An Owl's Whisper (25 page)

“Stanley, I want to hold you like this all night. Not here in the cold, but in my bed. I’m just so tired. Tired in my soul. And I need to think about something. So you can’t stay tonight. But I must see you in the next days. Can you come here during this week?”

“Sure, I can swing by Saturday. That OK?”

“No, we cannot wait so long. Come Tuesday.”

“Tuesday I pull duty 1600 till midnight. And again on Thursday. How about Wednesday, if I can get some wheels?”

“Yes, Wednesday.” She peered into his eyes. “Stanley, you
must
come. You must come
Wednesday
. ”

“Okey-dokey, hon. If it’s that important to you, I’ll be here. One way or th’other.”

After Stan left, Eva felt exhausted, achingly so, but she couldn’t sleep. She knew what she must do but not how to do it.

How to tell without saying?

Geese With Foxes’ Teeth

On Monday and Tuesday the sky was gunmetal. The air’s dampness, penetrating as a needle, became frozen mist, hanging weightless.

Early Wednesday, the mist collapsed to velvety snow. As the first flakes fell, Eva began her fretful watch for Stan. By noon a white shroud covered the earth, and she worried that the weather might keep him away. She worried because she
had
to see him. Had to warn him. Had to tell him about Saturday.

But at three o’clock her worries vanished as a US Army jeep, its drab canvas top sparkling with snow, careened up the drive with Stan at the wheel.

Without coat or scarf, Eva ran outside. “You made it!” she gasped as she threw her arms around him.

Stan lifted Eva and spun her around. “Hey, don’t sound so surprised. A panzer platoon couldn’t keep me away, much less this speck of snow. Heck, in Hooker County we don’t even say it’s snowin’ till it gets a foot deep.”

“I didn’t doubt you. It’s just that I must talk to you today. Come inside.”

Stan grabbed a cardboard box from the back seat and they went in. The coal stove in the parlor was so hot he felt its warmth on his cheek with his first step inside.

“
Bonjour, Madame
,” Stan called to
Madame
Ducoisie before his coat and hat were off.

Madame
Ducoisie shuffled from the kitchen, a dishtowel draped over her shoulder and her trusty cigarette on her lip. Without removing the smoke, she leaned up to get her hello kisses from Stan. He managed to complete the ritual without getting singed.

Stan carried the box to the dining room table. “
Pour toi,
Madame
,” he said as he set it down next to an overflowing ashtray, proud as punch of his French language progress.

Madame
Ducoisie took out each item, examining it separately: Two packs of Lucky Strikes. One of Chesterfields. A book of coal ration tickets. Three cans of beef. A white paper bag of sugar. A bag of GI coffee. Everything seemed to please her. She commented in French on each one individually. When she was finished, the little old woman reached over and took Stan’s hand in hers, and she kissed the back of it. Though he’d understood few of the individual words, he knew their sum—and more. In that moment, he had an inkling of the deprivation that four years of occupation had been.

After
Madame
left, Eva said, “It’s good of you to bring her these
plaisirs
, Stanley.”

“Aw, it’s nothin’ when you’re assigned to a supply unit. Say, I did bring one more gift.” Stan winked. “For the other lady of the house. Come sit with me in the parlor.” He took Eva by the hand and led her to the sofa.

When they were seated, Stan took a small package from his pocket and gave it to Eva. It was gift-wrapped in dark blue paper and tied with red yarn. He had thought it looked nice, but in Eva’s small, white hands, it became something magical.

Tucked under the yarn was a note card. Eva opened it.

Eva smiled but said nothing. She untied the bow and slipped a small metal box from the blue paper. The box had been, in a previous life, a medicine tin. On the lid was printed the picture of a child nestled on his mother’s lap. The child’s nose was red and his mouth sported a thermometer. A sprig covered in yellow blossoms arced over the pair’s heads. The label proclaimed,
Doctor Ålmer’s Goldenrod Lozenges. The Soothing Tickle Fights Sore Throat Pain.

Eva popped off the lid, and inside, cradled on a cotton bed, was a flint arrowhead. The size of a padlock key, it looked as it must have on the day it was made: Shiny black exterior. Point sharp as a bayonet. Distinct marks made as each fleck was chipped away.

Stan said, “I found it on the riverbank when I was ten. Probably Pawnee, my uncle thought. Pawnee had the run of the plains around Hooker County before the white man showed up. I found a few others, but none as nice as this one. I wanted you to have it, so I asked Uncle Jess to send it to me. It just came in on Monday.”

Eva took a moment to feel the hardness, the coldness, the sharpness. “It’s beautiful, Stanley. But I’m afraid you are wrong about Cupid. He already has shot my heart.” She kissed him as she’d never done before. As if the world depended on its intensity.

The kiss left Stan breathless. It took him a moment to ask, “You mean you might be in love with me?”

“Yes, I think I might.” Her tone indicated considerably more certainty than did the word
might
. “And that’s the reason I had to talk to you today.…Now.”

Stan replied, “You can talk to me forever, far as I’m concerned.”

“Stanley, what I’ll say will require some faith for you to accept. You have never found me to be unsound, have you?” Stan’s expression said,
no
. “And you agree that dreams can speak truth, don’t you?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought much on it, but some folks do.”

“Sometimes I have dreams that come true. I dreamed that my parents died a week before it happened. And just before the Germans invaded in 1940, I dreamed that toothed geese were swarming over the countryside. Now I’ve dreamed again, and I’m sure it’s a premonition.”

Stan said, “I reckon Miss Agatha, my grandma, believes dreams tell the future. Heck, she believes in even crazier stuff than that.”

Eva pursed her lips. “Please just listen, Stanley. I dreamed that on the coming Saturday I awoke to news on the wireless that the Germans had attacked the Allied lines in the Ardennes. They had broken through and were heading towards us, and I was so afraid for you. I dressed quickly and went on foot to warn you. On the way there I heard noises ahead of me, and I looked and saw geese on the road. The geese had foxes’ teeth, and they were speaking German. I watched them waddle into a pond, and they went under the surface of the water. When they came up they were no longer geese.”

Eva paused for a moment, looking for Stan’s reaction. He stared down at his shoes. She took his hand and when he looked up, she resumed, “The geese came out of the water as men wearing American uniforms, but if you looked closely they still had the sharp teeth, and they still spoke German. I was shaking with fear for you, Stanley.”

Stan squeezed her hand. “Don’t you worry—” But Eva put her fingertips on his lips.

She continued. “I followed them. They split into two groups, one going to Lefebvre to the
Pont de Pierre
, the old Roman bridge, and one going toward your supply depot. Somehow I saw them arrive at both places. The American soldiers there didn’t see the sharp teeth, and the geese were now speaking English, so the Americans at the bridge and at the depot believed them to be comrades and trusted them. And suddenly the disguised geese fell on the Americans and ripped at their throats and killed them. Soon many more geese swarmed the depot, taking the fuel and supplies. Then they poured across the bridge and had an open way to the sea. I looked all over for you, Stanley, but all I found was despair. And then I awoke.”

Eva searched Stan’s face. He was staring off, over her head. She bit her lip and went on, “When I awoke, my despair turned to elation, Stanley. For it was not yet Saturday.” Her eyes were wide. “There was still time to save you. To save us. To save everything. But it all depends on your faith in me. Will you believe? Will you spread the alarm?”

Stan rubbed his chin with his thumb. He took both her hands in his. “Eva. I don’t know what to say. Sure you dreamed it.” He shrugged. “I just can’t say what it means.”

Eva’s eyes were wild. “It means the Germans
will
attack. On Saturday. What else could it mean?”

“Right.” Stan said it slowly. Cautiously. “But the Germans can’t attack. They’re off yonder, on the ropes and bloodied. How would they—could they—pull it off? In this weather?” Stan held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “And even if it was so, who would believe some tale about geese turnin’ into men and overrunnin’ First Army?”

“Stanley, you don’t have to say geese. In fact, wait until you hear that an attack has begun. That will be the confirmation, and you can go to your superiors. Warn them of the plan to grip the bridge and the depot before the main push.” Her eyes bore into his. “You must promise me you’ll do that. And if there is no attack, then you can laugh and call me the silly girl.”

Stan was quiet. He rubbed his face. Finally he sighed. “OK, sure. I’ll wait to see what happens, and if the Krauts hit us, I’ll sound an alarm about sabotage. I promise, honey. But to be honest, I think it’s just a bad dream.” He forced a smile.

Eva said nothing. Admitting her love and telling the dream, with all the risk both meant—she felt completely spent. Sitting there on the couch next to Stan, Eva put her arms around his waist. She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

December 16
^th
and All’s Hell

Stan lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. Of course Eva ain’t loony, he thought. Heck, I’d love her even if she was. Just can’t have Sarge thinkin’ I’m nuts, ’cause then he’d send me off somewhere. Somewhere away from Eva. Besides, Stan thought of Miss Agatha and figured Eva’s dream might be right. He rolled over and took out a stubby pencil and a piece of the lined paper he used for letters. He looked around to be sure he was alone then began writing.

Stan bit his lip. He folded the paper and sealed it with a piece of packaging tape. He signed the tape and walked to the foodstuffs warehouse annex that served as Sgt. Waxman’s office.

The sergeant was there, one hand on the lever of a heavy old Monroe adding machine and the other holding a wad of pleated supply manifests. He was cursing through the chomp of an unlit cigar in his mouth. He didn’t look up at Stan.

“Blasted entrenching tools,” Waxman muttered, “where are you bastards? Sons ’a bitches! Here’s goddamn Tool, automotive, multipurpose; Tool, cleaning, rifle bore; Tool, repair, sole, boot. Crap! Where’s the fucking Tool, entrenching? We got 863 of ’em out back. They’ve gotta be on one of these manifests.”

Stan cleared his throat. “Entrenchin’ tools, Sarge? I was on the dock when they came in. Must’ve been, hmm, Friday.”

Waxman shuffled through the paperwork. He exclaimed, “You goddamn lousy bastards. I gotcha.” He intently punched in numbers and yanked the adding machine crank a few times. With a flourish, he ripped off the paper tape bearing the entrenching tool count. A look of consummate satisfaction came to his face as he repeated, “Gotcha.” Waxman believed the war was about beating paperwork—doing in the Nazis in the process was a nice bonus.