Summer of My German Soldier (20 page)

Grandmother brought me a perfectly oval omelet. “I’m sorry to cause you all this trouble,” I said.

“Trouble? An omelet is trouble?”

“Well, that and having to stay up to let me in last night.”

“It’s nice having you—” she said, patting my cheek—“even if it’s because of this
mish-mosh.
”

“Mish-mosh?”

“What else? Does a person have to ask for credentials before they can give food to a hungry man? Are you responsible because you gave nourishment to a bad man? The whole business is a
mishegoss.
”

“I’m glad you’re not angry with me.”

“What is there to be angry about? I have messages for you. I’m going to drive you to Lawyer Kishner’s office at quarter till eleven, and he’s going to take you himself to the FBI. Also a friend called.” She began searching through a pad of paper. “I wrote it down myself. Here! It’s a Miss Charlene Madlee. She’s coming by tonight to see you.”

Mostly, I told the FBI everything they wanted to know, and I told it about a dozen times to four different agents. One question they seemed keen on asking was if anybody else knew. Sometimes they’d just ask, “Who else knew?” or “Why are you taking all the blame?” Things like that. But always I gave the same answer—“Nobody else knew. It was only me.”

It was after four in the afternoon when the boss agent, Mr. Wilhelm, told one of the younger agents to drive me back to my grandmother’s. “I don’t believe we’ll be needing you anymore, Patty, but you’d better stay here in Memphis for a while. Things are unsettled in Jenkinsville.”

“Unsettled?”

“Well, I understand your parents are being harassed.”

“How?”

“Telephone calls, a store window broken, things like that.”

“Why would they bother them? Can’t you tell people that they had nothing to do with it? They didn’t even know.”

Mr. Wilhelm scratched his forehead like he was trying to come up with an answer for me. “When people’s emotions are involved they don’t want to listen.”

At eight o’clock my grandmother opened the door for Charlene as I stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for my trembling to subside. Would she hate me?

“It was kind of you to let me come tonight, Mrs. Fried.” If there was any hate in Charlene’s voice I couldn’t catch it.

“Our pleasure, Miss—”

“Madlee. Charlene Madlee.”

“Yes, well, Miss Madlee, Patty needs all her friends now. You saw the evening paper?”

“Oh, yes, I read them as well as write for them.”

“You write? For newspapers? You told me you were a friend of Patty’s. Friends we need; reporters we don’t.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Fried, I am a friend. When we met during the summer, Patty told me that her grandparents lived in Hein Park. Also I came here tonight to bring you encouraging news.”

As I walked down the stairs, Charlene gave me a real smile. Still my friend. My grandfather pulled out a dining room chair for Charlene. “My wife makes the best strudel in the world. Wait’ll you taste!” He smacked his lips.

Charlene ate a forkful. “You know, Mrs. Fried, I think your husband is right. You do make the world’s best strudel.”

“It’s wonderful,” I said. “I remember reading somewhere that kissing doesn’t last, but cookery does.”

My grandfather jumped up from the host’s chair to give Grandmother a noisy kiss on her cheek. “Does that answer your question, young lady?”

“Sam!”

We all laughed, then abruptly turned to Charlene as if hoping she might give us something of substance to laugh about.

“I talked today to Charles Hammett,” said Charlene.

“He’s the editor of the
Commercial Appeal?
” asked Grandfather.

“He’s our publisher. Well, Mr. Hammett had lunch with a high official from the Justice Department, which would be the agency responsible for initiating legal actions in such cases as Patty’s. The feeling is that the government would be very reluctant to prosecute a twelve-year-old under the Treason Act. Also he mentioned that our allies would consider us barbaric if we did such a thing.”

Grandfather clapped his hands. “Thank God! I knew this American government was 100 per cent O.K. After all, what did my granddaughter do that’s so terrible? She’s only twelve, so she didn’t act wisely, O.K. But she meant good, you have to admit that. And do you think for one minute that fellow,
alevasholem,
told Patty that he was an escaped prisoner? Also one other point, excuse me for bringing this up, Miss Madlee. I recognize that you aren’t of our faith, but do you think that if we were Protestants there would be all this hullabaloo?”

“I’m certain there wouldn’t, Mr. Fried. There’s no question
that this gave some people an excuse to parade their anti-Semitism. But all the interest isn’t anti-Semitic. Some people may find love and brotherhood in the story. The Memphis bureau of United Press sent it over the international wires, which means that tonight people throughout the world will be reading about how a Jewish girl befriended a German boy.”

“I pray to God,” said Grandmother, “that when they read about Patty they’ll feel a little closer to their brothers no matter what faith or nationality.”

“I’m just glad it’s over,” said Grandfather.

Charlene looked confused. “I’m sorry if I implied that all charges against Patty will be dropped; I meant only the serious charges of treason. The man from the Justice Department felt that if there was a public outcry the state of Arkansas might wish to prosecute Patty on a lesser charge.”

“But I’m not guilty of a lesser charge! They can call it treason, but they can’t call it anything else.”

“At best, Patty, all charges will be dropped,” said Charlene. “But if the Arkansas politicians are pushed to move against you they could easily get you on, say, a delinquency charge. In that way the Federal Government is off the hook, and people will still feel that justice has been served.”

Grandmother clasped her hand to her heart. “You don’t think—it’s not possible that they would send my granddaughter to jail?”

“It’s only the slightest of possibilities,” said Charlene slowly, as though she were choosing her words with inordinate care. “But there does still exist the chance that Patty might be sent to reform school.”

19. No Fear

O! Little town of Bethlehem,

How still we see thee lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep,

The silent stars go—

T
HE MUSIC FROM
the car radio turned to static. “Too far from Jonesboro to get much reception,” said Mr. Calvin Grimes.

“Guess so.”

“Well,” he said, snapping the radio off, “reckon that’s it.”

“Yes, sir, guess it is,” I answered, trying to keep up my end of the conversation.

The sky was purply, deepening even as I watched, warning of the approach of darkness and maybe even of snow. Along the highway rows of never-been-painted tenant shacks glowed with the softness of kerosene lamps. Their windows without curtains gave quick exposures of tenant families, mostly colored, sitting around the supper table.

Then with sudden speed Mr. Grimes swerved from the right- to the left-hand lane to pass a poky tractor. “Feller should know enough,” he said, “to have his lights on this time of day, wouldn’t you think? Slow-moving vehicle like that.”

“Yes, sir, he sure should,” I said.

As the road turned off to the left, there was a definite rise from the flatness of the delta lands. Beginning in me was a matching feeling of ascent. Where have you been for such a long time, Hope? Remember the last time you came paying me a visit? Wait six years, you told me, only six years and I would have outside beauty—more even than my mother’s—while inside I would grow beautiful like Ruth. And then I would find Anton again, and he would love me for everything I was, everything I had become.

Suddenly a chuckle started up in me and then a second and a third. Without moving my eyes from the side window I could tell Mr. Grimes had turned to look at me. “Girl, if you’ve got yourself a funny, why don’t you share it?”

“Uh, no, sir, I don’t actually know any jokes or anything
like that, it was just that—Well, I was thinking of a friend of mine whom I liked being with so much because he could always make things fun. Know what I mean?”

“Reckon I do.” Mr. Grimes measured out his words. “Them kind of folks always nice to have around.”

“Not just big things,” I explained because for some reason I really wanted him to understand, “but little things too. Things that lotsa folks wouldn’t even find amusing.”

“Girl, that’s one of the Lord’s blessings. Laughter and them that makes it. Like he gives it to some folks to be strong, others to be rich. Now, to me he gave a fine wife and four good boys. Them’s blessings, girl. Everybody got to find the Lord’s bounty and give thanks. You know your blessings? Counted them? Laid them aside and said your thanks?”

I thought of Ruth, Grandmother, and Grandfather. I thought of the frizzle that had finally grown out of my hair. And then I thought of him, and I wondered if a blessing is still a blessing if it lasts for only a little while?

Then with my eyes quite open Anton’s face came through. I closed my eyes to blot out all possible distractions. He was smiling that smile, I’d seen it before when he said to me, “Remember, P.B., remember when ...” But I didn’t hear the rest of his words. I was just too filled up with feelings of pleasure and privilege to think that in those short days together we had begun making memories.

“Ya gettin’ hungry?” Mr. Grimes’ dry voice popped my bubble of reverie. “There’s a restaurant down the road jest past Lambert. We could stop there for hamburgers ’cause I’m not in a million years gonna make Bolton till after ten o’clock. I jest don’t know whether one of them matrons
would save you a bite of supper. Wouldn’t bet my last nickel on it, tell you that fer sure.” In the distance a large red neon sign blinked:

SHANLEY’S GULF STATION

Good Food—Good Gas

Even a car-length away from Shanley’s front door the smell of things fried—hamburgers, potatoes, and onions—was pretty powerful.

At the back of the restaurant a fancy jukebox changed from red to purple to blue as it blared forth, “Shuffle on down to Memphis Town. ... Oh, shuffle on down to Memphis Town. Ain’t got no money but I’ll show you around.”

I followed Mr. Grimes to the only empty booth, empty of people but not of their dishes. Ashes and cigarette butts filled the glass ash tray to capacity.

Our waitress, who was about sixteen and I guess you’d call her pretty, wore beaded Indian moccasins but no stockings over her hairy legs. She dropped a menu wrapped in a cellophane folder on the table and left without bothering to clean up the mess. With the back of his arm Mr. Grimes swept the dirty dishes to the edge of the table. “I like it clean and neat when I eat,” he said. “Seems like ever since the war, waitresses been going from bad to worse.”

As he shook his head, I noticed deep lines which ran like chicken wire from the corners of his eyes clean out to his hairline. Mr. Grimes was far away from being young and, judging from the leanness of his body, he’d never been especially strong.

After we had eaten our hamburgers and french fries and
drunk down our coffee, Mr. Grimes waved to the waitress. “What kinda pie you got?”

She gave her hair, which was the color of brown wrapping paper, a good scratching. “We’re all out of apple.” Nodding in the direction of the counter, she said, “Gave that feller the last piece.”

“What kind have you got left?” asked Mr. Grimes, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“ ’Bout the only thing I know we got is some sugar doughnuts left over from the morning and some lemon meringue pie.”

“I’ll take a piece of that meringue,” he said, and he looked over at me. “Ya wanna piece too?”

Behind the counter a penciled sign read: All Pies 12¢. “Well, uh, no, thank you. I guess I don’t care for any pie today,”

“Better get some,” encouraged Mr. Grimes. “This might be your last decent meal for a while.”

When I laid my fork down the pie plate had only a few pin-point-sized crumbs left on it. I wanted to send my fork after those too, but didn’t want Mr. Grimes to think I was still a little hungry. I felt his eyes upon me and looked up.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, “I don’t think you oughta go mentioning to anybody that we stopped off for a bite of supper ’cause jest strictly speakin’, I ain’t ’spose to stop nowhere with no prisoner.”

Prisoner? Me? The judge never once used that word: “I hereby sentence Patricia Ann Bergen to be committed to the Arkansas Reformatory for Girls at Bolton, Arkansas, for a period of not more than six months nor less than four
months.” But if Mr. Grimes calls me a prisoner, I guess he ought to know. Funny, the word has no sting. But then nothing has much sting anymore.

He rubbed his fist back and forth across his chin. “So we’ll jest keep this between you and me, O.K.?”

I didn’t want him fearing for his job on my account. “Mr. Grimes, it was sure nice of you to stop so I could have something to eat, and I will never say anything to anybody. If I got you in trouble—Pow! God should strike me down dead.”

His smile showed a vacancy between two front teeth. “Lord, girl, I sure don’t want nothing like that happening to you.”

I felt myself smiling back. He was really quite nice. “The whole thing is, and I thought about it quite a lot, it’s not true what they said about me. In court they called me a person of no loyalties—a traitor. But it just couldn’t be true ’cause it was my loyalties that got me into trouble in the first place, know what I mean?”

He nodded. “I read about it in the papers, how you helped out that German boy.”

I was grateful he called him a boy; better than the others calling him Nazi or spy. “I wanted to help him because he wasn’t a Nazi or a spy, and he wasn’t even mean. Anton was the kindest, smartest man I’ve ever known. I wanted to tell that to the judge so he’d understand why I had to hide him. Why I had to help him stay free. But Mr. Kishner just kept shaking his head No.”