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22

Cadence

1942

W e ended up keeping the German. I was overruled. So much for being the sensible older sister.

I forged up the hill from the boathouse, and Bess followed. Why couldn’t things go well just one day? Not only was Margaret on her way to Manhattan, soon to be sleeping in the bed intended for me at the hotel, but we now were forced to keep a German fugitive.

“I need to fertilize the Burbanks,” I said over my shoulder to Bess. “After that, once it’s dark, we’ll bring him up to the house. It’s not safe to keep him in the boathouse anymore. Any soldier could just come off the beach and find him. We’ll keep him in Briar’s room upstairs.”

Bess rushed to catch up with me, out of breath.

I stopped walking and turned. “You can’t be running uphill like this, Bess. The baby—”

“I know—I’m fine. Sorry we ganged up on you like that, Cade. But I think it’s the right choice.”

“What else can I do, Bess? My sister—your future sister-in-law—will probably go to prison if we turn Peter in. I honestly don’t think Tom would want you to risk having the baby in jail, but Briar has given us no choice. I just wonder if we can trust him.”

“I think he’s a good person,” Bess said.

For all her worldliness, Bess could be so na?ve sometimes.

I continued on up the path. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

—

Later that night, after I’d fertilized the Burbanks, Briar and Bess snuck Peter up to the cottage. They dressed him in more of Tom’s clothes and sat him at the kitchen table. I could barely watch as Bess helped him into one of Tom’s flannel shirts, a little long in the sleeves.

“Hold on now,” Gram said. “We need some ground rules here. Peter, you will take Briar’s room up in the attic, after she moves in with me in my bedroom.”

Briar knew she was on extra-thin ice and didn’t complain, as she ordinarily would, that Gram snored too loudly for her to sleep.

“And, Briar, you’ll bring him his food on a tray up in your room.”

Gram bent at the waist and coughed into her hankie, then continued, “And, Peter, if you’re going to stay here, you’ll earn your keep working the farm—at night, when there’s no risk of being seen.” Gram took her Bible from the table. “Also, I know you were raised in a Christian household, but I want you to swear on this holy Bible that you will be a perfect gentleman while you’re under my roof.”

He hesitated for a moment and then set his hand on the black cover. “I swear.”

“I think you’re a good person, but I don’t know who you really are or what your true intention is. However, if you help us, we’ll help you. Understand?”

Peter nodded. “Thank you.” He stood. “I will go upstairs.”

“Good,” I said.

Peter walked past me, stopped, and turned. “Why do you smell like fertilizer?”

“I’ve been working the field,” I said.

“Which one?”

I looked at him more closely. Why was he so interested? “The upper one. Potatoes my brother planted. Burbanks. A new kind—”

“We planted those right before I left home for service. Every farmer in Germany wanted to grow them.”

I shrugged. “I fertilized them.”

He stepped to me. “Just now? Tonight?”

“What’s wrong?” Gram asked.

“Relax,” I told him. “Yes, just now.”

“I hope you watered deeply,” he said.

I waved that thought away. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“ No —you must do it now. Fertilizer without water will kill the plants. They’ll be dead by morning if your irrigation system is not running at medium capacity, minimum, all night.”

A hot, liquid feeling surged through me. I’d killed Tom’s Burbanks.

“We water by hand,” Briar said. “My father built an irrigation system, but it’s been broken for years.”

Peter threw up his hands. “It must be fixed.”

“Tell me how,” I said.

“It’s dark—I won’t be seen.”

“You’re still recovering,” Gram said. “In no condition to climb up there.”

“We will need a shovel and screwdriver, if you have them, and a lamp may be necessary.” He went to the door and turned to me. “Are you coming?”

—

Gram stayed behind to make us tea, while Briar, Bess, and I hurried along the path to the upper field, following the milky thumbnail of a moon up the hill, the pinkletinks and cicadas calling their night songs. I heard Peter’s labored breathing as he fell behind. There was no way we could let those potatoes die. Tom would be devastated, and we needed the money from their harvest for the bank loan on the house.

“Please, can you lend an arm?” he asked, and Bess stopped and let him lean on her as they walked.

Soon we stood on the slope of the upper field, among the green Burbank plants, which glowed almost black in the tepid light. Peter inspected the nearby well, a squat cylinder of pale cement, the wooden junction box connected to it.

“So?” I asked, warm wind drying the sweat on my arms.

Peter crouched among the plants. “It doesn’t look good. They’re about a week from flowering.” He looked up at me. “But suffering serious water loss. Diminished size. Pruney jackets.”

I barely breathed. Tom would be devastated if they didn’t survive.

Peter held the lamp close to one of the lathe boxes, lighting up its shiny black creosote heart. “These are in bad shape.” He stepped to the well. “My father built a similar system, but this one has been poorly maintained.” He stood. “Is the system connected to this well?”

“Yes,” Briar said. “But the boxes are rotted.”

He set the lamp closer to the junction box. “True, but the real problem is that this is full of mud. These must be cleaned every year. Did your father not tell you?”

Briar shook her head. “My father died when I was a little girl, so no.”

“I am sorry,” Peter said. He dug the tip of the shovel into the junction box. “While I do this, you three go to each lathe box and turn it so the open part faces that row of plants.”

“There must be twenty boxes,” I said.

“Just turn as many boxes as you can,” he said to us. “But hurry.”

We set off into the night. Bess directed us as Briar and I stopped at the end of each row and, using the full force of our weight, dragged each lathe box into correct position, splinters cutting our hands. Peter mumbled curses in German as we worked, and it felt surreal that a Nazi soldier was standing in our potato field, trying to save our plants.

It seemed to take forever, but then suddenly there came a wonderful deep gurgling sound and water gushed from the lathe box, washing over my ankles and spreading into the field.

Peter blew out the lamp and came to me. “That should be good for now.”

I wrapped my arms around Bess and Briar there in the field, and a great swell of gratitude arose in me. Perhaps our strategy to keep Peter around had a silver lining.

—

After our irrigation adventure, all four of us took a midnight swim in the pond, the cool water like velvet on my skin. When we came back to the cottage, Gram was still awake and was “tickled pink,” as she would say, that Peter had helped us fix the system. She set a cup of tea and a plate of Potato Bargain in front of him as his reward.

“By the way, I would just like to tell you, Mrs. Smith, that heart disease is not the cause of your current symptoms,” he said in an offhand way as he ate.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “She needs a heart operation. Dr. Burns told us to schedule it up in Boston.”

“That is a misdiagnosis.” Peter went to the sink and rinsed his plate. “What you have is a pulmonary embolism.”

“You’re just a medic,” I said.

“True, but four days after we left port, the captain aboard the U-boat had one, so I know the condition intimately. The defining factor in the diagnosis is the cough. It mimics heart disease, but the presence of a cough means a problem with the lungs.”

“A blood clot, am I right?” Briar asked.

He nodded. “Yes. Most resolve on their own, but blood pressure must be monitored daily and a strict regimen of rest followed. We had good success with a drink of two aspirin crushed in a glass of apple cider vinegar. If you have those ingredients, I would start right away. And feet up. But I recommend an immediate hospital visit, a teaching hospital if possible. They will have the latest treatments.”

“Thank you,” Gram said. “I had a feeling it wasn’t my heart.”

Peter adopted a grave expression. “Before I go upstairs, I just want to say thank you for allowing me to help.” He paused. “And I have something else I need to tell you, also time-sensitive.”

“What is it?” Gram asked.

“When I was on the ship, I overheard the captain discussing something with the first mate. It’s close quarters, as you can imagine. The captain gave an order for the ship not to leave a five-mile radius of this beach.”

“What’s so important about that?” I asked.

“It’s what they’re waiting for that you should know about.”

“A person?” Briar asked.

He turned to Briar. “Yes, that’s right.”

Briar stepped closer to him. “A spy?”

He nodded. “I believe so.”

It was almost too much to take in at once. “They’re waiting for a spy? A German, here?”

“No. Not German. At least that’s what they said. I didn’t catch all of it.”

Gram sat at the table. “An islander?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. I got the impression it was someone they had a prearranged commitment to retrieving. A VIP of sorts.”

“Who could it possibly be?” Gram asked.

“Fifth Column,” Briar said.

“What is that?” Gram asked.

“Secret sympathizers. People born and bred here who choose to work with our enemies to undermine national interests.”

“Who would do that on this island?” Gram asked.

Briar looked toward the window. “Apparently someone they’re floating out there waiting for.”

“The plan is to pick this person up and head back to Germany,” Peter said. “On the new moon, which provides no light at all, just cover of darkness. In just about a week from today. And you must be careful. According to the captain, this person is armed with a deadly weapon. And has been authorized to use it.”