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Authors: Marie Bostwick

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BOOK: River's Edge
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Her speech was delivered without a trace of sentimentality. She was both dignified and vulnerable. I thought for a moment, then put on the apron I was still holding, crossing the strings around the back and tying them in front, just like Mrs. Ludwig did.
When I returned home from my morning at Mrs. Ludwig's, Mama and Papa were waiting for me. The house was completely silent, and I wondered where the other children were. It was the first time I could remember ever seeing Mama just sitting without doing anything. Even when we listened to the radio in the evenings, Mama always had her knitting or mending to keep her hands occupied. But at this moment, she and Papa sat at the kitchen table with the morning paper between them, the words
Germany Invades Poland!
emblazoned on the front page like a scream.
War. My father was a warrior, and he was at war. I was in Brightfield, Massachusetts, USA—where I was bringing a plate of freshly made Polish donuts to my adopted family. It seemed ironic and not quite real. It shamed me to realize that while I had been in Mrs. Ludwig's kitchen, measuring flour, taking orders, and actually enjoying myself a little, I had forgotten all about the war that my own father was fighting half a world away. My pride over a morning of successful, or at least not disastrous, baking seemed suddenly trivial and a little embarrassing. I put the plate on the countertop without telling the Mullers what was on it. As I took off my coat, Papa sat up a bit straighter in his chair and squared his shoulders, the way I'd seen him do just before starting his sermons.
“I already saw it,” I said dully before he could speak. “Mrs. Ludwig told me. I suppose Father must be there.”
Papa Muller nodded his head. “Probably.”
Mama pulled a letter out of her apron pocket and held it out to me. “This came for you today.”
I took the envelope and held it in my hands, examining the stamps pasted in the upper right-hand corner.
Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Fuhrer,
the stamps said. “One People, One Nation, One Fuhrer.” A date of April 10, 1938, was printed on the right edge of the stamp. It was meant to commemorate the Austrian Anschluss. I had seen such stamps many times before I came to America, but how odd it was that this particular stamp suddenly seemed strange, so foreign.
Not once in all the times I had opened a letter or glued a stamp to an envelope had I ever questioned such slogans. Mrs. Ludwig's speech made me wonder how I would have felt about the Anschluss if I had been an Austrian girl. And if I lived in Poland, what would I be feeling right now as I watched German tanks roll down the streets of my town? The hair stood up on the back of my neck, as though even thinking such things was disloyal. I shook myself, as if to rid my body of an unwelcome chill and chided myself for asking such questions when my own father was at war and possibly in danger. I was angry with Father, it was true, but I could not doubt that his decisions had been made with my welfare in mind. I felt I must not doubt that any side he fought on was the side of right.
Who was I going to trust on questions of such importance—an elderly, cantankerous Polish peasant or my own father, a distinguished graduate of the German War College, an officer, an aristocrat, a Braun? There was no contest. I dismissed all the uncomfortable questions from my mind and looked up to see the Mullers watching me, a mixture of curiosity and concern evident on their faces.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly. “If you don't mind, I would like to go and read this now.”
“Of course,” Mama said getting up from the table and crossing the room. She stood next to me with her arm across my shoulder, patting my arm reassuringly. “You can go into the parlor, or up to your room if you'd like some privacy. We gave Junior the keys to the truck and asked him to take the other children into town for some ice cream.”
“You didn't have to send them away on my account,” I said, hearing an unintended twinge of irritation creep into my voice. I didn't like the idea of the Mullers discussing me behind my back.
“Well, we thought it would be best.” Papa smiled understandingly, glancing first at me and then at his wife. “We thought you just might need some peace and quiet for a little while. It must come as quite a surprise.”
“Not really,” I lied coldly. “We all knew this was coming. Father did, certainly. After all, that's why I am here, isn't it?”
The smile faded from Papa's face, and I felt a momentary prick of guilt. Mama patted my arm again and spoke with a forced cheerfulness, “The fighting doesn't seem to be very heavy, at least not according to the newspaper reports. I'm sure your father is fine.”
“Yes,” Papa added, “I'm sure he is, but we'll make sure to pray for his safety at supper tonight.”
“Thank you,” I replied formally, “but I am sure that will not be necessary. My father is a fifth-generation officer. He has trained for battle all his life. If experience and skill have anything to do with it, then I am sure he is safe. If not, and he has been unlucky, then there is nothing that God can do about it.”
Even as the words left my lips, I hated myself for speaking that way, in a manner calculated to wound the Mullers most, but I could not stop myself. I mumbled an excuse and ran upstairs to my room. Sitting uneasily on the edge of the bed, I found a loose corner on the envelope flap and ran my finger carefully under the edge that had kept Father's letter sealed and secret during a long journey across the ocean. As I slid the letter out, bringing with it that faint aroma of dust and cigar smoke that always hung in the air of his study, I could see him as he sat at his desk writing—his two extra pens laid out at the ready on the left side of the desk, reinforcements ready to be called into action, a sheet of ivory stationery in front of him at precisely the correct angle, his posture immovable and ramrod straight as his right hand moved at an even pace across the paper, the point of the pen scratching ever so lightly as he wrote.
The entry in the upper right-hand corner of the page told me he had written it three weeks previously while still in Berlin, so I knew before I began that the letter couldn't tell me if he was safe. The push into Poland had taken place only the day before, but, still, in my heart I had hoped that by some magical trick of will or time the letter would reveal that he was, at this very moment, unhurt and far from the fire of guns and the dangers of war. No matter what I'd said to the Mullers, I was worried for my father. Worried for his safety. Worried that we would be robbed of one another, and I would be truly alone. I began to read.
Dear Daughter,
 
I hope that this letter finds you well and safe. I suppose it must be nearing time for school to begin. There is no doubt in my mind that you will pour yourself into your studies with diligence and discipline and that, by doing so, you will achieve excellent marks in all your subjects. Though you may, at first, find it challenging to complete all of your work in English, you must not use that as an excuse to accept anything less than top marks in every class. I expect no less of you and you should expect no less of yourself.
I found your last letter disturbing and disappointing. Frankly, I resent your assertions that I have somehow “abandoned” you in America. Whether you understand it or not, I am making the best decisions for you and at some considerable personal cost. It hurts me more than you know to have you so far away from me.
You aren't a child anymore. You are a young woman, only a few years younger than your mother when we married. I suppose it is natural that you have begun to question authority. So I have decided to address your concerns because you are reaching an age at which, I hope, you are mature enough to understand and accept both my reasoning and my decision.
I have only had two loves in my life, you and your mother. Now that I have lost one, I cannot risk losing the other. You are the only person on earth who means anything to me. It is not easy for me to speak of such things. It never has been, even to your mother, but you must understand that it is because I care for you that I have sent you away. In America you may not be happy, but you will be safe. That is more important than your happiness. It is my responsibility, as well as my desire, to make certain that you continue to live and grow into the young woman your mother would have wanted you to become.
As the daughter of an officer, you should understand the nature of duty and should not presume to question the decisions I make on your behalf. We all have our duty to perform; whether we like it or understand the orders given us is of no importance.
As I write this letter to you, I am preparing to embark upon a duty about which I have doubts and misgivings, regarding both the necessity of the action I have been ordered to perform and the wisdom and integrity of those who have ordered it done. However, I have pushed aside these doubts because years of experience have taught me that, in order to accomplish anything of importance as a nation, people must put aside their own petty concerns and concentrate on the common good, even to the point of ultimate sacrifice. Imagine what would happen if everyone questioned everything? It would result in nothing but endless and unresolved debates and argument! No! A society that hopes to advance must put its trust in their leaders, in spite of their private misgivings and you must put the same trust in my leadership.
By the time this letter reaches you, you will probably understand more about the action to which I allude above. I am certain that all will turn out well, but the moment we had spoken of, the reason that I sent you to be with the Mullers, is at hand. There is no way of knowing how long this business will take to conclude or what the outcome will be, whether you and I shall be reunited soon or ever. No matter what the result, know that I care for you deeply and trust that you will continue to make me proud.
I will write as often as time and conditions permit. You must not worry about me.
 
Your Affectionate Father,
Herman Braun
Chapter 8
T
hat letter marked the first time that Father had spoken to me not as a child who should be seen and not heard, but as an adult with ideas and opinions of her own. In an odd way, his attitude made me want to be that mature young woman he saw me as. Father's letters continued to arrive, but irregularly, and they were never as frank again. They contained little real news about his whereabouts or what he was doing. Somehow I sensed that the doubts he had spoken of in his earlier letter had grown, though he never said so directly.
I do recall that in one of his letters he said, “It is hard here. If I had not seen it for myself, I would not have believed that human beings were capable of such things.” I read that letter over and over, looking for something I couldn't quite define.
It was strange, too, that his letters said almost nothing about how the campaign was going, though I knew that the German victory in Poland had been decisive and quick. Of course, he couldn't have divulged any detailed information or secrets, even in a private letter being mailed to an as yet noncombatant nation, but it seemed odd that he gave no reports or even vague allusions as to the performance of his troops.
The county newspaper, which only came out twice a week, wasn't much help, either. It was devoted more to farm prices, obituaries, and announcements for used tractors and pig nipplers for sale than to international news. Every now and again, I would hear a few scraps of news on the Mullers' radio, but these tended to be more in the way of speeches by politicians promising to keep America out of the fighting than actual reports on battles. The Mullers preferred radio dramas and music to news programs.
It seemed so odd to me that while much of the world was at war, life in Brightfield went on pretty much as it always had. Americans and America seemed determined to ignore the war for as long as possible. I couldn't blame them; life was so pleasant in Brightfield. Why would anyone want to complicate it by getting involved in a war across the sea?
Shortly after the beginning of the hostilities, President Roosevelt reaffirmed U.S. neutrality in the war. I was glad of that. Things were already awkward enough for me. I couldn't imagine how awful it would be if Americans, people I saw every day and had come to feel some affection for, were suddenly to don military uniforms and go off to fight against my home country, perhaps even coming face to face with Father on some distant battlefield. It was confusing and uncomfortable to think of that, so whenever possible I chose not to think of it at all.
School and the coming of Christmas made my forced mental neutrality a bit easier. The challenge of doing all my schoolwork in English was a welcome distraction. I threw myself into my studies, partly in an attempt to live up to Father's expectations, and partly because I liked my new teacher, Miss Gleason, and wanted to please her—but mostly just because it provided me with an escape.
The other students in my class treated me with a kind of aloof diffidence, which Cookie's hostility toward me did nothing to alleviate. One or two were purposely mean to me, but those were the boys who were openly mean to everyone, so I didn't feel especially picked on.
I studied hard, and my English improved rapidly, but as the days passed I grew tired of the routine. At home, Father and I hadn't really celebrated the holidays other than to exchange a gift at breakfast on Christmas morning. Christmas with the Mullers was a very different kind of celebration.
 
“It's b-b-bad enough I gotta sing in the stupid choir, without wearing this!” he had moaned as he stood on a kitchen chair while Mama marked the hem in his robe.
“Curt, shush up and hold still!” Mama muttered through a mouthful of pins. “I've told you ten times. Everyone in the church has to serve in some way, and this is yours. You've got a beautiful voice. Mrs. Karlsberg asked for you especially. You should be honored.”
“That's right,” said Chip with a teasing grin. “Mrs. Karlsberg said you've got the sweetest voice she ever heard! You can even sing higher than Cheryl Post! Bet she's mad you got her solo.”
“You sure look the part,” Chuck chimed in. “Positively angelic! Much, much prettier than Cheryl would have.” With this Chuck pursed his lips and squeezed out a slurpy kissing noise. The twins laughed, and Curt called for his mother to make them stop.
“Knock it off,” said Junior, who was putting more wood into the stove. “I remember when you were in choir, Chuck. Remember? They did a manger scene that year, and you were such a bad singer Mrs. Karlsberg made you wear the donkey outfit so no one could hear you inside the mask.” Chuck grinned sheepishly, but Chip enjoyed a good laugh at his twin's expense.
“Don't know what
you
think is so funny,” Junior said blandly, addressing Chip. “You sing so bad they made you be the back half!” The twins laughed in spite of themselves, and Curt joined in. Although I generally had no use for Junior and his cutting sense of humor, especially when it was aimed at me, I appreciated the way he stood up for his youngest sibling.
It was snowing again, and the wind blew so hard it made the house shudder. The door blew open with a bang when Papa came in, shivering and stamping the snow off his boots. He closed the door. Mama pulled the pins from her mouth, laid them on the table, and came over to unwrap Papa's muffler from his face.
“Carl, you're frozen through!”
“Heater's broken in the truck.” His teeth chattered, but he smiled and gave Mama a hello kiss. “Brrr! What say we start looking for a nice pulpit in Florida?”
Mama smiled back and hung up the wet muffler, hat, and coat near the stove to dry.
“Say! There's the girl I was looking for,” Papa said to me. “Mrs. Karlsberg showed up in my office in a panic this afternoon. Seems her son, Otto, broke his arm sledding and won't be able to play for the children's choir on Christmas.”
Curt shouted, “Hooray! Does that mean I don't have to sing?”
“Nope. In spite of Mrs. Karlsberg's conviction that the whole Christmas Eve service and perhaps Christmas itself might have to be cancelled, I thought we might be able to come up with a solution. What do you say, Elise?” He held out a piece of sheet music. “Would you be willing to give it a try?
“You don't have to do it if you feel there isn't enough time,” he added as he handed me the music. “I don't know much about music, but Mrs. Karlsberg says it is a very complicated piece. It took Otto three months to learn it, so if there isn't enough time, just say so. The children can always sing without accompaniment if they have to.”
I glanced at the music, thinking Otto Karlsberg must be a musical moron if it had taken him three months to master it, but I didn't say that to Papa. Instead I just said that I would be willing to try. It would be my first time playing in front of a real audience, but the piece was so simple that I wasn't really worried. Even so, I spent a few hours practicing just to make sure. Finding time to practice was easier since the Schollers had given us their old spinet piano. They had said we might as well have it since Mrs. Scholler's arthritis was too bad to allow her to play anymore, but I thought it was awfully nice of them to give it to us, anyway. The much used upright was a bit scarred, and the piano stool was a bit wobbly, but a little tuning brought out a tone that was surprisingly rich considering its size and age. Of course, I still loved playing the shining, ebony church piano whenever I could, but having a piano in the house was awfully convenient.
We had a two-hour rehearsal with the choir just the day before the service. The children were much more interested in shoving one another and comparing lists of hoped-for Christmas gifts than they were in singing. Curt did well enough, though his solo was tentative and his voice too weak to fill the empty room. The best that could be said about the rest of the children was that they were cute and sang on-key, most of the time. Mrs. Karlsberg was frazzled. She kept tapping her music stand impatiently with her baton in order to bring the group to attention, which didn't really do any good.
Mrs. Karlsberg finally dismissed the children with a forced smile and an encouraging “Well done,” but I could see she was convinced that the whole thing was going to be a disaster. Frankly, I thought so, too. However, none of that seemed to matter on Christmas Eve.
 
The church glowed with the light of dozens of candles that had been placed on the altar and, as welcoming beacons, at the base of every window. A fresh, resiny scent of newly cut pine boughs filled the air, released by the heat of the candle flames and the warmth of human bodies packed tightly together.
Every pew was filled. The ushers had come around three times asking people to squeeze in just a bit more toward the middle so they could make room for a few more congregants. I recognized many of the faces in the crowd. Oddly, even the people I didn't know seemed somehow familiar. They were farming folk; their faces were lined, tanned, and a little weary. Life was hard for them, and they never expected it to be any different, yet it was Christmas, and most of them were in good spirits. When the ushers asked them to move, they obliged willingly. Only a few of the older people were disgruntled at the idea of being forced to abandon their usual seats to accommodate the crowd.
From my seat at the piano, I could hear one of the old ladies sitting in the second pew grumble that she didn't know “why we have to be shoved in like sardines to make room for a bunch of people who only show up for Easter and Christmas. Where are these people when it comes time to fill up the collection plate every week, that's what I'd like to know!” She muttered on to herself like this for some time, but she slid over to make room for a mother and son who'd arrived late just the same, and returned their “Merry Christmas” with a smile, though it wasn't a broad one.
On the other side of the church I spotted Mrs. Ludwig in her usual spot, third pew from the front on the right and directly on the aisle. Christmas or no, she clearly had no intention of yielding her territory to a lot of interlopers. Each time an usher approached with yet another churchgoer in search of a seat, Mrs. Ludwig would glare at them and then pull her knees over to the side so the person could squeeze past her, but it was clear she simply would not be moved out of her accustomed place.
At five minutes after eight, Papa Muller stepped up to the podium and in his warmest and loudest voice welcomed the worshippers. “Members, families, friends, and visitors! We are glad you have joined us on this very special night. Let us pray.”
When the prayer was finished, he turned and gave a slight nod to Mrs. Karlsberg. She opened the door that led from Papa's office to the altar and began shepherding her young charges into the sanctuary, arranging them into the correct groupings because, even though Mrs. Karlsberg had warned them not to, they'd gotten out of order while waiting to go on.
There were about twenty children in all, dressed as angels with white robes, tinsel halos, and wings fashioned from pasteboard and glitter. Some of the little angels smiled and waved at parents and grandparents who sat in the pews. Others had wide eyes and frightened expressions.
Curt, however, was the most irritated-looking angel I'd ever seen. He tried sneaking into the back row where people would be less likely to see him, but Mrs. Karlsberg spotted him and pulled him up front and center, right in front of Cheryl Post, who looked almost as annoyed as Curt did. When the angels had been rearranged to her satisfaction, Mrs. Karlsberg took her place in front of the choir, gave the children a nervous smile, looked over to see if I was ready, and then raised her baton. I gave Curt an encouraging wink as I positioned my hands over the keyboard and waited for Mrs. Karlsberg to give me the downbeat.
Something magical happened as I touched the keys and played the first notes. The children opened their mouths in perfect, matching, round o's, and their voices blended together in a sound so innocent and sweet that, had I believed in angels, I would have sworn they were standing there in front of me. At the proper moment, Curt took one step forward and sang alone in a high, pure soprano.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices!
For yonder beams a new and glorious morn,
Fall on your knees! O, hear the angel voices!
O, night divine! O, night! O, holy night!
He stepped back into line, and the rest of the children joined in to repeat the chorus. Every child was perfectly attentive, eyes fixed on Mrs. Karlsberg's baton as she led them into the final chorus, bringing them note by note though a perfectly timed and triumphant crescendo. A thrill of hope. A weary world rejoicing. For one moment it seemed possible.
The choir hung on to the last note for as long as it could. Mrs. Karlsberg, now beaming, lowered her baton, and for a split second the crowd sat in stunned silence. Then it broke into a thunderous wave of spontaneous applause. I was shocked! Musical performances in the Brightfield church were normally acknowledged by a reverent “Amen.” Mrs. Ludwig herself had told me that clapping in church was for Baptists, Pentecostals, and other overly demonstrative types. I looked over to the third-row aisle to see her reaction. She was applauding with the rest.
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