  I looked at Robert with wonder. Perhaps he was feeling apologetic for snapping at me in the shed. A good sign, it seemed, so I decided to push him a little further.