“I vant you to be careful around him, Otto.”
“Careful? Why?”
“Vat I am hearing is that he is involved with bad things in Milwaukee. That he is a gangster into all sorts of crime.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Mit people, everything is possible, Otto. I saw it in Germany before and during the war. It is here, too. You be careful.”
Otto sighed. “I will, Papa. I will.”
Otto began high school, which in Pioneer Lake sat right beside the elementary school. He had several classes with Betty and sat behind her when he could. Classes where the teacher placed them alphabetically were the exception. He saw her at lunch and they ate together except for days when she wanted to eat with her friends. Otto understood that and sat eating his sausage and bread in the lunch room, thinking that he never wanted to see a pig again. Or a cow, for that matter. He knew his papa said cows fed the family, but being around them every day was a pain. He was glad when the bus showed up to take him to school every morning.
Several large forms blocked the light from the window. Otto sighed. It was Smith and his gang, who continued to harass him. They didn’t beat him up any more, but they never missed a chance to bother him, especially when Betty wasn’t around.
“Hey, how’s the Nazi today?” Smith usually did all the talking while his cronies smirked and punched each other in the arm.
Otto kept eating, saying nothing.
“What’s the matter, kraut? Hitler got your tongue?” Smith reached out and knocked Otto’s sandwich out of his hands. “Oops. How clumsy of you! Here, let me help you.”
Smith bent over and rubbed the half-eaten sandwich on the dirty floor. He dropped it in front of Otto, who stared at it with his head down.
“Too bad you don’t eat American food! It’s easier to hold on to.”
“I’m as much an American as you are, Smith. Your name used to be Schmidt, and someone changed it somewhere along the line. That is, if your father is really your father.”
Smith’s face turned bright red. “What are you saying, you little punk?”
“Just what I mean, Smith. Maybe your name isn’t really Smith after all because your mother is such a whore. Everyone knows it.”
Smith reached down and jerked Otto to his feet by the front of his shirt. He drew back one huge fist to smack Otto, but Otto was too fast for him and popped him in the nose. Blood flew and Smith dropped to the floor.
Heads turned toward the fight. Total silence descended on the lunch room. One of the teachers ran over to the little knot of boys. She knelt beside Smith. Someone handed her a handkerchief which she put to his nose to staunch the flow of blood. She stood up. Otto recognized her as Mrs. Miller, a history teacher. He’d heard she was a good teacher. “All right, boys, let’s go to the office. What started this?”
Smith lurched to his feet. “He insulted my mom,” he spit out, glaring at Otto.
Mrs. Miller turned to Otto. “Did you do that?”
Otto grinned. “I sure did. And for what it’s worth, he swung at me first.”
“We’ll sort that out with Mr. Jackson. Let’s go.”
Otto walked through the crowd of students that had formed around them. Betty touched him on the sleeve as he went past. “He’s needed that for years. Good for you, Otto.”
“Thank you, Betty,” Otto returned, but he was beginning to think about the trouble he was in, and not just at school. His parents would not be pleased that he was fighting “like a common ruffian,” as his mama would say.
Principal Jackson’s office was on the front of the school. Mrs. Miller deposited each boy on a separate chair and went into his office. They glared at each other. She came out a minute later, followed by Mr. Jackson. He had a reputation of being stern but fair. Still, no one wanted to end up in his office for the wrong reason. He motioned to Smith and Otto. They rose and followed Jackson into his office.
Jackson indicated two chairs in front of his desk. “Now, what happened? Mr. Smith, you go first.”
“This Nazi called my momma a bad name,” Smith spat out.
Jackson jumped in. “Mr. Smith, there are no Nazis in this room. We are all Americans here, so I don’t want to hear any more of that kind of talk.”
“He still called my momma a name.”
“What did he call her?”
“It starts with an ‘h,’” Smith mumbled.
“I was in the Allied Expeditionary Force,” Jackson offered. “There aren’t too many names I haven’t heard. What did he call her?”
“A whore.” Smith said, barely audible.
“A little louder, please.”
“He called her a whore! My momma ain’t no whore!”
“’Isn’t a whore,’ please, Mr. Smith. And it starts with a ‘w,’ not an ‘h.’”
“Isn’t a whore,” Smith muttered, collapsing back into his chair.
“Mr. Smith, sit up straight. Mr. Kerchner, did you call Mr. Smith’s mother a whore?”
Otto nodded. “I sure did, Mr. Jackson.”
“And why did you do that?”
“Because she is. I said Smith didn’t know who his father was because she sleeps around with a bunch of men. So she’s a whore.”
“Do you know that for certain?”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“And how do they know?”
“I don’t know.”
“It would seem to me, Mr. Kerchner, that such a serious accusation would warrant some sort of proof. Do you have any?”
“No, sir, just what I’ve heard.”
“Well, Mr. Kerchner, your turn. Tell me what happened.”
“I was eating my sandwich, and Smith and his buddies came up. He called me a Nazi and knocked my sandwich on the floor. He’s always bullying someone and it made me mad. That’s when I said he didn’t know who his father was. I don’t think he knows enough to know he is a bas—“
“Language, Mr. Kerchner.”
“I’m sorry, sir. He doesn’t know enough to know that he’s illegitimate. You let Smith say ‘whore.’ Sir.”
“Because I had to know what you called his mother. All right, gentlemen, who threw the first punch?”
“He did,” the two boys said in unison, pointing at each other.
Mr. Jackson suppressed a smile. “You both can’t have thrown the first punch unless you did so at the same time, which I doubt. Mr. Smith, is it possible that Mr. Kerchner’s calling your mother a name made you mad enough to punch him?”
“I didn’t actually hit him, sir.”
“Oh? Why?”
Smith put his head down. “I missed.”
Jackson turned to Otto. “And you didn’t miss, Mr. Kerchner?”
“No, sir, I popped him right in the nose. It was a big target.”
Smith glared at Otto.
“That’s enough with the fight night description, Mr. Kerchner. I think I understand enough of the situation to give you your punishment. Each of you will stay after school for a month and work together to clean the school. I will have a letter for your parents for you to take home before you leave school today.”
“I ain’t workin’ with him,” Smith exclaimed.
“’I’m not working with him,” Jackson said smoothly.
“That’s right, I ain’t!”
“Mr. Smith, either you accept this punishment or you will spend the month at home. Judging from your grades, that would mean you would repeat ninth grade. I’m sure you don’t want that.”
“My dad will be in to see about this. He doesn’t like the krauts any better than I do.”
“Let him come, Mr. Smith. We will have a good talk about how you behave in school. Mr. Kerchner, you may go to class. Mrs. Hall will write you a pass. Mr. Smith, you stay here.”
Otto couldn’t help smirking at Smith as he left. Smith curled his upper lip in a silent snarl.
Mrs. Hall, the school secretary, was already reaching for the pad of hall pass forms as Otto came toward her desk. He liked Mrs. Hall. She went to his church and sang in the choir. “I’m surprised to see you in the office for getting in trouble, Otto. Whatever happened?”
Otto blushed. “Not much, Mrs. Hall. I just had to take care of a bully.”
“Well, Otto, remember to love your enemies.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll try,” Otto offered as he took the pass and went to his math class. As he walked the silent halls, he wondered how his father would take the news of his fight and punishment. And he wondered if he would still have a job after he told Wilson he couldn’t come after school for a month.
***
Otto walked in the kitchen with the letter. He handed it to his mama. She scanned it quickly and said, “My English is not so good for this kind of letter. You tell me what it says.”
“It says I have to stay after school for a month as a punishment for fighting.”
“Why were you fighting? Who were you fighting?”
Otto went over to the basket on the table, picked up an apple and started eating it. “It was the Smith kid. He called me a Nazi and ruined my sandwich.”
“So you fought with him. His family is our neighbors. We have to get along.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. He made me mad.”
“Fighting is not a way to solve problems.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Your father will not be pleased with this.”
“I know, Mama. He fought in the war.”
“That was for the Vaterland. And it did not turn out well. You men and your fighting. It only causes grief and pain.”
Hans indeed was not pleased that Otto would be delayed getting home to help with chores. He told Otto as his punishment that he could not go to the airport for the month he was being punished at school. Otto was to ride over and tell Wilson. He would probably lose his job, but hoped he would be able to continue working at the airport. It was a busy time for them, with pilots coming in from Madison and Milwaukee. They liked to come to the airport as a destination to build some time and to get away from the bigger cities.
Otto pedaled over slowly. Wilson was outside talking to a man in a dark pinstripe suit. He peeled some bills and handed them to the man who climbed into a big black Cadillac and roared off. Otto knew better than to ask who the man was or what his business was.
“All right, Kiddo! You ready to work?”
“Mr. Wilson, after today, I won’t be able to work for a month after school.”
Wilson looked at him hard. “Why? What happened?”
“I got in trouble at school. I got into a fight.”
“What were you fighting about? A dame?”
“Nosir, I punched a bully. He called me a Nazi and ruined my sandwich.”
“So you fought with him.”
“Yessir, I popped him in the nose and made it bleed.”
Wilson threw his head back and roared with laughter. “I never took you for a fighter, kid. Maybe I should get you a bout in Minneapolis.”
“I don’t think so, sir.”
Wilson tousled Otto’s hair. “Just kidding. So, who’s the palooka who gave you a hard time?”
“It’s the Smith kid from the farm next to ours. He never has liked me.”
“He’s a jerk, then,” Wilson spat out. “Do you want me to take care of him?”
“’Take care of him,’ Mr. Wilson? I don’t understand. “
“You know, arrange for him to have a little accident and hurt himself some. Just a warning to leave you alone. I have some friends…”
“Oh, no, Mr. Wilson! I appreciate the offer, but my mama would be really mad if I asked you to do that.”
“Well, all right, kid, but if you change your mind, the offer still stands.”
“Thanks, Mr. Wilson,” Otto said, and wondered if his father was right.
Otto pounded his glove. “Make him hit it to me,” he called to the pitcher. It was barely fifty degrees, but the third period boys’ PE class stood in their positions on the diamond behind the school. They played as if they were in the World Series. Otto had never played baseball until they had a unit in class. He discovered he was quite good at it. He had skipped countless rocks across the stock pond, which helped his throwing speed and accuracy. He had worked up his stamina and speed by chasing cows that got through the fence. He had good hand-eye coordination which seemed to come naturally to him. He poised himself on his toes, his gloved hand on one knee and the bare hand on the other. They didn’t keep score, but played for sheer enjoyment. There was a man on first and one out. No one knew which inning it was in this continuous game played each weekday the weather permitted.
“Crack!” The batter drove a hard grounder right at Otto. He fielded it cleanly and flipped it to the second baseman, who pivoted and threw to first. “Whoo! Double play!” Coach Gregory shouted. “Nice play, boys! Now hit the showers.”
As Otto trotted toward the school, the coach held out an arm to stop him. “Hold on there, Kerchner. Where’d you learn to play ball like that?”
“I never played before this, Coach.”
Gregory was coach of the Pioneer Lake Superiors, the school’s baseball team. “I want you to come for tryouts next week.”
“Gee, Coach, I don’t know it I have the time. I work at the airport and have my chores to do on the farm.”
“Well, talk to your boss and I’ll talk to your father when I see him in town. Now get going!”
“Yessir,” said Otto and took off for the school. He had never imagined himself a baseball player, but it might be fun.
After his shower, he had math class. Betty sat in front of him. “Hi, Betty,” he whispered to her as the teacher droned on in front of the class.
“Hi, Otto,” she returned without moving her lips. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Coach Gregory asked me to try out for the team.”
“That’s great! Are you going to do it?”
“I might.”
“I’ll come see you play.”
Just then the teacher spoke, “Miss Ross, what is the answer to number 7?”
Betty looked down at her homework. “The answer to number 7 is 42, Miss Cannon.”
“That is correct. Thank you. Mr. Kerchner, do you have the answer to number 8?
“Yes, ma’am, I have 107 for number 8.”
“Very good, Mr. Kerchner.” Her voice faded off into a distant buzz as she continued around the room, asking for answers to the previous night’s homework. Otto was soon lost in thought.
He saw himself standing in the batter’s box at the country championships. The bases were loaded, there were two outs in the bottom of the ninth, and the Superiors trailed by three runs. The pitcher was a tall kid from Madison who had a wicked fast ball.