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Season of My Enemy

By Naomi Musch

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Chapter 1

June-July 1944 ~ Barron County, Wisconsin

Fannie O’Brien stepped inside, through the back porch screen door. It clattered shut against a sinking sun that cast long, dripping-gold rays across the turned black earth in the western field. She headed straight to the kitchen sink. A platter of cold meat and bread sat on the table for supper, along with a bowl of steamed dandelion greens that Patsy picked that day, but Fannie was too thirsty and exhausted to care about eating just yet. She filled a glass with cold water and gulped it down without a breath. Then she wiped her wrist across her chin, closed her eyes, and breathed long and deep. Finally, she looked at Mom who sat at the table sipping her chicory coffee, an odd, far-off expression on her face. Lately, that was nothing new.
“You all right, Mom?”
Mom lowered her cup to its saucer. “Sit down, Fannie. We need to talk.”
Fannie pulled out a straight-backed chair and seated herself with more of a plop than aplomb. “You didn’t have to wait dinner. Where’s Patsy?” She reached for a slice of bread and a thin piece of beef.
“We didn’t wait. Patsy ate and is off somewhere.”
Fannie scraped a little butter over the bread. “Jerry will be in soon.”
Mom watched her for a long moment.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“I think it’s time we asked for help.”
Fannie froze, her hand poised in the air, a pinch of bread between her fingers. “Help?” She didn’t mean for her voice to carry the tone that Mom’s suggestion was ridiculously impossible.
Mom gave a single nod. “That’s what I said.”
Fannie nibbled the piece of crust, then set the rest on her plate and brushed crumbs from her dirty fingertips. She’d forgotten to wash before coming to the table, and the day’s grit still clung head to toe. Who would ever have thought, just a few weeks ago, that she’d be sitting here with dry, cracked hands, grime embedded at the roots of her hair and in the pores of her knees, and every bone aching like she was sixty instead of twenty-two? She ushered out a weary sigh. “And who might we be getting that from? There’s not a farmer in the county that isn’t short-handed. Every family we know is struggling to find workers, now that the migrants aren’t coming like they used to.” It was a bitter fact. The war had taken their men, her two older brothers included. Her dad in another way. Those that remained behind were either too young, too old, or stretched too thin with their own chores to help anyone else.
“There are other workers.”
“Since when?” Fannie let out a huff and folded the bit of meat into her bread for a bite.
Mom watched her chew then scoop up some greens. “I’m talking about those German prisoners. The ones the government is sending out to help at the farms and canneries.”
Fannie nearly choked on a dandelion green. No wonder Mom let her swallow her meat first. “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “No. Don’t even think about that. We’re not going to have those Huns on this place.” The very notion made her chest burn with indignation. “Dad would roll over in his grave.” She lowered her eyes, ashamed for that last part, and let the dandelion work its way down. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said, when she could look her in the eye again.
“You’re forgiven, but I think you’re wrong. Your dad would tell you it’s got to be done.”
With grubby fingertips, Fannie stroked a circle on the dark oak tabletop, marked with years of bumps and scratches, but glossy and strong as ever. Every fiber of her body rebelled against Mom’s insistence, but she didn’t dare argue two split seconds after apologizing. She’d let Mom have her say, but Dad would never have allowed it. His farm, this property, would not be trampled on by those men whose every intention was to kill his boys. They maybe already had. For all Fannie knew, some of the very prisoners that had been shipped to Wisconsin could have been involved in Dale’s capture or whatever had happened to Cal. Word locally was that the German prisoners were from General Rommel’s Afrika Korps that surrendered last year.
Pure Nazis. Every last one.
“Your dad wouldn’t have wanted you working your fingers to the bone, Fannie. That wasn’t what he dreamed for you. You’ve already sacrificed too much.”
“It’s my decision.”
“Your decision? It wasn’t your decision for your brothers to get drafted. It wasn’t your decision for your father to pass on.” Her mom’s voice choked with passion, but Fannie glanced up quick enough to notice she didn’t shed her tears. “You’ve had to carry the load out there in the fields ever since, and I don’t recall that ever being a decision you had in mind to make.”
In a way, what Mom said was true. Fannie had sacrificed. She’d been so very close to earning her teacher’s certificate from the county normal school. One more semester. That was all. Dad always spoke so proudly of her. We’ll have a teacher in the family soon, he’d said. And her job. . . She loved her job. Yet she’d had to lay aside her education, and she could only manage working one day a week at the library now that the farm work had fallen on her shoulders. Still. . .
She wagged her head. “No, I know that. But think of it, Mom. Germans.” She hissed the word like she was talking about a crop full of corn borers.
The back door squeaked open and slammed shut, and Jerry tromped in.
“Wipe your feet,” Mom said, just like she did every single time Fannie’s sixteen-year-old brother came inside.
“I’m starving. What’s for supper? I don’t smell anything.”
“Cold dinner tonight except for the dandelion greens.” Mom prodded the bowl. “I suppose they’re cold now too.”
Jerry splashed his hands beneath the faucet sticking out of the tall back splash and shook them off, showering water droplets. He swiped them over his filthy overalls and took a seat, grabbing for a short stack of bread and the meat.
Mom didn’t say a word to reprimand him. Her gaze returned to Fannie. “They say it’s safe. They send guards.”
Fannie’s stomach churned. Germans. . .here? While both her older brothers were over there fighting them? While Dale languished in a prison camp, and who-knew-what had become of Calvin? They hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Even after they sent him the terrible news about Dad’s heart attack, they’d not gotten a single word back. There was no official notice he’d gone missing, but where could he be? Had he been involved in the recent D-Day invasion of Normandy? Was he safe? Alive even? Or would Fannie and her family find out that he too had been taken prisoner?
And now Mom suggested they bring Germans here to their own farm? It didn’t matter if the army sent guards for the prisoners. No place was safe anymore. She looked hard at her mom. “It makes me sick to think about it. I don’t like it. We’ll manage.”
“Think about what?” Jerry asked around a mouthful of bread and beef.
Mom picked up her cold cup and set it to her lips but didn’t drink. Jerry chewed and stared, first at her mother and then at Fannie.
“Mom thinks we should get some of those Germans to work here.”
He swallowed. “The PWs you mean? Those over there at that camp?” His brown eyes livened. Somehow, he didn’t seem nearly as tired out as Fannie was, even though he’d been working almost as long in the sun and wind as she had.
She nodded.
He took another bite. “Wow.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. You’re not six,” Fannie scolded. Mom was looking far away again.
Jerry swallowed and took a slurp of milk. Finally, his mouth was empty. “I could keep a gun handy and watch over ’em.”
Mom jerked back to life. “You’ll do no such thing. I said, they’ll have a guard.”
Fannie stiffened. “I don’t like how you’re talking like this is all settled.”
“Far as I’m concerned, it is. I spoke to George Martinusen over at the co-op. They’re planning to bring them in at their place too. It’ll cost us less than what we paid the migrants.”
Fannie’s jaw dropped. “You mean we’d have to pay them too?”
“I wish I could get paid,” Jerry said. “Hey, Fannie, how come you left the tractor out by the fence?”
“We can’t just force them to work. It’s an agreement of the Geneva Convention,” Mom said.
Fannie rubbed her forehead as a pain lanced her thoughts. She shook her head. “I ran out of gas.”
Jerry chuckled. “Forgot to watch the gauge again, huh?”
Fannie pinched her lips. Yes, so she’d forgotten. Not like she didn’t have plenty on her mind. She’d wanted to finish getting that corner field disked before the sun went below the trees and the mosquitoes came out for their evening feast. As it was, she’d gotten half-eaten on the long walk back to the house.
Jerry chowed through some more of his meal. “I’ll carry a can out for you in the morning. No big deal.”
“Thanks, Jer.”
Mom pushed up from her chair and took her cup to the sink. “I’ll be writing a letter to petition the army for some of those workers first thing tomorrow. I’ve made up my mind.”
The cold meat sat like a lump somewhere between Fannie’s chest and stomach. She’d poured her heart and soul into the farm. How her mother could make such a big decision just like that, without caring what Fannie had to say about it, just about knocked the wind out of her.
Mom turned and leaned her backside against the sink. She folded her arms. “I know how this idea sits with you, Fannie. I know it seems like a disgrace. But do you know what’s a bigger disgrace? It’s the idea that our boys—your brothers—Calvin and Dale and all those others fighting in the mud over there—are depending on us. Not just to hold the farm together for when they get back, but because they’ll go hungry if we don’t. You’ve heard the government on the radio saying we need to get our farms in the fight. Well, I aim to keep ours in the fight. Just because your father isn’t with us doesn’t mean we can quit doing what needs—”
“I’m not quitting, Mom.”
“I know you’re not. You’re killing yourself. Getting these crops in and harvesting them will help the cause, and it’ll keep this family together, but I don’t plan to sacrifice my daughter for my sons either. Still, we can’t do it all alone. We need help, Fannie. I’ve got my hands full with the animals and the house. Patsy is doing the laundry and helping in the garden. That little girl may be only thirteen, but she’s doing her share. Jerry. . .” She looked at him sitting there, and her eyes softened. “He’s the man around here now, but he’s still a boy too.”
His chest momentarily puffed and just as instantly deflated. He swallowed down his last bite. “Just go ahead and agree with her, Fan. She’s right.”
Fannie didn’t want to agree. She wanted the army to find her big brother Calvin and send him home. What right did they have to call a sixteen-year-old boy the man of their family when there was Cal? He was the oldest. It was only proper that he should be the one to take over for Dad. Not her. Surely not Jerry.
But Fannie didn’t have that choice. Mom was right. She even made sense. Fannie couldn’t deny it, no matter how badly she wanted to.
Mom went on. “We have to do this. I’m not saying it’ll be easy seeing those men here. It’ll be a battle. Our own battle.” She straightened away from the sink and lowered her arms to her sides. “But we have to let that be our flame. The thing that keeps us going until Cal and Dale are home. And pray, Fannie.” Her voice caught. “Pray like never before.” She turned away and cranked on the faucet, filling the dish tub with water. Probably now to hide her tears.
Fannie pushed her plate away. How could they do it? Bring those Nazis here?
Jerry rose and carried his empty plate and glass to the sink. “What are the prisoners going to do with the money they earn, anyway? Not like they got someplace to spend it.”
“The army pays them in scrip.” The passion had gone out of Mom’s voice.
“What’s scrip?”
“It’s like coupons. They use them to buy things at the camp canteen. Razors and soap and such.”
Fannie glanced again at her dirt-encrusted fingernails and rose. Her lower back complained. “I think I’ll go take a bath.”
Mom faced Fannie, and as her brow crinkled, she gave Fannie a wan smile. “I’m proud of you, Fannie. Real proud.”
Fannie tried a smile, but her face felt stiff from sun and dirt.
“I’m proud of you too, Jerry.” Mom’s voice was tender. She laid a hand on Jerry’s bony shoulder. Fannie was proud of him too.
But right now, she was going to stop thinking about the hard work they’d accomplished along with everything still to be done. She would forget the German PWs and anything other than a long soak in the tub. It might do her good to feel like a girl again, even for only an hour or two before she went to sleep and then got up to get dirty all over again. She turned and trudged up the stairs to her room.
Fannie put the German prisoners out of her mind. Over the coming days, she and Jerry got the western field disked, harrowed, and seeded with oats, and their routines settled into normalcy. Green shoots of corn and peas climbed taller. Fannie spent most of her days out in the field with a hoe. Jerry too. Mom handled slopping the hogs, milking their two cows, and raising her chickens. Mom hadn’t mentioned the PW workers again, and after a couple more weeks, Fannie started wondering if she might have changed her mind.
On Friday morning, the last day of June, she donned a dress and left for her part-time job at the Rice Lake Public Library. Fannie had been working four days a week before her dad passed on. The job, which had been both an income and a sort of pleasant pastime for Fannie, was paying her way through normal school. Until quitting the program to take over the work of the farm. Maybe now she never would finish. Unless they really did get those PWs.
Sorting books and returning them to their correct locations on the shelves felt like coming home. She breathed in the scent of inked paper and binding and reveled in the quiet where the sounds of a chugging tractor and buzzing insects didn’t invade. Before she finished for the day, she checked out a new stack of books for Patsy. That girl devoured reading material.
The next morning, Fannie slid back into her newly-washed overalls and tied a kerchief over her hair, ready to face another day of outdoor work. The reprieve of the library refreshed her, and tomorrow after church they’d enjoy a potluck picnic following the service.
The library job and church services—those two small breaks each week—might get her through the summer and fall. Maybe by then the war would be over and Cal and Dale would both be home again.
Lord, let it be so.
She stepped onto the landing outside her bedroom door and met Patsy on her way to breakfast. Her sister wore one of Jerry’s old checked shirts and rolled denim pants. Her hair was divided into pigtails only a shade lighter than Fannie’s rich brown. Patsy cast big, chocolaty eyes and a smile at her.
“Good morning, Fan.”
“Good morning.” They started down the stairs.
“Thanks again for bringing me the books. I started A Tree Grows in Brooklyn last night. It’s sooo good.” Her words dripped with dramatics.
“I might have to read it sometime.”
“You should.” Patsy trotted on down ahead of her.
When would Fannie have time for pleasure reading again? She had no idea. The very thought seemed ludicrous. Maybe someday when life returned to normal, when she was finished with her education, when she became a teacher and could come home at night to grade her students’ papers and tuck herself into bed with a good book.
Maybe not until I’m thirty.
Mom nodded at the table as Fannie strode into the kitchen. Pancakes and eggs waited. Fannie noted the maple syrup tin sitting on the table. Since the sugar rationing began, maple syrup was an even richer treasure for occasional use. Mom usually saved it for special days, but Fannie wasn’t about to question it today. A minute later Jerry came in, pulling up his suspenders and joining Fannie at the table. Mom set a pitcher of milk between them. “You two had better eat up. They’ll be here soon.”
“They? Who—” Suddenly Fannie knew who Mom meant. “How many are coming?”
“Could be half a dozen men or so. Depends.” Mom shrugged without elaborating. “Patsy, when they come, you stay here at the house. I don’t want to see you wandering out there acting curious.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere near those Germans. They probably have spies. But do I have to stay inside?” Patsy scrunched her nose.
Fannie and Jerry glanced at each other, an unspoken acknowledgment that they agreed with Patsy about the spies.
“Not inside, but right in the yard where I can see you. I’ve got work for you in the garden today.”
Patsy nodded and turned to her breakfast.
Fortified with two eggs and a second pancake, Fannie dabbed the calico cloth napkin to her lips when the sound of a truck rumbling up the driveway captured all their attention. They rose and moved as a family toward the front door and ushered through to the porch.
The truck jerked to a halt, and an American soldier got out of the passenger door. He carried a rifle, and there was a pistol tucked into his belt holster besides. Another soldier stepped down from behind the wheel. Fannie’s heart jerked when one of them flipped back a canvas covering the back and ordered the prisoners off the truck. She took only tiny breaths as she counted eight men climbing down. The enemy! Here on their soil! One by one she took note of them, especially of their youth. Why, they looked hardly older than her or Jerry. They wore tan and brown uniforms with the giant letters PW stamped on their backs. Their hair was cropped short, and they squinted into the morning sun as they took in their surroundings.
Fannie raised her chin, and a sigh of relief sat on the edge of her lips. Then the last two prisoners emerged, and she pressed her mouth into a line. They were older than the others. Not old, but definitely more mature or even in their prime. Probably not more than twenty-eight or thirty, they both had the same cropped haircuts as the younger men, but they had the solid bearing of a few extra years and experiences. Only about an inch separated the two in height, and both appeared taller than any of the men in Fannie’s family. The face of the darker-haired man was narrower, and his eyes peered hawk-sharp toward them. The fair-haired man glanced toward her family and away with a set square jaw, taking in the barn, the sheds, and the fields. What was he doing? Calculating a way to escape or where to find a tool that would make a lethal weapon?
Fannie twitched when Jerry’s boot scraped on the floorboard. His voice brushed her ear. “Well, this should be interesting,” he said.

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