River's Edge by Marie Bostwick Page B

shown me anything but kindness and generosity.
    I was suddenly and deeply homesick.
    I didn’t understand these strange children and their strange ways. I longed for a good German meal with sausages and sauerkraut and chewy rye bread, or a strudel dripping with the juice of sweetened apples. My head ached from the effort of speaking and listening to English all day long. I would have given anything to turn on the radio and hear a song by Erna Sack or Lale Anderson ... or one more glimpse of Mother.
    Somewhere a screen door slammed, and the noise frightened the birds roosting in the oak tree. They took to the sky in a sudden furious flutter of wings and startled chirruping, sounding exactly like the birds that lived in the tree outside my window at home. I turned my head to follow them as they flew away. A tear seeped from the corner of my eye. Father would have been ashamed of me, but I couldn’t help myself. Just then, a hand thrust a clean white handkerchief in front of my face. It was Reverend Muller.
    â€œHere,” he said shoving the handkerchief into my hand. I took it, quickly wiped my eyes and nose, and returned it to him, ashamed that he had caught me crying.
    â€œWonderful thing about the sky,” he said as his face turned to follow the flight of the sparrows. “It looks the same everywhere. Landscapes are different, they are so variable, but if you are in Brightfield, or Berlin, or Bangkok, heaven is the same clear blue.” He stood looking up for a long time before speaking again. “I’ve been to Europe, you know. France.”
    â€œYou have? When?” I asked in surprise.
    â€œDuring the war. I was a soldier, but I didn’t see much action. I had sort of a desk job.”
    I didn’t know what to make of this. I liked Reverend Muller. He seemed so nice, but it was hard to think of him as a soldier, fighting Germans.
    â€œJunior hates Germans,” I said gloomily. “He hates me.”
    â€œNo,” Reverend Muller replied. “Junior is just young, and he gets easily fired up. Fifteen-year-old boys are very passionate and very righteous.”
    I didn’t really understand what he meant, but I knew he was trying to make me feel better. “Do you hate Germans?” I asked. “Do you think we are invaders?”
    â€œOf course I don’t hate Germans,” he answered easily, as though the question was too silly for serious consideration. “Half the people in my church are of German ancestry. My own father was born there. Even if I don’t agree with German politics, I certainly don’t hate Germans. It’s wrong to hate anyone, and it’s especially wrong to hold a little girl responsible for tides of history that are beyond her understanding or control.”
    I wasn’t sure I liked being called a little girl and was about to say something to that effect, but I thought that would be rude. Instead I studied a bank of white clouds suspended in the sapphire canvas above us.
    We stood there a long moment before the reverend took up the conversation again. “When I was in Europe and homesick, it made me feel better to look up and realize that the clouds and sun and stars and sky there looked just the same in Brightfield. It was as if God wanted to remind me that no matter how far from home I was, He was watching over me. “
    â€œMy father doesn’t believe in God,” I murmured.
    â€œHmmm,” Reverend Muller rumbled distractedly, his eyes still scanning the horizon. “What do you believe?”
    â€œI’m not sure. I never really thought about it.”
    â€œLots of people never do,” he said simply. “I guess it’s the sort of thing a person has to decide for themselves. You can’t just rely on the opinions of others. Now, for me, when I look at the sky and the trees, the river as it flows by nourishing the earth, the faces of my children, and your face,” he said, turning to