Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene Read Free Book Online Page B

time we meet,” he had said. Anton Reiker. Mr. Frederick Anton Reiker.
    Across the store, in Notions, Sister Parker was customerless, but far from idle. What is it I’ve heard Ruth say about idle hands and the devil? Sister Parker has no worries on that score. Her left hand held a couple of bottles of lotion while the right hand gave them a dusting with a big wad of cheesecloth.
    Maybe it would be O.K. to talk to her about him, but not exactly straight off. First I’d talk about the prisoners in general. Later I might just mention that Anton didn’t seem too bad—for a German. But I would approach with caution. Her kid brother, James Earl, will probably be sent to fight the Germans just as soon as he finishes up his basic training.
    I stood by her side and tried to come up with a good opening. “Hey, that was pretty interesting, wasn’t it? All those Germans coming in here buying things.”
    Sister Parker’s hands didn’t stop for a single moment. “I don’t see much interesting about a bunch of Nazis.” Her answers, like her hands, moved quickly. It was as though she kept them on the topmost part of her brain for easy access.
    “Well, I think it’s interesting,” I countered. “Gives you a chance to see the enemy close-up.”
    “I guess,” said Sister, unconvinced.
    “I wonder why they decided to build a prison camp right outside of Jenkinsville?”
    “Well, we have as much empty space around us as anybody else.” She sounded pleased with her logic.
    “But they have even more empty space in Texas,” I said. “Thousands of miles of empty space.”
    She sighed. Boredom or anger? I don’t actually mean to be rude, but I am. My father says I ask a lot of questions and then go around contradicting every answer.
    “You’re probably right,” I said, trying to make amends. “But I wonder who decided that Jenkinsville, Arkansas, would be a good place?”
    “The President.”
    “Oh, not the President! He’s much too busy for—” There I go again, contradicting. “Well, I guess it could be that way. Maybe he did have a little free time one day and said, ‘Eleanor, I’ve been thinking about where we could build the new prisoner-of-war camp. In the Arkansas Delta there’s a little town called Jenkinsville that would be just perfect. There are fields of cotton needing picking, plenty of open space, and no big city nearby where a prisoner could hide. Yes, Eleanor, Jenkinsville would be ideal.’”
    “I guess it could have been decided like that,” she said.
    I continued to stand there watching the notions counter grow cleaner and more organized. Inside I felt a rising sense of discomfort. I just had to speak of him, of Anton.
    I said, “I’ll tell you something interesting.” Sister glanced at me and I took it to be a go-ahead. “I sold one of the prisoners some pencils and things. He spoke the most perfect English I’ve ever heard and he was really very polite. I mean, for a German he wasn’t half bad.”
    Sister looked at me more carefully, her hands motionless. Something a little scary about those now-unmoving hands.“I saw you with him. Smiling and laughing. Did you like him?”
    Betrayed! By whom? Anton? No, by myself. By my ugly, stupid self. Always having to talk, always having to tell people things.
    Not one tear is going to come out of my eye. Strike back. “Sister, if you really want to you can tell everybody in town that lie. I really don’t care.” Make it good. Make it very, very good. “And I don’t know if I should tell you the truth because I’m not certain you deserve it, but I’ll tell you anyway. That prisoner was telling me that he hated Hitler more than anybody in this whole world because it was Hitler who had his mother and father killed—and his sister Nancy. And he told me that every night he prayed only one prayer, that God should allow the Americans to win the war.”
    The cheesecloth flew back into action. “Well, how was I to know he told you