Part 4 (1/2)

Then, suddenly, I felt someone stand close behind me.

”Guten Tag, Frulein,” said Herr Mueller.

It didn't surprise me that he was one of those men who stood too close to a woman, crowding her s.p.a.ce, either dense or delighted about making her feel uncomfortable.

”Good day, Herr Mueller.” I stepped away from him and turned to sign my name on the check-out slip.

”I see that you have the Reverend's kleiner Dumkopf with you. A tragedy, no?”

I spun around on my heels to face him, temper flaring. ”Nein, Herr Mueller. Wilhelm ist nicht ein Dumkopf!” I grabbed William's hand to march out of the library, but William wouldn't budge. Just as I turned to look at William, wondering why he wasn't coming, I saw him spit on Herr Mueller's shoes.

Without a doubt, I knew there was nothing wrong with William's mind. I just had to find a way to reach into it.

The following Sunday, as we were having supper after the church service, Miss Gordon said, ”That was a wonderful sermon today, Robert. Wasn't that a wonderful sermon, Louise?”

”Yes, it was fine,” I lied. ”And there's an 'a' on the end of my name. It's Louisa,” I explained for the hundredth time.

”Just fine?” she asked, almost combatively. ”I suppose you've heard better sermons in n.a.z.i Germany?” Her lips pursed together in that downward, disapproving look that was now quite familiar to me.

”Aunt Martha, what is on this bread?” Robert said, grimacing, looking at the bread as if it were poisonous. William tried a bite and spit it out, dramatically.

”Oleo. We're supposed to use it now instead of b.u.t.ter. You'll soon get used to it.” She turned back to me. ”So...”

”Aunt Martha,” interrupted Robert. ”Louisa is ent.i.tled to her own opinion.”

I was grateful he didn't press me. Robert's sermon was as lacking in flavor as the oleo.

Later that evening, after Miss Gordon went upstairs to bed, Robert came into the house from his office. For a long while, he searched for a book in the parlor bookshelves, but it was obvious something else was on his mind. Finally, he sat down on the davenport where I was curled up reading.

”Tell me the truth. What did you think about my sermon?”

Oh no.

I searched carefully for my words. ”I...um...I thought you had good points. It was all biblically accurate. I just...”

”You just...what?” he persisted, leaning forward.

I hesitated, hunting for painless adjectives. Well, I told myself, he did ask for my opinion. ”I just felt as if you didn't encourage the people to see how G.o.d is at work in their lives. To depend on Him in their everyday activities.”

Without expression, he leaned back on the davenport.

”It's one thing to believe that G.o.d is in His heaven. It's another thing to believe that He is also here, closer to us than our own breath. I believe G.o.d is seeking each one of us, if only we have the eyes and the heart to see Him. Isn't that the question everyone is truly asking? Deep inside? Do I really matter to G.o.d?”

He rubbed his chin, mulling over my remarks. After a long moment of silence, he abruptly stood up. ”Thank you, Louisa, for your candor. Good night. You'll turn off the lights?”

I nodded. He turned to head up the stairs. Robert kept surprising me. I never expected a conversation like that.

At church the following Sunday, after Robert gave the Benediction and people stood milling around, chatting, Herr Mueller cornered me against a pew, oozing charm. ”Good day, Frulein Louisa. I'd be delighted to have the pleasure of your company at lunch tomorrow. Come to my house at one o'clock.”

Was that an invitation or an order? Just then Robert walked past us, carrying hymnals to the shelves in the back. ”The Reverend and I would be delighted to join you,” I answered.

Robert stopped abruptly and looked at me, puzzled.

”Herr Mueller would like us to have lunch with him tomorrow,” I explained.

”Oh? Well, that sounds fine,” he said, though he didn't look like it sounded fine. He looked like he felt trapped. I felt the same way.

Herr Mueller politely nodded to Robert, as if including him was always his intention.

The next day, Robert and I walked over to the Mueller's house right at one o'clock.

”You don't like Friedrich Mueller, do you?” Robert asked.

”Is it obvious?”

His facial expression told me ”yes.”

”There's something about him that seems rather...disagreeable. You don't sense it?”

”No, not really. Our interaction is always business-like. Well, except for incidents involving William. But this is the first social engagement he's initiated with me. Any idea what he wants?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't want to confess that I had contrived a way for him to attend this particular invitation.

Just as Robert knocked on the door, a maid in a black uniform, complete with crisp white ap.r.o.n, opened it and showed us in. The house's interior was just as elaborate as its exterior. The decor was impeccable, punctuated with priceless antiques, uncommon in a humble town like Copper Springs. Obviously, Herr Mueller had a taste for fine things.

His little brown sparrow wife, Hilda, joined us. We sat down to a flawlessly set table: polished silverware, fine china, crystal gla.s.ses. At each of our settings was a single blue hydrangea in a silver bud vase. The maid served chicken salad with capers and peeled grapes along with warm croissants. To top it off, she brought champagne flutes filled with cantaloupe melon b.a.l.l.s, sprinkled with balsamic vinegar.

”Reverend, did you notice my beautiful roses out front? They are just about to open their buds, perhaps another day or two,” Herr Mueller pointed out with evident pride.

”Yes, yes. They're always the talk of the town,” Robert responded congenially.

I was relieved Robert was here. Perhaps the two men would chat, and I could remain invisible, not unlike Frau Mueller. I took a bite of the chicken salad and started to relax a little.

Then Herr Mueller turned to me. ”Frulein, I am curious to know of your impressions of Berlin before you left.”

I nearly choked on the chicken. ”Pardon? What do you mean, Herr Mueller?”

”There must have been great ebullition in the country after Hitler's latest victories.”

I put down my fork. ”Quite the opposite! Berliners are suffering from great shortages and rationing; many are sick or starving.”

Herr Mueller looked skeptical. ”There is also rationing in the United States. We, too, have gasoline shortages, sugar, b.u.t.ter, and canned foods. It is the duty of every citizen to sacrifice for their country during times of war.”

”Oh, but it's more than just shortages, Herr Mueller. I think Hitler has been on the defensive for quite a few years, since 1940, when the Luftwaffe took such a beating from the British in the Battle of Britain. Hitler has spread himself over too many fronts. Germany is fighting a losing battle.”

I picked up my fork, pus.h.i.+ng the chicken salad around on my plate, thinking back to that pivotal year. The German newspapers only reported propaganda, so I had to scour underground news reports for credible updates. Somehow, after six long months of steady bombardment, the little Royal Air Force beat back the attacks of the Luftwaffe. Hitler turned his focus away from Britain toward Russia.