Time had left Stam weary of standing, and now she sat on the cold, tile floor of the restroom with her arm resting lazily across her metal case. Her would-be suitor had left hours ago, not bothering to hide a feeling of harsh dejection, and in the time that had passed, Stam had not had a single visitor.
“Stam?”
Though she hadn’t heard the door open, he was back. David stepped around the corner, now wearing a heavy winter coat which rustled loudly when he moved. “Hey.”
“Hello.”
He came and sat next to her.
“I was gonna ask somebody else, but, I couldn’t think of anyone.”
“What about?” asked Stam. “The dance?”
“Yeah,” he answered. Stam said nothing more, and so it was up to David once again to move things along. “Are you upset about something? You’ve been in here all day,” he said. “Do you need a ride?”
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t bother asking her again. Hearing something once from Stam, he was learning, was enough. He had been working at the church once a week for as long as he could remember, and it had taken him the last two years, since he’d first met Stam, to work up the courage to ask for a date. He had never encountered anyone so beautiful.
That’s what he said, anyway, before planting a kiss in some awkward place between her lips and cheek. Stam’s eyes turned to him, while her head failed to move until David’s hand pulled her face to his.
His kiss stopped only long enough to speak. “I really like you.” He placed his mouth onto her immobile lips once more.
She made no attempt reciprocate, but she wasn’t stopping him, either. A short time passed before he pulled away and smiled, hopefully. The look on Stam’s face was cold and dispassionate, at least relative to what would be expected in reaction to the wild display of affection David had just offered. He looked into her eyes. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”
“I just did.”
“I mean, like, before right now.”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” he said, hiding disappointment with amus-ement. “So I’m not your first?”
“No.”
“Oh well.” He laughed and moved in close. “So, like,” he took a chance, “what have you done before?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, with a guy?”
Stam stared at him. “You want a list?”
He laughed. “Is it a long list?”
“That depends.”
He laughed again. “Okay, well, you’re a virgin, right?” he asked, rhetorically.
“No.”
That shut him up. “Really? You?”
Stam saw no reason to answer. She stood, no longer comfortable in a seated position against the wall. David hurried to stand beside her.
“Your coat is on,” she observed. “Are you leaving?”
“I’ve got time.” He wasn’t interested in changing the subject yet. “So, wait….” Her last statement had taken him so off guard, he wasn’t really sure how to proceed, and so instead, he laughed nervously. “I guess a kiss isn’t a very big deal then, huh?”
“I suppose not,” she said. “But—”
She was cut off as David kissed her full on the lips once more. In an awkward attempt to move things forward, his hand found its way to her stomach, and then under her shirt, where it gravitated to her belly button. Meanwhile, his tongue began reservedly pushing its way into her mouth. When his attempts failed, he instead kissed her cheek, then moved toward her ear and as far down as the neck of Stam’s thick wool sweater would allow. As he went on with this, Stam eventually looked down at his head. She watched his lips drift in an inexperienced but determined manner across her, and then she took note of the taught, stretched skin of his craned neck.
“David Boylan,” scolded a shrill voice, almost knocking him over. He broke away from Stam and looked toward the woman who had just come around the corner. She was in her early forties, though her hair had grayed early, and despite her small frame, she had a strangely authoritative presence. David stammered, unsure how to save face, while Stam pulled down the bottom of her shirt, covering her exposed stomach.
The woman’s tone shifted to one more confused. “Stam?”
“Yes?”
The woman focused her attention on David. “Young man, you get out of here this instant and wait for me outside.”
“Sister Carroll, it’s not—”
“Outside!”
He marched out of the room, head down, his coat rustling noisily as he walked. She watched him until he was gone, and then turned to Stam. Before Sister Carroll could get out a word, Stam gestured to the woman’s watch. “Do you know what time it is?”
Sister Carroll did not even entertain the idea of answering; her tone only grew more furious. “Stam Miller, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, young lady.” She approached Stam. “You’re a fifteen-year-old girl, and you know better than to be doing something like this.”
Stam generally found she didn’t like it when people yelled at her, and did her best to assuage it. She nodded in agreement with Sister Carroll. “Yes, sister.”
“I’m going to be calling both of your parents about this.”
Stam was genuinely skeptical about the idea, but said nothing as she leaned down to pick up her metal case.
“Are you giving me attitude, young lady?”
“What?” Stam was confused. “No.”
Sister Carroll reached out and took Stam’s arm, leading her toward the door, “You come with me this instant.”
As she was pulled, Stam glanced at Sister Carroll’s watch:
4:54 p.m.
“No,” she said, resisting.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll come with you in…” she made a quick calc-ulation, “… twenty-two minutes.”
* * *
Ashley moved gracefully about his expansive collection with a stack of records in one arm. He examined the cover of one—Joni James’ “Have You Heard?”—as he searched for its proper place among the thousands of sleeves. He found it with ease and slid it between at least a dozen other Joni James singles and LPs.
Chet Baker’s breathy voice and a sparse piano haunted the room as he wistfully sang of an unphotographable valentine. After only a verse, Chet’s words were interrupted by another song—not from the record player, but from Ashley’s phone. He set down the sleeves and hurried to the table. There, he glanced at the time—5:12 p.m.—before silencing a digitized rendition which surely only he would recognize of “You Belong to Me” when he answered an unfamiliar number.
“… Hello?”
* * *
16th July, 1940
Dear Jens,
It’s really great to hear from you! Gosh, it’s been months! I have been trying to get your address from one of the commanders or from Rudolf, but nobody seems to know anything. I’m so glad you found mine!
To answer your question, I’ve been training in a place called Larosbach all summer, which is right on the edge of Austria. Ever since the war started, all we have been doing is combat training and marching. I can’t stand it. I wish I had listened to you that day two years ago and gotten out of here, but even now, I still do not know where I would go.
Speaking of wishes: Luther got his. He’s in Munich right now, which means he won’t have to be around me anymore. I sent him a letter last month, but I have not heard back. I don’t think he’s going to reply.
Do you think they’re going to make us fight in the war? I worry about that a lot. Some of the oldest kids already went off to fight in France, but I guess they already won. I guess it will all be over by the time we’re old enough.
What is it like in the Schutzstaffel division? What do you do? Rudolf was transferred into the SS a few weeks ago, and the new Rottenführer, Martin, is even worse. I never thought I’d miss Rudolf.
But who I really miss is you. I miss the way things used to be. That probably sounds silly, but it’s true.
I’m really happy you wrote to me. I think about you a lot and I’m glad I have a friend out there somewh—
“Hey, whatcha writing there, Heulsuse?” a voice called from behind Gunther as a hand snatched away the letter he was in the middle of writing. Gunther immediately grabbed for it and in trying to reach, awkwardly fell out of his cot, bringing his coarse blanket with him.
“Give it back,” he cried.
A few other boys in the room snickered. “What’s it say, Heinz?”
Gunther managed to get up and made another unsuccessful attempt at grabbing the paper away from him. Heinz, his bunkmate, was not only taller, but much thicker than Gunther, and easily deflected him with his free arm while scanning the letter.
He laughed as he read through it. “You’re a real pussy, Heulsuse. Who’re you writing this shit to, anyway? Your mommy and daddy?”
In that moment, a young officer opened the door to the room, “Shut up in there!” He looked at Heinz and Gunther. “What are you doing, Heulsuse?”
Gunther had somehow retained this terrible nickname since the day Rudolf had so embarrassingly had him unintentionally fire off a rifle. How the name had stuck, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t remember crying or screaming, and yet that was his reputation now: a crybaby. Truthfully, he rarely ever cried, but his father had done the same thing: he always accused him of being on the verge of tears. It was very strange.
“He stole my letter, Rottenführ—”
“Shit, Heulsuse, I don’t care. Get back in bed, both of you.”
Heinz crumpled the letter and shoved it into Gunther’s chest. He took it and climbed back into his bed.
“God, you’re like a bunch of fucking children,” the Rottenführer, Martin, grumbled as he shut the door.
In his cot, Gunther could feel a hard kick in his back from Heinz beneath him. He did his best to ignore it as he sat in the dark and attempted to flatten out the letter against his legs. He searched his person before noticing the pen had rolled away in the struggle and now lay on the floor. He decided not to retrieve it.
Instead, he laid his head down and waited for morning. He counted seventeen more kicks from Heinz before sleep was upon him.
Before the sun had even threatened to rise, Gunther found himself outside and marching for what seemed like the thousandth time. At this point, he wasn’t sure any of them could actually improve their marching skills, and so he wondered why they had to keep doing it.
The boys all sang words that had grown to mean nothing:
“Hell erklinget deutscher Sang;
unser ganzes Leben lang;
Treue frohe Lieder;
klingen immer wiede;
durch die ganze Welt!”
They spent an awful lot of time marching, but it didn’t seem like either this or singing would be very practical in combat. Gunther found that questioning these things—and continuing to ask himself why he was doing this—was one of the easiest ways to pass the time and, for a moment anyway, forget that Heinz was periodically trying to trip him. Another skill Gunther had mastered was ignoring the other boys’ attempts to heckle him. It was only at times like the night before—when he couldn’t finish his letter—that he reacted to them at all.
“Heulsuse was writing to his mommy last night,” he heard Heinz whisper to someone while the Rottenführer’s attention was elsewhere. “I guess he’s scared. You scared, Heulsuse?”
Gunther heard a snicker from at least one boy behind him.
“Or were you writing to your girlfriend, huh?” Heinz stifled a laugh. “You got a little girlfriend?”
Every word from Heinz’s mouth had a sickening sneer to it—it wasn’t just when he was mocking someone. It was as though he was incapable of sounding any other way. Then again, insults were about all that ever came from his mouth, so it was hard to truly gauge.
The whispering and snickering went on until the march was over. As they took their final step, Gunther felt the all too familiar feeling of Heinz’s foot catching his and, being unprepared, toppled forward into several boys. Martin screamed at them, “Dammit, Gunther!”
“I’m sorry, Rottenführer, sir.”
Gunther was starting to hope Heinz might eventually find a way to get him expelled from the whole thing, although he had heard membership in the HJ was now compulsory for all boys his age. Instead, as usual, the only immediate effect of the blunder Heinz had inflicted was that Martin was upset and Gunther was sure to have extra laundry duties.
The day wore on, and like so many others, the boys slowly marched it away.
* * *
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