The Jacket

The following story is found in the collection of short stories 'The Other Place' ©copyright Regine Haensel 2012

Susie and I sat on opposite sides of the old garden swing. It was hot, hotter than it had ever been in Germany, and nothing moved in the farmyard. Mrs. Bradley was washing clothes at the big house and we could hear the putt-putt-putt of the gasoline washer. Mutti was in our house cleaning a dozen chickens that Mrs. Bradley had brought over.  Mrs. Bradley said that we could keep one and the rest would be sold.  I could tell that Mutti was angry by the way she pressed her lips together, but she didn’t say anything to Mrs. Bradley.

Mr. Bradley had gone to the city so Papa and Dave, another hired man, were hauling bales in the old diesel truck. Susie and I didn’t talk, there was nothing to talk about. I stared at a wisp of cloud and wished for rain. The swing creaked, Susie's foot swung idly.

          “Let’s go pick some peas,” I said.

          “We did that yesterday, Greta.”

          I sighed. “You think of something then.”

          Silence. Finally she said, “We could play in the hay loft.”

          I shook my head. The last time we’d been up there hay had got into my clothes and I’d itched for days.

          “How about teaching me some German, then?”

          “I don't feel like it.”

          Susie sighed this time and then we just swung back and forth, back and forth. There was nothing left to do. We’d used up our list of ideas already and the summer was only half over. It wasn’t any better on the days I’d visited Susie in town.

          I lay back and stared at the sky. The motion of the swing lulled me and I closed my eyes. The chugging of Mrs. Bradley’s washing machine made a lullaby sound and my thoughts drifted the way they did just before I fell asleep at night. In a half dream I saw Mrs. Bradley bending over something, the washing machine? Her face looked different, her nose longer, her fingers crooked and scary. I jerked suddenly and realized I had been asleep.

          “Susie,” I said.

          She lay on the other side of the swing, eyes partly closed. “What?”

          “Why is Mrs. Bradley so, so . . .”

          “Grouchy?” Susie sat up.

          I nodded.

          “I’m not sure. There’s something that happened long ago, but I don’t know what.”

          “Is she from the city?” I thought that maybe Mrs. Bradley didn’t like living on a farm.

          “Oh no.” Susie gave a kick to make the swing move. “She grew up on that other farm. Her family owned it.”

          I sat up so quickly that the swing creaked. “You mean the other place?”

          “Yeah, when her Dad died it came to her. She didn’t have any brothers. I mean, she did have one, but he died in the war.”

          We sat some more without talking, our hair ruffled by a little breeze. I could smell the leather of my new shoes. I wasn’t really supposed to wear them till the first day of school -- Susie and I were going to be in grade five -- but I had promised I would be careful. They smelled like Papa’s old leather jacket, the one he had brought back from the war.

I wondered if Mrs. Bradley was angry because Papa had fought on the other side to her brother. I wished Papa were here to tell me a story. Wished something would happen.  A sudden jerk from Susie set the swing bouncing. I opened my eyes. She was sitting up looking into the distance.

          “What is it?” I asked, not moving yet in case it was nothing.

          “A cloud,” she said uncertainly. “No, smoke.”

          I sat up fast and the swing twisted sideways, springs groaning. Across the fields thick billows of smoke rose into the sky. We couldn’t see any flames.

          “What do you suppose it is?”

          Susie shrugged. “There’s nothing over there. Maybe it’s a prairie fire.”

          We leaped off the swing, running in different directions, Susie to tell Mrs. Bradley and I to tell Mutti.  The four of us gathered together. After a while when the smoke just continued to billow and nothing else happened, Mutti and Mrs. Bradley went back to their work and we returned to swinging. Now at least we had something to talk about.

          I wanted to walk over and see what it was, but Susie said it might be a long way to walk and besides if it was a prairie fire it could be dangerous. She told me stories she’d heard of fire surrounding farms, leaping fire breaks and burning buildings. We decided we’d better keep an eye on the smoke. I wondered if Papa and Dave were anywhere near it. The smoke didn’t appear to be moving closer and eventually Mutti called us for lunch.

          In the middle of lunch Papa walked in. I hadn’t heard the truck. He had a strange look on his face and I could smell smoke as soon as he came in.

          “Did you see the fire?” I asked excitedly. “We saw the smoke. Was it a prairie fire?”

          He looked at me for a long moment, but didn’t seem to be seeing me at all. “Ein Unfall,” he said at last. Mutti and I both stopped eating, sandwiches half-way to our mouths. An accident?

          “It was the truck.” He seemed to have difficulty speaking.

          Mutti put her sandwich down. “Was it the truck you were driving?”

          Papa nodded.

          “Was anyone hurt? Is Dave . . .”

          “Nein. We got out in time.” He paused again and brushed a hand over his eyes. “But I have my leather jacket lost.”

          Mutti got up and touched his arm. “Come and sit down, Franz,” she said. “You must be hungry.”

          I started to speak, but Mutti looked at me sternly and shook her head. Papa would eat first. I wolfed down the rest of my lunch and waited for Papa. First he took a bite out of his sandwich and began to chew, oh so slowly. Now and then he stopped and stared at his plate. Susie and I watched every move, but he didn’t seem to notice. Gradually the dazed look left his eyes. Finally he pushed back his chair.

          “What happened?” It burst out of me in a rush.

          “The bales catch fire,” he said slowly. “You know the old diesel has the exhaust pipe up behind the cab, Annelise?”

          My mother nodded.

          “Well, we had such a load of bales on. I think some sparks must have come out of the pipe.” He stopped and just stared at nothing.

          “Yes, Franz?”

          “Dave is driving. I look back just to make sure no bales are falling. And you know I cannot believe my eyes. I just look at the flames on top of the stack. The whole top of the stack is on fire.”  Papa shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

          “Then I shout to Dave. Shout even though he is sitting right there beside me. ‘The stack! The stack is on fire!’ Dave takes one look and he swears.”

          I knew Papa wouldn’t tell what Dave had said. Mutti didn’t like swear words. Papa emptied his cup and Mutti got up to pour him some more.

          I couldn't wait. “What did you do then?”

          “We must do something quick. We drive along at 40 and the wind whips those flames up higher and higher.” Papa talked faster. “We could lose the whole load. We put a lot of work into stacking those bales, never mind the cutting and baling. Dave does the first thing that comes into his head. He tries to dump the burning bales.”  

          I held my breath, seeing in my mind the flames leaping higher and higher, hearing the men yell.

          “Dave jerks the wheel hard right, steering for the ditch. I hope the top row of bales will slide off. But we have them stacked too well. The truck swerves. The wheels catch, we tip.”   Papa swallowed some more coffee.

          “The next thing I am pressed hard against the door handle with Dave on top of me. I can hear the roar of the fire, feel the heat.” He wiped his forehead. “Dave pushes and kicks. I try to help from underneath. He gets the door open and pulls himself out. I follow. By this time the whole load is on fire.”

          He stopped talking for such a long time that I wondered if he was finished. Then he sighed.

          “We cannot save anything. Not even the truck. We just stand there and watch it burn.” He shook his head. “All we can do is throw dirt on the flames that spread to the grass. Lucky for us we are beside a field of summer fallow. At last the whole thing dies down to a smolder and we decide to come home.” Another pause. “Then I realize . . . my leather jacket is gone. I leave it in the truck. Because it was cold this morning when we started.”

          Papa’s voice sounded funny. Like mine did when I was going to cry. But Papa never cried.

          As I grabbed Susie and pulled her outside, I heard Papa say, “It was my brother’s Annelise, the only thing I had left from him.”

          “Wow,” Susie said. “I wish I could have seen the fire.”

          I nodded abstractedly. Papa’s brother had died in the war.  We had a picture of him in his uniform, but I didn’t know much about him.  I remembered the smell of the jacket, how it felt as I snuggled against it when Papa carried me when I was younger. What would Papa do without his jacket? It was the only one he had for working. His black overcoat he wore only on Sundays.

          We went back to the swing and Susie chattered about the fire. After a while I saw Papa go up to the big house. He would have to tell Mrs. Bradley. Would she be angry that the truck was burnt? It seemed a long time before Papa came out again and went to the barn. Then Mrs. Bradley came out and walked over to her car.

          Susie jumped up. “Maybe she’s going to the truck. I’m going to ask her if we can go.”

          She came racing back to say we could. Suddenly I was excited again. I ran to ask Mutti if she wanted to go, but she shook her head.

          “I know what a burned thing looks like,” she said. “I don’t need to see it again.”

          I felt a little strange when she said that and wondered what she was remembering. For a moment, I just stood there, but she turned away to dry the dishes. I rushed out to the car.

          The ride didn’t take long, but Susie and I jiggled impatiently in the back seat the whole way. Mrs. Bradley said nothing. We stuck our heads out of the window. What would the truck look like? When we got closer I wrinkled my nose. What a horrible smell. Like the dump when they burned off the garbage.

          We got out of the car. I felt the heat. The truck just lay in the ditch, a skeleton of blackened paint, blistered metal. I held my nose.

          “A total loss,” said Mrs. Bradley. “Well at least it was insured.”

          Ashes lay scattered in the ditch and up on the road. A heap of refuse smoked where the bales had been. I walked over to look down into the cab. Grey dust puffed up around my feet and coated my new shoes.   

          I had some crazy idea of finding Papa’s jacket, pulling it out and taking it back to him. But there was no sign of the jacket anywhere. Would it have burned right up?

          Beside me Susie spit, the moisture hit the truck and sizzled.

          “Hey,” she laughed, “let's do it again.”

          I paid no attention. Suppose Dave and Papa hadn’t been able to get the door open. What would I see then? I shivered and turned back to the car.

          “I want to go home,” I said. I bent and scrubbed at the ashes on my shoes. Now I knew what a burned thing looked like.