After the Train by Gloria Whelan Read Free Book Online Page A

father. Lots of people know he is the architect working on St. Mary’s. I love him and I’m proud of him, but guilty and ashamed as it makes me feel, I’d be prouder of being the son of Count von Stauffenberg.
    Mother says you can see through me like a pane ofglass, and it must be true, for after giving me a brief look, Father says, “Peter, is something bothering you?”
    I keep my head down, concentrating on kicking aside the maple tree seeds that have spiraled down onto the sidewalk. “Father, you know those nightmares I used to have, and I would cry out and wake you and Mother up and Mother would get so upset?”
    “Yes, of course I remember. But you don’t have those nightmares anymore. Why do you bring them up now?”
    “I still have them, only not so often and I don’t tell you because I’m not a baby anymore, and besides, I saw how much they worried Mother.”
    Father looks troubled. “You say you still have the nightmares?”
    “Yes, but that’s not what I want to talk about. I was rummaging around in Mother’s dresser. I know I shouldn’t have, but I thought there was something you and Mother hadn’t told me, some secret. I saw your letters to Mother and hers to you.” My voice gets hoarse and I feel my face grow red. “I saw what Mother said about taking a great chance and how maybe she shouldn’t have. She worried that you wouldn’t approve. There was a picture. The picture was of the same woman in my nightmare.” I stop talking because Father’s face is stormy.
    Roughly grasping my arm, he pulls me toward an iron bench. “Sit down.” He shoves me onto the bench and settles down beside me. “Peter, you had no right to go through your mother’s things. It’s inexcusable to read private letters.”
    “I guessed you had some secret, but you would never tell me what it was. Now I know I’m right.”
    Father puts his hands to his face, then quickly takes them away and glances about to see if anyone is watching. The street is deserted except for a large tabby cat prowling among the shrubbery, searching for a bird. “You’re right, Peter. We have not told you the truth. Your mother was very much against it and I went along with her wishes. If you went to her as you came to me just now, bursting with your story of reading the letters and worst of all trying to connect the woman in the picture with the woman in your nightmares, I tell you honestly, Peter, it would break her heart. I promise I will talk with her, but give me a few days to think of how I will do it.”
    “Can’t you tell me now? I won’t tell her I know.”
    “No, Peter. Hard as it may be after what you have seen, you must trust me.”
    “Can I ask just one question, Father?”
    “Just one, but then the subject is closed until I amready to discuss it with you.”
    “Am I related to Claus von Stauffenberg?”
    “Stauffenberg! Whatever gave you that idea? Certainly not! Now, I have answered your question. Not another word on the subject.”
    Father appears shocked at my question, but I can’t tell whether I am very wrong, which I refuse to believe, or whether I have hit upon a truth Father will not admit. Maybe he is afraid the Stauffenbergs will take me away. I promise not to say another word to him or to Mother, but I hatch a plan. I have no intention of waiting for days or weeks or years to find out who I am, and I didn’t believe Father when he said I am not related to Stauffenberg. I am sure he is just trying to put me off.
    After dinner I sneak some good writing paper from Father’s desk and a picture from our photograph album of me taken on my fifth birthday holding a pet rabbit I had been given as a present. I have no address for the envelope, but surely everyone around the area of Jettingen will know the Stauffenberg family.
    Dear Frau von Stauffenberg,
    I want to tell you how much I admire your husband. He is a great hero and you must be very proud of him. I am sorry to trouble you and this might be a shock,