“Fritz!” Anna fell on her brother and wrapped her arms around his thick middle.
“Fritz not hurt, Anna.”
She smiled at him, struggled to touch his face, but he was too tall. He bent down low and she looked at the cut and his swollen lip. Her chin quivered. “You lost a tooth.”
Fritz smiled widely. “Like a jack-o’-lantern!” The little girl hugged him harder.
“We should get home,” Andrew recommended. A sudden thought rushed and chilled his cells. The people who had done this might come back. He glanced at Lily, wondered what they’d do to her if heartless enough to steal a child’s wig. The very idea shot fire up his body, the commitment staunch—he’d never let anyone hurt Lily, ever.
Lily gathered Anna by the shoulders, but the girl stepped back. “I can’t go out there,” she cried. “My hair.”
Lily took her handkerchief from her pocket, wrapped the blue square over the bald head and tied it behind Anna’s ears. She held the wet cheeks in her hands. “Better?”
Anna touched the fabric, nodded in confirmation. Lily reached over and pulled Andrew’s handkerchief from his back pocket and tied it around her own head. “Mine’s not as pretty as yours, but I’d say we look pretty good.” She flashed a smile to Andrew. “What do you think?”
He met the lovely faces, one and then the other. “Think you’re about the prettiest women I’ve ever seen in my life.”
In the buggy, Andrew and Lily acted as bookends to little Anna, keeping her still and sheltered between their steady forms. Fritz sat on the backseat, mute and scarred with a memory that his mind couldn’t understand.
“There’s Pieter!” Anna pointed. As they turned the right to their road, Pieter was already coming toward them, his gait severe.
“Let me talk to your brother first.” Andrew stopped the horse and gave the reins to Lily, jumped off the sideboard.
Pieter hurried his pace, no different from a bull charging a red cape. Andrew blocked his way, put a firm hand against his friend’s chest. “Hold on, Pieter.”
He slapped the hand away. “What did those bastards do to my sister?” he shouted as he tried to move again.
“You wait.” Andrew grabbed him harshly by the arm. “They’re scared enough as it is, don’t need you rushing at them. Got to calm yourself first. All right?”
Pieter’s face burned red, but he relented, bit his lip so hard it blanched white.
“They’re going to be all right.” He let go of his friend’s arm and spoke dimly. “Fritz got cut, but it’s not too bad.”
“And Anna?” he shouted. “So help me if they hurt her!”
“They took her wig but didn’t hurt her. She doesn’t want anyone to see her without hair. Why she hid.”
Pieter’s face twisted as he forced back the angry tears. He grabbed at his own hair with two fists. Sounds sputtered from his mouth as he tried to form words. He spun in a half circle. Finally, he dropped his hands and grabbed Andrew by the collar. “Who the hell does that? Who the hell does that to a little girl?” he hissed.
Andrew pried the fingers from his shirt. “People aren’t thinking straight and you know it.” Andrew lowered his voice and spoke roughly. “But you need to think straight, you hear me? I know you’re riled. I am, too, but you got to think straight.”
“Riled?” Pieter started to yell but lowered his voice to a growl. “If you think I’m going to stand by and let someone do that to my family, then you don’t know me at all.”
Andrew squared his shoulders, met the eyes level. “I’m not saying you don’t do anything about it. I’m just saying we got to think this through.”
“We?” The severity left his voice. “This isn’t your fight, Andrew.”
“Yes, it is.” The weight was his own. “And you know it.”
Andrew dropped them at the Muellers’ home, watched as Pieter carried Anna in his arms while Fritz’s large frame shed a shadow across their narrow walkway. He turned the buggy back up the lane and headed toward Lily’s house.
The sound of crickets rose from the goldenrod and poison sumac that hugged the slope near the road. “What do you plan to do?” Lily finally asked.
“I don’t know.” He felt her gaze on his face and turned, met her eyes for only a moment. “Pieter’s out for blood.”
“Please don’t get involved.” The fear in her voice left her limp. “I couldn’t take it if you got hurt.”
CHAPTER 40
Andrew climbed the small foot ladder to the lower limbs of the apple tree. The fungus that had sprouted in early spring had spread to several more limbs, the black knots as hard as wood, cracking open the bark where it emerged. Andrew leaned his weight against the tree and used the handsaw to cut off the afflicted branches.
A rustling came from below. Lily’s crouched body picked up the cut limbs, then dragged them to the edge of the fence, threw them into the brush pile. Andrew stepped down the ladder and put the saw down, wiped the sawdust from his forehead with the back of his hand.
She dropped the last of the branches into the pile and waited as he approached. He stepped close and stopped, could feel the energy of her in the inches between them.
“I need to give you something.” She handed him a white box with a gold seal at the top. “It’s for Pieter. For Anna actually.”
“Why don’t you give it to her?”
“I’d rather they didn’t know it came from me. I know what they think of Frank, of me.” The muscles of her throat stretched. “I don’t think they’d accept it.”
“What is it?”
Lily didn’t answer, waited for him to open it. At first, when he lifted the lid, he thought he was looking down at a large doll’s head, but as he lifted the stand out he saw what it was. A small brown wig, only large enough to fit a child.
“For Anna,” Andrew said, nearly to himself.
Lily nodded. “I know the Muellers don’t have the money for a new one. Not now, anyway, with their accounts being cut. They’re very expensive. The good ones anyway.”
“How did you afford this?”
“Had some money put away. Was saving for a trip. Seems kind of silly now.” She brushed a strand of hair from her lowered eyes. “Would you give it to her?”
Lily’s profile could have been chiseled from glowing quartz—the pure, white skin, the curve of her forehead to the straight line of her nose and curve of her lips. He fell lost into the still profile, unable to remove his gaze. Finally, he found the only two words brave enough to come forth. “I will.” She smiled sadly and gave a short wave in thanks before walking away.
* * *
Gerda Mueller bent over a patch of spinach, her enormous backside swaying and twitching as she grabbed any weeds insolent enough to sprout in her garden. Given she didn’t see him approach, Andrew cleared his throat. Gerda spun, her hands still strangling the mangled roots as she tittered. “Oh, Andrew! Some velcome, eh? With my bum wavin’ hello to ya!” She threw the plants to the ground and wiped her man hands on her skirt. “Lookin’ for Pieter, then?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He met her at the row of vegetables, scanned the even, abundant lines. “Got the hardiest garden I’ve ever seen, Mrs. Mueller.”
A mighty arm wrapped around his shoulder and a wet kiss landed on his cheek. “You! Charmer, Andrew Houghton!” She pinched his cheek in the spot that she had kissed. “A good man.”
“Ah, Ma!” Pieter carried a harness over his shoulder while several horseshoes lined his wrist like a bracelet. “Stop bruising the neighbors.”
She laughed and squeezed Andrew heartily, thumped him on the chest while he tried not to let the wind get knocked out of his lungs. “Psssh! You’re a strong one, eh?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, and coughed, cringed in case she squeezed, kissed, thumped or broke him in half.
Pieter put down his supplies. “Ma, don’t let Fritz put the shoes on the horses anymore. Idiot put them on backwards.”
“Hush wiv those words, Pieter!�
� she scolded. “He’s a good boy.”
“Good boy or not, still put the shoes on backwards. Thick as peat, that kid.”
“All right.” She waved him off like a horsefly. “Orf wiv you now. Git!” She pushed the boys away with a whack to their backs. “Got to get back to vork. Grass growin’ in my vatermelons.”
Andrew and Pieter crossed the even path to the lane, the far fields crowded with pen after pen of rolling pigs. Andrew reached behind a whiskey barrel planter and handed the box to Pieter.
“What’s this?” he asked as he lifted the lid.
“It’s for Anna.” He stopped and peered back at the bent figure of Mrs. Mueller. “It’s from Lily.”
Pieter shoved the box at him. “I don’t want it.”
Andrew pushed it back. “It’s for Anna. Not for you.”
“We don’t need anything from the Mortons,” he spit. “Take it back or I throw it to the pigs.”
“Listen, Pieter,” Andrew defended Lily, “I don’t know what your beef is with the Mortons, but Lily hasn’t harmed anyone. Bought this for Anna with her own money. And remember Mary Paulsen? How you thought Lily had taken all her goods from auction? Well, she bought them all and shipped them to her.”
“That what she told you?” he asked sarcastically.
Andrew stepped toward his friend and warned, “That’s enough.”
Pieter closed his eyes and sighed, dropped his head low, sat down on the grass. “I know it ain’t her fault. I know it,” he conceded. “I’m just so damn mad, don’t even know who to be mad at anymore.”
His jaw hardened and he stared at the perfect farmhouse cradled on the sea of grass, surrounded by pink and red roses climbing over the stone foundation. “I’m so tired of being cursed. So sick of being a target with this damn war.”
Pieter picked up a rock and dug the point into the soft earth. “Got no credit in town. Can’t even show up at the market with our name on our wagon. Then they go—” His voice broke then and he shook his head savagely. “They go beatin’ my poor dumb brother and hurt Anna.” He squeezed the rock, hard enough to draw blood. Andrew leaned against the fence, his stomach tightening with the same memories.
“This war making people itch like they got fleas,” Pieter said. “Looking for someone to blame for all that itching.” His voice dropped confidentially. “Pa’s been sending money back to Nuremberg. Cousins are fighting on the front lines for the Kaiser. Breaks Pa’s heart knowing his brothers and sisters sending their children to war. Scrambling for food. But famine or no, I don’t think he should do it and I told him so.” Pieter looked aged, older than his years. “Somebody find out and there’ll be hell to pay for sure. They’ll say it’s treason. Make what they did to Fritz look like child’s play. But Pa won’t hear talk against it.” Pieter tilted his head. “Know my sister’s married to a Mennonite?”
Andrew shook his head.
“Says if he gets drafted he’ll refuse. Says it’s God’s commandment not to kill. Know what they’re doing to Mennonites who won’t serve?” He paused. “They’re beating the crap out of them, that’s what. Torturing them just for not fighting, sending them off to Leavenworth.” Pieter pounded the rock into the ground. “So help me, that’ll kill my sister. Somebody hurt him like that. It’ll kill her.”
Pieter glanced at the box from Lily. “I know Lily ain’t got nothing to do with this, but Frank Morton’s stirring the pot. He’s holding meetings in town, all tied up with the American Protective League. A bunch of hotheads with cheap badges that say they got a right to keep an eye on Germans, keep them in line.” A look of real terror entered Pieter’s face. “They find out about Pa sending money, they’ll tar and feather him. Might throw your uncle in for the fun of it.”
Andrew sat on the heels of his boots. “We’re not going to let that happen, Pieter.” His voice was steady, resolved. “You know that.”
“That’s right.” Pieter met the look. “Because I’m enlisting.” He stood, tossed the rock into the space between the trees. “Only way I can protect my family is if I’m serving.”
CHAPTER 41
Andrew and Wilhelm checked the lines of thick hay, assessed their readiness for harvest and baling. Wilhelm paused, peered over the ridge. “Looks like we got visitors.” Two men, a policeman and a civilian, huffed up the hill.
“Officer,” Wilhelm greeted him.
“Mr. Kiser?” the policeman asked.
“That’s right.”
“This your son?” He motioned at Andrew.
“My nephew.” Wilhelm’s tone deepened with the questioning and he folded his arms, opened his legs slightly in a stance that said, What the hell you doing on my property?
“This is Mr. Simpson, from the bank. Says your boy clobbered his son.”
Mr. Simpson kept silent, saw Andrew’s arm, his face suddenly angry—a look of failure knowing his son got beat up by a cripple.
“Heard about that,” acknowledged Wilhelm. “Seems your boy was drunk, Mr. Simpson. Giving a young lady a hard time. Way I heard it, sounds like he got what was coming to him.”
The officer and Mr. Simpson exchanged knowing looks. “Normally, I’d agree with you, but that’s not why we’re here.”
The sun landed hotly on their backs, the fire of the earth rising with hay pollen and the sound of katydids jumping. The officer rolled a stone under his foot. “Seems some words were thrown around during the fight.” His gaze pierced Andrew. “Unpatriotic words.”
“What?” Andrew stepped forward, but his uncle pressed him back.
Wilhelm said, “I’m not one for beating around the bush, Mr. . . .”
“Tipney. Sheriff Tipney.”
“Well, Sheriff, I expect you come right out with what you and Mr. Simpson are accusing this young man of so we can get back to our work.”
Mr. Simpson spoke up. “Your son . . . your nephew . . . said it was just a matter of time before Germany won this war. Said the Kaiser would be headed to America next and he’d be the first one to shake his hand. Said he was honored to share the name. Then he called my son a coward before hitting him on the head with a rock.”
Mr. Simpson heated now and his mustache hairs blew with the thrust of air coming from his nose. Andrew squared his shoulders, his dark gaze turning his blue eyes indigo, landing first on the sheriff’s and then Mr. Simpson’s.
“Don’t need to answer to them, Andrew.” Wilhelm put on his hat and prepared to go back to the fields. “His boy got beat and looking to make up for it through lies. Any man with half a brain could see that. Good day, gentlemen.”
The sheriff chewed his gum slowly. “Not that easy, I’m afraid. Using that talk is a criminal offense. Young man’s coming with me to the courthouse.” He waved Andrew forward. “You’re under arrest, son.”
“Whoa. Hold on!” The fury stretched out Wilhelm’s tan neck. “It’s one man’s words against another.”
“True, but in these times can’t be too careful. We’ll bring him to town until it’s figured out.” The sheriff shoved his hat high upon his forehead and eyed Andrew. “Look, you don’t look like a bad kid, but sometimes things are said in the heat of anger and we can’t have this now, not here. Not with American boys fighting and not coming home.”
“I never uttered those words.” Andrew seethed. “Besides, why aren’t you out finding the boys that terrorized the Muellers? The ones that beat a young man to pulp and destroyed a little girl’s wig.”
The sheriff nodded solemnly. Motioned him forward again, ignoring the accusation. “We’ve done enough talking now. Let’s get going.” He scratched his ear. “We’re at the Plum jail if you want to inquire about bail. They’ll deny it, but you’re welcome to apply.” The men turned and walked through the blond rows of hay.
* * *
“Coffee?”
Andrew shifted in the small cot in the jail cell, rose and took the steaming mug from between the bars. “Thanks.” His limbs ached from the stiff, springless bed. He hadn’t slept a wink
during the night, finally dozing off just before the sheriff entered.
The officer pulled up a wooden chair and sat down, propped his shoes against the bars and rocked back and forth. “You hungry?”
Andrew shook his head.
“Didn’t think so. Something about being behind bars sucks away a man’s appetite.” The sheriff sipped his coffee easily; the reserve and seriousness from yesterday’s ride to the station had disappeared and his manner was friendly.
“Look, kid,” he started. “I know Danny well. He’s spent more nights on that cot than any other young man around here. But he’s pretty hot right now on account you taking him down. He don’t like to lose, that one.” He chuckled to himself. “Hothead.
“Anyway, I don’t think you said those things. Despite your name, I don’t believe a word of it. But Mr. Simpson’s got clout and he wasn’t going to shut up until there was some justice served. Arresting you is about the most humane thing I could do.” He smiled. “You can thank me later.”
“Thank you?” Andrew couldn’t help but chortle. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t send flowers.”
The sheriff laughed at that, lowered his feet to the floor. He rested his elbows on his knees, held his mug between his two palms. “You hear what happened in Illinois?” he asked. “To Robert Prager?”
“No.”
“German American said the wrong thing to the wrong people and they came for the man. Stripped him naked and wrapped him in the American flag, paraded him around town, beat him up pretty good. Finally, a couple of levelheaded citizens called the police and they took the man into protective custody. Well, the mob was still thirsty, flooded the jail and pulled out poor Prager and lynched him.” He drank his coffee as easily as if he were talking about the price of corn or the hope for rain this summer.
Andrew’s stomach soured, and he let the image settle, remembered Pieter’s talk of tar and feathering.
“That’s why I had to do something,” said the sheriff. “Least now Danny can save face. Mr. Simpson can tell people you’ve been punished. Danny be heading to training in another week and it’ll be over. Just got to sit it out until then.”
Beneath the Apple Leaves Page 26
