Fortunately, the past two days she’d been too busy to worry much about him. All the men—except Rudi—had been harvesting ice, which they did every February. It was an exhausting job, and it had to be done efficiently. Grace and the other women cooked meals to bring the men throughout the day to keep their strength up. Working long hours, the men cut through two-foot-thick layers of ice using seven-foot saws, then they sliced it into hundreds of one-foot cubes. Using massive tongs, they hoisted the cubes onto a sleigh as quickly as possible. If they were too slow, the blocks could freeze back onto the surface of the water. When the fully loaded sleigh arrived at the ice house, every cube was added to create a house-high stack, then packed with sawdust to retain the cold temperature through the rest of the year. As long as the weather cooperated, ice harvesting was a fun, friendly event that most of them anticipated every year. It was also back-breaking work, and Grace imagined they could have used Rudi’s strength, but her father insisted they had to keep him hidden from view. Until when, she had no idea.
“Here you go, Tommy,” Grace said, handing him a bowl of chili with a biscuit on the side. “How you keeping?”
He wiped an arm across his brow, sheepish. “Some of those old fellas are still stronger than me. I have to work twice as hard to keep up.”
A group of her father’s friends stood round the wagon, laughing about something while they enjoyed their meals.
“I think it’s all an act,” she told Tommy. “I doubt we’ll see any of them for the rest of the week. They’ll all be laid up and crying for attention.”
“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better,” he said, tasting the chili. “Oh, that’s good. So good.”
She stood beside him, scanning the ice, enjoying the sunshine and the view.
“Rudi’s not here,” he said, his mouth full.
“Of course he isn’t. Why would you say that?”
One eyebrow lifted wryly. “You gonna tell me you weren’t looking for him?”
“Why, I ought to slug you for that. What are you talking about?”
Tommy winked. “You and him.”
“Oh, stop! I can’t stand him. Who could fall for a liar like that?”
“Okay, if that’s how you want to play it,” he said, biting into the biscuit. “Did you bake these?”
“I’m not talking to you anymore.” But she didn’t leave.
Tommy mopped up the last of the chili with the bread. “How long are you gonna stay mad at him?”
“Be quiet.”
“No, really. Because he’s different now. He’s not as intense anymore.”
She didn’t mean to seek out the barn, but it didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t outside. “I don’t know, Tommy. Why bother? I don’t need him to be my friend.”
Tommy handed her his bowl when her father whistled across the ice. “I gotta go.” He gave her another wink. “Say hi to Rudi for me.”
She rolled her eyes, then stacked the bowl on top of the others already piled in the wheelbarrow. Time to wash and dry everything, then start all over again.
“You can do that yourself,” she tossed over her shoulder.
But something Tommy had said made her smile—the part about Rudi being less intense. He’d been that way at the store: kind of gentle and sweet, not close-lipped and military like he’d been around her father’s house. She assumed that meant he was more comfortable, enjoying himself since the lies were all out in the open. At least she hoped they were. She couldn’t imagine him hiding anything else.
As she got close to the shore a pair of chickadees swooped low in front of her, racing to a nearby berry bush. The sight of them took her away from the cold, to spring. Soon the snow would go—maybe even as early as mid-March. Winters seemed to alternate between being eternal and just popping in for a few wild months, and she thought maybe this year they were due for a nice, early spring.
Just then her heel slipped on the ice and the wheelbarrow wobbled, rattling the bowls. She did a frantic little dance trying to stay upright, but both her feet and the wheel slid out of control. No, no, no, no! Don’t break the dishes! she thought madly as she fell. But she never hit the ground, and neither did the dishes. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, and another steadied the wheelbarrow, sparing them both.
“Rudi!” She dropped her voice to a whisper as he set her back on her feet. “What are you doing out here? Someone will see you!”
“You are okay?”
“I, uh, yes,” she said, glancing back. “I’m fine. Thank you for helping me. But you’d better get going. My father will be angry if he sees you out here in plain view.”
“Yes, I am going.” Then he smiled, gave her that same twinkle that had hooked her before. “But I am sad because I not seeing you, Grace.”
“Yes, well . . .” She scowled, cursing her heart for beating so fast. “I’ve been busy.”
“But maybe you come to see me? Like I come to store?”
In a flash she was back at the dance, her hand on his shoulder, following him around the floor in a fluid 1-2-3, 1-2-3, knowing nothing about him except that she wanted to know more. She shook her head, hoping to send the traitorous memories flying, but they held on.
“I don’t know, Rudi. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
His shoulders sagged. “Is okay. I understand.”
Then he turned back to the barn, and she watched him follow the snowy path. When he was out of sight she grabbed the wheelbarrow handles again and pushed it off the ice, up the bumpy trail towards the house. The bowls and cups jingled, the chickadees chirped, and the booming voices of the working men bounced over the ice, but Grace didn’t hear a thing the whole way.
Rudi
TWENTY-TWO
Inside the barn’s tired walls Rudi had found years of neglect, which made sense considering the fish plant was the major focus around there. To him, the long list of unfinished jobs was a golden opportunity to win Mr. Baker’s approval, and maybe Grace’s too. Everywhere he looked he saw well-intentioned projects that had been started but never finished. In every corner lay old lengths of siding and rusty tools just waiting to be put to use. He’d gotten to work right away, hammering four coffee cans’ worth of nails on the anvil until they were straight, then he’d patched all the outside walls, including the holes chewed by squirrels and mice on the badly weathered south side.
This morning he’d decided it was time to take on the roof. When he peered up, daylight spilled through, and he thought most of the trouble had come from wind damage to a hip cap, which was an easy fix. He’d have the roof tight by sundown. He rifled through the bits and pieces scattered around the barn and found a length of tin, which he measured and snipped, then he went in search of a ladder tall enough to reach the top. After a half hour or so he paused to check his work.
“I brought coffee.”
Grace’s voice was the last thing in the world he’d expected to hear, but there she was, standing at the base of the ladder, holding a steaming cup meant for him.
He tucked his hammer into his belt and climbed down, then he sipped from the cup she’d given him. “Thank you. Is very good coffee.”
She pursed her lips and turned away.
“You are still angry.”
“Shed looks good,” she said.
“Thank you.”
Grudgingly, she faced him again. “The barn looks better already.”
The coffee could have arrived with her mother as it usually did, but this one time Grace had chosen to come. She was giving him the opportunity he’d been hoping for.
“I am happy you are come to see me, Grace,” he said. “I miss very much seeing you.”
“Yes, well, I can’t stay,” she said, then practically sprinted to the door.
“Wait! Grace!” But the door closed behind her, and when Rudi peered out the window she was rushing back up the path. What had he said this time? What was that all about?
He kept mulling it over as he climbed back up the ladder.
At least she’d come. That was a start. He’d be patient, he figured.
Rudi got back to work fixing the roof, and though Grace’s unexpected exit bothered him, time flew by. Lulled by the repetitive manual labour, he began quietly humming tunes from his childhood, and an hour passed. He loved to sing, always had. He’d been in the church choir as a small boy, and when he grew up he’d become an audience member. He’d loved going to the opera with his parents, loved the beauty of the music, the spectacle of the performance.
“La donna è mobile
Qual piuma al vento—”
“What is that?”
Grace was staring up at him, wide-eyed, a basket in her hand.
“This is Verdi.” He stayed in place on the ladder, not wanting to scare her off.
She tilted her head. “What’s Verdi? Is that the German word for music?”
“No.” He held his laughter in check. “Music is Musik. Verdi is a man. He is Italienisch.”
Grace still seemed confused.
“You never hear die Oper?”
“ ‘Dee Oper’?” she echoed, then comprehension brightened her face. “Oh! You mean opera? No, I haven’t.”
“I am sad for you.” He cleared his throat. “Now you hearing more. ‘La donna è mobile,’ ” he resumed, throwing his voice to the heavens. “ ‘Qual piuma al vento’ . . .”
When he finished the verse he looked down. She hadn’t moved a muscle.
“I’ve never heard anything like that in my whole life.”
He started slowly down the ladder. “You like it?”
“It was . . .”
He loved that she couldn’t come up with a word and decided to give her some of his own. “Die Oper ist kraftvoll, mächtig, emotional—”
“Emotional! Yes! That’s the same in English. You’re right. That was very emotional. Gave me goosebumps.” She didn’t step back when he reached the ground, and he took that as a good sign. “You said it was Italian, right? Can you speak Italian?”
“No. I sing Italian, I am not talking it.”
“You mean, ‘I sing Italian, but I don’t speak it.’ ”
“I sing Italian, but I don’t speak it,” he repeated carefully.
“That’s right.” She held up the basket of food. “Hungry?”
“Yes.” He gestured towards an old chest set against the wall. “You will stay for lunch?”
“I already ate.”
He gave her his best pleading look. “You will stay for my lunch?”
At first he feared she might bolt again, but she tightened her lips with resolve, sat on the crate, and primly adjusted her coat around her. Rudi sat at her side, making sure to leave space between them. Instantly, his feet and back thanked him; standing on ladder rungs was hard on a man’s body after a while.
“Is there a lot of that kind of singing in Germany?”
“Yes. Much music and Gemälde.” Seeing her blank expression, he began to mime, dipping an imaginary paintbrush into an imaginary pot, then thoughtfully stroking it over an imaginary canvas.
“Oh! Art! Painting and stuff.”
“Ja. Painting and stuff.”
“My mother is an artist—a painter, I mean.”
“Yes? I am seeing—”
“I saw.”
“Pardon. I saw paintings in the house. Very good. Beautiful, like you.”
When she blushed like that he knew she was pleased, but he did worry he’d gone too far when she didn’t answer at once.
Then she offered a careful smile. “Where did you live in Germany?”
He unwrapped the food, pulled out a sandwich. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry. “Düsseldorf. We make good beer.”
“Beer!” She laughed at that. “What else happens there?”
“Karnevals. We have many.” He took a bite of the most delicious sandwich he’d ever had, then held it out for inspection. “What is this?”
“What, that? Well, it’s corned beef. You know. From a can. You’ve never had it before?”
He shook his head and took another bite.
“You do good work,” she said, admiring the barn. “I’ve never seen it so clean and organized in here before. Kind of reminds me of how the store was when I first started working there. Everything was all over the place, so I sorted it out.”
“You are happy at store,” he replied.
“It’s just a store, but it keeps me busy, and yes, I guess it makes me happy. Some of my friends are helping in the war, but I stayed here.”
He caught a note of regret in her voice and instinctively wanted to reassure her, to bring back her smile—especially since it had taken so long for her to find it—but he didn’t think that was what she needed.
“You think war is better work for you?” he asked.
“I wonder about that.”
He didn’t agree. “I think store work is better than war work.”
She tilted her head, watching him intently, and he could tell she was really listening. When a shiny black curl tumbled out from under her kerchief, she tucked it absently behind her ear, and the subtle movement brought Rudi back to the dance hall. He’d touched his cheek to the top of her head when they’d been dancing; he’d felt how soft her hair was. He wanted very badly to feel that again.
She was waiting for an explanation, so he cleared his throat. “On boat there is captain and there is cook,” he said, holding out one hand at a time. He lifted one. “Captain in charge.” He dropped his other hand. “But if is no cook, captain is not eating. Or, there is captain and there is engineer. Without engineer, captain is going nowhere.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it,” she said. “My father says people out here still need the store, that I am doing something useful.”
“Your father is smart man. War is big, but war is not all things. War is not life. This . . .” He gestured around the barn. “This is life. Is living.”
“I like that.” She let out a satisfied breath. “My father’s happy with your work out here.”
“That is important, to keep father happy.”
“What was yours like? Your father, I mean. I hope you don’t mind my asking.”
He loved that she was asking. “Mein Vater is—was—navy man. Always navy. I grow up with marching and drill and—” He lifted his hand to his brow in a mock salute. “Always Jawohl, ‘yes, sir.’ Is not sit and talk. When I am boy, maybe yes. Not when I am man.”
She was watching him closely, her lips slightly open. “You’ve always been a soldier, then. We heard that: Germans train their armies as soon as their children can walk.”
“Not this young.”
“What about other things? Did you go to parties? Did you have friends?”
“Of course. But these are not like your dance. My friends and me dance with pretty girls, and we laugh, but we always talk of war. Men say, ‘When can I go? I cannot wait.’ And I say these things too, but I . . . I am not knowing what I talk about. Now, ja, now I know.”
Her face fell, and he was sorry for saying anything.
“I’m glad we’re talking like this,” she said.
“You are? But I make you sad.”
She worried one of her nails. “I am sad, but it’s not your fault. I’m sad that there’s a war, and I’m angry that so many boys have to be out there, getting hurt or killed. It’s such a waste.” She took a deep breath and let it all out. “Like my brother, Norman. Gosh, I miss him. I hate that I—”
She was on the verge of crying, Rudi realized helplessly.
“I hate that I can’t accept the fact that he is dead,” she finished. “I just can’t seem to forget about him.” She plucked a handkerchief out of her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry. You don’t know anything about me or him. I shouldn’t come crying to you.”
“I like listen to you.”
Gratitude swam in her eyes.
“No person can tell you to say goodbye, Grace. You love your brother.”
“
I do. And I miss him so much. I miss my other brothers too, but at least we hear from them most of the time. Those letters are all I have to keep me going these days.” She sniffed. “Did you write a lot of letters to your family?”
“I have only sisters, but we do not write.” Wouldn’t that have been nice, Rudi thought, to unfold a piece of paper and know he hadn’t been forgotten.
“Did you have a girlfriend?”
“No,” he said, pushing any past dalliances from his mind. They didn’t matter at all; Grace mattered.
They both sat up straight when they heard her name being called.
“Guess I’d better go,” she said, rising.
He hung on to the reluctance in her voice and stood with her. “Grace, your mother talk of second chance. I hope for second chance with you.”
The corner of her mouth curled slightly, but she sighed. “Rudi,” she said. “I’ll tell you the truth. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk with you ever again. When I met you at the store you told me you were German, and I guess because you were so nice, and the ladybug was such a sweet gift, I never even thought you might be a Nazi, of all things. Then you showed up here with Tommy, and well, everything got all mixed up. First you’re a quiet trapper, then you’re a hero, then you’re a German spy—”
“I was never spy, Grace.” She lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but he shook his head. “Never. But tell me, if I say in store that I am coming from U-boat, what you are doing?”
“I don’t know. Probably wouldn’t have spoken with you.” She grimaced. “Reported you, maybe.”
“I am . . . still nice.”
“Yeah, but . . .” She didn’t go on.
“So answer is no?”
“What answer?”
“You give me second chance?”
“You are determined, aren’t you?” From the laughter in her voice, he could tell he was winning her over. “Stubborn, I mean. You don’t give up.”
Come from Away Page 13
