Chris Bohjalian - Skeletons at the Feast

“Father?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“There is one thing we haven't talked about,” she began tentatively, aware that she could still raise a different topic if she proved unable to ask about the POW.

“The Scotsman,” he said.

“How…”

“How did I know?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “This farm works because I do. I'm sure I'm not aware of everything that goes on under my roof,” he said, and she glanced at him, but he seemed to be consciously averting his eyes. “But I do think about the people who live here. My family. My servants. My farmhands. I try to do what's best for them-what, in my opinion, is best for them.”

Behind them there was a particularly loud blast, but her father seemed almost oblivious of it. He continued, “And that includes the Scotsman. A part of me thought it would be best for everyone if we just left him behind. Allowed the Russians to find him-emancipate him, if you will-and let them send him home to his Scotland. The Russians are, after all, his allies.”

“But you're not going to do that,” she said, hoping there had been no trace of entreaty in her voice and it had sounded to her father as if she were merely continuing his train of thought.

“No, I'm not,” he told her. “I'm not because I don't trust the Russians. And, in truth, I don't trust the Germans. At least all of us. The Russians are slaughtering virtually everyone in their path, and we-SS, SA, Wehrmacht, it no longer matters-wouldn't look much more kindly on a British soldier wandering aimlessly in our midst. But Callum is a good man. And he has value.”

“As a worker?”

“As a Brit. We're going west, Anna. Your mother and I agreed last night that to keep you and your little brother safe, we will trek as far west as we have to. And that means that eventually we may reach the British or the Americans at the western edge of the Reich. If we do, it would be helpful to have Callum with us to, well, vouch for us. Speak on our behalf.”

She said nothing because she knew her voice would betray the giddiness and the relief she was feeling. She couldn't imagine where she would be in a week, but the idea that Callum would be with her made the future less ominous.

“Go get him,” her father said. “Have him help you load the feed.”

She nodded carefully, biting her lower lip so it wouldn't transform itself into a smile. It was starting to spit snow once again, and it was possible to imagine that the field guns in the distance were merely the echoes of an approaching storm.

NORMALLY IN THE NIGHT they might have played music or unraveled sweaters to make mittens for the men fighting at the front. Anna and Mutti would knit, and Theo would write the soldiers small notes. It was part of the total war effort, and now that Theo was old enough to be a member of the Hitler Youth, his contribution was the letters. He liked writing the notes, because it meant that he had something to bring when he attended the meetings. And that, in turn, lessened the chance that the boys who led the group would find reasons to pick on him. But he also liked the challenge of finding something to say to a stranger that might make him feel better. Perhaps make him feel a little less frightened. Theo knew he would be scared if he were a soldier. All he had to do was envision his brother Werner's scarred legs to know how dangerous it was out there, or think of the long list of neighbors and cousins and the older brothers-and fathers!-of schoolmates who were dead or missing in action to know how hazardous it was to be a soldier. He didn't honestly know if more people were dying now than two or three years ago, because he wasn't sure how aware he had been of what was occurring when he was seven and eight years old. But you couldn't go into the village, it seemed, without seeing a young man on the street with an empty sleeve where there should have been an arm, or the pants leg of his trousers pinned up as he hobbled along on a pair of crutches. It was awfully clear that he had to be certain that what he wrote to the soldiers was uplifting.

Sometimes, he would begin with the suggestions of the older man who was in charge of their unit. The ideas were bland, but the words nonetheless seemed to give him momentum. Thank you for protecting us from our enemies, he would begin. Or Thank you for serving the Fatherland. Heil Hitler! But then he would allow himself a little creativity.

I hope these mittens keep you warm. My sister knitted them. She's the prettiest girl I know.

I hope these mittens keep you very warm. My sister knitted them. The wool is from an old sweater my brother doesn't need anymore.

I hope these mittens keep you very warm. My sister knitted them. The wool is from an old sweater my brother doesn't need anymore, but only because he's gotten very big in the shoulders from fighting and marching. He was hurt once when he was riding on a tank, but he's fine now. He has scars on his legs, but he can walk and run.

I hope these mittens are the warmest you've ever had. My sister knitted them. The wool is from an old blue sweater my brother doesn't need anymore, but only because he's gotten very big and strong in the shoulders from fighting and marching. He's an excellent soldier. He was hurt once when he was riding on a tank and a Russian fired a shell at it, but he's fine now. Mostly he's fine. He has bad scars on his legs, but he can walk and run and I know he is very proud to serve the Fatherland. He wants to be a farmer when the war is over, like our father. I hope you are safe. Heil Hitler!

There were always more notes than there were mittens, because it took a lot longer to knit a pair of mittens than it did to write a note-even when you were as conscientious as Theo. As a result, the care packages were supplemented with decks of playing cards and hard candies and whatever trinkets a local family could spare. Almost everything of value was scarce, but the group leader said it was the notes that mattered most-which left Theo even more worried that his letters were painfully inadequate, and thus resolved to spend even more time on each one. It also left him wondering why in the world some young man hunkered down in Italy or behind the Siegfried Line wanted to hear from some boy from the middle of nowhere. Didn't they have families of their own to write them? Their own girlfriends and wives and, in some cases, children?

Evidently not. At least not always.

Still, he had to be careful not to write notes that were too long, because he had a quota he was supposed to bring to each meeting. If he brought too few notes, he would be yelled at. If he wrote notes that were too brief, he would be yelled at. It was a balancing act and-like everything else, it seemed-a source of pressure.

He thought there had once been a time in his life when his days had been fun. Wasn't he smiling in the photographs taken when he was a very small child? But he honestly wasn't sure.

And now tonight, instead of gathering with his family in the ballroom or the parlor, he was alone in his room and he was supposed to be packing-though he wasn't supposed to pack much. Again, the mixed message: Be thorough, but bring as little as you can. And so instead of watching Anna knit or listening to his mother or Callum play music, he was finding his warmest clothes and his favorite books and trying to wedge everything into a suitcase. Not even a trunk. A suitcase. It just didn't seem possible.

Tomorrow they were going to leave, but he hoped it was only for a short while. He wasn't sure how he was going to say good-bye to his pony. When his father had told him that Bogdana wasn't coming, he had had to fight hard not to cry. Same as when he had been mucking the animal's stall later that afternoon. He had felt his eyes welling up, and he'd had to look away from the animal as he worked. Who was going to care for him until they returned? Everybody was leaving. His father had suggested that Basha-their cook-and her brother would care for the animals, but he had his doubts. He detested Basha. Thought she had never liked the Germans. Her brother, too. The man was a mean-spirited giant with a single eye and an arm that was always twitching, which was probably the reason why he was even still around, rather than working in a coal mine or a factory in Silesia. He certainly couldn't-or wouldn't-help much with the animals. And neither Basha nor her brother was about to stand up to the Russians if they asked for the horses.