All the Little Hopes

by Leah Weiss

  I wonder if Whiz knows Nazis are coming to Riverton. Will he get his gun and kill em? Shoot em like fish in a barrel?

  The man’s got hooch in one hand, and the other reaches for something in the air we can’t see. His fingers lock in a spasm, then the arm drops. “You want me to tell you bout being a hero? What I did, huh? Me in France…crawling around on my belly in the dark, crawling under chicken wire trying to get to a barn so I can hide? In that foreign dark, I come face-to-face with a Nazi crawling on his belly. He was a kid like me. And what did we do when we saw each other all wide-eyed bout to soil our britches?” Whiz giggles. “We turned around like scared little boys and crawled away to live another day. Does that sound like a hero to you?” He looks in each of our faces for answers. “Does it?”

  His one good eye is bloodshot, and I wonder what’s under that black patch. A hole or a cloudy eyeball like a wolpertinger’s? Tears streak down Sugar’s face and drip off her chin. Her eyes can’t look away from her big brother. Then quick as a whip, he slaps her cross the face. We scoot back, stand up. He slaps her again, and Sugar keeps her little-girl eyes on him. She takes his pain. The screen door flies open, and Mama runs from the porch across the yard and picks up Sugar and orders us, “Inside. Now.”

  We leave Whiz in the chair, in the yard. He peed his pants and don’t even care.

  Gertie’s gone home, but Yancy sits at our kitchen table, as old a soul as I ever did see. Mama puts Sugar in his lap, and he holds her. Her cheek and eye is swelling. Mama wraps chipped ice in a rag and lays it gentle on the swelling.

  “Our Whiz don’t come home, Mr. David. This bitter boy come home. We don’t rightly know what to do with him or how to help.”

  Daddy says, “He’s got to figure things out. His wounds might have healed in that hospital, but he’s a hurting man nobody can help till he’s ready. Give him room, but don’t put your family in harm’s way.” Daddy leans in on the table. “If you need Grady and me, we’re right here. And if anybody needs refuge”—he looks at Sugar—“know our doors are never locked. Whiz isn’t the first man to come home from the war dragging the bad with him.”

  Yancy carries Sugar and leaves by the back door, but Whiz don’t move from the chair in front. Mama give me a blanket to put over Whiz. I walk up to him, scared. The empty hooch bottle is on the ground. He stirs when he feels the blanket. He mumbles, “Cabbage soup…never want to taste that watery crap again.”

  Next morning in early light, I look out the window. Private first class William Mayhew is gone.

  Chapter 27

  Lucy: Unfeasible

  The newspaper headlines confirm the truth at the same time the camp springs to life. I’m glad Oma died before the Nazis arrive in Riverton. I wouldn’t want her to see monsters reign over chaos here. But part of me wishes she could interpret our danger. Our library holds some German books, but the only ones I’ve opened are the tales by the Brothers Grimm. One holds English translations we read from, but I sometimes study the one in German. I put them side by side so I can make out the meaning. Sie schrien vor Angst. They cried out in fear. Will that happen to us?

  Now, the Mercer County Reporter reinforces these horrors in paragraphs, and photographs show Nazi cruelty to Jews. They starve and murder innocents. They are organized evil unleashed on a civilized world, and we’re ill-prepared against such Goliaths.

  Byron Toots will be our key to sanity. The evening before evil arrives, he asks us to tour the prison camp. Helen doesn’t want to go, but the rest of us do. Byron wants to assure us that the Nazis cannot escape. Tiny Junior tags along, too, the quiet big man in our shadow. Outside the prison, Tiny’s uncle, Terrell Stucky, now sits in his old chair he brought over from the bait shop. He whittles aimlessly with his pearl-handled knife and spits tobacco in our direction. His bitterness never takes a break.

  Captain Toots calls out, “Mr. Stucky, you need to move along. Find a different place to sit.”

  “I ain’t breaking the law. I’m checking to see you keep the bastards pinned in tight.”

  “Watch your language around ladies, sir. The Germans aren’t even here, sir. And we don’t need your help doing our business. Find a different place to loiter.”

  “It’s still a free country last time I looked. At least till the Nazis and Japs steal it from us and turn us into slanty-eyed Krauts.” Terrell Stucky spits tobacco that lands an inch from Byron’s polished boot, and he slides his pearl-handled knife across his throat in parody of a murder.

  Byron says low, “I’m warning you, sir.”

  “Like I give a damn,” Terrell Stucky shoots back, confident he hasn’t crossed the legal line.

  We turn away from the tension and enter the camp. Terrell Stucky tries to come, too, but Byron closes the gate on him and locks it. The bitter man goes back to his chair.

  Mama looks up at the fence topped with concertina wire that can shred human flesh. At the long, narrow mess hall made of wide boards stacked twenty feet high. She says, “Have you seen a live Nazi up close?” She shields her eyes from the afternoon sun to watch Byron’s face.

  “I’ve seen some at Camp Butner.”

  “Is it true what they say about them?”

  “They’re only men, Miz Brown. Men brought to their knees and captured by Americans. They’re not invincible.”

  “But they’re not regular men either,” Mama says with pinched lips. “They’re freaks without hearts. Abominations…”

  Byron adds, “With horns on their heads? And pointy teeth? I’ve heard rumors about Germans, rumors likely started by the Nazis themselves to increase our fear. And I won’t deny that their war crimes are heinous and their goals barbaric, but on American land, they are severed from their origins. We are the ones with the weapons. We have the power to give liberty and take liberty away.”

  Byron walks on and points to guard towers at each corner that have search lights and an alarm to signal if a problem arises. Forty-four tents will house eight prisoners in each. I wonder if Daddy’s beeswax waterproofed these tents. There’s space for exercise and a small infirmary. “Other than leaving camp to work during daylight hours, there won’t be a reason for the prisoners to be outside. If anyone misbehaves, we have holding cells. If that doesn’t work, they get sent back to Camp Butner for isolation.”

  “How many guards?”

  “One hundred and eighty-nine officers and enlisted men. Some of them speak German. That’s one guard for every two prisoners.”

  “Only if you work twenty-four-hour shifts, which you won’t.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You’re right. We rotate every eight hours.”

  “What will the prisoners do when they’re not working?” Mama knows an idle mind is the devil’s workshop.

  “We’ll offer English lessons, and there’s a small library. We’ll keep them occupied. But I’ll be honest with you, this is a work in progress. We’ll tweak the rules to suit our needs.”

  “Are you scared, Byron? Scared to be in tight quarters with them?”

  “No, ma’am. We’ve trained for war. This is merely a different kind of war. We’ll follow the laws of the Geneva Convention, or we’ll have the Red Cross to answer to if we don’t. These prisoners will be treated humanely, but their liberty will be restricted—”

  “Whether they deserve humane treatment or not,” Mama adds. “Do you believe they’re doing the same for our men? Treating them humanely? That our missing Wade Sully has adequate food and medical attention? That anyone is worrying about his fresh air and good food and rest time?”

  “That’s my fervent prayer, Miz Brown. I can’t answer for other countries, but we aim to abide by the law.”

  “Do you really believe this will work?”

  He says, “I solemnly vow to keep all of you out of harm’s way.”

  If anyone else said that, it would sound pretentious or banal. But this is Byron Toots.
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  While we tour their camp and look for assurance, the prisoners board passenger trains in Tennessee and begin heading east through Asheville to Greensboro and Raleigh—into my small town.

  That March of ’44, when three hundred and fifty-five Nazi POWs arrive in Riverton, Bert Tucker has become something I fear I’ll never be: a full-fleshed beauty. She hasn’t worn a strip of muslin to flatten her breasts since she came to live with us nine months back. Bert isn’t a tomboy anymore. Even with limited male targets, she flirts close to impropriety. She has a wanderlust soul, a brazen temperament, and a body that even overalls can’t disguise.

  Mama has instilled as many ladylike parameters as Bert will tolerate but only so much sticks. At fourteen, Bert is still a virgin, because she told me so, but I don’t think she’ll wear white on her wedding day and be honest. Now here come devil men right to our door. It’s a time of dangerous possibilities for my best friend.

  Tonight, at supper, Daddy butters his biscuits and tells us the news he heard today. “The owners of the fertilizer plants are the ones behind the camp coming to Riverton. It was set to go to Windsor, but fertilizer won out because they do government work producing nitrogen. They’ll take a third of the German prisoners right off the bat.” Daddy takes a bite of his biscuit and licks the butter off his fingers.

  “How did it come to this?” Mama has asked this more than once, and Daddy is patient.

  “Byron explained the number of prisoners captured on foreign shores is growing too fast for our military to handle. We don’t have money to care for them over there. Plus, it doesn’t make sense to send food, clothing, and medicine to prisoners over there when those efforts won’t win the war.”

  “But they’re Nazis, David.” Mama leaves out our German heritage, because we don’t come from Hitler’s Germany. Our Germans made glass marbles. They lived good lives. “How could you let them out of your sight or turn your back on one?”

  “Well, we got us a problem, Minnie, and it’s not going away.” Daddy’s voice grows firm. “Here in the South, we need help in cotton, peanuts, and tobacco, and now we need help with beeswax. Up North, they got trouble in the timber industry. We’ve got to take a risk to provide for us and our American boys. It’s that simple.”

  “You’d let murdering heathens know where we lay our heads at night?” Mama mutters, not letting go of this bone of contention. My neck hurts from watching. Helen leaves the table, too upset to eat.

  “Enough,” Daddy flares back. “I don’t have all the damn answers, Minnie, but we know Everett isn’t coming home to help with bees, and Wade can’t come home. It stinks. The whole thing stinks, but I’d never put y’all in danger. Never.”

  Mama turns quiet because she’s embarrassed, and Daddy leaves the table shamefaced about his outburst. I shoot a look at Bert. The turmoil has started, and we haven’t even finished supper.

  Chapter 28

  Bert: It Begins

  School is out for two weeks, and Monday, March sixth, is circled on the calendar: it’s the day the Germans come to work. Mama and Daddy and Helen done fought, worried, and cried. The sun is a foot off the edge of the earth, and I’m at the water bucket when Daddy’s truck comes down the road. Two men are perched on the wheel wells. At the familiar sound of his motor, Lu comes from the hives. She sets down the smoker, takes off her gloves and veil, and shakes out her blond curls. Grady comes from the barn holding a pitchfork, and Mama from the kitchen, but she keeps one hand on the screen door. Yancy stands at the edge of the tobacco field with Cornell, Sammy, and Purvis behind him. Usually they’re easygoing and joking, but today they all wear their hats low. They watch the coming of the devil men.

  I tuck limp hair behind my ear but don’t know why. I’m a farm girl now with dirt on my hands and my overalls, and there ain’t a speck of feminine showing cept my bosoms. I look over at Lu. She’s a china doll.

  My heart sputters to see the prisoners climb outta the truck. Two grown men younger than any we’ve seen in these parts for a while but old all the same. I don’t count Grady, who don’t like me for no reason I can cipher. Or the goofy boys trying to outdo each other for my attention. Or the ones who can’t read or write so Uncle Sam won’t sign em up. Tiny Junior don’t count neither with his grinning sweet.

  There was that time behind the barn when I showed Tiny Junior my bosom. I made him keep his hands by his sides and stay three steps back. Lu saw us when we come around front, Tiny Junior scratching his privates and me buttoning my shirt. She flared up and said, “What did you do to that boy?”

  I don’t lie. I say outright, “Let him see my bosom.”

  Her mouth fell open, her cheeks got pink, and she looked toward the porch to see if Mama was in sight, then she grabbed my arm and pulled me back behind the barn. “You unhooked your bra?”

  “Don’t start, Lu. It was harmless. He don’t touch em. He looked.”

  “He looked and now he’ll talk is what’ll happen. And you know what that’ll do to your reputation?”

  “Tiny Junior won’t talk, and biddies already talk bout me like they know what they don’t. Tiny Junior was looking, all doe-eyed and mushy. He’s sweet…and I like being looked at.”

  “How can you say something so wrong? I can’t believe you’re not ashamed. Why do you think that’s okay? Weren’t you the girl who tied a piece of muslin around her middle and talked about being exiled like the Israelites? You weren’t so proud of your bosom then.”

  “I changed,” I said. “And don’t tell me I’m gonna burn in hell for my sinning ways. You don’t believe that mush any more than I do.”

  “I do believe it. We’ve heard it enough times.” Lu looked puffed up. “It’s not the ladylike thing to do, and I don’t know why you’re not embarrassed. I can’t imagine ever showing my bosom to a boy.”

  I don’t say the truth: she don’t have much bosom to show.

  ***

  The morning the two Nazis come, I stand in the yard while Lu waits at the barn door. The prisoners get out of the truck with hats in hands and their dark-blue pants and shirts clean and new. There ain’t a single scary thing I can see. No horns on their heads. No pointy teeth. One’s almost short as Lu with dark hair shaved close and a big nose. The other is tall and skinny, stooped at the shoulders, fuzzy brown hair and a Adam’s apple big as a walnut. They look like Mutt and Jeff from the newspaper cartoon in Uncle Nigel’s New York Times. They stare at our field hands like they never saw colored men before, and our men stare back. When the workers head into the tobacco behind Daddy, the Germans follow. After all the crying and worrying for months, I thought they’d look more devil-like, but they don’t even look interesting.

  Mama leaves the safety of the porch and Lu the barn and come to me. Mama says, “I don’t want them eating at the dinner table. It’ll upset the men’s constitutions, specially Yancy. They eat in the barn. Put boards on sawhorses and get two chairs from the hayloft. They might look safe, but they’re Nazis all the same.” She walks away and adds, “And, Lucy, put your bee gear away and help Bert and me. We got dinner to make,” without needing to cause we make dinner every single day and today ain’t different—cept Nazis making her outta sorts.

  It’s women in the kitchen locked in our own thinking when Helen says softly, “I don’t want to lay eyes on em. Don’t want to see the monsters who captured Wade. Don’t want to touch their food. Don’t want to hear their voices.”

  “Well, dear, we’ve talked about this before,” Mama starts gentle. “Wade went to the Pacific. He didn’t go east to fight Germans. Everett did. And that kind of ultimatum is going to pose a problem, since these prisoners will be here every workday. We’ll keep them segregated, but they have to eat, and I’m not cooking special food for them.”

  Helen speaks a little louder. “Why didn’t you ask me if it was all right for Daddy to hire those heathens? Why didn’t I get the deciding vote, since it’s
my husband who’s gone missing?”

  “It wasn’t a voting matter. Your daddy does what’s best for the farm. He wouldn’t hire these men unless it was necessary.”

  “Best? Necessary?” Helen’s voice rises. “If it weren’t for this dastardly war, Everett and Wade would be here. They were necessary. They were best for this place. Who thought up this insanity?”

  “I know, dear.”

  “Wade should be here where he belongs and not fighting on some worthless foreign land. Or locked in some god-awful prison camp being starved to death or beaten to within an inch of his life.”

  “I know, dear.” Mama doesn’t fight with Helen.

  “Every spoonful of our good food these Nazis put in their mouths is gonna make me wanna puke. I could choke them with my bare hands till they die.” She spits words like poison darts. The only sound is the tick-tock of the clock. The cuckoo clock made where Nazis come from.

  Two minutes before it strikes, Baby Girl cries. Baby Girl who Aunt Fanniebelle calls Betty Gail so she doesn’t sound temporary. A child with no name because there’s no word from her daddy. That scrap of comfort bout Wade that Trula Freed gave has grown stale.

  Helen leaves the room and closes her bedroom door to tend to her baby. The clock chimes eight, and Mama says, “Having these men on the farm is going to be different, and y’all have a way of crossing the line, so I want to be clear from the start: you are not to talk to the prisoners. You may not go to the camp. Ever. It’s off-limits at all times. Do I make myself clear?”