The woods had begun to get shadowy by the time Laurel dropped the acorn and stood up, brushed the back of her dress, and walked on up the wayfare. You'll have to live with what you've decided the rest of your life, Laurel told herself, and if Miss Calicut and Professor Mayer are right, that might not be very long. But dying, even if it was today, wasn't the worst. Being alone in the cove, like last winter, that would be the worst thing. Dead and still in the world was worse than dead and in the ground. Dead in the ground at least gave you the hope of heaven.
As Laurel approached Slidell's house, she suddenly remembered the boar hog. She'd walked right past where Slidell had seen it again last month, even got a shot at it. Maybe there was only so much scared a body could hold. Laurel didn't stop to speak to Slidell. She passed under the ash limb and its bottles and tin scraps, feeling the spills of salt and the broken glass beneath her feet. The path slanted downward and the shadows deepened. She felt like she was wading into dark water, with little in the gloaming to anchor her to the world. Then she heard the flute, faint and far off, a sound she'd followed up the creek to its source three months ago and followed the night she and Walter first laid down together. Follow it a while longer, Laurel told herself.
W
e were of a mind to wait for you,” Hank said when Laurel stepped on the porch, “so I asked Walter to play some tunes while we did.”
“That was kindly of you,” Laurel said.
When he put the flute in its case and stood, she turned away. I'll not be able to hide the knowing from him, Laurel told herself, not even one evening.
“Let's eat then,” she said. “I need to gather some mint before it's full dark.”
After supper Laurel didn't bother with washing the dishes or putting things up, just said she'd like some company. She got an egg basket and they walked into the woods, the leaves thick and rustling at their feet, the branches above black and stark. She didn't speak.
When they got to the creek, Laurel set the basket on the bank. Even if Hank heard a scream, he'd not get here in time. She wouldn't scream though, or even try to get away. She'd just let it be over and done with. Walter crouched and began picking mint leaves as Laurel stood behind him and let the words gather inside her, each finding its proper place. She pictured every letter's curves and lines to make the words more solid and real. When Laurel had her sentence, she spoke.
“The reason you pretend you can't talk is because you're German, isn't it?”
He slowly dropped the mint he'd gathered into the basket. His eyes were on the creek, maybe gauging its depth before splashing across and running on into the woods, or searching for a rock big enough to fill his hand.
First came a cough, then a clearing of the throat followed by a raspy
yes
before a bout of coughing as he turned to face her.
“Some people say you could be a spy.”
“A musician,” he said, clearing his throat with each few words. “Not a spy.”
“The professor I talked to today claimed you weren't a spy,” Laurel said. “He told me about the camp up at Hot Springs.”
He still crouched, his left hand on the ground to better steady himself.
“Will he turn me in?”
“He doesn't know you're in the cove,” Laurel said. “He just knows you escaped.”
“And you,” he said, his free hand rubbing his throat as if to coax the words out. “Will you turn me in?”
“If I was I'd have already done it.”
He stood up and Laurel handed the newspaper clipping to him.
“I know you can read it.”
He studied the article for a few moments and handed it back.
“What's your name,” Laurel asked, “your real name?”
“Jurgin Walter Koch.”
“You thought I'd turn you in if you told me, even after I'd laid down with you?”
“No, not you.”
He was not whispering now, and she heard the accent through the raspiness and throat clearings.
“You think Hank would turn you in?”
“You think not?”
“I don't know.”
“I could not take the risk.”
For a moment, it was as if, after a few dozen words, they had run out of things to say. The creek was low and muted, nothing like in spring or after a summer thunderstorm. Soon there'd be days cauls of ice silenced the creek completely. Trout would be locked beneath the ice, hardly moving.
“Tell me your real name again,” Laurel said. “I want to be able to say it right.”
“Walter is my real name, and just that name is better for now.”
“How did you learn English?”
“Some at the conservatory, then on the
Vaterland
since half the passengers spoke English. Most I learned in New York. Off the ship, speaking German, especially my last year there, could be dangerous.”
“The conservatory,” Laurel asked. “Is that where you learned to play music?”
“Yes, in Leipzig. I went there at age twelve.”
“Did your parents send you?”
“They were farmers. I was a
stipendiat
, so my parents did not have to give money.”
“So that's how you learned to do farmwork,” Laurel said. “How come you were on the
Vaterland
?”
“My teacher at the conservatory arranged it. He saw the war coming and decided I'd be safer in the ship's orchestra. It was not a thing I wished to do, but he said I owed it to him, that he had made too many efforts for me to become war fodder.”
“Did you want to get back to Germany when you escaped?”
“No, New York. I thought I could be safe there.”
Laurel looked into his eyes and was reminded of the first time she'd seen them. The same blue as a river pool, but also that same sort of depth.
“Which is why you've stayed here. To be safe, I mean?”
“At the first, not now,” Walter said, his hand reaching for hers.
Laurel hesitated, then placed her palm against his as she spoke.
“They say the war is almost over.”
“I hope so.”
For a few moments they held hands, their eyes not on each other but looking at the creek. The water was so clear that even in the waning light Laurel could see a rhododendron leaf slowly drifting over the pool's sandy bottom. Know everything now, she decided, right now once and forever. She tried again to summon the right words, then turned to him.
“When the war is over, you will still want to be with me?”
Walter did not reply at first. It was as if he'd waited until this moment to decide. Don't look away, Laurel told herself. When he answers, make him look you in the eye so you'll know it's certain true.
“Yes,” Walter said. “Yet what about Hank?”
“We won't let him know until after the war's over. Then what I do is not Hank's concerning. He never asked me about his plans.”
Laurel moved closer and took his free hand.
“I'll leave right now if you want me to. I'll go with you to New York or Germany or anywhere else.”
“Traveling now is too dangerous,” Walter replied.
“Then we'll wait for the war to end,” Laurel said. “Where will we go?”
“To New York. Before I was arrested, a man named Goritz offered me an audition.”
“He's the conductor in the newspaper article.”
Walter nodded.
“We'll go to New York then,” Laurel said.
A soft crunching of leaves came from the ridge.
“It's nothing but a squirrel or turkey,” Laurel said, but she felt Walter's hands tense.
“We mustn't speak anywhere near the cabin.”
“I don't think I can stand that,” Laurel said. “I mean, we could whisper, if Hank was outside and us inside.”
Walter let go of her hands and took a step back.
“No, we will not risk that,” he said, the harshness of his tone surprising her. “The newspaper article, give it to me.”
Laurel handed it to him. He shredded the article and threw it in the water. They watched the pieces grow soggy and then sink.
“The newspaper made it all seem so magical,” Laurel said.
“I have come to believe it was,” Walter said.
“And yet, real too.”
“Yes,” Walter said.
“I can't imagine such a thing, much less believe such a thing could be,” Laurel said. “But if you tell me everything about the ship maybe I can.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“My voice won't last so long.”
“Tell me about one part of it then,” Laurel said, “your favorite part.”
Walter was silent for several moments. She could tell that he was forming a picture of the ship, or part of it, in his mind.
“The orchestra performed on the B deck,” Walter said, “so I'll tell you of it.”
“Everything you can remember,” Laurel said.
As he spoke she stopped him to ask about a term or describe something more slowly so she could see it in her own head, remember it better.
“Tell it to me again,” Laurel told him when he'd finished. “And if there's something you left out make sure you put it in. I want to know it every bit as good as you do. That way it's part of me, and this place can't lay claim on me any more, not really, even if the war never ended.”
Walter took a long breath and exhaled. He began again, added a few more details. When he finished, Laurel asked who'd done the oil paintings but he didn't know.
“We had better go back,” Walter said, “while there remains light.”
“I know,” Laurel said, “but let's stay just a while longer. I've got so many questions but it's not only that. I need a few minutes to let myself know all of this is real.”
Y
ou ever dug a well?” Hank asked on Friday morning.
Walter shook his head and Hank gave a wan smile.
“You're going to find out why we cut firewood and boarded windows first. I figured if there's a chore to run a man off it's likely this one.”
They went to the shed and once inside shouldered themselves into the sledge's leather harnesses. The runners had sunk into the dirt floor so they heaved at the same moment to free them. Once they got the sledge outside, they paused to catch their breath. Laurel was at the old well and Walter saw the curve of her breast as she reached for the bucket. A languorous yearning overcame him as he recalled that breast cupped in his hand last Sunday morning. Afterward, Laurel had risen from the bed, turning her back to him as she put her gown on. There had been an inexplicable sadness in that, not the turning away, but seeing the white and purple skin, its beauty and smoothness, hidden again.
“A horse would sure make this easier,” Hank said, “but I figure we can get it up to the cliff and back.”
They dragged the sledge past the cabin and the cornfield where the scarecrow stood amid the wrack of graying cornstalks. They followed the fence line and entered the cliff's densest shadow. Rocks and boulders thickened, soon too many to navigate. Whether from fallen stone or lack of light, no trees grew here, only scabs of grass. Hank picked up a rock the size and shape of a dinner plate.
“Ones like this is what we're needing,” he said, and dropped the rock into the sledge.
They wandered amid the rocks and boulders, gathering suitable ones. More than any time before, Walter was aware of the cliff's magnitude. He had seen icebergs almost as huge, but the granite's solidity was something that could not be breeched by a hull or softened by the sun, so solid it appeared capable of outlasting time itself. When the sledge was three-quarters full, Hank raised his hand.
“That's enough. We just need to rock the walls three foot high.”
The trip back was more jerks and stops than a steady drag. When they finally got the sledge beside the new well, sweat beaded their brows despite the cool weather. Hank took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He motioned Walter closer to the well so they both could stare into its black void.
“This is as onerous a chore as I know and it's two spades to a pair of clubs which is worse, hauling that barrel up or being the fellow who fills it. But I do know it's more dangerous being in the hole. If that rope snaps when you're going up or down, you'll be getting off light with a broke leg. If it happens when the barrel's coming up, you'll likely be graveyard dead, because there's nowhere to dodge and it'll stove in your head. You don't want nothing, I mean nothing, falling in a hole when it's that deep. A fellow over at Antioch dropped a hammer and it killed the digger. And that's just one thing to fret over. Your walls can cave in if they ain't plumb, especially if you hit sand, and the air can get gassy on you, which is why you got to work without a lantern. What I'm saying is we need to be damn careful, whether we're the one up or down.”
Hank paused.
“Have I scared you off it?”
Walter shook his head as he studied the wooden windlass and staved oak barrel, most of all the rope that linked them. Set inside the barrel was a shovel, its handle no longer than a piece of firewood.
“Come winter, you'll be glad we put up with this aggravation, especially when you don't have to send that bucket down halfway to China to draw water.”
Hank nodded at the hole.
“Want me to go first?”
Walter shook his head.
“All right,” Hank said, and positioned himself by the winch handle. “Put your feet in the barrel and it'll make it easy on your arms. When you get to the bottom, tug the rope and I'll know to raise some so you can dig. Tug on it again when you got a load. I'll spell you midmorning.”
Walter grabbed the rope with both hands and set his feet in the barrel. He leaned back until his head cleared the windlass. The winch creaked and he descended, the cove's shallow light only a narrowing circle above. Soon he could not see the walls or hear the winch. The air moistened and smelled of earth. The barrel kept descending. He looked up and the opening was no bigger than a silver dollar. The barrel finally bumped not earth but a cairn of rock left from the dynamiting. Walter got out and looked up at the coin of light. He tugged the rope and the bucket rose level with his chest.
He wedged himself against the dirt wall and began filling the barrel with the blasted rocks, working solely by feel. He chunked a last rock in the barrel and tugged the rope and the barrel rose, his hands on its wooden sides, leveling the ascent. Shovel in hand, Walter stabbed the soil loose around the last dynamited stones and tried to turn his mind to something other than unraveling ropes and crumbling walls.
He thought of Goritz and how after the charity concert the conductor had sought him out and asked where Walter had studied. When he answered Leipzig with Herr Schuler, Goritz nodded approvingly. Your talent is being wasted, Goritz had said. I will audition you and if it goes well I can, if you wish, get you United States citizenship. You are not quite ready yet, though. For the next six months, practice until your arms ache and your lips bleed. The suffering will be good for you. A slight smile had crossed the conductor's face. If you haven't already found a woman who will break your heart, find one. What we played tonight, especially the Mozart, requires suffering.
April sixth
. He'd marked the audition date on his calendar, but as winter moved into spring rumors of an American declaration of war were rampant. Off the
Vaterland
, he spoke as little as possible. Commodore Ruser made no pronouncements but most onboard believed they would be forced to sail for Europe. Men spoke of the
Lusitania
and presumed the
Vaterland
's chance of survival no better. That last evening as Walter walked back to make curfew, there were more indications of a coming war. The window of Heinaman's Shoe Repair had been shattered. Men passed a whiskey bottle outside Schuman's Hoffbrau House and bellowed about traitors. A man set fire to a poster advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Walter thought about going to Goritz right then, but the flute and all his savings were on the ship. He went on, passing a drunk searching for a recruitment office, a stevedore lingering on a church step, a thumbprint of ash smudged on his forehead. He was already on the dock when he saw the American flag on the
Vaterland
's masthead, the pier and deck crowded with soldiers and policemen. He turned to flee, but he'd been seen. He was caught and shoved into the back of a police wagon, taken to a Bowery jail.
The barrel eclipsed the well mouth's center, leaving only a rind of light. The barrel descended and Walter threw in the last dynamited rocks, picked up the shovel and began digging as best he could in such narrow quarters. He tugged the rope and the filled barrel rose. The darkness dimmed slightly and Walter looked up. The well mouth was clear and the air around him felt less constricted. He leaned against the earthen wall, felt its dampness on his back. The barrel reappeared, swaying on its rope above him.
He had seen the dead man on the way to North Carolina. When the train stopped at a crossroads in Virginia named Damascus, he and his forty-nine shipmates stretched and smoked on the depot's platform. No handcuffs bound their wrists but the guards had shotguns and billy clubs at the ready. As the men were herded back onto the train, one of the guards said a local attraction was just up the line, something they'd not want to miss. The guard must have told the engineer, because when a bridge came into sight, the train slowed. The dead man was naked except for a pair of soiled pants and a single dress shoe gleaming blackly in the late-morning sun, its lace untied. Blood clotted on his face and chest. The man's head leaned toward one shoulder, as if curious at what had befallen him. A placard dangled from his neck, the word
Hun
charring the wood. Try to escape, one of the guards told them, and that will happen to you.
After a while he and Hank changed places. Though bringing up the barrel was harder work, Walter was glad to be out of the hole. But Hank's missing hand made his working below difficult and much slower, so after lunch Walter stayed in the hole until Laurel called them for dinner. They were both so mud sodden that Laurel laid clean clothes on the old well's corbelled head. He and Walter stripped and shared the soap and water.
“That was as full a day's work as we've ever done,” Hank said as they dressed. “I'm sorry you're the one has to stay in that hole all the while, but with me down there it'd be Christmas before we hit water.”
Hank went on inside but Walter lingered. He looked up at the cliff. With the shorter days, it seemed even more massive, further narrowing the light. So different from the ocean's endless above. He suddenly remembered the
Vaterland
's gold sextant. Another detail for Laurel. In the last days, the ship had become more vivid to him than any time since he had left New York. Sometimes it was as if he saw it more clearly now than when he'd been on it. Laurel too. She now knew half the ship as well as he did.
Laurel stepped out on the porch.
“We're waiting for you, Walter.”
He nodded and went on inside.