The Cherry Harvest (2 page)

“Then tax 'em!” Artie pumped a fist. “All those laborers coming in, getting wealthy right under our noses. Tax 'em to pay the pickers. Hell, they make so much they won't even notice.”

Mike put out his hands. “We can't institute a tax without a public vote. Next election isn't until September.”

“Then what are you gonna do?” Ralph challenged.

Charlotte touched Thomas's hand. He tucked his pipe into his pocket and slowly stood. The room quieted. He glanced about, taking his time, then cleared his throat and spoke. “The Army's going to be bringing in German prisoners, setting up camps.”

A murmur surged through the crowd. “What'd you say?” Faces stared up at his tall frame.

“Prisoner-of-war camps, here in Wisconsin,” he said a bit louder. “The prisoners can do the work.”

Charlotte breathed in deeply and sat up straight.

“Are you saying we get Nazis to work the farms?” Big Mike crushed his cigarette into a stone ashtray.

“It's what they're planning down in Beaver Dam.” Thomas motioned toward Charlotte. “My wife's cousin wrote they'll be working the canneries, living in tents at the fairgrounds—”

“Those are killers you're talking about,” Mike cut in. “We can't just let 'em loose!”

The sheriff cleared his throat. “They're boys, like our boys. Just on the wrong side.”

“Boys?” Mike turned on the sheriff. “They killed my son!”

The room went quiet until Ole broke the silence. “I hear it on the QT, Canadians captured a German submarine in the Saint Lawrence Seaway.”

Men gasped.

Ole held up a hand. “It's not in the news 'cause of the media blackout, but just think about it.” He scanned the shocked faces. “The Saint Lawrence leads into Lake Ontario, Erie, Huron—and right to us, right to Lake Michigan. And you can bet they'd love to come on in and stop the shipbuilding here in Sturgeon Bay and down in Milwaukee and Chicago. Why, they might be mining the lakes right now.”

Big Mike pounded his fist on the table. “All we need are some Nazi spies on our shores signaling to them German subs, telling 'em how it is.”

Ole appeared frightened. “Nazis are trained solders, and we're the enemy. They'll escape—”

“Where they gonna escape to? They don't even speak English, for God's sake,” Ralph said.

Bo looked to the growers. “What else you got?”

“We got nothin' else.” Artie nodded toward Thomas. “I like what he says.”

“Yeah. I say put 'em to work.” Ralph stood, hands clasping the straps of his overalls. “They owe us.”

Growers' voices rose in agreement until Bo banged his gavel. “Quiet. One at a time.”

Thomas spoke up. “Our son, Benjamin, is serving with Clark's Fifth Army in Italy now. As you can imagine, we hate those Nazis as much as any of you.”

Charlotte rose beside him. At five-foot-ten, her height was an advantage when dealing with men. “We worry about our boys overseas, but we have nothing to feed our families here at home.” She herself wondered over the consequences of the plan, but she wasn't going to let her doubts show, not with the family farm at stake.
“Time, that's our worst enemy. And these prisoners, they're the only way we can get our crops in before we lose another year.”

“Where're they gonna stay?” Ole demanded.

“We have a migrant worker camp,” Charlotte said. “Enough for fifteen, maybe twenty men on our property.”

Thomas nodded.

“I have a camp too,” Ralph shouted.

“Put the sonsabitches to work,” one of the growers called out. “Labor's labor.”

The sheriff cleared his throat before speaking. “What do we do to get these PWs here?”

“It's all in the letter,” Thomas said. “We petition the Army for however many men we need. They bring guards in with the workers. We give the Army the workers' pay. But we can delay payment until after the harvest.”

“You saying the Army's going to pay the damn Nazis?” Mike said.

“They'll be sitting in the back of the movie house,” Ole said. “With our girls.”

Thomas shook his head. “The Army'll pay them in scrip, only good in the commissary. They won't be buying any movie tickets.”

Pastor Duncan cleared his throat and after a few moments of silence began. “I know the pain this community is suffering. I sit with families who've lost their men and boys. I see farms and businesses going under. Forgive your enemies, Christ teaches. These prisoners, we must forgive them.”

“You gotta be kidding!” Mike shouted.

The sheriff started to stand, but when Mike scowled he resumed his seat. “I move we vote,” Mike said.

The growers rose, cheering.

“I second the motion,” Bo said. “But only board members.”

Amid the grumbling that followed, Bo brought down the gavel. “All in favor of petitioning the Army for prisoners of war to work the farms, raise a hand.”

Charlotte watched as Pastor Duncan's hand went up, then the sheriff's. A few men who hadn't spoken raised tentative hands. Mike sat rigid, his face smug.

The room grew quiet until Bo shouted out the verdict: “Four in favor, five against.”

“Then what are you going to do for us?” Artie jumped up.

“Cherries is what makes this county,” Ralph yelled.

Charlotte stood again and faced the board. “If we don't have a harvest, we won't be buying at your stores.” As the growers mumbled their assent, she realized that her voice was the strongest in the room. The men at the table had nothing to offer but fear. “You businessmen are wealthy now because of the shipyard. But once this war's over, if the orchards are gone, the tourists won't be back. And there won't be any growers either. What are you going to do then?” The room went quiet. “It's not about politics, it's about survival.”

“Here, here!” Artie led the growers to their feet.

Thomas gave Charlotte's hand a squeeze.

Bo wasn't smiling now. He nodded down the table toward Ole and Mike.

“Fine, then. Do it.” Mike's voice boomed. “But let the record show . . .” He pointed to the growers, his eyes focused on Charlotte. “Let the record show that you—
you
—are making a bargain with the devil.”

A SHAFT OF LIGHT
swung across the ceiling and disappeared. Kate could count the minutes before it came again, pulsing through the night from the lighthouse half a mile up the coast.

A cool evening breeze flowed in through her open window along with the gentle lapping at the shore below. She was over the rabbit now, but even more determined to leave this place in the fall. Snuggling under her quilt, Kate chose a novel from the stack on her nightstand and opened to the first page: “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again . . .” Oh, this was going to be good.

Bingo jumped onto the bed and purred for attention. Kate plumped her pillows behind her, nestled the cat in her lap, and fell readily into the story.

The rumble of Father's truck broke the spell. Kate continued reading, but when she heard Mother and Father coming up the stairs—were they arguing?—she could no longer focus. Family conversations were generally respectful, though lately Kate sensed tension beneath the polite words. It was Father's voice now. “If even one of those PWs sneaks off . . . I'll be out in the orchard . . . who will protect you and Kate?”

Kate slipped out of bed and stood near her door, listening.
German war prisoners in the orchard?

A gust off the lake brought gooseflesh to her skin. She hugged her flannel nightgown tight around her. If only Ben were here. Since he'd left, nothing was right. She had to talk to Josie.

After closing her door, she pulled on overalls and a thick wool sweater. She switched off her reading lamp, reached out her window, and grabbed hold of a thick oak branch.

Her Schwinn bicycle was her way out. It didn't take her far, not nearly far enough, but it took her to Josie's. Before gas rationing, she could have taken the motorboat, but now she wasn't allowed to use it. Besides, it would make too much noise in the quiet night.

The path followed the scoop of bay, edging between the beach on her right and the front yard on her left. Approaching the woods, Kate rode through the cedar trees and passed by the caretaker's cottage. Designed as a smaller version of the house, the cottage had been abandoned for years. This was where Josie wanted to live after she and Ben were married, and she had been bringing things to it, little by little—a framed mirror for the bedroom, a watercolor of a house with a white picket fence for the living room, sheets and pillows and a quilt for the double bed. Kate had promised to make lacy curtains.

Just beyond the cottage, a crackle in the cedar branches startled her—a white-tailed doe and two speckled fawns. She rode quickly past, not worried about the deer but about the coyotes that would be attracted to the little ones. She didn't want to be in their path if they came yelping.

When she reached Island Road, Kate leaned her bicycle against a birch tree, kicked off her canvas loafers, and rolled up the legs of her overalls. The channel was about twenty yards across. Until a few months ago, a footbridge had connected the island to the mainland, but a winter storm brought it down. The lighthouse keeper ferried to the mainland by boat, and for anyone who might venture by foot, he
had fastened a rope alongside the fallen bridge. Today, because of the storm surge, the water was high. Kate grabbed the rope and stepped barefoot into the cold water, which reached nearly to her knees.

She was about halfway across when a splash on the surface stopped her. A dark creature dove under. She froze, anxious for what might attack her from below. But when a beaver surfaced, heading toward an inlet stream, she laughed at her silliness.

Once she reached Loon Island, Kate ran through the woods, well-worn piney needles soft under her bare feet. When she came to the yard, she hurried past the outbuildings—oil house, icehouse, smokehouse, woodshed, barn, privy, summer kitchen—and finally stopped below Josie's second-story window. She threw a small stone, their signal. Josie's face peered out, then disappeared.

Soon Josie opened the door to the dark hallway between the keeper's residence and the tower. “C'mon,” she whispered. Her parents would be asleep, but on a night like this, their windows would be open. Holding an oil lamp before her, Josie led the way to the circular brick lighthouse and up cold cast-iron steps—118 of them—spiraling up and up and up.

At the top, while Josie held up the lamp, Kate pushed open the hatch. They climbed through to the watch room, which was surrounded by thick glass. Josie opened the door to the outside gallery, a gray cast-iron balcony encircling the tower.

A short wall-mounted ladder led to the lantern room above, where the huge lens turned. Only Josie's father was allowed up there. The lens illuminated the world around, scene by scene—the watery horizon to the east, the gravelly shore to the south, the woods on the mainland, and the rocky shore leading to the Potawatomi Islands far to the north.

Sitting next to Josie on the metal lattice floor, Kate pulled her sweater close against the chill night air. Josie offered her a Chesterfield, and Kate leaned in for the light.

Josie had large features, full lips, dark eyes, and next to Kate's
slim figure, she was all curves. Though Josie was a year older, Kate had skipped a grade, so the friends were both high school seniors. Josephine, the teachers called her. The boys called her sexy.

“Look what I found,” Josie whispered, pulling a magazine from inside her jacket. Kate had encouraged her to read poetry and fiction, but Josie was more interested in magazines,
Good Housekeeping, Ladies' Home Journal
. She even kept a scrapbook of favorite articles—“The Good Wife's Guide,” “How to Keep Your Man Happy,” and other sappy advice.

At least this magazine looked more interesting than the others.
Esquire
. Josie opened it to a pen-and-ink drawing of a redheaded woman lying back provocatively, wearing black lingerie that hid nothing, her long legs angled up as if she were lying on an invisible couch, feet pointed in black high-heeled slippers. “One of the Vargas Girls.” Josie said it as if the girl in the illustration was a personal friend. She flipped the page and started reading aloud from an interview with Hugh Hefner.

“Hugh who?”

“I don't know who he is either, but you can learn a lot about what a boy wants by reading these things.”

“Oh, Josie. Why do you waste your time on this?”

“Hah! You're the one wasting your time on made-up stories. Where's that going to get you? I'm more interested in real life.”

“Real life isn't nearly as interesting.”

“That's because you're not in love.” Josie's face beamed for a moment in the revolving light, smiling as if she knew more than she would tell. “You just need to meet the right boy.”

Kate took a long drag on her cigarette.

Josie nudged her. “My mother got me a subscription to
The Bride's Magazine
. I want you to help me pick out a wedding dress that Benny would like.”

Kate had to control herself to keep from laughing. Ben couldn't care less about wedding dresses.

“Say, I saw Timothy Peterson watching you in English class.” Josie paused for attention. Timothy was seventeen, not yet old enough to enlist. “He's smart and handsome, and his father owns that lumber and building supply place. Big Mike's.” Josie paused to take a puff. “His big brother was killed, you know. He needs someone to talk to. You could have a good life with him.”

“I don't want a good life with him or anyone else. I want my
own
life.”

“Oh, Kate. You've never even kissed a boy, let alone . . .” Josie entwined an arm in Kate's. “When you're in love, it makes all the difference.”

The two friends were quiet for a bit, gazing out across the dark lake. Josie broke the silence. “I'd like to make something special for Benny. What do you think?”

“Chocolate. He likes chocolate. Cookies, brownies.” That's what Kate would do if it weren't for the rationing. Here at the lighthouse Josie had access to so much Kate didn't have—sugar, butter, and any book she wanted—all brought in by the Coast Guard.

“I'm thinking of something he could wear.” Josie gave a sly smile. “You could help. You like to sew—”

“I'm sure the Army gives Ben all the clothes he needs.”

“Something intimate.” She faced Kate in the dark and whispered, “We could make him underpants.”

“What?”

“Shh . . .” Josie admonished, then continued in a low voice. “A soft fabric . . . I'd embroider a little heart with my name—”

“Really! How could you think such a thing! Anyway, you don't know his size.”

Josie blew smoke out the side of her mouth. “I bet he left a pair in his room. You could—”

“I will not!” Kate took an angry puff on her cigarette and flicked the butt through the gallery railing.

“Or I could ask your mother . . .”

“And that would be the end of that.” Mother did not like Josie one bit.

Thoughts of Mother brought back the image of the quartered rabbit, punishment, no doubt, for spending time at school, studying, instead of coming straight home to help with chores. “Mother wants me home all the time now. It's gotten worse since Ben left.”

Josie lit another cigarette and gave it to Kate.

“I'm not good at the things he does.” Kate sucked in the smoke.

Josie peered off into the darkness. “Nobody can compare with Benny.”

Kate pulled her legs up under her.

“He's so popular. And the best dancer in the world.” Josie stood and spun small circles, disappearing off around the gallery.

It was true. Everyone loved Ben. He couldn't play on the football team because of his chores, but before every home game the players would rub his blond hair for luck. During the games he ran up and down the field, cheering the plays, getting the crowd cheering as well. He was strong and handy and helped neighbors fix fences and raise barns. Friends would show up in the orchard or the barn and talk with him while he worked; he'd give them things to do. Groups of boys would drop by after supper. In the summer they'd swim in the lake and sit on the dock; in the winter they'd go down to the cottage to talk their “man talk,” Ben called it, shooing Kate away when she tried to join them.

Josie came dancing back around the gallery and tried pulling Kate up with her. “All the girls want to be with Benny, but he chose me! I just want to dance with him. Dance and dance and dance! C'mon.”

Kate shook her head. “I have something to tell you.”

“A secret?” Josie sat down and leaned in close. She loved secrets.

Kate put a finger to her lips. “German war prisoners are going to work in our orchard.”

“Nazis in your yard?” Josie cried. “Benny's fighting them and your family is going to—?”

“Shh!”

“I can't believe it! Does Benny know?” She grabbed Kate's arm. “I have to write to him about this.”

“No!” Oh, she shouldn't have told.

Ben's letters to Josie were different from those he wrote to the family. Letters to Josie were often stained with muddy fingerprints, written from cold foxholes, he told her. They had passages blacked out by Army censors, and Josie figured he was talking about his buddies dying beside him, gunned down by the Nazis. In the parts that weren't blacked out, he said that only two things kept him going: his hatred for the enemy, and his anticipation of holding Josie once again in his arms.

Josie's face hardened. “When those Nazis are in your orchard, I might just come by with Papa's rifle and shoot them out of the trees.” The light swung around and her eyes glowed. “Benny would like that.”

IT WAS WELL BEYOND MIDNIGHT
when Kate climbed back up the oak tree in the light of a million stars. Inside, she undressed before the open window, then lay naked on her sheets. After the heated bicycle ride home, she welcomed the chilly night air on her skin.

Sometime later she startled awake. Eyes staring in at her. It wasn't a new dream—it came with the rustling of branches, raccoons in the tree or deer in the brush below—but this time the eyes belonged to Nazi prisoners. Leering, laughing.

A shaft of light drifted across the ceiling and disappeared. She shivered and pulled up her covers.