Clara's Soldier, page 3
“But you miss him.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact.
She nodded. “It’s not as though I’m not used to missing him, but with the Germans’ POW camps being emptied now,” she swallowed hard, “I’d hoped.” She’d hoped. What a stupid thing to do.
Drosselmeyer simply nodded and placed his hands under his chin.
“What’s worse,” Clara continued, still watching the merrymaking that surrounded them, “is their pity. They watch me out of the corners of their eyes. I can see it. It’s like they don’t even see me anymore. All they can see is the girl who believed in the fantasy that her hero might come home and that life might one day be normal again.” She played with one of the cream-colored buttons Aunt Pearl had sewn onto the front of her dress. “And they’re probably right.”
“You know,” her godfather said, taking her hand in his weathered one, “you used to believe that I could do Christmas magic.” He leaned in a little closer, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Are you too old to believe that now?”
She gave him a tired smile. “That was a long time ago, Godfather.”
He nudged her shoulder. “I’ve got a little Christmas magic left. Are you sure you don’t want to make a wish?”
She rubbed her eyes and chuckled. “Well, then, if you find no one else to use it on, I suppose you could always try to figure out my wish.”
Her godfather scoffed. “Well,” he groaned as he rose stiffly to his feet. “You may not believe in such things anymore, but this old man has some non-magic to perform for those who still do. Come and help your godfather get his things. I promised Fritz and his cousins a puppet show before supper.”
Clara rose to her feet and slipped her arm in his as they walked toward the door where he’d dropped what she used to call his magic bag.
“I forgot to ask,” Clara said. “How was your recent trip up to Raleigh?”
Before he could answer, they were accosted by Fritz and the rest of the younger cousins who begged and pleaded for their promised puppet show.
Even if she hadn’t been trying to avoid Aunt Marla, there were few things in the world that Clara liked better than helping her godfather set up his puppets. They weren’t really puppets, but figurines he carved from small bits of wood. If she hadn’t known better, the lifelike figurines would have tempted her to believe in magic once more. Never, even in the big department stores, had she ever found toys with such lifelike features. From the gentle curves of their cheekbones down to their chins, necks, and even their ears, every inch of the dolls was carved with love.
She had gotten to watch him carve on several occasions as a little girl when her mother wanted to take her shopping and Clara would throw a fit.
“I want to stay with Godfather,” she would whine.
“Let her stay with me,” Drosselmeyer would cajole her mother. “I always carve a little better when I have inspiration.” And he would wink at Clara, knowing they had won the battle. Then she would sit on a little stool in the corner of his workshop and watch as he carved each piece with fastidious care. The first time she watched him, he took nearly an hour to carve a single face. The little figurines that he carved, sanded, and painted stayed locked up in special boxes for most of the year, but each Christmas, they came out to cheer the little boys and girls.
Tonight the grown-ups cleared a table for the little ones, and Clara helped her godfather set up the figurines with the tiny furniture he’d carved for them as well. Before long, he was making the little voices and funny sounds to tell the stories she remembered from her own childhood.
But for the first time in her twenty-one years, Clara couldn’t find the same contentment in the show as she always had before. But then, she’d struggled all week with finding contentment in anything.
Usually, she was an expert at staying busy. Whether she was working for the war effort, collecting scrap metal, reading to the children at the hospital, taking care of Fritz, or working for Mr. Peters, Clara kept her mind off, at least in part, of James. And after his letters stopped coming, she’d become even busier, making sure she was too involved in everything to wonder whether he was in a German prisoner of war camp, or whether he was getting enough to eat. She refused to even entertain the idea that he might not be coming home.
But now that the war was over, and the holidays meant an overabundance of grandmothers, aunts, and cousins preparing the family’s big feast, she found entirely too much time to think. And with her thoughts came James. Always James.
As her godfather moved the figurines toward the end of his story, the same tale he had told countless Christmases before, Clara wished, for one brief moment, that she still believed in Christmas magic. The kind she’d once believed him to possess.
Applause and cheering interrupted her thoughts.
“I’m afraid I’m getting too old for this.” Drosselmeyer plopped down in the chair beside her and laughed.
“Here.” She handed him a mug of cider. “You’ve earned it.”
He took the drink with a nod. “Why did your parents and all of their siblings decide to have so many boys all at the same time?” He rubbed his back woefully. “They take ever so much more energy than girls.”
She laughed. “I believe there were seven boy cousins born in the same year. And you’ll never be too old for this. The show was just as marvelous as ever.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped box, about the length of her hand. Holding it out, he leaned toward her with an ornery grin. “Hopefully, you’re not too old for this.”
Despite her age, Clara’s heart thumped unevenly as she took the box and removed the ribbon. Could it be what she hoped it was? She lifted the lid, and her heart soared. Sure enough, there lay a figurine gazing back at her out of piercing blue eyes. She let out a cry of delight.
“You made one for me?” After pulling the little nutcracker from its box, she gently fingered all the fine details, from the army green jacket with its dark buttons down to the coal black boots and the little silver sword strapped to his side. “He looks just like him,” she whispered.
The resemblance to James was uncanny. Their eyes were the same shade of ocean blue, and the chin was barely cleft enough to notice. Though somewhat gangly, the little wooden man’s lean build gave off a subtle strength. And while the nutcracker’s jaw had been shaped to open and close, a slight upturn to the right corner of his mouth and a twinkle in his eye suggested some sort of mischief.
She turned to gaze at her godfather wistfully. “Are you sure you don’t have enough Christmas magic left for something besides wood carving?” She gave a little laugh. “When I look at this, I could believe near anything.”
She expected him to chuckle along with her, but instead, his eyes grew mysterious, and with a sad smile, he leaned in just a little. “I’m afraid my magic has almost run dry,” he whispered. Then he tapped her nose with his finger. “But for you, my dear Clara, I shall do my best.” He seemed about to say something more, but then he looked over her shoulder. “May I help you?”
Edward was standing behind her. He looked fetching in his blue suit, though his pants were about two inches too short. His dark hair was slicked back, and for once, his fingernails were clean.
“Godfather.” She stood and gently nudged Edward forward. “This is Edward. He’s James’s best friend.”
Edward raised his eyebrows a little and gave her a funny look. “I’ve known you a minute, too.”
She laughed. “We all went to school together. From first grade all the way up.”
“And why are you here, exactly?” Drosselmeyer stood as well. His face was serene as he gestured to the bustling scene around them. “I’ve been attending the Frosts’ Christmas Eve parties since before Clara was born, and I’ve never seen you before.”
She nearly choked on her cider, and Edward stared at the old man as though he’d been asked to walk on hot coals.
“Godfather!” She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or scold the old man. So she chose to laugh nervously as she tried to brush the spilled cider off her bodice. Each man offered her his handkerchief. She took them both. “Mother invited him.” Really, what had gotten into Drosselmeyer?
Before her godfather could form a response, the little nutcracker was yanked from Clara’s hand. She looked over just in time to see Fritz waving it around excitedly.
“It’s a soldier!” he shouted at his friends, holding the nutcracker up high. “This is great, Clara!”
But before she could warn him to be careful, Fritz tripped backward over a toy cannon that had been left in the middle of the floor. The nutcracker flew through the air and landed on the ground with a loud crack.
4
After James
Clara ran to where the nutcracker lay and knelt beside it. She lifted it with trembling hands. The nutcracker’s jaw had fallen slack, and every time she tried to close it, it fell open again.
Fritz scrambled to his feet beside her, but when he saw the nutcracker, his face went white. “I’m-I’m so sorry, Clara. I didn’t mean to. I—”
Clara felt the tears coming. But for some reason, this was one cry she couldn’t bite back. So she bore her shame in front of the entire family as she sat there on her knees, clutching the wooden doll to her chest. The practical voice inside her head told her she should get up, dry her face, and find some way to stay busy. But she couldn’t even get to her feet. Instead, she simply knelt on the floor and sobbed like a little girl, the broken nutcracker lying limp in her arms.
For an eternal stretch, the only sounds that echoed through the large room were Clara’s cries and Fritz’s apologies. Then came Aunt Marla.
“Do you see, Jonathan?”
Everyone, including Clara, looked up at her aunt. But Marla didn’t take the hint. Instead, she continued talking at her husband, not noticing how his face was turning a bright shade of red. “This is why I’ve said all along that she needs to get over that boy.” She turned to Clara. “When your mother wrote to me, saying that your fiancé hadn’t returned, but that you were holding out hope, I knew you were going to let yourself pine away to nothing.” She rolled her eyes and put a chubby hand to her breast. “The makings of an old spinster, if I ever saw one. A young woman in the prime of her youth who won’t accept the fact that her loved one has been bludgeoned to death or shot or brought to his early grave in some horrid way by those Nazis—”
“Marla!” Clara’s mother cried, but Marla blundered on.
“You know.” She fixed Clara with a stern gaze. “It’s probably a good thing you didn’t get married before he left. It’s been what, two, maybe three years?”
“Three,” Clara said through gritted teeth. James had been gone for three years. Three Christmases with just a ring and a picture and the few letters he had sent. And one and a half years since the last letter had come.
But Marla wasn’t finished. “Just think, if you two had gotten married before he shipped out, you would be an official war widow now. Then forget about getting married again. What man wants used goods like that? And that boy wouldn’t have—”
“His name is James.”
Marla stopped and stared.
Clara didn’t even realize she’d spoken until the words were out of her mouth. But as soon as they were, she realized that she wasn’t done. So she cleared her throat and spoke in slow, measured tones. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up using words that would make Grandma Hannah faint.
“His name,” she whispered, getting to her feet, still clutching her little nutcracker, “is James. He was born in 1924. We attended school together every day of our lives. When we were eleven, I hit him in the head with a baseball, and he says he’s loved me ever since.” She took a step toward her aunt, her voice growing in volume with every word. “He’s wanted to be a soldier since he was five, and as soon as he turned eighteen, he put on this uniform.” She thrust the nutcracker in her aunt’s face. “And he left to protect people like me and, unfortunately, people like you from the evil that has starved and gassed and tortured millions of people to death.” The tears streamed down her face, but her heart beat more fiercely in her chest with each passing second. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe I am on my way to becoming an old maid. But people will see that I have loved so deeply that any attempt to replace that would be a stupid waste of time.”
Clara’s mother came to stand beside her. She took Clara’s arms. “Let’s go upstairs.”
But Clara wasn’t ready to leave. And her mother’s gentle attempts at pulling her away only invigorated her as she stared into Aunt Marla’s indignant eyes. “His name is James, and he was never just that boy.”
Grandmother Hannah was the first one to break the awkward silence. “I think supper should be nearly done.” She made eye contact with the other women in the room. “Let’s go get the food on the table, shall we?” The women followed, and the men took their cue and cleared the room as well, leaving Clara’s family, Marla, Drosselmeyer, and Edward, who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.
“Marla, you are my sister,” Clara’s father said in a low voice. “But if you ever speak to my daughter like that again, you will no longer be welcome in my home.”
Clara’s mother tugged on Clara’s arm. “Let’s go upstairs and wash your face.”
Clara shook her head. She refused to be beaten by her bully of an aunt.
Marla sniffed and straightened her skirt, then headed for the kitchen.
Clara watched her go, angry tears still rolling down her face.
Her godfather gently took the nutcracker from her hands and tied his handkerchief around the nutcracker’s jaw. “I think,” he said softly, “that some soldiers meet their end in battle.” His eyes twinkled. “But others simply need a good nurse and a little bit of magic to help them find their way home.”
Clara’s mother gently urged her up the stairs once more. This time, with one more reassuring glance from her godfather, she acquiesced.
Upstairs, her mother sat her in front of the vanity. Then she left, only to return again with a bowl of warm water. She dipped a warm rag inside and began to wipe away Clara’s smeared makeup. The giant grandfather clock in the hall boomed the eighth hour of the evening, time for supper. Her mother, however, didn’t hurry to get them back downstairs. Instead, she finished cleaning Clara’s face and then began to apply powder to her cheeks once again.
As relieving as the silence was, Clara waited until she could stand it no longer. Her mother’s touch, which was usually gentle, was now agitated, her hands moving in quick, short bursts. Clara finally turned to her mother and put her hand up to stop the little brush from dusting her cheeks.
“You think Marla’s right, don’t you?”
Her mother stared down at the powder, her brows furrowed. “Marla is never right. I’ve believed that with all my heart since I married your father twenty-five years ago. The way she talked to you just now was inexcusable.”
“But?”
Clara’s mother sighed and put the powder down. Still, she did not meet Clara’s gaze. “Clara, have you looked in the mirror lately?”
Clara turned back to the mirror. Her chestnut hair, which had been neat and shiny when she’d gone downstairs, was now messy, and strands stuck out all over the place.
Her mother began brushing it.
“What do you mean?” Clara asked. She hadn’t gained or lost much weight in several years, and she looked decently healthy, at least from what she could tell.
“You don’t see it?” Her mother was frowning now. Then she huffed and shook her head as she twirled Clara’s locks in her fingers to pin them up. “It’s been a long time since James went missing.”
Clara’s throat tightened. She took a blue hair ribbon from the vanity and nervously wrapped it around her hand. Now was probably not the time to add that even James’s own parents had given up looking for him after last Christmas. “Yes.”
“A very long time.” Her mother tugged on her hair a little too hard for comfort. “And for over a year, I’ve had to watch you develop this... this hole. You look like your nutcracker.”
Clara swallowed a cheeky reply that green wasn’t her color. She would get another lecture for trying to wiggle out of whatever her mother was trying to tell her, which she was growing surer by the minute she would dislike.
Her mother waved a hand and frowned. “You smile enough, and you’re always busy. But I miss your spark. The fire in your eyes is gone. It’s as if… it’s been extinguished.”
Because my spark’s been working overtime to keep my heart beating, she wanted to reply. Instead, she sat up straighter. “And you wouldn’t feel the same way if you lost Father?”
Her mother’s hands paused before moving even faster. “That’s different. Your father and I are married.”
“James and I would have been married.”
Clara’s mother leaned forward to look straight into her eyes. “But you weren’t. And no amount of wishing is going to change that.” She scowled and went back to doing Clara’s hair. “If James could see you now, do you think he’d be happy? Do you think he would want you to live the rest of your life like there’s a hole inside of you?”
Clara’s face heated, and she gripped the edge of her chair. “You talk like he’s never coming home.”
“Clara, I want James home more than anyone.” Her mother paused and rubbed her eyes. “Possibly even more than you. Because if he was home, you’d start living again. But thousands of boys never came home. And as much as we all love him, James was not magically immune to the Nazis or the cold and rain or sickness or—”
“Are you finished?” Clara glared at her mother in the mirror.
Her mother put her hands on her face and took a deep breath. When she finally opened her eyes once more, her voice was more controlled, and her brown eyes were no longer burning. “I’m not going to ask you to make a decision tonight. But I need for you to at least come to terms with the fact that the day is near when you’ll need to make that choice.”
