Play It Again, Spam

by Tamar Myers

  “So, then he’s here already. What’s the problem?”

  “He isn’t here, either. Magdalena, I’m not superstitious—you know that—but something has happened to Strubbly Sam. I feel it in my bones. You must find him, Magdalena.”

  “What am I?” I wailed. “The lost and found bureau?”

  “Ach, such riddles! Will you help me?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said.

  More stupid words were never spoken.

  Twenty-Four

  I love Rhythm. That’s rhythm with a capital R, and it’s the only kind we Mennonites know. It’s also our wildest party game. Everyone sits around in a big circle and slaps their hands on their knees. Then they clap their hands once, snap the right thumb and forefinger, and then the left. As the finger snapping commences the player who is “it” shouts out first his assigned number, and then the assigned number of another player. This is all done, of course, without breaking the group’s rhythm. Any player breaking the group rhythm is excluded from the circle, as is any player who, in the heat of battle, forgets his own number. Eventually only two players will remain, and the speed picks up dramatically. The staccato slapping, clapping, and subsequent barking of numbers would surely bewilder an English observer.

  Susannah finds Rhythm boring, but that’s only because she doesn’t have any rhythm and is always knocked out of the game in the first round. Even though tonight there were one hundred and sixty-two people forming one giant circle inside the barn, my baby sister was the first out.

  “Oh, Mags, it’s so boring.”

  “Not your average night at a truckstop, is it, dear?”

  “You can say that again!”

  “So, dear, why are we playing?” I said this all without breaking rhythm, mind you.

  “It was Melvin’s idea.”

  “Twenty-nine—eighty-six! Figures. What are going to do next, sing?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Twenty-nine—thirty-six.” Someone in the group was picking on me. “Just a lucky guess. Besides— twenty-nine—one hundred and eight!” Oops, the group was ganging up on me. Undoubtedly it bothered them to see someone could carry on a conversation and maintain a zippy beat.

  “And Mags, you wouldn’t believe the songs he’s picked.”

  “Yes, I will—twenty-nine—thirty-six. Try me.”

  “ ‘She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain’! He wants us to sing it in rounds.”

  “Well, I rather like—twenty-nine—thirty-six!”

  “And that’s not all, Mags—”

  “Twenty-nine—thirty-six!”

  “ ‘Down by the Old Mill Stream,’ if you can imagine that.”

  “Yes, I can—twenty-one—thirty-six!”

  The barn seemed to explode with laughter as I crashed and burned. Thanks to number thirty-six I was out. But of course the game went on, most folks not missing a beat.

  “Ooh, Mags, did you see who thirty-six was?”

  I stepped out of the circle. “No, dear, I was too busy being pestered by you.”

  “It’s that gorgeous doctor.”

  “What?” I couldn’t seem to get the song titles out of my mind.

  “Gabe, silly. Oh Mags, you’re so lucky, you know that? Here I am, about to marry Melvin, and you’ve got one hot stud muffin just—”

  “That’s it,” I cried. “The old mill stream—the old grist mill! That’s where you’ll find something round!”

  Susannah had the temerity to sniff my breath. “You been drinking, Mags?”

  “And the old grist mill is on Strubbly Sam’s property.”

  “You’re nuts, Mags, you know that?”

  I had much better things to do than stand around and be insulted by a woman who wears her dog in a bra. “See you later, dear,” I said calmly, and went out for a walk.

  Susannah gets no credit for scheduling her party to coincide with the full moon. The girl doesn’t even know her own cycle, if you get my drift. It was the Good Lord who provided the moon that night and made the walk from the rear of Elvina’s property to Strubbly Sam’s a piece of cake. The two farms abut, after all, and from Elvina’s barn it was all downhill to the stream. Sure, there is woods most of the way, but it’s primary growth and there is very little underbrush. I got to the millstream with nary a scratch, but crossing it was another matter.

  The grist mill is on the other side of the stream, and although Slave Creek is not exactly the mighty Susquehanna, it is not something you want to wade—especially at night, after the temperature has dropped.

  “Couldn’t somebody have built a bridge?” I wailed.

  I could see the old two-story stone mill, its wheel steadily turning, but there was no way to reach it. Not without removing my shoes and stockings, and hiking my dress up to my waist. Believe me. I went so far as to search the bank for vines with which to swing across. Tarzan was from Africa, and there are Mennonite missionaries there, so it is not as far-fetched a thought as one might suppose. To be frank, I would have given up had I not seen a flicker of light in one of the lower-story windows.

  I am a woman of prayer, and pray I did. “Oh Lord, don’t let me faint from the cold,” I moaned as I staggered across the rocky stream bed, my skirt bunched up beneath my armpits. And believe me, it was a miracle that I made it across. The mossy stones at the bottom of Slave Creek are as slippery as Freni’s memory, and the current as strong as her resolve.

  Once across, however, I felt strangely warm and confident. How else can I explain the fact that, after dropping my skirt, I marched straight up to the side door and peered in.

  “Why, come on in, Miss Yoder. I’ve been expecting you.”

  I jumped, banging my head on the stone lintel.

  “Don’t tell me you’re surprised.” The speaker lit an oil lamp.

  “Johanne!”

  “Ah, so you know my real name. Good, that will save us some time.” He turned and the lamp illuminated Sam’s strubbly features.

  “Sam!” I took an involuntary step backward. The poor dear was lashed to the stone grinding wheel with inch-thick ropes. His mouth had been taped shut with gray duct tape, but above the tape wild eyes told me all I needed to know. He was still alive.

  Johanne motioned me forward. Since he was waving a gun, I complied.

  “You tied and gagged the poor man!”

  “Of course I have. Come even closer, Miss Yoder. I don’t like having to shout over the noise of the stream.” My knees buckled a few times—no doubt I walked like Marjorie—but I did as I was told. I followed orders.

  Mercifully, Johanne stopped pointing the gun at me. He did not, however, put it away.

  “You have it wrong, Miss Yoder. It’s Sam here who’s the Nazi, not I.”

  I tried to read Sam’s eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve known Sam my entire life.”

  “I’m sure you have. But I’m also pretty sure your life began well after Sam’s career in the Third Reich. How old are you, thirty-five?”

  I snorted. “Flattery will get you nowhere, dear! Sam is an honest, God-fearing man, die son-in-law of a former bishop.”

  Johanne smiled. “I’m sure he is, but he is also known as the Butcher of Tunis.”

  “You’re” — I struggled with my Christian tongue— “full of it! So, then, who are you, the Immigration Service?”

  “At your service ma’am. Really, Miss Yoder, I expected you to figure that out too.”

  “Then why is your name Johanne Burkholder?” “Why not'! Is Magdalena Yoder any more American?” “It’s Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, dear.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose Portulacca is as American as apple pie. For your information, our government was keen on recruiting from within the ranks of the German-American community. They needed native speakers.”

  “But Old Irma says—”

  “Old Irma, as you call her, was a German operative, not American.”

  “That’s—”

  “Ridiculous? That seems to be your favorite
word, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder.”

  “But she sang in cabarets. And held salons where she entertained Nazis. Now why would a German entertain— okay, but why is she back here in Hernia?”

  “Where do you think she’d go? Argentina?”

  I pondered ponderously while I prayed some more. I may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I do have a functioning brain.

  “So why didn’t you arrest Old Irma this morning?”

  “That was my plan until you barged in. But first I needed to get her to tell me where the Butcher was hiding.”

  “It that case, dear, you can put away your gun. I am not a Nazi. And if Strubbly Sam really is the Butcher of Tunis, you’re going to need some help.”

  Strubbly Sam made a noise not so unlike the ones Aaron used to make when he disappeared into the bathroom with the morning paper.

  “He’s trying to say something, Johanne. Can’t we at least undo the tape?”

  “Of course we could, but we won’t. You have a lot to learn about his kind, Miss Yoder. First it’s removing the tape, then loosening the ropes just a little to keep his circulation going, and then you end up with a slit throat.” “But he doesn’t have a knife. I mean, didn’t you search him?”

  “Then it’s a crushed skull. What difference does it make?”

  Sam grunted again. His eyes were trying to tell me something, but what? I have never been a good eye reader. Had I been, I would never have misconstrued Aaron’s “come-hither” looks as indigestion. I needed a test of some sort.

  “You say you want to help me, Miss Yoder? Come here and hold the gun on him while I run up to the house and use his phone.”

  “Strubbly Sam doesn’t have a phone,” I said stupidly. Johanne blinked. “Of course he wouldn’t, being Amish. How forgetful of me. We in the Immigration Service refer to it as having a senior moment.”

  “Then maybe some of you more senior members should retire, dear. It doesn’t seem to be the kind of business where one can afford to make mistakes."

  “As a matter of fact, I plan to retire as soon as I wrap up this case. Now, if you’ll just come on over and give me a hand guarding the prisoner, I’ll hike back up the road. I believe the Butcher’s neighbors have electric lights. They should have a phone.”

  The Keeblers did indeed have a phone. They were Presbyterians, after all, and fallen ones at that. They probably even had call waiting.

  “Good idea, but I’ll do it.”

  “That won’t work,” he said patiently. “This isn’t a matter for police—this is State Department business. Certain contacts have to be reached—it’s all very covert.”

  “I guess you have a point.” I mean, that made sense, didn’t it? If I spent my life rounding up Nazis, I’d do it on the q.t. too.

  “Look, Miss Yoder, you’re not convinced, are you?”

  “Well—”

  “No, I understand completely. Like you say, you’ve known this man all your life, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And he wouldn’t lie, right?”

  “Not if the Good Lord himself commanded it.” Johanne calmly stepped over to his prisoner and ripped the duct tape off Sam’s mouth. Fortunately, Strubbly Sam, as an Amish man, is forbidden to wear a mustache and hair on his lower lip. As it was, Sam winced with pain.

  “Okay, Samuel Friedrich Burkholder—because that’s your real name—are you the Butcher of Tunis?”

  Tears rolled down Sam’s cheeks, whether from pain or shame. “Yah, that I am.”

  “This can’t be happening,” I moaned.

  “Yah, Big Magdalena, but—”

  The butcher didn’t get to finish his sentence, thanks to the butt of Johanne’s gun. If it hadn’t been for the ropes, Sam would be lying on the floor.

  “Why did you do that?” I screamed.

  Johanne’s eyes were as cold and lifeless as the marbles at the bottom of Susannah’s goldfish bowl. “Sorry, Miss Yoder, but I can’t stand those Nazi lies. They all claim they’re innocent. And even when they don’t, well—they’re upright citizens now, aren’t they? Gone straight, they say. Yeah, right. Let me tell you, I’ve heard it a million times, and it’s nothing but lies. They know damn well what they did, and if they had the chance, they’d do it again. That’s the scary part, you know. That they’re not sorry. That doesn’t say much for the human race, does it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, it’s obvious you’re not going to be any help here. So run along, Miss Yoder. He won’t be going anywhere for a while, even if I untied him.”

  “But we can’t just leave him like that. Look, he’s bleeding!”

  “So he is.” Johanne pulled a white cotton handkerchief from his left pocket. “Here, see if you can stop the bleeding.”

  I took a step forward, but something, perhaps my real guardian angel, made me stop. Samuel Friedrich Burkholder? Wasn’t that too much of a coincidence? What were the chances that Nazi and Nazi-hunter would share the same last name? I looked at Sam, and then back at Johanne. It seemed just barely possible. Fifty years of sedentary living and fifty years of farm life shape a man differently, but the underlying bone structure never changes. There was only one way to find out, so I braced myself to run.

  “Why not let the Butcher bleed, dear? Isn’t that something the Scorpion would do?”

  Johanne stiffened. “What did you say?”

  I meant to run. But already it was too late. The Scorpion’s gun was aimed at the midpoint between my eyes.

  Twenty-Five

  Singapore SPAM® Salad

  Warm Sesame Dressing:

  1 cup sugar

  1 cup rice vinegar

  ¼ cup olive oil

  2 tablespoons sesame oil

  1 teaspoon garlic salt

  Salad:

  1 head iceburg lettuce, thinly sliced

  1 head Romaine lettuce, thinly sliced

  1 (12-ounce) can SPAM® Luncheon Meat, cubed

  3 carrots, grated

  1 cup chopped green onions

  1 cup chopped celery

  1 green bell pepper, chopped

  1 cup thinly sliced radishes

  1 (64-ounce) package sliced almonds, toasted

  In saucepan, combine all dressing ingredients. Stir constantly until sugar dissolves. In large bowl, toss together all salad ingredients. Serve warm dressing with salad.

  Serves 8.

  NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION PER SERVING:

  Calories 432; Protein 13g; Carbohydrate 36g; Fat 28g; Cholesterol 34mg; Sodium 453 mg.

  Twenty-Six

  “You are the Scorpion!” I hissed.

  I Johanne smiled broadly. “It is such a more dignified nickname than the Butcher, don’t you think?”

  “So you two are brothers!”

  “It’s a pity, Miss Yoder, that you weren’t around in the war. We could have used a good woman like you on our side.”

  “In your dreams, dear.”

  “And full of fire. I like that in a woman. My Samantha is so—well, she lacks passion. Give me a hot woman any day.”

  “Like Irma Yoder.”

  He grinned. “Yes, she was hot in her day.”

  “Well, don’t worry, dear. Where you’re going there won’t be a shortage of hot women.”

  The grin froze.

  I eased back one small baby step. Having played Mother May ad nauseam with Susannah and her little playmates, I was an expert on undetected movement. Or so I thought.

  “Come here!”

  “Really, you don’t want to do this, dear. I mean, you just captured a Nazi war criminal, right? I’m sure you’ll get credit for that. Plea bargaining is all the rage these days, I hear. Or”—I dangerously took another small step back —“just leave him tied there and you take off. I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I promise. And there has got to be a home for the Nazi aged somewhere— like Paraguay or Argentina. I’m sure they have a nice schedule of activities. You could take a ceramics class and do a bust of th
e Fuehrer. Or how about making a stained-glass swastika? You could let your imagination go hog wild and use a color other than black.”

  “Shut the hell up!”

  “Really, dear, there’s no need to be rude.”

  The click of the safety switch was like thunder in my ears. “I said come here.”

  I should have taken my chances and fled into the night. That’s what my brain was telling me to do. It is hard for even the best shot to hit a running target. And even then, unless the bullet entered a vital organ, I might still get away. I knew the woods hereabouts; he didn’t. Alas, my legs would not obey. While my brain shouted no, my legs wobbled their way over to Johanne, and stood obediently in place while he trussed me up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  The man must have been a Boy Scout in his youth, or the German equivalent of one. He lashed me to a hand-hewn post that was about a foot thick in diameter, and which, along with seven others, supported the upper story of the mill. I must say, his knots were beautifully executed. If ever the Nazi Nursing Home for the Aged needed a macrame teacher, Johanne was it.

  “Aren’t you going to gag me too?”

  “Of course not. I want to hear you scream.”

  “Well, I’m not going to. You can pump me full of bullets, but I’m not uttering a sound. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

  “Oh, you’ll scream, all right. I guarantee it.”

  “Fire away, dear,” I croaked. “The Good Lord will stop the pain.” I wish I could say I really believed that. God did shut the lions’ mouths for Daniel, but Magdalena Portulacca Yoder has never been on the Creator’s A-list. And don’t tell me He doesn’t play favorites. Any girl who is five-eight by the time she enters sixth grade, and has her face mistaken for a pepperoni pizza more than once, knows exactly what I mean.

  Johanne nodded in Sam’s direction. “Ah, but it won’t be your pain. It’ll be his.”

  “You’re shooting Sam first? Well, that’s just plain bad manners. Everyone knows that ladies go first. Or didn’t they teach you that in the Fatherland?”

  “To the contrary, Miss Yoder, I’m killing Sam first out of consideration for you.”