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Cold water splashed his dirty, bare feet.
“What are you doing here,” he hissed through his teeth. “Get back into the barn.”
“I was thinking,” she said, her gaze downcast, “if you could get us some work clothes, we could help around until our contact gets here. Sitting in the barn is boring.”
Fred ran his fingers through the mess of his hair. Heat flooded his face. He hated for her to see him like this. He wished Father would allow him to wear Honza’s clothes so he could ask Mother to wash his only shirt more often. His Sunday best was for church. Same for his one pair of good shoes. Hers were beautiful. Black leather. Polished to shine. And she wanted to help around the mill?
“Let’s go.” He set his bucket down and strode toward the barn. Once the door shut behind them, he reached for her arm and pulled her closer. His blood pulsing in his ears, he mustered the courage and spoke into her ear.
“What are you talking about?”
“I can help. Papa said he would, too.”
Fred looked up. Mr. Weiss was standing at the top of the hayloft ladder, ready to descend.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Fred shook his head.
“Please.” Her eyes locked on him, causing another wave of heat to flood his body.
“Father doesn’t like your kind of people,” he said, fighting the shame. “Besides, what can you do?” He pushed the words out through the lump at the back of his throat.
“Anything but sit on the hay all day.”
She was so close to him; he felt her breath on his cheek. The hope in her voice squeezed his heart. What would Father say to this? And what if Fritz showed up unannounced?
Dr. Weiss climbed down from the hay loft.
“I’m not afraid of work, Fred. We don’t want to be a burden.”
“Let me talk to Father,” Fred said reluctantly.
“Thank you,” Dr. Weiss said, placing his hand on Fred’s shoulder once again. His fatherly gesture squeezed Fred’s heart. “For everything.”
Fred nodded curtly and walked out of the barn. Maybe this was a good idea. Father might warm up to it since he wouldn’t have to pay them. And if they were helping, he would perhaps quit complaining about the food they ate.
When Fred walked into the kitchen, Father wasn’t there. A series of thuds from the mill room reminded Fred of the broken hopper Father said needed replacing. Mother must be helping him. Fred followed the sound of his father’s voice.
“I said pull!”
“I am!”
“Not hard enough.” Another slam of the hammer. “There you are, you lazy hide,” Father’s voice boomed through the space as soon as Fred stepped into the milling room. “Help your mother!”
Fred gripped the hopper and looked up. “Say when.”
Another slam of the hammer almost ruptured his eardrums.
Fred pulled, and so did Mother, her face turning crimson.
“You two are so useless!” Father’s voice thundered. “Why did my idiot of a son have to leave me with a good-for-nothing ass to run this mill?”
Even though Father was fuming, maybe this was a good opportunity.
“Father—”
“What!”
He stopped hammering.