Caleb's Wars (16 page)

For some reason, that made me feel better.

"You reckon Uncle Hiram's gonna keep quiet about you prayin' for him?"

"I hope so. Pop was dead set against him saying anything."

"Your daddy is probably doin' you a favor. Once word get out that you 'got the gift,' you'd be famous."

"No, thanks. It's better this way."

"But you wouldn't hold back from prayin' for someone who
did
know your secret?"

"Only six people know it, including me and you."

"That's what I mean." He stood up and started to unbutton his pants. "You see, I got this nasty ol' boil on my ass, and I thought that if you'd lay hands on it and—"

I threw a handful of wet sand at him. "Very funny."

"Seriously, man. If Uncle Hiram can't keep quiet—"

"He will. He promised Pop he wouldn't talk."

"You'll find out tomorrow morning, I reckon. Everybody at the Dixie Belle is gonna see right off that his hands is different."

"I know. But Uncle Hiram doesn't have to say
how
it happened except that he prayed and God did a miracle."

"And you standin' there bitin' your tongue. That gonna be hard for you."

"No, it won't! Why should it?"

"Jeez, Caleb. I
know
you, remember? You did some-thin' good—somethin' real good—and naturally you want some credit. Who wouldn't?"

"God gets the credit, not me."

"Whatever you say." He was quiet for a minute, then: "You mind if I touch you?"

He was going to mess with me again, but suddenly I wasn't sure if he was serious or not.

"Why do you want to do that?"

"'Cause I never touched no saint before, and maybe some o' your holiness can rub off on me. God knows I could use it."

I threw more sand at him, and he threw some back at me, and after a while we were both so dirty we had to skinny-dip in Hale's Pond to get cleaned up before we went home.

On the way back past the church, Nathan suggested we stop by Henry's and see if he'd come out. I reminded him that Henry wasn't supposed to see us, but Nathan argued it was way past time for that nonsense to stop. I agreed, so we knocked at Henry's window and asked him if he wanted to hang out with us.

He came out, and I told him the story of what had happened since our baptism day. Henry was impressed—and ready to have a reason to make up. He apologized for not coming out nights to join us even though his daddy had told him not to. Then he blamed himself for not listening to Jesus' command about not judging others lest you be judged, and Nathan threatened to punch him unless he dropped all that holy talk. Henry realized Nathan was joking—I wasn't so sure—and we all agreed that from now on we were friends again.

***

At the Dixie Belle the next day, Uncle Hiram showed off what he kept calling his "new hands" to everyone. Miss Sondra seemed to be impressed and said she was glad—anyone would be happy to see another person free from pain, and she wished someone could do something for her sciatica. Andreas was pleased, and he and Uncle Hiram got a little game going; every time they went by each other, they had to shake hands. Betty Jean smiled and said nothing much, and Voncille acted like she couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

Uncle Hiram winked at me, like we were two insiders on a private joke. And Aunt Lou—she kissed my cheek when she saw me, thanked me again, and told me she was proud to know me. I found a huge piece of pecan pie waiting for me after the dinner dishes were finished, too.

It felt strange not being able to say anything. I had to be honest with myself: I
did
want some credit for Uncle Hiram's healing. Nathan was right: anybody would. And what was wrong with that?

***

When I got home that afternoon, Ma was in the sitting room, holding her Bible. "I found what I was looking for," she said when I came in. "Sit down and let me show you. 'Behold my servant' is in Isaiah, chapter forty-two. I should have remembered. Daddy used to quote it."

I took the Bible and started to read: "'Behold my servant, whom I uphold; mine elect, in whom my soul delight-eth; I have put my spirit upon him: he shall bring forth judgment to the Gentiles.'" My eyes skipped down the page. "'To open the blind eyes, to bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison house.'"

"Right there," Ma said. "That verse: 'to bring out the prisoners from the prison.' When your grandpa was a young man, about your age, he got together with some of his friends and made a plan to rescue two black men from being hanged. They'd been accused of raping a white woman, and they were being held in the county jail."

I thought I'd heard all the old family stories, but this was news to me. "Here? In Davisville?"

"No—somewhere on the other side of the state. He would never tell me where."

"What happened?"

"The men were being held—for trial, is what the sheriff told folks, but your grandpa said everyone knew they were going to be taken out of the jail at night and lynched. Your grandpa and his friends got there first, and they freed those men. Saved their lives!"

"So Grandpa was a hero."

"I always thought so, but
he
didn't. He just said he was obeying God. And he paid a price, too: he had to leave the county, change his name, and never go back. To this day, I don't know my own daddy's real given name or where he came from. That's why we don't have any family on Daddy's side—just Mama's folks." I had never thought about that.

"Does this have something to do with what God said to me?"

She nodded. "I believe the same call God put on your grandpa's life is on yours now."

"I could never do anything like what Grandpa did."

Ma smiled. "I don't guess he ever imagined such a thing, either. But when the time came, he obeyed."

"What can
I
do, Ma?"

"Whatever God calls you to. Randall's off fighting for freedom in Europe. You're too young to be drafted, thank God, but that doesn't mean you're not called to fight here."

"Fight who? The only person I ever fight with is Pop."

Ma grimaced. "Don't forget the Hill boys."

"That's different."

"I know. But think about it. There are different enemies out there, Caleb, and different ways to fight them."

I didn't know what to say.

Ma saw me hesitating. "You don't need all the answers just now." She put her Bible in my hands. "Read this again, or look it up in Grandpa's Bible. Be patient. God will help you know what to do next. He's not finished with you yet."

I let that sink in for a moment. Then my mind went back to last night. "Can I ask you a question, Ma?"

Of course.

"About what you said to Pop last night—about how you believe in God, and prayer, and all that stuff."

Ma raised an eyebrow. "My so-called stand of faith?"

"Yeah. You sure laid it on the line with Pop. Is he mad at you?"

Now Ma smiled a little. "More surprised than mad, maybe. Your father hasn't heard many such speeches from me over the years."

I put my hand on Ma's. "What you said was great. I was real proud of you."

"Why, thank you, Caleb. Let's hope it gives your father something to think about. After all, we never know how what we say or do can change another person's life." Ma got a faraway look in her eyes. Then she looked at me. "But you know that now, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't worry about your father and me. We disagree sometimes—lots of times, in fact—but we couldn't get along without each other."

I was surprised at how relieved I felt.

W
HEN I THOUGHT
about folks in Toad Hop who needed healing—little Diamond Swan with his clubfoot, Aunt Ruthie Green with her bad heart, even Miss Suzy Jackson with her back problems—I wondered if I should offer to pray for them. Or if God would speak to me and tell me to pray for them. There were so many hurting people. Most of them didn't have any money to go to a doctor, and even if they could pay, the only doctor who would treat Negroes lived in Waynesboro, a long morning's wagon ride away.

Uncle Hiram kept his promise not to say anything about me. After a few days the excitement about his hands started to wear off, and before long it seemed like they had always been healed. That's how fast most folks forgot.

The Dixie Belle was all right now—I was used to it. Andreas practiced his English on us, and we found out that he did have a family in Germany, parents and a sister. They knew he was a POW and that he was at Camp Davis, safe, because the Red Cross had informed them. We also learned that his older brother, Reinhardt, had been killed fighting in North Africa. I was sure he was grieving, even though he didn't let on.

Then one morning Andreas didn't come to work. Or the next day, or the next. The fourth day, he was back. His face was a mess of purple and yellow bruises, and several dark stitches held his lower lip together.

"Lord Jesus, what done happen to you?" Aunt Lou exclaimed. "You look like you been beaten to a pulp."

He wouldn't say anything.

Miss Sondra told us to get to work, that Andreas was all right now and what had happened was none of our business.

Lee Davis showed up after breakfast, sent Andreas into the dining room to sweep, and talked to the rest of us. "Seems they got some crazy Nazis in that camp," he began. "That's what Colonel Ross told me. Fanatics—swore blood oaths to Hitler and the party, that kind of nonsense. Ross says they been terrorizing the camp, 'specially other prisoners who don't share their ideas. And they've been laying for Andreas."

I wanted to ask why the people who ran the camp couldn't protect Andreas, but I wouldn't interrupt a white man.

"He told us back on D-day that he want Germany to
lose
the war," Uncle Hiram exclaimed.

Davis shook his head. "From what Ross told me, he ain't the only one that feels like that. I reckon a lot of them fellows just want the war to be over so they can go home. That's how I'd feel if I was in their shoes. Anyway, that's the situation."

Aunt Lou looked worried. "Ain' they some way to protect him? Them bad ones is sure to come lookin' for him again."

"Ross is taking care of that. Some of the worst ones is gonna be sent to a higher-security camp. In the meantime Ross says they're gonna assign some extra guards in the camp, make sure no one else gets beat up."

"No way they can protect that child," Aunt Lou said, "unless they put him off somewhere by hisself—or post a guard to stand by his bed every night."

"I feel bad for him," said Betty Jean.

"Me, too," said Uncle Hiram. "He only a young man. You can tell by lookin' at him that he can't defend hisself."

"What's wrong with y'all?" Voncille cried. "It's our
en-
emies
you're talkin' about. The sooner
all
of them is gone, the better."

Davis tried to calm her down, but Voncille said she had her work to do and couldn't waste any more time listening to something that wasn't any of her concern.

When we were done for the day, Andreas joined me in the alley for our meal, as usual. Aunt Lou had put enough food on his plate to feed three people, and there was a huge piece of chocolate cake, too. For the first time that day, he smiled.

I wished I could talk to him better, really learn more about what had happened, get to know him. So I tried. "I'm sorry you got beat up."

He didn't understand.

"You know—hit." I punched myself lightly on the face.

"Ah.
Ein Prügel.
A ... beat—"

"Beating. I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Thank you."

"Aren't you afraid to go back to the camp?" I made what I hoped was a scared-looking face.

Andreas nodded. "Yes. A lot.
Aber
—" He shrugged again, like there was nothing to be done about it.

"Davis told us that the bad ones are being sent away. He says you're going to be protected. He says there'll be extra security." I knew Andreas couldn't follow me, but I was saying it for myself, not for him. I wanted it all to be true.

He touched my arm. "
Danke.
You ... how do I say it?" He tapped his forehead.

"Oh. Understand. I get it."

"
Ja.
You understand."

"I want to."

"Hitler, Nazis ... they do bad things. I want ... America ... win the war."

"You told me that a long time ago."

"I say this ... in the camp, and..." He pointed to his swollen lip.

"You shouldn't say anything! Keep it to yourself."

"
Wie?
"

I put my finger to my lips and shook my head. He smiled, but he looked serious. "
Ich muss
—I must—
die Wahrheit sagen.
You understand?
Urstehst du?
"

"No, I don't, but you have to keep quiet. Make them protect you!"

Andreas put down his plate. "I show you ... a thing." He pulled up his T-shirt to reveal his skinny chest. Purple bruises covered his ribs. Just above his left nipple, over the heart, he'd been branded.

A swastika, blood red, blazed against his pale skin.

"Jesus! Who did that? The ones who beat you up?"

"Yes. To..."

"Hurt you?"

He nodded.

"And to punish you for telling the truth!" Now it was clear.

Next time they might kill him.

For telling the truth. For doing what he believed was right.

Suddenly I saw Andreas in a new way. He was someone I could respect.

Even though he was a German soldier.

Andreas picked up his dessert and held it toward me. "Here.
Zuviel für mich
—you eat, too."

So we ate Aunt Lou's chocolate cake together—from the same plate.

***

Randall had gotten to Naples safely, which was good, because the German U-boats in the Atlantic were dangerous. But northern Italy was still held by the Germans, who had built forts there—the Gothic Line, Pop had told me. Our guys had orders to break through and drive the German army north out of Italy. It would be a hard job. The Germans had built their forts on mountaintops, and Pop said it was hell to attack an enemy firing down at you.