“I got it!” Tom said when we reached the road. “I figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to know.
“Your Nazi.” Tom slid off the seat. “I figured out why he doesn’t look like a poster Nazi.”
This should be good, I thought. “Okay. Why?”
Tom set his bike down on the gravel road. “Well, the Nazis aren’t stupid, so they wouldn’t send over their typical run-of-the-mill Nazis.”
“And by that, you mean the ugly ones?” I said.
“Right,” Tom said. “They’re far too scary and too identifiable.”
“But they didn’t send anyone over. They were captured, remember? They’re prisoners.”
“No. Don’t you see? They must have gone to some movie studio in Berlin and grabbed all the German movie-star Nazis. All the good-looking ones, anyway.”
“What’re you talking about?” I said.
Tom held up his palm for me to be patient. “And then they paraded these guys around the front lines, knowing darn well that they would be captured by the good guys—that’s us—and sent here. And now that they’re here, they’re infiltrating Eastern Canada disguised like harmless non-Nazis.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Tom’s face flushed. “You don’t think that’s possible?”
“Okay, let me see if I got this right. All the war prisoners at the Ripples camp are actually handsome German actors, and on Hitler’s birthday they’re going to kill everyone. Is that about it?” I held back a smile and waited for Tom’s response.
Tom’s face finally exploded into a grin. “Well, crap, Varren. It’s just a bloody theory. Give me a break.”
We stood in the dusty heat, laughing like idiots.
“I have to admit,” Tom said when we finally stopped giggling, “he doesn’t look anything like he’s supposed to. But I still think he’s dangerous and that we should whack him.”
“Yeah?” Now that I’d seen him, I didn’t know if I could anymore. I mean, sure he was big, but his face looked pretty harmless.
“Of course. The second you turn your back to him, he’s going to kill you. My Uncle Oliver says not to trust the white category either. He says that’s hogwash.”
“What does that mean? They’re Germans. Aren’t they all white?”
“No,” Tom said. “That’s the classification of the Ripples camp. It’s a white camp.”
“I still don’t get it,” I said.
Tom sighed. “When our guys capture Germans, they’re hauled over here and put into P.O.W. camps.”
I nodded.
“And there are three categories of camps—white, grey, and black.”
I nodded again.
“The white camps are for soldiers that aren’t Nazis and the black camps are for Nazis. Grey is in between.”
“So Ripples is for non-Nazis?” I said. “But they’re ALL Nazis!”
“Everyone with half a brain knows that,” Tom agreed. “But the government likes to pretend it’s open-minded and willing to separate them.”
“That’s crazy!”
“Anyway,” he continued, “you know how they determine if the prisoners they capture are Nazis or not?”
I shook my head.
“They ask them,” Tom said. “Can you believe it!? What soldier in his right mind would admit he’s a Nazi when someone is pointing a rifle at his face?”
I finally understood where Tom was going with all this. “So all the prisoners at Ripples said they weren’t Nazis?”
“Exactly!” Tom added, “That way they get treated better and get more food. But most importantly, they get to live at a camp with almost no restrictions. And they get to work away from the camp, with no guards.”
“Holy cadoodles!” I said.
“That’s right,” Tom said, remounting his bike. “Every single one of those white P.O.W.s could be the very worst Nazi in all of Germany.”
“No kidding,” I said.
I watched him disappear down the road and ran back toward the house. A million different thoughts sped through my mind as I jogged down the driveway. An hour ago Tom and I had had a clear image of a Nazi. We knew what to expect, because everyone told us what to expect. But now that we’d seen a real P.O.W., something was different. No, scratch that. Everything was different. The guy was supposed to be a nasty killer soldier, yet he acted like your average Canadian. We were told he’d be a monster, but he wasn’t. He looked like anyone you might see on Main Street. And to top it off, his name was Martin. We were expecting Gunter the Nazi Murderer, and instead we got Martin Keller. But the big question that kept running through my mind was:
Do all Germans look like him? War posters everywhere showed a different German from the one Dad had just brought home.
What a mess!
I ran faster, hoping I could escape the confusion in my head. The trees whipped past me like the tombstones in a war poster. Each flash of sunlight through the branches was like another question I had no answer for.
Finally, as I neared the house, I concluded that I would be extremely cautious and ready for anything, just in case Tom was right and Martin wasn’t what he appeared to be.
Chapter 3
“Did you wash up, Warren?” Mom asked, putting bread on the table.
“Yeah, Mom.” I slumped into my chair and waited for Dad to come to the table. I was sitting alone in the kitchen with Martin, while Mom finished spooning soup into bowls. I sensed Martin was looking at me, but I didn’t want to bring my eyes up to meet his. I had to stay alert, and I couldn’t take the chance that he’d learned special mesmerizing skills at Nazi school.
Dad came to the table and sat down. “I’ll get you boys started on digging the field, right after lunch.” He smiled at Martin. “That should keep you busy for three or four days, I should think.”
Martin nodded, but I knew he couldn’t know what Dad was talking about.
Mom had been bugging Dad for years to install indoor plumbing. Specifically, a toilet, a bathtub, and a kitchen sink with running water. Houses in Fredericton had had water and sewer service for years already, and Mom felt it was “high time” we did too. I didn’t think it was a big deal using the outhouse, but Mom said we needed to “modernize.”
Dad must have finally given in, because in order to have indoor plumbing we needed our own sewage disposal system. And that meant digging a septic pit. Dad called it a field, but it was actually just a deep hole lined with rocks. The sewage from the house would drain into the hole and then slowly evaporate, or trickle away, or something. It sounded pretty stinky, and I told Dad so, but he said when it was done I wouldn’t even know it was there.
We ate our lunch in awkward silence. Mom continually hopped up and down, fetching pickles, or bread, or more water. I think she was just as nervous about our Nazi house guest as I was.
Dad broke the silence occasionally with polite questions about the P.O.W. camp. Martin would answer back in barely accented English. I was amazed at how good his English was. And why was it that good? Could he have picked it up that fast while in Canada? Or was English also part of his Nazi spy training? But then why would he let us know how well he could speak English? And why—
“Don’t be rude, Warren,” Dad said. “Please answer Martin’s question.”
Dad, Mom, and Martin were all staring at me. I had been in my own world and didn’t hear what he’d asked. I apologized and Martin repeated his question.
“I had asked what grade you will be attending this year in school?” He looked at me with his big, brown, evil, killer eyes, and waited.
Gosh, he was smooth. I almost forgot who he was—the enemy.
“I’ll be in grade eight,” I said, keeping my reply simple.
That seemed to satisfy both Dad and
Martin, because the conversation moved away from me again. Relieved, I wolfed down my lunch and asked if I could go.
“First, grab Martin’s bag from the truck,” Dad said, “and then show him where he’s going to be sleeping.”
I was stunned. “Sleeping?”
Dad scowled at me. “Yes, Warren, show Martin where he’s going to sleep.”
“You mean, he’s…he’s staying with us?” I sputtered. “Here…on the farm?”
“Well, of course he is,” Dad said.
“But…but I thought he was only working for us during the day. Doesn’t he have to be locked up at night? Don’t you have to bring him back to Ripples in the evening?”
“Don’t be silly,” Mom said. “Your father can’t be driving back and forth to Fredericton twice a day.”
I had never imagined that the P.O.W. Dad was fetching would be living with us. I thought back to what Tom had said before he left: You’re dead. My forehead began to sweat and I could feel my T-shirt clinging to my back.
We’re all dead.
I tried again to talk some sense into Mom and Dad. “But there’s no room in the house for him, so he may as well stay at the camp—the prisoner camp. Plus, I can start working a lot harder around the farm,” I added. “We won’t need the extra help then.”
Mom and Dad looked across the table at each other.
Martin was quiet, staring down at his plate. Just like a patient tiger, I thought, waiting to attack his prey.
I wiped my sweaty forehead and waited for someone to say something, but no one did.
Finally, Dad ended the debate. “Get his bag and show him his bed.”
I groaned in frustration. “But there’s no room for him to sleep in the house.”
“Yes, there is,” Dad said quietly. “He can use Peter’s bed.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Not only was Dad going to let the Nazi stay in our house, he was going to give him Pete’s bed. And that bed was in the same room as my bed. In fact, it was only eight feet away from my bed.
I could feel my face burning with rage. Pete, my older brother, had died from polio three years ago. But to me, the bed would always be his. No one, except me, had slept in it since he died.
Dad didn’t say another word. And he didn’t have to, because the look on his face said, “Don’t argue with me, or there’ll be trouble.”
I stormed from the stupid kitchen to fetch Martin’s stupid bag from the stupid truck.
When I returned, Martin followed me down the hall and into my bedroom. His head barely cleared the doorway. I threw his ratty canvas bag on Pete’s bed. “That’s your bed,” I said.
Martin nodded. “Yes, this will be fine.”
Well, why wouldn’t it be fine, I thought. A nice soft mattress in a nice house had to be better than some stinky P.O.W. cot at Ripples.
He stood next to his bed and surveyed the room. His eyes stopped on one of my many Johnny Canuck posters. Johnny Canuck is my hero, by the way, and I had almost all of his comics. I knew his heroic military adventures weren’t real, but I sure wished I was old enough to enlist when I read those stories. Anyway, in the poster Martin was studying, Johnny was pulling back his right arm, about to pop a confused-looking Hitler right on the jaw with his giant fist.
Take a good look. That’s what I’m going to do when I get there.
Martin sat down on Pete’s bed and smirked at me.
“I changed my mind,” I said. “You can have the other bed.” I grabbed his bag and threw it on my bed. No way would I let the enemy sleep in Pete’s bed.
He shrugged his giant shoulders, stood up, and headed back toward the kitchen.
I sat down on Pete’s bed and fought back my tears. This was crazy. How was I supposed to sleep over here, with a war prisoner right over there? All he had to do was stay awake long enough for us to fall asleep, and then he could kill us all—one at a time. And what if Tom was right? What if Martin slipped out at night and killed the neighbours? What if my friends—Tom, Gwyneth, Christopher—all got killed because I didn’t have the guts to do anything?
It was time to talk to Pete.
I better explain. I’m not nuts, or psychic, or clairvoyant, but often, when I’m sad, or mad, or in trouble, or even when I’m just lonely or bored, I’ll write an imaginary letter to my dead brother. Then, I pretend to get a letter back from him.
I stretched out on Pete’s bed, closed my eyes, and composed my letter.
Dear Pete,
Can you believe what Dad did today? What should I do?
Take care,
Warren
P.S. Have you seen Grandpa Webb up there?
Pete responded with:
Dear Warren,
You’re all dead. Dad has totally lost his mind. Tom’s right, you absolutely need to whack this guy.
Good luck,
Pete
P.S. Grandpa Webb is driving me nuts. He won’t stop telling me stories he’s already told me a hundred times. Can someone please shoot me? Oops, I forgot. I’m already dead. Ha ha.
P.S.S. You better not pee my bed, Warren. If you do, I’m coming down there and giving you a rabbit punch.
As you can see, Pete’s funny and likes to joke around. He was a real card, as they say. Also, he was constantly threatening to give me a rabbit punch. But because he never hit me, to this day I have no idea what a rabbit punch is. I’ll have to ask him some time.
Anyway, my brother agreed that I was in a dangerous situation and had to take action. It was clearly my duty to protect my parents, the neighbours, and—
Dad suddenly hollered for me. I jumped up and went back to the kitchen.
“Get the shovels from the shed,” he said to me, “and meet us around back.”
I left the house, slamming the screen door behind me (five bounces that time, in case you’re curious).
Dad normally would have hired a backhoe to dig the sewage hole, but because the government encouraged fuel rationing and discouraged all non-essential use of gas, it had to be dug by hand. And since Dad was required to pay a P.O.W. only ten cents an hour—some sort of a Geneva Convention rule—it made sense to have Martin do the digging.
“I marked the corners,” Dad said, “so all you boys have to do is start shovelling.”
The three of us were standing behind the house and studying the four wooden pegs Dad had pushed into the ground. The pegs formed a twenty-foot square, which was about thirty feet from the corner of the house.
“How deep must the hole be, Mr. Vebb?” Martin asked.
“It has to be at least six feet deep.” Dad turned to me and smiled mischievously. “Well, I guess I’ll see you boys later.” He kicked his spade into the ground and left for the main barn.
WHAT? Dad was just going to leave me alone with him?
I dropped my shovel on the grass and sprinted after Dad. I caught up with him by the barn doors. “Dad,” I said, panting lightly, “are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“What’s a good idea?” His brow wrinkled.
“Well, leaving me alone with the Nazi.”
“How do you know he’s a Nazi?”
“Because he’s a prisoner of war,” I said, frustrated. “He’s a German soldier. The enemy.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s a Nazi,” Dad said. “I mean, maybe he’s a Nazi—I don’t know. I guess you better ask him if you really want to find out.”
“But…but what if he bashes me on the head and escapes?” I was desperate for Dad to stick around—for protection.
Dad shook his head, ending the debate. “Well, then maybe he’ll knock some sense into you. I’ve got a lot of things to do, Warren. If you want to earn your ten cents an hour, you better stop messing about and go help him dig that hole.”
I grunted and turned around. I was about to trudg
e back to the hole, when I suddenly felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder.
“Just talk to him,” he said.
Chapter 4
When I got back to the sewage pit, I saw Martin had already dug an impressive trench.
Show-off!
Even though Dad seemed to want me to talk to Martin, I had no intention of fraternizing with the enemy, as they say. So I grabbed my spade and moved to the opposite side of the square. I thought it would be best if I dug facing him, that way I could keep an eye on him. Be prepared—that’s what Dad always told us in Boy Scouts. If Martin was going to club me, I’d see it coming, and I’d be able to run away.
That was one thing I knew I could do—outrun him. Guaranteed.
We worked in silence for almost an hour and made good progress. The depth of our hole quickly grew, and before we knew it, we had dug down almost two feet. But the deeper we got, the harder the work got. We could no longer simply throw the clay and dirt behind us. Now we had to get in the hole, lift the earth, and then move it out of the way so it wouldn’t fall back in.
I had always thought I was in pretty good shape—on account of all my running—but the digging and hauling was exhausting. Yet Martin seemed totally unaffected by the heavy labour. In fact, he wasn’t even breathing hard or sweating, and that was really getting on my nerves. Each time he turned his back to me, I quickly mopped my face with my T-shirt. There was no way I was going to let this soldier see me sweat.
Martin must have read my mind, because suddenly he said, “You do not like me, do you, Varren?”
He was bloody right about that, but I wasn’t prepared for such a direct question. “W-why?” I muttered, throwing a head-sized boulder up and out of the pit.
“I feel that you do not want me here.”
Prisoner of Warren Page 2
