Soldier Doll (9 page)

“No bribe, then?” the bemused tone persisted. “You disappoint me, Jews. I wanted an opportunity to spit on your money. I wouldn't touch money belonging to a Jew.” He puffed out his chest. “I am an honest man.”

Franz and Joseph waited expectantly. The officer grabbed Franz by the collar. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

Franz cleared his throat. “I, too, am an honest man,” he replied with forced calm. He was trembling. “I am a poor shopkeeper. And a veteran of the Great War. I won a medal for bravery fighting for this country.” Pushing his fear aside, he lifted his chin with pride.

The officer made a noise and spat on Franz's shoes. Franz stood very still as the officer spat again, this time in his face. He felt the saliva slide slowly down his left ear and bit back tears of humiliation, of rage.

“You've done nothing for this country except pollute it.” The officer's face twisted with hatred as he stared at Franz with unfocused eyes. Abruptly, he grabbed the men by their arms. “You're arrested,” he said. “Follow me.”

“Arrested?” Joseph spoke up now. “For what?”

The officer snorted again. “Haven't you heard? We've permission now to round up and arrest any Jews we find.”

Franz made a small noise. His insides burned with outrage. What was happening to this country? His heart filled with sorrow as he recalled the Berlin of his boyhood. And then he thought,
Please, God, let Max come through with those tickets
. He pictured Hanna's face, her shining, honey-colored hair, and closed his eyes briefly.

. . .

“Mr. Roth?” Joseph looked tired. Huddled in the corner of a small holding cell at the police station, he gave a shuddering cough into his arm. The cell, designed to hold perhaps two people, was crammed full with at least twenty men. Most of them were quite similar to Franz and Joseph: middle-aged Jewish shopkeepers and their sons.

“What is it, Joe? Are you not well?” Franz peered at the boy. He was an only child, and his mother would be frantic by now.

“I don't know.” Joseph coughed again. “I need to get out of here. It's been over twenty-four hours, I think. Why are they holding us?” His eyes betrayed his exhaustion. “Do you think my parents are safe? And Hanna?” A shadow crossed his face.

“I don't know, Joe.” Franz looked unhappy. “I don't know any more than you do.”

The boy sighed. He was quiet for a moment. He turned away from Franz and appeared deep in thought. Then he spoke up. His face was flushed. “Mr. Roth?”

“Yes, Joe?” Franz looked at him curiously. The boy seemed nervous.

“I—I need to talk to you about something. It's not about this. It's not really great timing, but I think maybe no time would be a good time, really, so I think I should just go ahead and ask, because maybe I won't have the courage to do it later, and also I'm—”

“Joe.” Franz cut him off. “What is it?”

“Hanna.” Joseph blurted out her name. He blushed again. “I—we—I love her.”

Franz stared at him. He said nothing. Joseph turned an even deeper shade of red, yet continued.

“I've loved her for years.” He was getting more confident. “She loves me, too. She told me. We—we want to get married. Not yet; first I need to finish school, but—”

Franz continued to stare at him. This boy, this simpleton, marry his Hanna? Hanna, the smartest girl in her class? Hanna, with her beautiful eyes and hair, marry this
Schlemiel
? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath; the cell seemed even smaller now, as if the walls were closing in on him.

“I promise I will treat her well. I promise I…” Joseph trailed off as he stared at Franz, his eyes anxious.

“Joe. It is…not the time.” Franz massaged his temples, his head spinning. “I can't think of such matters right now.”

“Of course, Mr. Roth. Sorry, sir.” Joseph was stammering now, his entire face flaming scarlet. “But maybe you'll think about it?”

“Maybe.” Franz exhaled. He thought of Hanna's concern for Joseph and felt a twinge of guilt. He imagined her reproving eyes and avoided looking into Joseph's. He stared instead at a spider in a corner of the ceiling, oblivious to the men below as it carefully spun its web.

“We can talk about it later, when we get out,” Joseph babbled. “When do you think we'll be let out?”

A young man from the other side of the cell—the last to have been tossed in late that night—spoke up now, quietly. “I heard they're deporting people. Sending them to camps.” He looked grim.

“Camps?” Franz sat up straighter now and grabbed his elbow. “What kind of camps? Where did you hear this?”

The man shrugged, pulling away. “I overheard a couple of the police talking when I was brought in.”

The cell exploded with violent noise as the men digested this new development. “Let us out!” someone yelled. “We haven't done anything!” Others joined in, as men pounded on the bars.

A guard came in, his teeth bared and his face flushed in anger. “Silence!” he yelled, smashing a rifle against the bars. “Shut up! All of you!”

“How long are you going to keep us here?” shouted one man. “You have no right!” The others chimed in. “Let us out!” they cried. “Let us out—out!”

“Shut up!” Through the bars, the guard grabbed one of the men by the ear and pointed his gun. “Another word and I will shoot this fellow.”

The men quickly quieted down as the guard let the man go, pushing him forcefully. He tapped his rifle against the bars and glared at the men inside. “So you want out?” His voice was calmly mocking. “Good news. You'll all be getting out.”

There was a buzz as the men sighed with relief and cheered quietly. Joe relaxed visibly. “Thank God.” Franz hugged himself, feeling somewhat reassured.

“Oh.” The guard spoke up again. He was grinning now. “Did you think we were going to send you home? Bad news,
Juden
. You're all to be deported to prison camps.”

The men cried in protest and banged the bars again as the guard reached into his pocket to retrieve a key. “We weren't going to do it until morning, but if you're so eager to go, we can load you into the trucks right now. A lovely way to spend the night!” He chuckled to himself again as he jerked his thumb to the right. “You are all to walk single file through that door. And if anyone tries anything, he will be shot immediately.”

The shouts of revolt intensified. The guard cocked his rifle at the ceiling and fired a single shot. There was instant silence. “Have I made my point?” he shouted. “Silence!”

The men filed silently from the room and were led outside where they would be packed into trucks. Joseph stayed close to Franz at first. The older man could sense his fear, and Franz patted his arm in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. His hand at Joseph's shoulder, he caught a flash of gold out of the corner of his left eye.
My wedding band
, he thought suddenly. He twisted it off. When it was his turn, he leaned in toward the guard—a different one now—and pressed the ring into his hand.

“Please, officer.” His voice was quiet. “Let the boy go.” He gestured toward Joseph, now several men behind him in the line and out of hearing range.

The guard looked down at his palm and pushed the ring back at Franz. “Keep it,” he said quietly, looking away.

“Please, officer. He's just a boy.”

“I can't.”

Franz's eyes met the guard's briefly, and Franz was surprised to see what looked like pity.

“Please, sir. Please.” Franz sank to his knees. “Let the boy go.”

“Get up, man.” The guard, cheeks flushed, turned away, as if embarrassed at the spectacle of Franz's begging. “I can't help you.”

“You could. You could let him go when no one is looking.”

“I can't! Do you know what they'd do to me?” The guard cringed.

“Please. You're a good man, I can tell. Try.” Franz grasped at the officer's sleeve in desperation.

Their fearful eyes met again. Franz reached out his hand and again offered him the ring. “Take it. You could melt it down. A nice trinket for your wife, your girlfriend.”

“It's your wedding ring.” The man recoiled. “It's yours.”

“You'll try, then? The boy?”

The guard looked around him, furtively, to see if anyone was listening. “I'll do what I can,” he snapped. He was sweating now. A bead of perspiration trickled down the side of his face slowly, like a tear.

“You.” The guard motioned at Joseph. “Step over here. You need to be inspected.” He motioned to the left. “And you,” he said, turning to Franz. “You go there.” He pointed to the right with his gun, where a truck was waiting.

Joseph's eyes widened. “Oh, no.” His tone was pleading. “Officer, please. Let us go in the same truck. Please, officer, we—”

“Joe.” Franz cut him off. “Do as the man says.”

“Mr. Roth? Please, I—”

“Now!”

Joseph hurried over to where the guard was pointing and waited, cowering. He stared fearfully at the guard's gun.

The guard took his rifle and tapped it against Franz's back. “Move it, old man,” he said loudly. “Into the truck.” Franz gave him gave a grateful glance, and the soldier gave an imperceptible nod as he turned toward Joseph. Shaking with the euphoria of conquered fear and relief, Franz climbed into the truck.

. . .

The hours passed slowly. Like the cells, it was crowded in the truck. The men, desperate and humiliated, were forced to relieve themselves without the benefit of facilities, and it began to stink. The initial camaraderie quickly faded in the cramped and squalid conditions: the men bickered and not infrequently came to blows. Franz, grateful for a space in the corner, huddled in his coat, watching his breath dissolve in little puffs of smoke. Remembering the soldier doll, he retrieved it from his pocket and gave it a hard look.
Turns out you are not so lucky after all
. He stared into its eyes.
Good thing I didn't leave you with Hanna
. He touched the uniform he had so lovingly repainted and thought of his service to Germany in the War. His medal for bravery. What had it all been for?

Bitter, he continued to stare at the little doll dressed like a German soldier. He thought again of Hanna and Sarah. When would he see them again? Would Joseph find them? He shivered. It was so cold. He squeezed at the doll's neck, as if trying to strangle it. He imagined it suffocating or snapping in two and felt a perverse flash of pleasure. Another man's cough brought him back to reality, and he stared at his hands, revolted at wanting to destroy a plaything, like an angry child. Ashamed of himself, he stuffed the doll back in his pocket and closed his eyes. He heard the engine roar to life, and the truck lurched along the desolate road.

Chapter 6

Toronto, Canada

2007

Elizabeth clutches a banker's box of books to her chest, making an effort not to trip as she navigates her way along the busy sidewalk.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea
, she thinks.
Maybe he doesn't even have a shift today, or maybe there's a reason he hasn't been in touch on Facebook
. It's too late now, though; she can't exactly leave the box of books on the side of the road. There are people milling about. Someone will see and stop her, and how would she explain abandoning a box of books? A woman pushing a sleeping baby in an oversized stroller rolls over her green-sandaled foot. Elizabeth winces; its wheels are like tires. It's a bit like being hit by a car, she imagines, if she knew what being hit by a car felt like, which, thankfully, she doesn't.

“Sorry, sorry,” the woman apologizes. The baby wakes up at the sound of his mother's voice and wails loudly.

“It's okay,” replies Elizabeth, hurrying past. As she walks, she can see from underneath the vast expanse of the banker's box that the turquoise polish on three of her left toenails is now cracked. She makes a face, recalling how carefully she'd painted them the night before.

The bell tinkles as Elizabeth backs into the bookshop door, still carefully balancing the box. Safely inside, she drops it to the floor. Her arms ache and there are red marks near the elbows. The humidity has broken, but it's still hot out. She is sweating, and her face, especially, feels damp. With one swift movement, she wipes her forehead and smooths her hair.

“You!” Evan comes over. He's wearing one of those T-shirts that has a fake “Hello, My Name Is” sticker on it, with “Satan” written in the blank.

“Hi, Satan.” Elizabeth kicks the box in the direction of the desk. “I've got some books for you.”

“You must really hate me.” Evan looks at the box despondently. “Do you know how long it's going to take me to go through all that?”

“It's not as bad as it looks. A lot of them are the same sort of thing: medical thrillers. My mom loves them.”

“Are you sure she doesn't want to keep them, then?”

“Pretty sure—she said you could have them for free, as long as you take them away.”

“Actually, that does make it easier. Sam's system of working out how much to pay for each book is as complicated as an algebra textbook.”

“I take it you don't like algebra,” Elizabeth says, wiping a hand over her face. She notices her makeup is melting off and cringes.

“How did you guess?” Evan picks up the box and heaves it onto the desk. Boris, who is nibbling on some lettuce near the cash register, jumps, startled.

Elizabeth reaches over and pats him affectionately on the head. “Hi, Boris.” His ears twitch.

“So.” Evan turns to her. “Do you know how many Elizabeth Bryants there are?”

“Huh?”

“On Facebook. Elizabeth Bryants. There are, like, a hundred. I tried to find one with a picture of you but didn't see anything. Have you blocked your page?”

“No.” Elizabeth looks surprised. “I do have a picture.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Oh, wait a second.” Elizabeth feels her face go red. “It's, ah, not exactly a picture of me.”

“What's it a picture of, then?”

She feels hot with embarrassment. “A turtle.”

“A turtle? Why?”

“It's a special turtle. It has wheels instead of front claws.”

“Seriously?” Evan looks at her with raised eyebrows.

“It had to have its front claws amputated, so they replaced them with wheels. I thought it was cool.” Elizabeth has a fleeting thought of making a run for the door, but decides that would be even more humiliating at this point.

“I don't remember seeing it,” Evan says with a frown. “Then again, I was looking for a picture of a girl with long blonde hair.”

“Blonde? It's brown.” Feeling better, Elizabeth hides a smile.

“It's sort of, like, in between. Like maple syrup.” Their eyes meet. Evan is blushing now. He looks away, and it's quiet for a moment.

Evan clears his throat. “Did you like the Margaret Merriweather poetry?”

“Actually, it's kind of a long story.” Elizabeth leans on the desk and picks up a pen. She twirls it between two fingers.

“A long story? Does that mean no?” Evan looks disappointed.

“No. I mean, no, it doesn't. It's complicated. Do you have a minute?” Elizabeth puts down the pen and takes a deep breath.

“Sure.” Evan gestures. The store is empty. “We aren't exactly busy here today.”

“Okay.” Elizabeth leans against the desk again, making herself more comfortable. “So, you know the soldier doll?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I might have found it!” Elizabeth feels herself blush again as she makes her announcement. She doesn't look directly at Evan; her eyes fix on a bookcase behind him labeled
Fantasy and Science Fiction
.

Evan is quiet again for a minute. “Um,
I
found it for you. In the poetry section. Remember?” He looks at Elizabeth, his eyes question marks.

“No, not the poem.” Elizabeth shakes her head. Nervous, she makes a cradling motion with her arms. “The doll. You know—the one you said was missing?”

Evan stares at her and takes a small step back. Elizabeth watches his feet. He's wearing navy runners, but the laces have been removed.

“Wow, okay. So, since reading the poem, you managed to go out and track down the soldier doll? Busy couple of weeks for you, Elizabeth.” Evan raises his eyebrows. She can tell he doesn't believe her. Probably he's wondering if maybe she's not all there, a little crazy. She doesn't blame him.

“Call me Liz.” She brushes a stray hair out of her eyes. “And I'm not crazy.” He averts his gaze and hefts Boris up, creating a furry, white barrier between them. “I found the doll
before
you told me about the poem. I just didn't want to say anything until I knew more. I found it at a garage sale.” She goes on to tell him the whole story, ending with Dr. McLeod's verdict and the tests she said she'd run on the little wooden figure.

“I can't believe this.” Evan gently places Boris on the ground. He hops away happily, sniffing at a stack of yet-to-be-shelved romance novels. “It's too weird. You come in here, we talk about Margaret Merriweather, and you have the soldier doll sitting in, like, your kitchen that whole time?” His eyes are wide, and he's gesturing more than usual with his hands. His voice betrays a mix of surprise and hurt.

“Well, it was only five days. I haven't had it that long,” Elizabeth says apologetically. She plays with a strand of hair, nervously weaving it around her fingers.

“Whatever.” Evan waves his hand dismissively. “You really didn't know about it when you bought it? You'd never heard of the poem?” He still looks skeptical.

“Nope. If you hadn't mentioned it that day, I'd probably never have known.” Elizabeth's tone is firm and honest. She moves closer to Evan and smiles. “I owe you one.”

Evan smiles back. “I'll say!” His voice his teasing now. “You can give me my half of the million dollars when you sell it.”

“Funny.” Elizabeth starts to roll her eyes, then pauses. “You think it's worth a million dollars?”

“I don't know. It'll be worth a lot though.” Evan shakes his head. “What are you going to do with it? Sell it at one of those auction houses or something? It's too valuable for eBay or whatever.”

“I don't know.” Surprised, Elizabeth realizes she hasn't thought that far ahead. “I guess I was waiting to see if it's real.”

“You should have a plan, though. It's, like, a historical artifact.”

“I guess.” Elizabeth looks outside. The rain has started again. It's not raining hard, but the droplets are fat, and they hit the glass storefront like little water balloons. Elizabeth is reminded of Vancouver and feels wistful. She stares at the window, momentarily quiet.

“Is Margaret Merriweather still alive?” Evan asks suddenly, eyes bright.

“Huh?” Elizabeth is stirred from her reverie. She stares blankly for a moment, then recovers and does some quick math in her head. “I doubt it,” she says finally. She'd have to be at least a hundred.”

“But it's possible,” says Evan thoughtfully. He leans his weight against one of the wobblier looking bookcases, jumping back when the books start to sway precariously.

“I guess. Do you have Internet access on that thing?” She nods at the computer on the desk. It's clunky and archaic-looking, with one of those giant, boxy monitors that look like the old TVs.

“Good thinking!” Evan brightens and sits down at the desk. “Wikipedia will know.”

Evan pulls up the online encyclopedia and types in the author's name. Elizabeth comes around behind him so she can get a look at the screen. Even Boris seems interested. He is shuffling around their feet, nibbling at the strap of one of Elizabeth's sandals. “Cut that out, Boris,” she says. “Those are vintage espadrilles.” She scoops up the rabbit and settles him back on the desk. He rediscovers the forgotten lettuce leaf and busies himself, content.

“She's still alive!”

Elizabeth stares at the screen in disbelief, but Evan is right: Margaret Merriweather is still alive and living in London.

Evan whistles. “Still alive but ancient. Wow!”

“Yeah.” Elizabeth is looking at the photograph of the author. It's black-and-white. Her hair is similar to Elizabeth's own. Unconsciously, Elizabeth reaches up and touches her hair. She wraps a thick lock around her left hand and lets it unravel. It still holds the curl a bit when she lets go.

“You should get in contact with her.” Evan is excited now. He paces the length of the desk. “She would know whether it's the real doll or not!”

“That's true.” Elizabeth nods. “It's also hers. I think we'd have to give it back.”

Evan feigns disappointment. “What about the million dollars?”

Elizabeth grins. “Maybe she'll give us a reward!”

“Yeah, right. I once returned a guy's laptop. It was a really good one, and he gave me a dollar.” He scowls at the memory.

“That was generous.” Elizabeth laughs and hoists herself up onto the desk so that she's facing Evan. Her legs dangle off the edge and she swings them back and forth.

“Ha. So are you going to get in touch with her, then?” Evan is curious. He clicks on something. “There's her publisher; she doesn't have her personal address online, obviously.”

“Right,” says Elizabeth, grinning. “She needs her privacy from all those wild and crazy
Autumn Evening
fans.”

“Actually, more like crazy soldier doll hunters. Of which you are now one.” He taps her leg playfully.

“True.” Elizabeth smiles again and runs a hand through her hair.

Evan is tapping away at the keyboard. “Can I send you the link?”

“Sure, that would be great.” She gives him her e-mail address and watches the back of his head as he types. His hair is still sticking up in a variety of directions. She suppresses an urge to reach over and pat it down.

“I need to get back,” she says, noting the time on the computer.

“I'll send you a message tonight. I'll look for a bionic turtle.”

Elizabeth blushes. “I need to change it.”

“Don't, it's weird.” He pauses. “In a good way.” He pauses again. “I like it.”

“You don't have to be nice.”

“I'm not. I like turtles. Maybe I'll get one for the store. A pet for Boris. Boris, do you want a turtle, my little hare?” Evan chuckles at his own joke.

Boris eyes him suspiciously, then goes back to the lettuce, turning his considerable backside toward Evan.

“Right. Maybe not.” He grins again. “I'll talk to you later. You know, there are some parties and stuff going on. Like, with kids from school. You should come. I could introduce you to people.”

“Thanks! That's really nice of you.” Elizabeth is at the door now. The rain has stopped, but the humidity has returned. When she opens the door, a wall of steam envelops her.

“Bye, Evan.”

“Later, Turtle Girl.”

Outside, Elizabeth loses her footing on the wet pavement and slips slightly. She catches herself, but the polish on her right toes is now totally scraped away, too. She barely notices. She plays with a strand of her hair again and wonders with what picture of herself she should replace the turtle.