Mornings were Schroeder's least favorite time of the day in the hospital.
He could tolerate it, if he had to; compared to the soldiers in worse conditions, he was reasonably healthy, and his injured leg was healing fast between a careful balance of rest and light exercise, and he was in no danger of infection. The hospital itself was clean and free of lice, and he slept in an actual bed instead of a rain-flooded trench. His ward was relatively quiet, aside from the mumblings or sudden outbursts from a few shell-shocked men, but even these could be ignored. Even boredom, a constant presence inside the trenches, was more benign in these walls, for the hospital tried to provide them with some amusements where they could and the friendly nurses were good for a conversation or two.
But the mornings were the worst because Schroeder was barred from playing the piano in the common room — or what had been called the common room at the start of the war, when a rich French family had donated their estate house to be converted into a hospital for the Allies. Four years later the room had been overtaken by as many beds as could be crammed into it, and each bed had a man who expected to be able to sleep for a sensible amount of time. The piano had remained since it was too cumbersome to move, and thankfully the head surgeon believed in the healing power of musical therapy, but the glorious instrument was off limits to all patients before the forenoon.
To a musical prodigy like Schroeder, who had been denied the simple comfort of classical music since he left home except for infrequent chances at Red Cross cantinas or Y.M.C.A. huts, the idea of being near a piano but being barred access to it was akin to having his arms tied together so that he could not scratch a violent itch on his back.
"Oh, really!" his former next-door neighbor, Nurse Patty Swanson, chided him when he complained to her about it. "With everything else that's going on, you can't allow a few good soldiers an extra hour or two of rest?"
He reluctantly coughed into his hand. "Well, when you put it that way…"
It was just another thing which a soldier had to endure in a war, and he had already learned to endure a lot.
Fortunately, the hospital had some things to brighten an amelodic morning. Nurse Violet Gray, another one of Schroeder's old friends, came from a wealthy family who sponsored her while she was with the Red Cross, and they often sent her comforts from home, including books and magazines, which she generously shared with her patients.
One particular day found Schroeder stretched out on his narrow hospital bed, with his injured leg propped up on his pillow, while he combed through the latest issue of the Birchwood Gazette, a newspaper which he had barely glanced at when he actually lived in Birchwood but which had now become a wealth of information about his hometown. Baseball scores, operas, birth announcements, wedding announcements, and photographs of streets which Schroeder had explored as a lad were all devoured and savored with such glee that it almost — almost — made up for being away from the piano, but then Schroeder's gleaming eyes fell upon one article, and his stomach lurched with half-forgotten emotions.
PROUD TO BE FREE OF GERMAN INFLUENCE
A recent survey of high schools in Hennepin County has revealed that the German language has been completely removed from all high-school curriculum. Students now study the language of Moliere instead of the tongue of the Huns, and so-called giants of music such as Bach, Brahms and Beethoven have been replaced by Italian composers. Furthermore…
Schroeder closed the newspaper and folded it, sucking air through his clenched teeth to keep himself composed.
Remember where you are, Corporal Applebrook, he ordered himself.
Although in his mind he still called himself Schroeder Afflerbach, on every last scrap of military documents relating to him the United States government knew him as Samuel Applebrook, a name which his parents had given Schroeder after his family had moved from Birchwood to escape the rising anti-German aggression in their once accepting town. Schroeder had been born in the United States, and aside from a family trip to Germany in his childhood to visit relatives, he had spent his entire pre-war life breathing American air, as patriotic as any Son of Liberty, but once the German navy had begun threatening American ships, many people in the States had begun to regard German-Americans as potential spies and aggressors. German-owned businesses and homes had been attacked; German-language newspapers were disbanded; even benign things like German food or music had earned public ire. Hamburgers were renamed "liberty sandwiches," and Dachshunds were now "liberty dogs," and the music lovers who once praised Bach, Brahms and Beethoven now spat on their legacy.
Sometimes Schroeder had to fight to keep himself from succumbing to the overwhelming bitterness, but when people went after Beethoven, he really had to keep a rein on his temper, lest he did something that could lead to a court martial.
Beethoven was born in Germany, but nobody ever seems to remember that his grandfather was Flemish, he seethed to himself.
For the past four years, everyone had been saying how bad Germans were for invading Belgium, but could they really think Beethoven would have approved of what his country had done when he was the grandson of a Belgian immigrant? Beethoven had loved Germany, but he still spoke out against what he considered immoral. If he had raged against Napoleon crowning himself Emperor of France, surely Beethoven would have been against his beloved country attacking his own fatherland.
So why was it that only Schroeder seemed to have remembered any of this?
"What's wrong with you?" a young woman's blunt voice cut into his thoughts.
His head snapped up toward the nurse standing over his bed, a pretty girl who was as familiar to Schroeder as Beethoven's Fifth. Although a few months younger than him, she had taken care to make herself look old enough to be among the ranks of American Red Cross nurses, who were supposed to be at least twenty-five, not barely eighteen. Beneath her white cap, her black hair had been done up in a prim but practical bun, and she often wore what she considered a "grown-up expression" when she talked to the wounded men, but right then concern had softened her face, and her large eyes swept over Schroeder.
He quickly forced the emotions from his face.
"Just baseball scores, Lucy," Schroeder lied, forcing a neutral shrug. "My old team is falling behind."
His childhood friend shook her head, her sympathy shifting to incredulous exasperation. "Once a ball player, always a ball player, I suppose, Corporal?"
(She had taken to calling him by his rank in order to avoid accidentally calling him by his real name.)
He smiled, hoping it did not look too fake. "I can't help my nature, Nurse."
"No, I suppose you can't," she said, sinking down on the edge of his bed. "I learned that lesson a long time ago."
She carried a tray with an aspirin bottle, and she shook out a small tablet for Schroeder. After he had taken this, she took hold of his arm without any ceremony and pulled back the sleeve to check his pulse.
"There's something I don't understand," she suddenly said, frowning at his fair wrist.
"What's that?"
"I spoke to Patty and Violet, and they said that when they take your pulse, your heartbeat is perfectly normal," she said, "but whenever I take your pulse, your heartbeat is racing like a steam engine."
Schroeder cleared his throat, averting his eyes.
"Well, uh, I guess I'm just anxious to play the piano," he lied, feeling his face warm.
"And your liberty music," she answered knowingly.
"Yes, of course," he said quickly. "You know how much liberty music means to me."
That part was at least true. "Liberty music" was what they had taken to calling Beethoven's more obscure compositions so that Schroeder could freely play his hero's works right under the noses of the staunchest anti-German patients; however, playing Beethoven on the piano was not the only thing that helped him look forward to each day.
While Lucy checked the swelling in his injured leg, Schroeder risked a longing glance at his dear friend. Lucy Van Pelt had been the girl he had resisted loving in the early days of his boyhood, but by time he was old enough to realize that females of the human species were not altogether unpleasant creatures, Lucy had moved on from her infatuation towards him. When his family had left Birchwood. Schroeder had thought he would never see her again, but somehow, in the middle of the Great War itself, they had found each other once more, and his tender feelings toward her had resurfaced with full force.
If only he could work up the nerve to do something about them before he had to leave the hospital…
Lucy finished her inspection and sat on the edge of his bed again, facing him with a small smile.
"I have something that might cheer you up, Corporal," she said in that casual way which had sparked many of their most memorable conversations in years past.
"Oh?" he answered, matching her tone as though they were merely back beside his toy piano in his old back parlor.
"The Y.M.C.A. hut down in the village is going to have one of their concerts this weekend," she said. "Nurse Fletcher lets us — the nurses, I mean — go down to see the performances, and sometimes we take the healthier patients with us. Boosts morale, you know, and helps the patients heal faster, or so they tell me. It should be good exercise for your leg to go there and back, if you want to escort me."
Schroeder sat up, brightening. "Which work will they be performing?"
"Some French composer whose name I won't even attempt to pronounce. Are you interested?"
His eager smile stretched. "Is Beethoven the greatest composer ever?"
"I presume you mean for me to answer 'yes,'" she answered, looking amused. "I think you'll like the orchestra that Y.M.C.A. has, Corporal. Sebastian went with me to last week's concert, and he said it made his arm feel better."
The light on his face dimmed. "Pardon?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" she replied, raising her eyebrows in mild surprise. "You remember Sebastian Baxter, my friend from the Birchwood Settlement House? His mother taught us all those dances for our last Beethoven party? He's here in the hospital too. Already an army captain."
Schroeder remained polite. "And he was wounded then?"
"Three bullets in his right arm," she replied, tapping her own. "Not bad enough to send home, but not well enough to send back to the front, so we've put him to work, so to speak. He's been helpful as a translator in the prisoners' ward. He speaks fluent German, remember, on account of his—"
She stopped suddenly, glancing around at the other occupants of the wing. Although many men appeared to be asleep, one could never be sure who was listening. She turned back to Schroeder.
"Well, you remember," she said briskly, as though they were only discussing hospital regulations.
Schroeder did remember. Like him, Sebastian Baxter was an American of German descent, albeit on the distaff side. His mother, originally from Eisenach, had taught English classes and dance lessons at the settlement house where Lucy and her mother used to volunteer. Sebastian and Lucy had spent a lot of time together in those days, but following the increasing violence of the Central Powers toward the United States, Mrs. Baxter and her bilingual children had eventually stopped serving at the settlement house. Whether it had been a voluntary departure or a quiet dismissal delivered by the Anglo-American directress, Schroeder did not know and was not about to ask.
"Well," Schroeder said, with a burst of conflicting emotions, "at least he's doing well then."
"As well as someone like him can do in a war, I suppose," she answered, "but he says he misses playing the accordion. It's a real shame too. We have one somewhere around here, but he can't even use it."
"A small mercy," Schroeder muttered, but he felt bad as soon as he said it. Although the sound of accordion music was akin to having a pencil shoved repeatedly into his ear, Schroeder fully understood that agitation of not being able to find solace in playing one's favorite instrument.
The war is hard on all of us, even accordion players, Schroeder contemplated.
"You know, Corporal, Sebastian and I were just talking about that party for Beethoven's birthday before you came to the hospital," Lucy continued with a nostalgic look. "We were remembering all the dancing we did, and the charades and the Beethoven silhouettes and your mother's coffee that you got Rosemary to prepare using sixty beans, just the way Beethoven liked it. Sebastian said he had a marvelous time."
Because he spent most of the evening by your side, Schroeder felt tempted to remind her, but he held his tongue.
"Sebastian's probably busy working in the prisoners' ward right now," Lucy reflected, "but I'll try to bring him over to say hello. The two of you can talk about your liberty music. He might like that, since his father raised him on that sort of music."
"Sebastian probably has better things to do with his time."
"As if you've ever passed on a chance to talk about classical music with anyone," Lucy snorted. She gave him a calculating look. "You know, I used to hope the two of you would become great friends, but you've always been so resistant toward Sebastian for some reason."
Schroeder opened his mouth to retort, but Nurse Fletcher, the head nurse, called to Lucy to help her in the next ward, and Lucy was obliged to leave Schroeder's side.
Alone again, Schroeder reached for Violet's newspaper still laying folded on his bed, but he barely got past a few sentences before he closed it again, exhaling.
"Of course he would be here too," he muttered to himself, staring up at the paneled ceiling.
He had never disliked Sebastian Baxter, per se. Even with his enthusiasm for accordions stacked against him, Sebastian was a decent fellow who rarely uttered a cross word, but neither he nor Schroeder had ever taken great pains to become better acquainted. Although they both had a great appreciation for classical music and German composers, an unbridgeable gulf had remained between them in the form of their rivaling affections for Lucy Van Pelt.
Schroeder drummed his fingers upon his bed, considering the dilemma before him. He did not know whether Sebastian still harbored any feelings toward Lucy, but Schroeder would not be surprised if he did. In which case, what did Lucy think of a friendly young man who was a tangible link to home in this faraway, war-torn land and who went with her to concerts in the Y.M.C.A. hut down in the village?
Schroeder thinned his lips and mulled over that question until Patty came looking for him to tell him that he was allowed to play the piano at last.
"Did you actually forget?" she demanded, incredulous, but Schroeder refrained from answering.
A fresh shipment of wounded came in later that day, and Lucy was not able to visit Schroeder until the next afternoon. When she did, she brought along Captain Sebastian Baxter, a tall, broad-shouldered young man with black hair and a calm, amiable mien. He and Schroeder exchanged a left-handed handshake, and Lucy told Schroeder about how Sebastian had helped with a few hysterical prisoners that had been brought in that morning, but Sebastian seemed reluctant to discuss the matter.
"All I really do is tell them to take pills and sit still for the doctors to inspect them," he said with a self-depreciative laugh, shifting his weight on the chair which he had brought to Schroeder's bedside. "A trained parrot could do the same work."
"I've been getting Sebastian to teach me German, so that I can help more in the ward after he's released back to active duty," Lucy told Schroeder. "Between working at the settlement house as a child and hearing all those songs you taught us back in Birchwood for Beethoven's birthday, I know more German words than I had realized, but I know I can learn more if I put in the effort. I should be able to keep those patients in line by the time Sebastian leaves" — tossing her head.
"I don't think even a trained German soldier would be willing to cross you, Lucy," Schroeder said with a smile.
"Never underestimate a fussbudget who uses her skills for the war effort," she replied, smirking.
"I learned long ago to respect your ability to absorb information when you put your mind to it, Lucy," grinned Sebastian. "Perhaps you'll speak better German than I do by the end of everything, not that it will be a hard task," he added with a slight sigh.
She looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"
Sebastian turned on the chair to face her, wearing a wan grin. "Nothing like a war to show you how limited your German actually is. At least my mother can be proud to know she raised an American son after all."
Schroeder raised an eyebrow. "Are you having that much trouble translating?"
"You translated for the German children back at the settlement house," Lucy reminded him. "How different could it be?"
"Some of the prisoners are Austrians, and they are difficult enough for me to understand when they talk too fast," he answered with suppressed frustration, "but when the Germans use figures of speech which aren't common back in Birchwood, I find myself at a loss."
"I'm sure it's not as bad as you think."
"I am honored that you would have such a high opinion of my abilities, Lucy," he returned with a small bow, "but I've just come from an interview with one of the prisoners that perfectly illustrates my point."
He gestured behind him in the general direction of the prisoners' ward, and his countenance altered with barely concealed weariness.
"The man I was speaking to is an interesting case. One moment he seems to be clear and lucid, but then he insists on giving me this convoluted story about how he lost his rifle, so that I'm not sure if he's half-mad and shellshocked, or if he's a liar feigning lunacy."
"What happened to his rifle?" asked Lucy.
Sebastian exhaled.
"Tell me what you think of this, my friends," he said. "Our prisoner claims that he had been running through a forest and tripped as he was cresting a hill. His rifle went flying from his hand and landed in" — and here Sebastian's voice grew flat — "ein Drachenfressender Baum."
He uttered the words as though they were something significant, but Schroeder and Lucy stared at him, blank faced.
"I understand Baum," said Schroeder slowly. "His rifle landed in a tree, correct?"
"Quite so."
Lucy arched an eyebrow. "Nothing so odd about that, is there?"
"But to relate what happened next in his story, I must here share my chief difficulty as an interpreter," Sebastian said, forming an expression of strained civility. "There are two possible ways to translate Drachenfressender Baum, and they're both equally ridiculous, if taken literally. The first is a 'dragon-eating tree,' which is an expression I have never seen in any German book, nor have I heard it from any German-speaking immigrant."
Schroeder nodded silently, privately recalling half-forgotten memories of his German-speaking Afflerbach great-grandparents. He could remember being three years old and his great-grandmother laughingly watching "das Fressen" whenever Schroeder had wolfed down watermelon or ice cream, and he could vaguely hear his great-grandfather's voice, raspy from years of pipe smoking, telling him about der Drache who had kidnapped die Prinzessin, and the brave Ritter had ridden off to save her.
Drachenfressender Baum, he repeated to himself, adding that to his personal lexicon. Aloud, he suggested, "Maybe it's metaphorical."
"Or it's a name like snapdragons or dragonflies," Lucy pointed out.
"Perhaps," concurred Sebastian, "but if you heard his story in full detail, you'll understand why I'm skeptical. Now, the only other translation I can think of for Drachenfressender Baum — as absurd as it sounds — is a 'kite-eating tree.'"
Schroeder and Lucy both straightened.
"Do you see?" Sebastian asked, misinterpreting their surprise. "It's hard to be a translator if you're not sure whether the prisoner is using some regional colloquialism which you have never encountered before or is just barking mad."
"Are you sure that the Drachy-Baum thing means 'kite-eating tree'?" Lucy questioned.
"As far as a potential translation goes, yes," Sebastian answered, holding up in his free hand in a jaded shrug. "The man claims that after his rifle landed in the tree, he heard a loud crunching sound. When he tried to get his rifle back, the tree had already started to eat it, right in front of him. Whatever he actually saw, it spooked him enough to send him running. He was raving about that tree when the American soldiers captured him."
Schroeder and Lucy exchanged glances.
"Well," Schroeder said slowly, beginning to smile, "I suppose such a tree would be hard to describe in any language, wouldn't it?"
"I wouldn't have thought that kind of tree would have a taste for rifles," Lucy chimed in, "but if they eat kites and toy pianos, anything is possible."
Sebastian arched an eyebrow. "Toy pianos?"
But before either of them could even begin to explain, Violet hurried down the aisle of beds, motioning for Sebastian.
"Excuse me, Captain, would you be so kind as to help us translate?" she asked as she neared them. "One of the German prisoners is resisting treatment."
"But of course, Nurse Gray," he answered. He pushed himself up to his feet and held out his left hand. "Well, it was nice speaking with you again, Corporal Applebrook."
"You too, Captain Baxter," Schroeder replied.
Lucy's countenance took on a mischievous glitter. "Sebastian, be sure to tell Violet what you just told us. She might find it interesting."
Lucy waited until Sebastian and Violet had exited the ward when she pulled out her handkerchief and buried her face into the embroidered fabric, bursting into a youthful giggle which Schroeder had not heard from her in years.
"Oh, I know it isn't very funny," she managed to say, rocking with a rather unladylike mirth, "but of all the stories you could hear out here, you wouldn't expect that one!"
Schroeder grinned at her, not at all begrudging her a little merriment. After all the things which Lucy saw around the hospital — things which would have been shielded from a polite young lady's eyes back home — she was more than allotted a few moments of genuine levity.
"Well then," Schroeder said in his best attempt at a straight delivery (but he could not completely suppress his chuckle), "I should like to see the look on Charlie Brown's face once he finds out there is at least one kite-eating tree out there helping us with the war effort."
Lucy raised her head, and her eyes shone through her tears of laughter.
"I get to tell him!" she insisted.
That afternoon when Schroeder and Lucy took their daily walk around the grounds to rebuild the former's strength, Sebastian meandered over to join them by the old stone fountain.
"I trust I'm not intruding on anything private?" he asked mildly, but Schroeder thought that was exactly what he was aiming to do.
"Hardly," replied Lucy. With her usual authority, she gestured for him to join them. "Come along, Captain. Both of you need to be in fit shape before you return to active duty."
"You make an excellent point, Nurse, as usual," Sebastian grinned, straightening in a smart military stance.
Schroeder tried to keep his disapproval from his face, but fortunately his wounded leg provided an excellent cover for any expression that was less than civil.
As before, Lucy carried the conversation while Schroeder listened, but Sebastian fared well for himself, considering who he was up against. Lucy took their topics from the food rationing and her family's victory garden back in the States to the quality of cocoa at the local Y.M.C.A. canteen compared to what she tasted when she was on leave in Paris, then back again to the States as she wondered if British women would get the vote before American suffragists made any progress. Sebastian dropped in his own opinions here and there, attempting to proffer those apples of gold in silver pitchers that would catch Lucy's fancy, but whether she noticed at all was hard to say.
They had completed one round of the garden when Sebastian suddenly pointed toward the front of the house.
"I say, Lucy, isn't that your brother?"
An ambulance had pulled up, and Schroeder recognized Peppermint Patty unloading supplies from the back. Two soldiers helped her: one was none other than Schroeder's childhood friend and new sergeant, Charlie Brown, while the other one, in the twilight of boyhood and with stringy hair visible beneath his hat, was Lucy's younger brother, Linus Van Pelt.
Lucy coolly glanced toward Linus when Sebastian spoke — Schroeder knew she disapproved of him joining the war — but her face suddenly illuminated.
"Excellent! Charlie Brown is here too!" she cried, clapping her hands. "This is going to be grand!"
Someone else might have thought she was merely excited to see a dear friend, but Schroeder recognized the mischievous glint in her large eyes.
He arched an eyebrow. "Even in the middle of a war, you can't stop teasing the poor fellow?"
"Oh, you know he loves it, deep down." She tented her fingers, and her smile widened. "Some American soldiers left a football here last week — oh, the timing is perfect! Just perfect!"
She spun, grabbing hold of Schroeder's shoulders. Her commanding eyes fixed on him, shimmering with fun and zeal.
"Schroeder, I want you to stay here," she charged. "All right? Just stay here for five minutes. You'll be helping the war effort if you do."
Schroeder gave her a flat look. "I suppose you mean that pulling away that football from Charlie Brown will somehow boost morale for the wounded?"
"Ooh, that's even better than what I was going to tell him!"
She whirled away and bolted toward the estate house, holding up her blue skirts almost to her knees. Schroeder and Sebastian watched her until she vanished, skipping, down the service steps.
"Would it be more sporting to give Charlie Brown a fair warning of what she has planned?" Sebastian wondered, glancing toward the distant figure of the sergeant.
"It will honestly not make the least bit of difference with Charlie Brown," Schroeder pointed out, turning toward a nearby stone bench.
He sank onto the long, narrow seat, shifting his weight so that he could stretch out his healing leg, and Sebastian sat down beside him.
A door of the house opened then, drawing Schroeder's gaze to a group consisting of hospital workers and patients strong enough to work stepping out into the sunshine, each carrying a shovel or pick. They formed a single file, following the path around the building toward the patch of land which Schroeder knew contained the hospital's graveyard.
Schroeder watched them in impassive silence. At the start of his service, Schroeder had reacted differently to death; he had tried to compose individual dirges to commemorate each of the fallen men, intending to mail them to their families after the war was over, but as more of his comrades fell, and as more bombs dropped, and as more nights were spent in muddy trenches trying to block out the agonized cries of dying men in no man's land, Schroeder had gradually abandoned the project. Looking at the gravediggers now, it was as impersonal as watching a team of gardeners going about their duty. It was just another reminder that the war had its tendrils in everything, even in the relative peace of this place.
"Three more prisoners died in the night," Sebastian said in explanation when he noticed Schroeder's numb gaze. "Two of them were officers. One was a private, about the same age as my brothers."
He said it simply, but something listless lingered in the delivery. Schroeder remembered then that Sebastian had twin younger brothers who would have been about fourteen or fifteen by now.
Despite his lack of emotion at the sight of the shovels, at the quiet imagery of a mere kid being carried off by strangers to be buried in a foreign land, Schroeder closed his eyes. It was the first indication he had had in a long time that he was still human, but then it passed.
The sounds of the shovels breaking earth mingled with the crunching footsteps of Peppermint Patty and her two helpers moving supplies across the gravel drive and into the hospital. The wind murmured through the trees, and a few birds whistled to each other out in the park.
"Rather nice day for this time of year," said Sebastian offhandedly. "I hope the weather holds."
"Hmm," Schroeder grunted in agreement. Cold, stressful nights in the mud on the Western Front before his transfer to Charlie Brown's reconnaissance squad (and Schroeder's subsequent injury) had made him appreciate having a warm bed and a roof over his head, even if he was in a hospital.
"It seems so strange sometimes, you know," Sebastian went on. "These moments of quiet. You could almost pretend you were somewhere else."
Schroeder nodded, gazing at the treetops that marked the perimeter of the grand estate. This was the sort of place his mother would have wanted to visit if their family had been on a tour of Europe: full of history and "character," as she would have put it.
As he listened to the twittering bird song in the distance, a humming noise arose in the distance, at first as soft as a honeybee, but it made Schroeder's hair stand on end.
He sat up, as did Sebastian, and the two turned in a stiff silence toward the direction of the sound. After what simultaneously felt too long and too short — for a wary dread conflicted with a desire to forego the inevitable, if this was the inevitable coming at last — an airplane appeared over the trees, heading west.
Schroeder's eyes flew to the emblem, and Sebastian must have seen it at the same time because they both relaxed.
"British," said Schroeder with relief, finding the target-like symbols gorgeous in that moment.
They followed its progress until it disappeared beyond the opposite mass of trees.
"Odd to think," said Schroeder, turning back toward the east, "somewhere beyond that horizon is the German border."
And somewhere beyond that was Rheinland, where Schroeder's German ancestors had lived before leaving the States, Schroeder privately reminded himself. (And within Rheinland lay Bonn, the birthplace of Ludwig van Beethoven.)
Sebastian grunted an affirmative at Schroeder's observation. "And their soldiers are living more comfortable lives than ours even with their food shortages, if you can believe anything the German prisoners have to say about their barracks. Concrete bunkers and bunk beds."
"Concrete," Schroeder repeated, marveling with a mixed sense of admiration and indignation. Before he had transferred to reconnaissance, he had spent several nights sleeping against a muddy wall in the trenches, only rotated every few weeks. "Don't let the men in my old unit hear that."
Sebastian formed a half smile. "Were you at the front for a while before you were transferred to reconnaissance?"
"Only a few weeks," Schroeder replied, gripping his cane to push back the rush of memories. He then added in explanation, "I hadn't been in Europe that long before my commanding officer learned I could draw fairly well, and he recommended a transfer. Then I got injured on my first day in the new squad."
"Right. Lucy mentioned that." Sebastian leaned back, gazing after where the humming plane had vanished from view. "I was on one of the first boats out of the States. I've been here since last summer."
Schroeder glanced at his calm features, and an uncomfortable thought arose. It was not a new one for himself — it had often come upon him in moments or quiet or boredom, which was a frequent thing in the trenches — but Sebastian was the only other soldier who Schroeder knew personally who could hear such a thought without misconstruing it against him.
Schroeder leaned his forearm against his cane, gazing at the gravel beneath his feet.
"I don't mean to be inquisitive," he said slowly, "but how does your family feel about you being out here, facing Germans and possibly… well…"
Schroeder trailed off.
"Possibly shooting my own uncles and cousins?" Sebastian finished for him with his typical mildness.
Schroeder winced and nodded. "I know it isn't any of my business, but since you're a German-American… like I am…"
He left it at that.
Sebastian continued to look forward.
"The day after the country declared war, we had all gone to supper at my grandparents' house," he stated. "My mother's parents, I mean."
"The ones from Eisenach?"
Sebastian nodded.
"I had already had mixed feelings about the whole conflict, but with the growing attacks on German-Americans, a lot of us in the German communities were thinking of joining the army in order to prove our loyalties to America and protect our families from further violence. I hadn't said anything about it to my parents yet, because they were against the war, but my sister, Johanna, probably suspected something. After we all sat down to supper, she turned to my grandfather, with her usual lack of inhibition, and asked, 'Opa, would you ever disown Sebby if he went off to war and killed our own family members on the other side?'"
Schroeder stared at him. "She has quite a way with words, doesn't she?"
"Big sisters typically do," Sebastian replied, shifting his weight on the bench. "Mother started scolding her right then, but Opa did not even bat an eye. He just turned to look at me and said, in his thick German accent, 'You are an American, Sebastian. You fight for America.' And that was the end of it. By the weekend I had enlisted, and I was part of the first wave out of Birchwood to the training camp."
Schroeder knitted his brow, taking that in. "Are any of your family in the German army?"
"Who knows?" Sebastian answered dully. "Maybe we'll be lucky and meet each other after the war is over."
Schroeder thinned his lips. He pictured his own cousins, the ones whom he had met when his parents had taken him to Germany when he had been eight years old. By now, some of them — Fritz, Hans, Johann — could be soldiers, even officers, and perhaps they had unknowingly taken shots at Schroeder, and vice versa. When — if — the family met again in peacetime, would Schroeder be able to shake hands with any of his cousins or look them civilly in the eye? Could he break bread with a kinsman who might have been responsible for the deaths of Schroeder's brothers in the trenches or who expired out in no man's land where the groans of dying men lasted for days on end without relief or aid? Or would they all pretend like the war had never happened?
"I've known a lot of good Germans back in the States," Schroeder said softly. "Not just German-Americans, but actual Germans who came over. How can there be so many good people… and yet so many back in Germany join the army and do such willfully horrible things?"
"If you ask any of the German soldiers, they'll say that they're fighting for freedom."
Schroeder swiveled toward him.
"Freedom?" he demanded, incredulous. "Invading Belgium, raiding Britain, sinking American merchant vessels, and that diabolical telegram to Mexico — that has been their way of 'fighting for freedom'?"
"From what I've been able to gather," Sebastian returned mildly, "Germany has been able to feed its population a steady diet of propaganda these past few years. If the Fatherland says they're fighting for freedom, then why should they think the Fatherland is lying to them?"
Schroeder stared at him, taking that in, before he let out a long sigh through his clenched teeth. He leaned on his cane, gazing out at the lawn, and his eyes trailed over to the hint of the fresh cemetery peeking out from behind the corner of the estate house. He thought of the graves there: Americans, British, French, and Germans, all come to the same resting spot beneath the earth. Many of them were only a little older than himself; some were even younger, mere boys who had lied about their age in order to join the fray and become modern-day heroes.
Then he pictured his relatives in Germany. What did they believe right then? What had they been told? Did they pass each day by giant posters that portrayed Americans as heartless brutes, and did they remember their American cousin and wonder if he had grown up to be some monster which they must then fight and kill if necessary?
Schroeder closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.
"In that case," he said at length, "how do we know we're not being lied to? For all we know, the Lusitania didn't actually sink, and maybe Zimmerman's telegram to Mexico was just a clever forgery made to lure the United States into the war."
"If you start thinking like that, you won't survive out here, Corporal."
"Well, somebody should be asking these questions!" Schroeder retorted.
"But not today," Sebastian cautioned. "Get back to the States in one piece first."
Schroeder reluctantly saw the wisdom of this advice, but his heart and mind were in a wrestling match, oscillating between a impotent thirst for action and the level-headed desire for logic and survival. Without planning it, he pushed himself back to his feet, and Sebastian rose as well, and they started down the path as before. Although his leg protested his quick steps, Schroeder felt better just moving forward. At least he was doing something, and he could forget he was just an injured eighteen-year-old kid who could not change anything about a war run by people he would never meet and which had been raging for over three and half years.
Sebastian maintained pace with him in silence, keeping his free hand in his pocket. When they reached a sundial near the front lawn, he suddenly grabbed hold of Schroeder's arm and stopped him.
"That's enough now, Corporal," he said. "Time to rein it in, or you'll burst."
Schroeder jerked his arm, trying to pull free, but Sebastian held on.
"I think Beethoven's 'Ecossaise for Military Band' would be especially calming right about now," he recommended. "Why don't you whistle it?"
Schroeder's pride balked at having Beethoven thrown at him by Sebastian Baxter, but he was not one to step back from sampling any of his hero's works, so he stiffly complied. After the first few notes past his lips, however, he could feel the effects of good music loosening that tight feeling in his chest.
When Schroeder reached the end of the short piece, Sebastian said, "Now, 'Rage Over a Lost Penny.'"
"That's probably not what Beethoven actually named the piece," Schroeder replied, but he obeyed again. This was longer and a particular favorite of Schroeder, and by the time he finished, the storm had receded, and he could breathe freer.
At last Sebastian let go of his arm, and the two started their walk again.
"Marvelous stuff, that liberty music of yours," commented Sebastian. "Lucy told me about how you've been playing it for the wounded."
"Clears the head," Schroeder returned, "but… one must avoid the more recognizable songs, naturally."
Sebastian nodded. He glanced around them and, satisfied that they were alone, said in an undertone, "'Sprecht leise, haltet euch zurück, wir sind belauscht mit Ohr und Blick.'"
At the familiar words from Beethoven's "Prisoners' Chorus", Schroeder jerked a grim nod.
"Thank you, Captain."
"Don't mention it," Sebastian replied.
It was then that a young man's cry exploded from the distant drive in front of the estate house. Sebastian started, but Schroeder did not blink, recognizing the frustrated shout which he had not heard since before he had left Birchwood.
"AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH!"
A thud followed, echoing over the lawn, and a chorus of cheers and applause from unseen patients followed.
"Sounds like Lucy is done teasing Charlie Brown," Schroeder deduced, turning. He did not know whether to roll his eyes or smile, so he did a little of both. "We can join her now."
"Brown is a great sport; I'll give him that," Sebastian said.
Soon, the scene laid before them: Charlie Brown, on his back in the middle of the gravel drive, while Linus Van Pelt knelt to help him up. Lucy sauntered away from the two, lazily tossing the football as she walked. Patients hung out from the windows, laughing and calling to Charlie Brown, all in good fun. Nearby, a cluster of cooing nurses surrounded Snoopy, Charlie Brown's beagle, who was attired in his green aviator helmet and red scarf, and the dog seemed quite pleased to be the center of so much attention.
With a smiling shake of his head, Schroeder started for Lucy, and Sebastian kept abreast with him. As they neared the front drive, they passed by the wing which Schroeder knew contained the prisoners' ward. Visible through the glass, sentries stood guard while the blue figures of nurses moved about, and Schroeder glimpsed a doctor or two walking from bed to bed, although the patients were blocked from his view. Considering the rows of wounded men inside, Schroeder turned toward Sebastian.
"Do the prisoners really believe they've been fighting for freedom this whole time?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
Schroeder nodded grimly. He thought again of Fritz, Hans, Johann and his other German relatives, and despite his conflicted emotions, the beginnings of genuine sympathy helped to push away some of the bitterness that had plagued his mind for several months.
"I suppose we can't blame the soldiers too much then," he mulled, "if their own government is controlling what they hear. Everyone wants to slay the dragon and be the hero, no matter which side you're on."
"Dragons slaying dragons," said Sebastian under his breath. "What a farce."
Schroeder glanced at him, and a ghost of a smile appeared as he remembered something.
"Well then," he said slowly, "I suppose we must steer clear from any Drachenfressender Baum then."
It was not much of a joke, but it had a good effect anyway. Sebastian shook his head, sniffing in a way that sounded like a snort, which was the closest the two of them had ever come to sharing a laugh.
THE END
A/N: I am by no means suggesting the Lusitania did not sink or that the Zimmerman telegram did not happen, but given that Schroeder had been living in a stressful environment, even in the relative safety of a war hospital, it's understandable that he would go on a rant.
If you're curious about what different countries believed during this time, check out the video, "Propaganda During World War 1 - Opening Pandora's Box THE GREAT WAR Special" by The Great War over on YouTube. Also, the German propaganda poster from 1915 that is mockingly entitled L'Entente Cordiale. Great Britain is depicted as a spider spreading its web across Europe while the German eagle looks on in defiance, which gives you a hint of how the German people were told that they were the heroes in this war, stopping Britain and other foreign powers from greedily taking over the free world.
If you want a good summary of how the US ended up in WW1, check out "WW1 From the American Perspective Animated History" by The Armchair Historian.
Sebastian's story with his family was based on a true story with my step-father's grandfather. The family had immigrated from Italy to the States, and when WW2 broke out, my step-dad's uncles were concerned about possibly fighting and killing their cousins back in Italy. My step-dad's grandfather then told his sons that they were Americans, so they would fight for America.