Read Summer of My German Soldier for Free Online Page B

at their expense. But it was empty of expression.
    The Germans began trying on the hats, smiling as though they were on a holiday. Reiker had pushed out from the center huddle and was exploring the broader limits of the store.
    One very blond prisoner turned to my father. “Der Spiegel?”
    My father shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Wo ist der Spiegel?” said a second prisoner.
    Again my father shook his head. “I don’t understand your talk!”
    Voices called for Reiker, and at his approach the men parted like the Red Sea for the Israelites. Again the word “Spiegel.” Reiker turned to my father. “They’d like to see themselves. Have you a mirror?”
    Reiker used English cleanly, easily, and with more precision than anyone I know from around these parts. And he didn’t sound the least bit like a German. It was as though he had spent his life learning to speak English the way the English do.
    Again Reiker left the others to walk with brisk steps across the store.
    The corporal was involved in selecting off-duty socks for himself while the other guard leaned heavily against a counter and rolled himself a cigarette. Neither seemed concerned as Reiker headed unobserved towards the door. He could be gone before they even got their guns out of their holsters. Terrified that the guards’ casualness was only a cover for the sharpest-shooting soldiers in anybody’s army, I closed my eyes and prayed that he would make it all the way to freedom.
    But I heard no door opening, no feet running and no gun firing. By sheer force of will I opened my eyes to see Reiker calmly examining the pencils at the stationery counter.
    Stationery was one of the many departments seen to by Sister Parker. But Sister Parker was busy waiting on a lady customer, and lady customers take half of forever to make up their minds. Who was going to wait on Reiker? I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I didn’t even have a comb. Why, in God’s name, didn’t I carry a purse with a fresh handkerchief and a comb like Edna Louise? I ran my fingers through my hair and patted it into place.
    I took a few hurried steps and stopped short. Reiker may not wish to be disturbed, anyway not by me. The skin-and-bones girl. But I can wait on him if I want to, it’s my father’s store. Who does he think he is, some old Nazi?
    Pushed on by adrenaline, I was at his side. “Could I help you, please?” My voice came out phony. Imitation Joan Crawford.
    Reiker looked up and smiled. “Yes, please. I don’t know the word for it—” Above those eyes with their specks ofgreen were dark masculine eyebrows. “Pocket pencil sharpeners? They’re quite small and work on the razor principle.”
    “Well,” I said, reaching towards the opposite end of the counter to pick up a little red sharpener, “we sell a lot of these dime ones to the school children.”
    “Yes,” he said. “Exactly right.” He was looking at me like he saw me—like he liked what he saw.
    “What color would you like?” I asked, not really thinking about pencil sharpeners. “They come in red, yellow, and green.”
    “I’ll take the one you chose,” said Reiker. He placed six yellow pencils and three stenographic pads on the counter. “And you did not tell me,” he said, “what you call these pocket pencil sharpeners.”
    He was so nice. How could he have been one of those—those brutal, black-booted Nazis? “Well, I don’t think they actually call them much of anything, but if they were to call them by their right name they’d probably call them pocket pencil sharpeners.”
    Reiker laughed and for a moment, this moment, we were friends. And now I knew something more. He wasn’t a bad man.
    “Could I ask you something?” I asked, impressed by my own nerve. His face registered the kind of flat openness that comes when you haven’t the slightest idea what to expect. “Well, I was wondering how—where you learned to speak such good English?”
    He