Linus’s mother took a step back, her foot grinding Esther’s crumpled letters to Peter into the linoleum. “You do realize that if you are telling me the truth, then I want you out of our house tonight. Tonight!”
Then she turned, and the silence parted for her as she stalked out.
CHAPTER 8
“Get out. Get out!”
Mrs. Hahn’s words, on the fraying end of her sanity after she read Linus’s letter, clawed their way into Esther’s brain, finding her in the night. Sadie fitted herself into the embrace of Esther’s body on Caroline’s narrow sofa, the heat slicking them together. The blades of the fan whirred, stirring the tepid air, and she would have liked to blame her insomnia on the way summer lay over Roosevelt like a washcloth.
You tramp!
She didn’t know what she would have done without Bertha.
With Esther’s clothing, her books, her shoes, even Sadie’s rabbit cast into the yard, and dusk closing in, Bertha stepped off the porch and began to gather the debris into the battered case Esther had—not soon enough—hauled out from under her bed in the attic.
The woman spoke nothing, however, and if it hadn’t been for the glisten in her eyes, Esther might have suspected her of simply attending to one of her daily housekeeping tasks.
But something must have moved her, because the next day Bertha waited for Esther outside the hospital and offered to help babysit, anytime.
But of course the housekeeper cared more for Sadie than her own grandparents. Because, well, why pretend any longer? If only Esther had the words to confront—or perhaps comfort—her.
At least the Hahns weren’t trying to wrest Sadie from her. This, perhaps, Esther could look upon as providence.
And, Bertha’s offer allowed her the means to serve in Caroline’s place at the POW camp set up on the hill above the brewery.
Maybe he wouldn’t be here. She’d spent most of the last week forcing him from her mind.
Heidi Swan carried a box of candy from the truck toward the canvas tent set up as the PX. “My brother and his buddy were on bikes, and they watched them pull up at the station. They said the men rode in Pullmans and had little red and white flags with the swastika on them on the outside of the car. My brother waved, but he said they didn’t wave back.”
The entire camp consisted of no more than a dozen canvas tents with a hasty mess hall set up in the middle, all penned in by a rickety perimeter of knee-high snow fencing. Even a half-hearted insurrection would overrun the few lazy guards at the gate before they woke from their Saturday afternoon naps.
“We live just across the street, and sometimes at night we can hear them singing hymns. And they play with a ball, kicking it with their feet. Sometimes it goes over the fence and Albert fetches it.”
She and Heidi walked into the canvas tent, and the smell nearly knocked Esther to her knees. Sweat, and the rank odor of old milk and cigarette smoke, all marinating under the July sun. She set her box of socks on the table. Behind it, Dr. Sullivan, an elderly man with silver-gray hair and wide hands, sat on a stool, readying his equipment to meet with the POWs who were lining up at the door. Most had their hair slicked back, wet, as if they’d just showered.
“My father says they’re working for the Roosevelt Food company, shelling peas.” Heidi brushed away the hair from her face. Esther had piled her hair into a bun at the back of her head. At least they didn’t have to wear their uniforms. No, instead she had on a pair of jeans and a sleeveless shirt.
“And some of them are working at the cannery—right beside the other workers! Shirley says they’re as polite as can be—letting her go first to get a drink. She says they’re hard workers too. She made them popcorn to put in their lunches.”
Esther picked up a box from the back of the truck, checked it—bandages and antiseptic.
“Have you ever met a German?” Heidi said, retrieving a box of penicillin.
“Heidi, half the town is German,” Esther said, returning through the gate, nodding to the two guards she knew eyed her long after she passed by.
“You know what I mean.” She cut her voice low, like she might be a French conspirator. “Nazis. Have you ever met a Nazi?”
“Not all these prisoners are Nazis, Heidi. It’s—well, not everyone in Germany was a Nazi. Some were just forced to fight.”
Most definitely, none of my family joined the Nazi party, which in the end became our demise….
She wouldn’t look for him. She’d already determined it. No. The last thing she needed was scandal heaped upon the town’s mutterings, thank you, Mrs. Hahn.
No. She would not look. Besides, there were over eighty branch POW camps in Wisconsin alone.
He wouldn’t come here.
Stepping inside the canvas tent, she set the box down on the table. Wiped her forehead.
Heard an intake of breath.
She looked up as Dr. Sullivan pressed his stethoscope to the bare chest of a patient seated across from him. Wide-shouldered, with strung muscles and the hue of hard work on his skin, the patient stared at her, his burnished blond hair tousled by the heat, wearing a rugged husk of reddish blond whiskers on his face. His blue eyes fixed on her like he might be seeing the sunrise for the first time.
Oh no.
“Esther.” He mouthed it, but she could nearly hear his voice, dark and soft, slipping in under her skin, like a whisper, or a sweet breeze. It caught her breath, ran a fine thrill under her skin.
Peter.
Of course he would be here—hadn’t he been working in pea fields all over the state?
Of course he would be here—because she’d lain in bed, hands clasped around Sadie, and wished it with a sort of aching dread that she couldn’t deny.
Of course he’d be here, because God wanted to her to suffer for her crimes.
Peter.
“Nurse, I’ll need you to take his blood pressure. And it looks like his wound is getting infected, so he’ll need it redressed. And make sure to give him a shot of penicillin.”
Perhaps she needed the shot of penicillin for the way he looked at her. His eyes seemed to spear right through her, opening fresh wounds, and she nearly cried out with the sweet pain of it.
Oh, in the deepest pockets of her heart, how she’d thirsted for this moment.
Except, what did the doctor mean about his wound? As Peter picked up his shirt and slid off the stool, she saw the puckered flesh, the needle marks, the catgut stitches across his ribs. She met his eyes and he caught her gaze, shook his head.
It looked like a knife wound—or perhaps something from the fields.
Picking up a box of penicillin, she led him to an area curtained off from the room. Behind it, cotton swabs, bandages, iodine, and a jar of needles on a wooden table suggested a makeshift clinic. She patted the metal examination table behind her, her eyes away from him, her heart in her throat. Her entire body, even her head, buzzed with the closeness of him.
Yes, he’d showered. She could smell the Ivory soap on his skin.
She didn’t hear him move.
“Esther.”
He barely spoke, but she heard it now, and turned. He stood over her, so close she could smell the finest layer of sweat on him, despite the shower. He lifted his hand, as if to touch her cheek—
“Put your arm behind your head.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.
He did, and she tried not to inhale, tried not to wish for his hand curled around the back of her neck, pulling her close as she examined the wound, the stitches. She even managed a cool voice as she asked, “What happened?”
“Did you get my letter?” he asked quietly.
She couldn’t—no. She said nothing as she probed the infection for signs of discharge. One of his eyes closed, his jaw tightening. “What happened, soldier?”
“Esther.” The way he said it, so softly, like a caress—she had to step back, turn away.
He followed. “I thought I’d never see you again. This is like a miracle.”
&n
bsp; She closed her eyes, shook her head. The iodine spilled out over her hand as she tried to moisten the cotton to clean his wound.
He reached around her, took the iodine from her hand. Set it down. “Tell me you didn’t come to see me.”
I didn’t come to see you. But she couldn’t, her hopes in the night filling her chest.
She pressed her hands against the counter, took a breath. “Peter, I…”
He backed up, slid onto the table. “Tell me you got my letter.” He lifted his arm as she turned.
She picked up the cotton, swabbed it over his wound, hating the way he flinched, the quick intake of breath. “I got your letter.”
“Tell me you don’t despise me.”
She applied antibiotic. Lowered her voice to a whisper, wishing it didn’t come out as if dragged through a dusty road. “I don’t, ever, despise you.” She met his eyes a quick moment before she turned away, grabbed a fresh dressing.
“Tell me why you came to visit me.”
She pressed the cotton mesh to his wound, ignored his wince, then let him hold it in place as she unrolled the bandage around his body, her arms spanning his torso. Why? She gritted her jaw, blinking back the heat in her eyes. “You—you know why.”
“I do.”
Then he reached out and pressed his hand to her check. She closed her eyes, allowing herself the touch of him, the strength in his wide, work-hewn hands. He ran his thumb down her face. “You are like the stars in my dark night.”
She cradled her hand over his on her face. And finally, finally met his eyes.
They could look through her, probably, right down to the jagged, angry pieces of her heart. Blue eyes, with the slightest flecks of gold, and she saw the healer in them, a compassion that made her bite her lip, press her hand to her mouth.
“Please don’t cry, Esther.” He touched his forehead to hers. “Please.”
She swallowed, shook her head. “I just—when you look at me, I—my world stops spinning. I feel like I can find my feet. Like maybe I’m not quite so lost.”
The slightest smile tugged at his mouth.
Then, before she could find herself, return to the woman who had a child and sins pressing against her, she let him touch his lips to hers.
His hand cupped her chin, an invitation rather than a hunger. And for a second, she just stood there, tasting something—root beer—probably candy—on his lips. More of a whisper, perhaps, because the kiss ended too soon and left her standing there, wondering if she had imagined it.
“Give me a shot before I do something dangerous.”
She opened her eyes, found him smiling at her. “I know I shouldn’t have done that, but…” He gave a shake of his head. “Sorry.”
“You don’t look sorry.” She smiled back. “Turn around.”
He slid off the table, leaned over, hooked the waistband of his pants with his thumb, pulled them down just enough to reveal his hip.
She popped him fast with the penicillin shot. He held the cotton swab in place as he tugged himself back together.
His smile had vanished by the time she deposited the needle and turned to meet his gaze.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“That’s my question for you.” Her eyes went to the wound. “You’re not going to tell me how that happened, are you?”
“Nope.”
Oh, how she wanted to raise herself on her toes, press another kiss to his lips, maybe fling her arms around his neck. For a short, glorious moment, she saw him sweeping her into his arms, charging out through the POW ward into the yard, kicking his way past the guards and out into freedom.
Better, she saw them sitting under the winking stars, hands twined together.
Yes, she’d become a thirsty woman.
She wiped the wetness from under her eyes. “I passed my test—98 percent.”
“Atta girl. I knew you would.” Gathering his shirt, he ground his jaw as he tucked his arm into the sleeve. She helped him draw it up over his shoulder. “May I write to you?”
She averted her eyes from him. “Yes, please. I—I enjoy hearing from you.”
He reached up, directed her chin to him, and wiped another gathering of moisture from her eye. “You’re not lost, Esther Lange. Not anymore.”
The dark, cool night dropped around her as she left camp, a thousand eyes winking from the sky, harboring her secret. You’re not lost.
No, for the first time in three years, yes, she felt…perhaps not so much as if she’d left herself behind, no longer wandering around looking for the woman who’d once believed in herself.
Peter Hess made her feel found.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, still feeling his whisper kiss there, still tasting the sweet root beer candy on his lips, husky, with a licorice tang.
He’d stood in the yard, away from the fence, his hands in his pockets, while the other prisoners played soccer, or smoked cigarettes, or even played cards. Just stood there, the evening draping over his shoulders, smiling as she walked away.
She’d glanced over her shoulder. Still he stood there.
She didn’t lift a hand, didn’t turn completely. But she felt his eyes on her all the way down the hill as she dropped out of sight.
Atta girl. His simple, easy encouragement filled her chest—she could nearly taste the texture of his words, rich and tangy, and she let them seep into her.
The wind nestled the oak and maple leaves, dark fingers reaching out to her, to wave her home.
She’d finish her training and wait for him. How long before the troops started returning home—and soon the army would grow tired of holding prisoners and send them back to Germany. He would return home, fetch his parents, and then…
Then.
She stopped on the sidewalk. Then.
Then they’d find each other.
She knew it, like she knew her heart would beat, that breath would fill her lungs. She would find him—or he would find her, or…
Then. If she hung on, and believed it, they would have a then. After the war, after the rubble, after the ache. Then.
She could love him through her letters until then.
She hummed the tune she’d heard earlier, the husky tones nourishing her steps back to Caroline’s.
’Cuz you, my dear,
You’re my everything,
You’re the song I sing
When my nights are starless.
Although, suddenly they didn’t seem quite so starless.
The light to the boardinghouse spilled out over the porch, onto the groomed, cool lawn. Crickets seesawed into the night, and the door creaked as she opened it.
The lamp’s glow from the parlor pressed into the hallway. She moved through it then stopped.
Bertha sat in the rocking chair, Sadie curled asleep in her arms. Her fawny hair lay like a halo around her chubby face.
Bertha hummed softly and looked up at Esther’s step.
Esther stopped at her expression. She’d been crying—the skin on her cheeks angry and red. But Bertha’s eyes—they were lit from within, and a smile unlike any she’d seen before emanated, as if, after barely flickering for three years, a flame had stirred to life.
“What is it? Is Sadie okay?”
“She’s fine.” Bertha got up, gathered the child close, then trundled her over to Esther. “But—you have to come home.”
Esther took her daughter, pressed a kiss to her forehead. She smelled of bubble bath, her skin powdery soft. “I am home.”
“No, I mean, back to the Hahns’.”
Esther met her eyes. “No. Mrs. Hahn made me leave. I don’t… No, Bertha. That life is over. I’m on my own now.”
You’re not lost.
Bertha reached out, and in a gesture that stopped Esther’s heart, touched Sadie’s cheek, running her finger down it. “Sadie needs her father.”
Esther didn’t move.
Bertha then sighed, a smile at the end. “He’s come home, Esther. Linus has come home.
”
PART 2
Lullaby,
I’ll be your lullaby,
And your sweet moonlight,
And you’ll never have to fear again.
CHAPTER 9
One look could change his entire life.
Peter let the image of Esther leaving the camp, the twilight behind her, turning her hair to gold, a light in her blue eyes as she smiled at him through the barbed wire, melt into him, strengthen him.
Stir his hope.
I enjoy hearing from you.
Her soft voice, the touch of her lips, the softest hum she gave as he brushed his lips over hers—yes, he let that soak into him too. Quench the parched places inside.
“Hess!”
Peter lowered the canteen, wiped his mouth with his bare arm. The touch left a sting where he’d begun to burn. He handed the water back to Arne then rolled the cuffs of his shirt down. He had about ten cords of wood to finish chopping, then he could tuck himself into the long shadows of the barn and rest before the trucks came to haul the POW crew back to the Roosevelt camp.
Where maybe—he could barely breathe with the hope of it—Esther might come and visit him.
Arne splashed water over his bare shoulders, down his chest. The kid had filled out with the hard work, the nurture of the sun, the pale hue of the long German winter flushed out of him. One might even say that prison camp had saved his life.
And, days like this one, with the sun pouring life into their bones, the air fresh with the oats in the field, the tang of the white pine that ringed land, Peter touched freedom.
“Stop hogging it—” Fritz grabbed the canteen with his beefy hands. He poured the remainder of its contents over his oily black hair, wetting his gray undershirt, the back of his canvas pants.
“We can fill up it up at the pump. Mrs. Janzen said—”
Fritz shot him a shut-up look and Arne shrank into himself. Their guard probably couldn’t understand their German, but after spending six months with them, he may have picked up the meaning of a few words, if not Fritz’s tone.
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