The Last April

by Belinda Kroll

  They could hear Alina and her mother returning from the creek.

  Punctual to a fault, Alina visited the house at three every day, and after church on Sundays. It was her way of ensuring that when Werner returned, everything would continue as it had before the war.

  “Change your dress and wash your face,” Tante Klegg said, throwing a pile of fabric at Gretchen from a hook nearby.

  Gretchen stared at the dress in her hands. This was her Sunday best, the only other dress she owned. “When did you put this in the barn?”

  Tante Klegg tsked and waved her hand. “I keep time. I knew we would have trouble with Alina.”

  “Yes, but why help me?” Gretchen’s voice trailed off when Tante Klegg abandoned her to greet Alina. Gretchen shrugged. She would never understand her aunt.

  Karl sighed and snuggled into the straw as if it were a pile of down feathers. Gretchen shook her head and grabbed an old horse blanket to drape over him. He still shivered. While the blanket was filthy, it would hide him should anyone else stumble into the barn.

  Gretchen made sure to swing the horse stall door shut so Karl could not see her if he woke. She re-braided her hair and splashed her face with water from a bucket.

  Alina was always offering advice about her appearance. It made Gretchen run crazy as a loon. Unlike Alina, she had more important things to worry about, like a prisoner in her barn.

  Gretchen corrected herself. It was more than keeping a prisoner in her barn. She had kept a Confederate in Werner’s bedroom, in his bed, no less. Gretchen had a feeling that Alina knowing about Karl would go over as well as it had with her mother and aunt.

  Gretchen entered the kitchen, striving to seem as if she had not locked a Confederate in the barn. She kept her hands at her waist, the way her mother taught her. It was only when her mother glared at her feet that Gretchen realized she had forgotten to put on her shoes. Gretchen swallowed a sigh. Where Alina was demure by default, Gretchen had to think about it.

  Alina sat at the kitchen table with Gretchen’s aunt and mother. “Gretchen,” she said, “my Mütter Miller tells me you have heard the awful news about the president.”

  Alina had claimed Gretchen’s mother as her own after Werner’s proposal, even though her mother still lived. Her accent matched her mother’s and Tante Klegg’s more than Gretchen’s. Both her parents were Palatine Germans whereas Gretchen’s father was American.

  “Yes, awful,” Gretchen said, sitting beside her mother.

  Gretchen was careful not to look Tante Klegg in the eye. It was difficult since they sat across from one another. She was uncertain why her aunt had helped her move Karl. It felt funny to think of the word “grateful” in connection with Tante Klegg.

  “My father fell to his knees to pray. I offered to fan him while he worked, but he insisted I keep my appointment with you,” Alina continued. She perched her bonnet, decorated with fresh lilacs and grosgrain ribbon, in her lap. Her dainty fingers flitted past her temple to brush aside an errant hair that Gretchen could not see.

  Alina was everything Gretchen was not: gentle, subservient, dainty. Alina was so sweet, if her mother and aunt were in the room. It was infuriating.

  Gretchen’s mother reached across the table to pat Alina’s hand. The distance between Gretchen and her mother, though they sat side-by-side, was palpable. Gretchen gritted her teeth more with each pat her mother gave to Alina.

  “Who do you think would do such a terrible thing?” Alina asked, looking from one woman to the next.

  Tante Klegg leaned toward Alina with an awful sparkle in her eye. “Who do you think would do such a thing?”

  Gretchen fidgeted.

  “Honestly, I do not care to know. Those who do such things deserve to die,” Alina said.

  Gretchen almost fell out of her chair. Alina cried whenever Werner killed a spider. “You can’t mean that.”

  “You do not speak for everyone, Gretchen,” her mother said.

  “You must forgive my sister. She is so enthusiastic about topics she cannot understand,” Alina said.

  “You have no idea how I struggle with her,” Gretchen’s mother said.

  “You must forgive her simple thoughts,” Alina said. “It is the reason why I love her so; you mustn’t be angry with her.”

  Simple thoughts? Gretchen had never experienced an explosion before, but she had read of it once in a newspaper. The shattering pressure at her temple must be how an explosion felt. She shoved her hands into her pockets and snaked one ankle around the other beneath her skirts. If Gretchen did not hold herself down, she was going to wring Alina’s neck once and for all. No matter the consequences if—that is, when—Werner returned.

  “It is Gretchen’s belief that we must look to the Confederates as misguided brothers, ja?” Alina said with a little laugh. “It is charming. Innocent and sweet.” Her expression darkened, and she held Gretchen’s mother’s hand a little tighter. “But to think that one of these misguided brothers shot the man my uncle fought for, died for…”

  Gretchen winced. In all the excitement, she had forgotten about Alina’s daily visit, and worse, that Alina’s uncle had died in the war. He had been one of the Grove City men to sign up during the first call for arms. There had been so many volunteers that many had to wait to sign up later, when the war was more desperate.

  Alina’s uncle and others from Jackson Township paid for patriotism with their lives, as had poor Mr. Lincoln. Gretchen wondered how far she would go for her country.

  Gretchen’s mother elbowed her. Not knowing what she wanted, Gretchen frowned. She frowned deeper when her mother mouthed, “Comfort her. She is your sister.”

  The last thing Gretchen wanted was to console Alina, who dabbed large tears from her bright eyes. Gretchen leaned closer to Alina anyway. She would do anything to keep the topic away from Karl. She reminded herself that her mother did not know that Karl was still on their land.

  “Your uncle was a hero,” Gretchen said. She refused to touch Alina, who watched her with a wary expression. “He died with honor, and that doesn’t change because Mr. Lincoln died. The Union still won the war.”

  Her mother cleared her throat, trying to mask her surprise. Even Tante Klegg seemed a little impressed. Gretchen hoped that would translate into helping rather than antagonizing. Alina seemed even more wary.

  On a normal day, after confirming there was no word from Werner, Alina would leave. Yet she remained at the table.

  Gretchen could feel the sweat gathering at her temple. It was a hot day. She had spent hours fighting weeds before carrying Karl into and out of the house only to hide him in the barn. She wanted Alina to leave. She wanted to make sure Karl remained in the barn. She hoped she would be the only one to notice if he limped away.

  Gretchen looked out the window, in case. Karl was not there, but the thought of him waking and revealing his presence made her want to retch.

  Gretchen could see now this was not the time or place for adventure. Mr. Lincoln was dead. Alina’s uncle was dead. Gretchen did not know if her brother and father lay injured, dead, or dying. Her mother was hysterical, and her aunt stoic. She had an unknown Confederate in her barn, sleeping under an old horse blanket next to her dirty dress.

  “What are they doing in town to recognize the president’s passing?” her mother asked Alina. She shifted her body so even though she sat beside Gretchen, her back was turned.

  The movement was not lost on Gretchen, and she could feel her face grow hot. Her polite mother was doing her best to cut her out of the conversation. She glanced at Tante Klegg, who shook her head once. As always with Tante Klegg, Gretchen had no idea how to interpret that.

  Alina was happy to change the subject back to her gossip. She described the black swaths of fabric hanging from the stores in Grove City, all two of them, and even the tavern. How people stopped their daily routines to hold one another while wondering what was to come.

  Alina spoke around the issue, but all four women knew what
she chose not to say. Everyone was gathering together because they did not know what else to do. They gathered because it hurt less to hear of some opportunistic Confederate attack if they heard it together.

  No one wanted the war to continue. With the death of the president, and the Confederacy wounded and bitter, it was possible the war could continue.

  The shriek from the barn personified that fear.

  Lying in State

  Tuesday, 18 April 1865 / The Ohio Daily Statesman

  PRESIDENT LINCOLN’S BODY LYING IN STATE—THOUSANDS OF PERSONS VISIT THE EXECUTIVE MANSION.

  The body of the late President is lying in state in the east room; thousands of persons of both sexes are thronging the avenue. The east room is decorated with the trappings of woe. In the immediate center of this spacious room is erected the catafalque, and the coffin is within the immediate view of the line of spectators.

  Each person stops a moment to take a view of the face of the deceased, and many shed tears. The hands of friendship and affection have contributed the choicest flowers to adorn the coffin and make up the foundation upon which it rests.

  Between half past nine this morning and noon at least 3,000 persons had visited the Executive Mansion, and thousands more slowly following in turn to indulge a similar privilege.

  Six

  Saturday, 15 April 1865 / Grove City, Ohio

  Karl opened his eyes, blinking in the darkness. He sat up with an awful start to the rich scent of cool, aged wood and musty body odor. He assumed the latter must be his own stench, which he paid no mind. For a panicked moment, he thought he was back at Camp Chase, but like earlier, the smells did not match. Sure, he smelled wood and hay, but there were other smells, different ones from the last time he woke.

  The tut-tutting of chickens overhead explained the acrid coop smell. Karl knew plenty of men who would have killed to get those chickens. He was not one of those men, not when chickens came with those smells.

  “Got to stop waking where I don’t know where I am.”

  He sniffed the horse blanket covering him and recoiled. He kicked it off, gagging.

  Karl still had no idea what his name was, so he noted what he knew with certainty. He was in a barn. Sweat drenched his body. His head throbbed. His stomach complained. His bare feet stung like the dickens. The chickens smelled bad. He sat on straw; it pricked through his threadbare clothing.

  Karl shifted, trying to measure the size of the room. It was long but narrow, bounded by short walls and a padlocked door. The walls and door cleared the floor by a couple of inches, not enough to escape. He found a pile of fabric on the other side of the door and threw it over his shoulder. Perhaps those women had left him with replacement clothing.

  He took a deep breath and choked on a chicken feather.

  Karl felt the fabric slip from his shoulder, which is when he noticed how much there was… and there was a lot.

  Karl felt around the floor again for the fabric, suspicious. The amount of fabric was far too much for a pair of pants or a shirt. He picked it up, curiosity giving way to horror.

  There were sleeves, a dainty collar, small buttons down a front bodice. A tiny waist. Yards upon yards of fabric that could only make a skirt.

  Face hot, Karl dropped the dress as if it were on fire.

  A low moan came from the stall beside him.

  Karl rubbed the back of his neck, his mouth dry. “Who’s there?”

  All he could hear was breathing.

  “Is this… your… dress?” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. There was a horrible silence. Karl could feel his heart in his throat.

  “Want it back?” Karl shook his head and said to himself, “Of course you’d like it back. Stupid I even mentioned it.”

  Karl grunted, frustrated it was taking so long for his eyes to adjust in the dim light. His mind raced with possibilities. He was not sure of anything these days, and this was the most lucid he had felt in weeks.

  He could not stand the silence, and he tried again.

  “If I did… anything untoward,” Karl said, “please, accept my—my apologies.” He ran his hand down his face and exhaled. “I’ve—I’ve been out of my head so long, it feels funny to be in my head.”

  A soft moan, this time sounding far less human.

  Karl looked up to find huge doleful eyes staring at him from above the wall dividing his stall from hers. He could not help it. He shrieked.

  Somewhere else, behind a thick wall, he heard the chickens cackle and caw in response to his panic. Large nostrils blew hot air in his face. Karl rubbed his eyes.

  Details came into focus. The log-slatted wall separating them stood about chest-high. His barn-mate, a cow, angled her neck around the wall, trying to see him. Karl’s laugh, while relieved, held a slight edge of hysteria. “Hey there,” he said, his voice shaking.

  Big eyelashes swept across high cheekbones. She crooned as if they were having a conversation.

  “Wouldn’t happen to know whose dress I’m holding?” Karl asked, not expecting an answer.

  The cow huffed and turned away.

  Karl began dragging his fingers along the dirt floor for a stick he could use to pick or break the padlock. He did not spend all that time in prison to end up in another one. He paused, panting. All this movement was exhausting.

  Breaking the padlock was not the answer. He turned instead to study the hinges, but the barn door burst open, blinding him.

  He stumbled back, arm thrown up to shield his eyes.

  “What have you done?” he heard Tante Klegg say.

  Karl dropped his arm. “What?”

  “You screamed. You frightened our guest.”

  Tante Klegg was not the sort of woman to tell a falsehood to, not with her formidable silhouette blocking the only way out. Her hands rested at the apex of her wide skirts, and she did not bother to enter.

  “There was something breathing and moaning. It turned out to be a cow, but I didn’t expect her face so close…” Karl’s voice trailed off. He could hear how ridiculous he sounded.

  “You are in a barn.”

  He felt the back of his neck grow hot. “Y’all left me alone in the dark with strange noises and smells. What was I supposed to think?”

  “That you are a man, and cows are not frightening to a man who has survived a war.”

  Karl clamped his mouth shut before he said anything that made her any more huffed. If Tante Klegg was anything like Gretchen, she hid a revolver and was ready to shoot him right there. No one would miss a dead Confederate in the middle of Ohio.

  “We hid you for our safety,” Tante Klegg explained while unlocking the stall.

  Karl nodded, then frowned. “Our safety?”

  She ignored his question. “What is that you hold?” Tante Klegg’s voice grew colder. “Is that Gretchen’s dress?” She bent to snatch it from the floor by his feet.

  Karl’s mouth went dry.

  “What have you done?” Tante Klegg said.

  He blanched. “Don’t know.”

  “This is Gretchen’s dress,” she insisted, shaking it at him. When he stared at her, she ran her hand down her face, rambling on in German. “Dummkopf,” he heard Tante Klegg say more than once.

  “How did that end up in here with me?” Karl said, gesturing to the dress in her hand.

  She sighed and a sinking feeling settled in Karl’s gut.

  “You must stay,” Tante Klegg announced.

  “Meaning I had the chance to leave?” he said. They both knew how far he would have gotten with his shaking limbs, dizziness, empty stomach, and bare feet.

  Tante Klegg folded the dress until it was a square package, but even that could not hide the blood from view. His blood.

  “I do not know what has happened, but you cannot leave. My foolish Gretchen changed in here…” She descended into a string of German again. “I meant her to change behind the barn or the outhouse. Foolish, stupid girl!”

  A frisson of pain struck Karl’s templ
e. He winced. He was ready to crawl back into the stall and sleep until this family forgot all about him.

  Tante Klegg smiled. It was terrifying, and he wished she would stop. “Yes. This will be sehr gut. It will be penance.”

  “Beg pardon?” Karl said. “Penance for whom?”

  Seven

  Saturday, 15 April 1865 / Grove City, Ohio

  Gretchen stood by the kitchen window, her revolver in hand. The kitchen was silent but for her mother’s nervous sipping. Alina twisted her handkerchief, wondering who shrieked, or where, or why. She opened her mouth and shut it again.

  “She’s coming back,” Gretchen announced, watching Tante Klegg step out of the barn.

  “Is she hurt?” Alina whispered.

  “No, but…” Gretchen squinted into the sunlight. “She’s carrying something.”

  Oh. Oh no. Gretchen knew exactly what her aunt carried. She slammed the door shut and scooted back to her chair. She was not about to admit Tante Klegg was holding her dress. Not to Alina and not to her mother of all people. Not when they had heard a man scream from that direction.

  “What took her so long? Are you sure she is safe?” Alina pressed.

  Gretchen’s mother seemed serene but her eyes flashed. She had realized they had only moved Karl, not removed him from the farm.

  Not knowing what to say, Gretchen reset the safety on the revolver and slipped it into her pocket. She had not brandished her weapon as many times during the war as she had this morning.

  Tante Klegg kicked the door open. Alina screamed. Gretchen stared at her sweaty, bloodied dress bundled in Tante Klegg’s arms. Her mother rolled her eyes at all the dramatics, as if she had not been hysterical an hour before.

  “Stop that,” Tante Klegg said to Alina as she shut the door behind her.

  Alina huffed, throwing a hand to her chest. “I heard a man scream as if he were dying, Tante Klegg. That is cause for me to be nervous.”