Part 4 (2/2)

I picked up my croissant and spread it with b.u.t.ter, remembering the joy I felt when it became apparent the tide had finally turned.

With a jolt, I realized I had been day dreaming. ”Anyway,” I continued, picking up where I had left off, ”I think the end is on the horizon for Hitler's Third Reich. Though I doubt he would ever surrender. He will fight to the finish and try to take Germany down with him. It is like Satan's last gasp in the book of Revelations.”

I took a bite of my croissant. Then a peculiar piece of trivia bounced into my head, something that had always gnawed at me. ”But would you believe, Hitler has a dog? He is wonderful to that dog. He suffers no guilt about sending millions of innocent people to their death, but he has the ability to be kind to a pet.” I shuddered in disgust.

Satisfied that I had thoroughly answered Herr Mueller's original question about the condition of Berlin, I picked up my fork to concentrate on my lunch.

As I started to take another bite of my chicken salad, I suddenly had an odd awareness. Glancing up, I discovered that everyone had stopped eating and was staring at me, their forks held suspended in mid-air. Herr Mueller's face was now drained of color, except for one lone blue vein bulging on his forehead. Even Robert looked at me with an astounded expression on his face. Frau Mueller's eyes darted from her husband to Robert to me.

Something flickered across Herr Mueller's face. Abruptly, he stood up to excuse himself. ”Foolishly, I have forgotten a very important business call that I need to make. My apologies, Frulein Louisa. Reverend Gordon.” And just like that, he left us alone to eat the remainder of the meal with his silent little wife.

”That seemed rather peculiar,” I said to Robert as we walked back home.

”Which part?”

”Herr Mueller. He seemed upset about my remarks about Hitler.”

He stopped. ”Louisa, did it ever occur to you that you were answering questions no one was asking? Why did you launch into a monologue about Hitler at the dinner table? That could give anyone indigestion. It did me,” Robert said, placing a hand over his stomach as he made a dyspeptic face. ”And why on earth did you have to say that Hitler was nice to his dog?”

”Well, Herr Mueller did ask for my opinion about Berlin.” Then, meekly, I added, ”and I love dogs.”

Slowly shaking his head, Robert said, ”You do have a tendency to speak your mind, don't you? It's a wonder you didn't get yourself shot in Germany. I think I'm starting to understand why Dietrich sent you to the other end of the earth.”

I looked at him and frowned. It was true. I was far too outspoken.

On Friday morning of that same week, we were eating a tranquil breakfast on a beautiful spring day when Herr Mueller stormed up to the parsonage and banged on the kitchen door. Robert jumped up, alarmed, knocking his chair to the floor.

”Gordon!” thundered Herr Mueller. ”That boy of yours! He's at it again. He cut off all of the buds on my roses! Every single one is gone! All that is left are green stalks.” He continued to rant and rave, his face reddened with rage. Miss Gordon, William, and I clumped together on the other side of the kitchen, timorously watching the interchange.

”Now, now, Mr. Mueller,” Robert soothed, ”how do you know William cut your roses? Perhaps deer ate the buds.”

”And when was the last time you saw a deer in Copper Springs? Never!” he bellowed. ”It was your imbecile child. The next time he plays another prank on me, I am calling the authorities and having him taken away. Have I made myself clear?” And away he stomped, marching down the street, green stalks sadly devoid of flowers in his hands.

Robert closed the door and slowly turned back to face us with a very unhappy look on his face. William bolted up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door.

As we sat back down at the kitchen table to finish our breakfast, Miss Gordon didn't say a word and I followed her lead.

It seemed as if this battle between William and Herr Mueller was epic and two-sided. Privately, I was on William's side.

Miss Gordon made an effort to be kinder after the unpleasant episode in the kitchen about the choir robes. Well, maybe kinder wasn't the right word. Less hostile.

One day I found a package on my bed of four yards of satin and velvet, thread, and her Singer Featherweight sewing machine placed on the floor. Just enough material to make one choir robe. And there was a note attached in her spidery handwriting: ”Treat this machine well. They aren't making them now like they used to. P.S. Because of the war.”

For Miss Gordon, it seemed a kind of olive branch. It was the closest she could come to apologizing. In turn, I thought decidedly, I was going to sew the most professional looking choir robe in all of Arizona.

I knew the Gordon ancestors were Scottish, but often I thought there must be Teutonic blood somewhere in Martha Gordon's lineage. She was more Saxon than I, running the household like a Swiss clock. The house was painfully clean. Dinner was served promptly at 6 p.m. Bath and bedtime for William at 7:30. She retired to her room at 8:00.

She liked to listen to a soap opera program on the radio called ”Painted Dreams.” She'd been listening to it for years; I think it was her only vice. That and going to Bisbee to the picture show once a month to see the latest movie. She adored movie stars: Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart. She often talked about their characters as if they were real.

Unlike every German hausfrau, however, as important as the inside of the house was to Miss Gordon, the outside was another matter. She didn't bother with it.

So outside was where I spent my time.

It was such a pleasant afternoon that I couldn't help but want to work out in the garden and see if I could bring it back to life. During my train trip across America, I had seen government posters in the railroad stations that encouraged Americans to have a Victory Garden, to grow their own vegetables so farmers could send more food to the soldiers fighting overseas.

I was eager to do anything to help the Americans win this war. I fought a persistent feeling of frustration that I was useless here. In Germany, despite the danger of working with the Resistance Movement, at least I was doing something. Here, I waited. I was just waiting out the war until I could return to Germany. And I have never waited well.

I went into the darkened shed to look for garden tools, lifted up one of the dusty boxes, and opened it. Inside were photographs, clothing, and some books. Out of curiosity, I picked up one photograph and looked at the face. It was of a woman with coloring that resembled William. My heart started hammering. William's mother! I peered into the box filled with her belongings. The clothes still held a lingering scent of expensive perfume she must have worn. I held up her sweater to my face and breathed in the sweet smell.

I went over to the window to examine the photographs more closely. Her hair was honey blond, like William's, but shoulder-length and wavy. Her features looked finely sculptured, like delicate porcelain. She was beautiful, with that kind of elegant beauty I envied in some women, so unlike my own ordinary looks. She looked directly at the camera, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere. Probably had a touch of mystery, too, I thought, wistfully. Just the kind of woman I longed to be.

Suddenly Robert's voice startled me. ”Put those things away.”

I dropped the frame. ”I'm so sorry-I was looking for garden tools. Your aunt said I could find them in here.”

”The tools are on the shelf above the bench. Please leave those boxes alone.” He turned to leave.

”Wait. Robert-shouldn't William have a picture of his mother in his room? My mother died when I was young, too, and I know how much I cherished her picture.”

He stiffened his back, turning his head slightly to the side to look back at me. ”Louisa, William's mother is not dead,” he said coldly, in a tone of voice that made it abundantly clear the subject was closed. He walked back into the house.

Two feelings welled up within me, and I didn't know which one was stronger-being embarra.s.sed to have been caught snooping or being shocked at this latest revelation.

Polite but cool. That's how Robert treated me after finding me in the shed, prying through the box of his wife's belongings. Mealtimes felt strained between us, though I doubted Miss Gordon even noticed. One evening, I tried to see if I could thaw things out and get a conversation started at the dinner table. ”I've been reading an interesting book about the local history of this area. It's about Chief Cochise and the Apache Indians.”

”All I need to know about Cochise is that he's a bloodthirsty warrior,” said Miss Gordon.

”Actually, the truth is he was known for his integrity, and he kept his word with treaties. Later in his life, he was able to negotiate to get the reservation established near here, to the land where the Apaches had originally lived.”

”If the Indians would just stay on their reservation, then there wouldn't be so many problems for them,” advised Miss Gordon, insinuating that if she could only run the Bureau of Indian Affairs, things would be much better managed.

”Can you really blame them?” I asked. ”Imagine how awful it would be to have the government insist you must go live where they want you to and that you may not leave. How different is a reservation from a relocation camp in Germany?”

My comment caused Miss Gordon's temper to flare. ”Oh for Pete's sake, Louise! America is not n.a.z.i Germany. We are civilized here.” Under her breath she muttered, ”sometimes I think you knit with one needle.”

Knit with one needle? How could anyone do that?

Robert saw the look on my face and rose to my defense. ”Aunt Martha, I think it's good for us to see the United State s through Louisa's eyes. She's watched Germany change very quickly. Don't forget Germany was a democracy in the 1920s. Shaky, but still a democracy. There's wisdom in paying attention to other countries' mistakes.”

I looked at Robert with wonder. Perhaps he was feeling apologetic for snapping at me in the shed. A good sign, it seemed, so I decided to push him a little further.

”I read something else quite interesting in this book.” I picked up the book from my lap and put it on the tabletop. ”Did you know that the Indians were the first people in America to use sign language? The tribes spoke such different languages that they needed to find a way to clearly communicate. Their signing was elegant, considered to be a fairly extensive system. In fact, some similarities exist between Indian sign language and sign language for the deaf.”

I paused, antic.i.p.ating a cold reaction.

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