PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 25: READY OR NOT...
Wilson wasn't pleased with Colonel Hogan, but the mission came first. He agreed that Newkirk could go provided Hogan gave him a full report on how his patient had fared. At five minutes to one in the afternoon, Newkirk was outside on a bench beside Kinch. His health wasn't at 100 percent, and probably wouldn't be for a few days. But as soon as he could hear the rumble of a motorcycle on the road outside of camp, he was in character, hobbling beside Kinch.
As the camp's resident troublemaker, Newkirk had some challenges in looking innocent, but he did his best. Everyone knew he'd been ill, so he clutched Kinch's arm, playing up the part of an invalid.
"Not so fast, mate, slow down," he said loudly as he held on with one hand and hugged his overcoat close with the other. "Slow down. Just a tick," he pleaded.
"Sorry, am I going too fast for you, pal? Maybe we should get you back to the barracks," Kinch replied in the kindest voice possible, and just as loudly.
"No," Newkirk said, heaving out a breath. "No, I must keep on if I want to regain my strength." Anyone who knew Newkirk would have realized that he was playing a role, based on the complete absence of a stutter. Suddenly this omission registered with him, too, because in the next breath he forced it out: "Watch out, mmmate, that mmmotorcycle's coming toward us fffast." He jumped back, stumbling and losing his balance.
Kinch caught him before he could fall, and hissed in his ear, "You're such a showoff. Slow your roll." Newkirk smirked back at him and allowed Kinch to take a few moments to steady him.
That distraction was enough to get Schultz's attention. He rushed up to his prisoners. "Oh, Newkirk, you should be resting after you were so sick," he said. "If the Kommandant sees you are feeling well so soon, he may send you to the cooler after all."
Newkirk blanched at the thought—no acting required—and wondered if Colonel Hogan had factored that unpleasant possibility into this little caper.
"He's not that much better, Schultz," Kinch said. "It's just that Sergeant Wilson likes to see his patients up and about. I'll tell you what, I'll take him back to the barracks. Come on, Peter."
Just then, the rider roared through the yard on a cloud of dust and juddered his machine to a halt in front of the Kommandantur, and when the noise died down Mills and Garlotti's voices were blaring. They were fighting over a ragged copy of a magazine. The cover featured a dazzling redhead with cascades of curls and a sparkling purple dress.
"That's my Photoplay!" Garlotti was shouting. "Anybody who's anybody knows I love Rita Hayworth—and she loves me too!"
"You're too short for Rita Hayworth! And you owe me ten bucks! This is my collateral!"
As they tussled over the magazine, they backed into Newkirk, who went stumbling face-first into the courier just as he was dismounting his motorcycle. Newkirk noticed the man's hand fly up to his ribs and saw an outline there—got it, he thought. As his hands flew out to avoid a fall, he grasped onto the courier's coat, found what he was looking for, and steadied himself again.
"Sorry, sorry, mate, lost me balance," he said in apology as he patted the man down and stepped back. He tugged on his left ear as he righted himself, and then scratched his rib, and that was everyone's signal. He was going in for a package in the left inside pocket.
As the courier took his helmet off, it was clear he was barely a man. No, he was a round-faced boy who appeared to be fresh out of the Hitler Youth. He had just taken a few steps toward the Kommandantur when Mills and Garlotti blocked his path. Mills brandished the magazine at him. "Tell me, which one of us do you think she'd go out with?"
Mills got nothing but a baffled look in return, so he decided to try out his German. "Was ist besser, een oober ick?" That was even worse.
At that point, Schultz intervened. "Nein, nein, you must say, 'wer,' not 'was' and 'oder' not 'über'! And it should be 'er,' not 'ihn.' Now try it again: Wer ist besser, er oder ich?'" Schultz explained patiently.
Newkirk, meanwhile, was at work. The courier had one envelope—just one—on his person, and he had raised his hand to protect it. It was obviously the most important document he was carrying.
"Here, now, you lot," Newkirk said, jumping in where Mills and Garlotti stood squabbling. He gestured to the courier. "This l-lad's got important work to do, and you're interfering. Go on, go about your business," he told his fellow prisoners. Then, turning to the courier, he tapped him on the chest and said, "Right, off you go." He had just taken a step back when he gasped.
"Oh my goodness, we can't have that," Newkirk said. "A loose button on your tunic. Well that's from all your flying about on that m-motorcycle, isn't it? The wind velocity is fffierce. As a member of His Majesty's Royal Air Force, I do know a bit about wind v-velocity. Well, you're in luck, my lad, b-because I j-just so happen to be a tailor, and I'm never without the tools of my trade. Ooh, it must be very exciting, tearing about the German countryside, your hair whipping in the breeze. Figuratively speaking, of course, because I can see you w-wear a helmet. Ha—wouldn't it be fffunny if your name was Helmut?"
Newkirk had reached inside the courier's coat to stitch the button tighter—chattering all the while and holding the courier's astonished gaze as he deftly slid one envelope out of his pocket and put a replacement back into it.
"There you are, done and dusted," Newkirk said cheerfully as he stepped back from the courier. "J-j-just because we're enemies doesn't mean we can't be civil, does it?" he said, turning to Schultz. "And there's nothing more civil than keeping one's clothing tidy and presentable, my old mum always told me." Suddenly he doubled over.
"Oooh, Kinch," he moaned. "I think I over-exerted myself." He collapsed into the American's arms. "Carry me," he groaned.
"You are really pushing your luck," Kinch muttered. "Now walk." He supported Newkirk under one arm and could feel him snickering as he helped him limp back to the barracks. Once inside, Newkirk promptly shook off Kinch's help and produced the envelope with a broad smile. Hogan accepted it with equal cheer as Newkirk settled onto a bench.
"Troop movements for the Koblenz Luftgau," Hogan said. "Parachute and air landing forces moving through for training on Friday and a navigation unit on Tuesday. Weapons inspectorate on Easter Sunday. London will be very interested."
"Are we swapping the envelope back, Sir?" Kinch asked. He wasn't sure he could handle another of Newkirk's performances today.
"Nah, Klink'll never miss it. He'll get a nice invitation to a regional meeting of LuftStalag kommandants instead, and we can cancel it before he gets too far from camp. I can convince him he already knew about the other stuff if it comes up. Good work, Newkirk… Newkirk?"
The British Corporal was slumped over the table, his head resting on his crossed arms, and he was shivering, although he was still dressed in his overcoat.
"Are you OK, pal?" Kinch asked. Hogan crowded closer to peer down at Newkirk and put a hand on his back. He could feel him trembling.
"Uhhhhh," Newkirk replied. "I'll be ffffine."
He was not fooling anyone, least of all LeBeau, who had been relaxing on his bunk after several long nights spent nursing his friend back to health. He jumped to his feet and pushed Kinch and Hogan out of the way.
"He's very warm again," LeBeau said, shooting a dark look at Colonel Hogan as he rubbed his hand over Newkirk's forehead and cheeks. "He needs to be in bed." He was shaking his head angrily as Kinch and Hogan got Newkirk onto his feet and walked him back into the Colonel's quarters.
"It's nothing to worry about, Louis. Wilson said my temperature would go up in the afternoon," Newkirk said. Hogan and Kinch lowered him to sit on the edge of the bed when suddenly he looked very peaked. "Oh, not again," he muttered.
There wasn't time to dodge. Newkirk bent forward and made a horrible gurgling sound, and suddenly Hogan's shoes were covered again.
"Sorry, Sir," an extremely miserable Newkirk said as LeBeau settled him onto his back.
"Don't worry about it, Newkirk," Hogan said as he stood there, trying not to look as frozen as he felt. "I suppose I deserved that."
"Yes, you did. Now go," LeBeau said. "Out. Kinch, would you see if Hanrahan can brew up some tea?"
Hogan didn't bother to point out that he was the commanding officer or that it was, in fact, his quarters that they were occupying. He slipped off his shoes, grabbed his spare pair, and padded out into the barracks to put them on and find someone to handle the cleanup. Then he prepared to explain himself to Wilson.
Some days it really didn't pay to be the boss.
XXX
That night, Hogan departed for a rendezvous in Hammelburg with Schnitzer and a new Underground cell leader, Red Rover, who had been relocated from Frankfurt to begin rebuilding the unit after it was compromised. As the new deputy chief engineer for the Hammelburg water works, Red Rover would have a high clearance and the authority to have access to information about local infrastructure facilities.
Schnitzer was clearly relieved. His activities had accelerated over the past two weeks. He need to lower his profile before unwanted attention began to fall on him and his family.
As Red Rover headed out after their meeting, Hogan and Schnitzer took a moment to chat not merely as colleagues, but as friends. Like two concerned parents, their questions gradually turned to their sick youngsters.
"How is your boy?" Schnitzer asked.
Hogan sighed. "He could be better. He was improving, but I needed to use him for a job today. It set him back a little bit. How is Anja?"
"Very well. Her fever broke two nights ago, and she got up to have dinner with us tonight. She asked me to give you this."
Schnizter handed an envelope to Hogan. Without even leaning close, Hogan could smell the jasmine scent, and in the moonlight he could see that a feminine hand had written "Peter" across it.
"A love letter?" Hogan said with a smile.
"Probably," Schnitzer returned, with a rare smile of his own. "They are quite taken with one another. It's a pity she has to leave so soon. We will miss her terribly, and I think your young man will, too."
"She's a radiant girl," Hogan said agreeably. "And a very intelligent, capable asset. She's been good for the team, and she's been good for Peter, Oscar. He's happy around her, and more confident."
"We'll see her again this summer, but not for long," Schnitzer said. "She has a practicum in obstetrics that will occupy her through September. She'll be with us for two weeks, then back to Munich."
"Delivering babies into a world like this. There's an act of optimism," Hogan said.
"The children are our best hope," Schnitzer said seriously. "Mathilde would like you to bring Peter over on Easter night. She'd like to fatten both of you up, and give the children time together. Think about it."
Hogan was touched. The Schnitzers were fine people, warm and embracing despite Oscar's gruff manner. "If we're not pulled in any other direction, we'll be there," he said.
XXX
Hogan slipped quietly into his quarters and found LeBeau sitting by Newkirk's bedside again. He had been resting his eyes as Newkirk slumbered, and his head jolted up as Hogan entered.
"Knock, knock. Is it OK if I come in?"
"These are your quarters, mon Colonel," LeBeau said, acting surprised. His irritation had apparently burned off since their afternoon face-off. He let Hogan close enough to brush a hand across the sleeping man's forehead.
"Is he doing any better?"
"His fever climbed up to 102°, but it's back down now, Sir. Wilson says another day or two of rest should suffice," LeBeau said.
"There really wasn't much choice, LeBeau. We needed that dispatch, and his skills are unique. You know that," Hogan said softly.
"Oui, I understand, mon Colonel. I was out of line."
"You were just protecting him, like you always do," Hogan said warmly. "It's alright, I know how that feels." He reached into his pocket and produced the envelope for LeBeau's inspection. "He's got a love letter."
"Ahh," LeBeau said affectionately, taking the envelope in his hand and breathing in the scented paper. "The first love is the one you never forget. He's very lucky with her—a shy boy like Pierre needs a sweet, pretty young lady to learn with."
"It's funny, I didn't think of him as shy until I saw him with her the first time," Hogan said. "His confidence is up."
LeBeau laughed. "That, and other things," he said. "He's eighteen and he behaves like he's fourteen."
"He's got some catching up to do," Hogan acknowledged. "I guess we would too if we'd grown up in this place. Girls are a bit of a mystery to him."
"Not that much of a mystery, Sir. He has seven sisters," LeBeau said with an arch expression.
"There's a big difference between being mothered by a mob of women and learning how men and women behave around each other," Hogan said. "He still has a lot to learn, but he definitely appreciates women and girls. You should have seen him with Hannelore, LeBeau." Then he stopped. "Did he get her present from Kinch?"
"I don't think he has it yet, Sir," LeBeau said, fighting off a yawn.
Hogan looked a LeBeau and smiled. Newkirk was lucky to have his friendship, but he needed rest. "I'll be here with him tonight, LeBeau, you don't need to stay awake."
LeBeau tucked the letter from Anja under a pillow that had been liberated from the infirmary for Newkirk's use, then clapped his hands decisively on his thighs. "Very well, I need some sleep, and you can get me if you need me. Bonne nuit, mon Colonel." He leaned in to brush his lips on Newkirk's forehead. "Fais de beaux rêves, Pierre."
"Goodnight, LeBeau."
XXX
Newkirk was giddy as he read the letter over and over. It was sweet, it was simple, and it was love.
Dear Peter, I am sorry you're sick. I wish I was there to hold your hand and snuggle beside you until you feel better. But since I can't be there, I hope the kisses at the bottom of this letter will do. You have to come to dinner—you can't say no! Uncle Oscar will explain. Love always, Anja.
Three imprints of pink lipstick adorned the bottom of the letter—one with lips together, one with lips slightly separate and one with lips fully parted. Newkirk was breathing hard as his finger traced each one.
This is what it's like, he thought. Boys and girls meet and have feelings for one another and talk and laugh, and soon enough they're in love. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west; night follows day; and boys and girls fall in love. He'd known it all his life, and now it was happening to him.
He imagined taking her dancing and everyone seeing them together and knowing that they belonged to one another. And he conjured up nights by the fire with her, sitting close, heads together, giggling and laughing and telling each other secrets. She was so soft and pretty and easy to be with, just like his sisters, no matter what anyone thought.
He opened the package from Hannelore with equal excitement. In it was a white silk pocket square, carefully finished around the edges with a royal blue stitch. His initials—P-C-N—were embroidered in a rich pinkish purple. He smiled with delight. It would go perfectly with the suit he intended to make for himself as soon as he was liberated.
XXX
On Easter afternoon, Hogan, LeBeau and Carter had given Schultz the slip after a church service in Hammelburg, and were gone long enough to take stock of the Luftwaffe weapons inspectorate. A team had been dispatched to the Hammelburg district to take charge of testing and acceptance of all weapons, equipment and ammunition before troops were deployed. By first-hand observation, Hogan and his men were able to provide estimates of the scale of forthcoming operations in the immediate area, and photographs of the weapons.
The disappearing act got the prisoners confined to barracks. Klink, relieved to have Colonel Hogan out of his hair, predictably cancelled evening rollcall, leaving it up to Schultz to take a headcount. Schultz was in a hurry to get home for Easter dinner with his family, so he completed the headcount early. It was only 7:15 P.M. when Hogan and Newkirk slipped out of camp dressed in dark civilian suits to pay a visit to the Schnitzers. Newkirk proudly tucked the pocket square into his breast pocket. Robin Redbreast drove them to the farmhouse on his milk rounds.
"Nice handkerchief," Hogan said. "From Hannelore?"
"Yes, Sir," Newkirk replied. "It has my initials on it."
"I can see that. What does C stand for?"
"Chr-chr-christopher, Sir. It's a bit ffffancy; I've no idea how my mum came up with that one."
"It's a good name, and that's an interesting color selection."
"I like bright colors, Sir," Newkirk replied. He smiled proudly.
Mathilde welcomed them warmly at the door and led them to the dining room, where a feast awaited. It was late for dinner, but the family had decided to wait. Schnitzer's father was at the table; so was Mathilde's sister and her three young children, who were visiting while their father was off in Berlin, an Army officer subverting the Wehrmacht from within. Otto Marx had stayed after work, and his daughter and granddaughter were with him.
Depending on the mix of guests, Anja had found herself relegated to the children's table as late as age 17, but she and Peter were safe this year. They sat together among the adults, while the four children congregated as a smaller table and taunted them by tossing bits of bread at them. Newkirk was rolling up little pellets of bread in retaliation when he received two kicks from under the table—one from Anja and one from Colonel Hogan. He sighed and remembered his manners.
The food, fresh from the Schnitzers' farm, was plentiful and delicious, although the roast lamb troubled Newkirk. He was afraid it was someone he had grown fond of—Schneeweiß or Aschenputtel, or possibly both. He tried not to think too much about it, and focused on the potatoes, asparagus, and spring carrots and peas, pushing his lamb on to Colonel Hogan's plate. When Mathilde brought a strawberry-rhubarb crumble to the table for dessert, Newkirk's eyes grew wide. He was inhaling his portion when he felt another kick under the table—this time it was Colonel Hogan warning him to slow down. But when he noticed Anja was getting ahead of him, he devoured the rest and slid his hand into hers under the table, waiting for the sign that they could be excused.
When Oscar brought out a bottle of brandy, the ladies read the signal and began clearing the dishes. Newkirk rose to help, but Mathilde pressed his shoulder down, silently telegraphing that his place was here with the men. Anja rolled her eyes, but laughed, and he knew it was alright for him to linger.
Schnitzer poured out the brandy for his father, Otto, Hogan and Newkirk and offered a toast to better days. Standing in the doorway, one of Mathilde's nephews, a boy of about 13, looked longingly at the men around the table.
"Come in, Lukas," Schnitzer said, calling the boy to his side. "Take a little sip," he whispered. The boy lifted the glass to his lips and choked on the sharp taste of alcohol while the men laughed.
"Maybe next year," Schnitzer said. "Stand up, stand up, Peter," he said as he steered Lukas around the table. He pushed them together, back to back. "There, you see? A few more years and few more inches and you'll be here at the table like Peter, who is… how old are you?"
"Eighteen," Newkirk said. He fought the urge to add "and a half," realizing that wouldn't help him seem mature at all. He punctuated the statement by taking a sip of the brandy and managed not to spit it out, although it was a close call as the alcohol burned his throat.
Lukas was standing there, watching the grown men and shifting uncomfortably, so Newkirk took mercy on him and pulled a coin out of his ear. He quickly ran through a repertoire of sleight-of-hand tricks and soon Lukas was laughing and grinning at Newkirk in admiration. After Lukas ran out of the room and returned with a deck of cards, Newkirk taught him a few shuffles and tricks while the rest of the men were deep in conversation.
When it was time for a second round of brandy, Schnitzer called "time" on the lad. "Alright, that's enough for one night, Lukas," he said, patting the boy on the back as he sent him out of the room. Lukas looked over his shoulder at Newkirk, who dipped his head in solidarity. He felt awkward here too, not yet a boy but not quite a man.
"He misses his father terribly," Schnitzler said as he poured out the drinks. "Boys need good men to guide them or who know how they'll turn out. Soft, probably." He was about to top off Newkirk's half-full glass when Anja appeared back in the doorway, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. Schnitzer waved at Newkirk. "Go, enjoy each other's company," he said.
Newkirk was glad to leave. He liked Schnitzer, but he didn't care for what he had just said about Lukas. His own father was not a good man and neither were his brothers, but he was turning out fine. Colonel Hogan and LeBeau had told him so; they were both proud of him.
He followed Anja to the kitchen, where Mathilde wrapped him in a hug that smelled of Easter lilies and marzipan and pecked him on the cheek. "My dear boy. We are so glad to have you with us, Peter," she said, clutching him like he was one of her own sons. He held on longer than he should have, trying to remember if this was how his Mum felt when she held him close. He realized he had forgotten her scent, though he knew it had damp hair and sea breezes in it.
Anja was tugging him by the belt loop, leading him out to the greenhouse. Once again they found themselves in the moonlight by the back door, and once again time raced ahead. They kissed with more confidence now, knowing each other's bends and curves. She stroked a spot behind his ear and nudged her soft hand under his shirt to probe his bare belly as he moaned. Peter was just as bold, slipping his hand under her blouse and exploring the mystery that was her brassiere. As a boy who lived with seven sisters, he'd certainly seen them, but he regarded them as a marvel of engineering and had never quite worked out how they fit. He didn't dare to unsnap it because he was afraid the whole apparatus might give way. His hand did, however, manage to find its way inside the cup, and that was very pleasant for both young people.
They pressed together; his need was growing urgent and obvious, and he was afraid of what might happen if he let it happen. When her hand slid down under his belt and touched him right there, he had to remind himself not to jump away. He didn't want her to imagine he didn't like it; he did, and he wanted more. The urge to complete his pleasure was overwhelming, and he knew he had to stop himself or something embarrassing would happen.
So he pulled back, panting, and whispered, "We can't. Everyone is right here. It's not proper."
"I know," she said. "We need to be alone. I'm ready, aren't you?"
Peter opened his mouth as he realized what Anja had just offered. Well, he must be ready, yes. His body was certainly ready and aroused. Everyone said it would happen soon. Hogan had warned him to be prepared; LeBeau had patiently explained how to be prepared. So he was prepared. He was a boy. No, a man. And this was what men did.
"Of course I'm ready," Peter said. "But where and when?"
Schneeweiß (Snow White) is a white lamb and Aschenputtel (Cinderella) is a grayish-black one. I hope that's not them on the plate, but I couldn't say for sure. We established in chapter 5 that Peter was very fond of baby lambs.