The Cherry Harvest by Lucy Sanna

Kate was riding down Orchard Lane on her way home from school, long blond hair blowing in the breeze, white cotton blouse pressed against her young breasts, skirt flapping up, revealing shapely legs.
    Just then, one of the prisoners dropped his rake and charged toward Kate. Charlotte threw down the pitchfork and ran, shouting, but the others were too far away to hear. From this distance, she couldn’t make out the prisoner’s face, but he was squat and solid, barrel-chested, with a short blond crew cut.
    Thomas was running as well. He rushed the man, tripped him, and the prisoner hit the ground face-first. Kate’s bicycle wobbled and toppled, spilling Kate with her books and papers onto the gravel. One of the guards stood over the prisoner, pistol pointed at the cowering man. When the PW scrambled to his feet, the guard pushed him off in the direction of the migrant camp.
    This was what the county board had feared, what Charlotte herself had feared. And the season was only beginning.
    Thomas helped Kate to her feet and picked up her things. He put an arm around her shoulders and walked her down the lane to the yard. Kate was not one to cry, but her face was puffed with tears, her blouse was ripped, and she had bloody bruises on her bare knees.
    Thomas nodded to Charlotte, then returned to the orchard.
    â€œOh, Kate!” Charlotte wanted to hug her close, but that wasn’t her way.
    â€œI can’t believe you let those killers into our yard!” Kate choked out the words. “That Nazi wanted to kill me! Don’t you care? Aren’t you afraid?”
    â€œYes, I am afraid. But we’re not going to let them know that.” They walked to the barn with Kate’s bicycle. “They’ll be gone in a few months.” Charlotte tried to sound cheerful. “Just steer clear of them.”
    â€œAnd they better steer clear of me.” Kate’s voice trembled.
    THE ONLY ACCESS TO THE ROOT CELLAR was from the back of the house, through double wooden doors that angled up against the foundation. When Charlotte went out, a breeze lifted the hem of her housedress. It was dusk now, and the setting sun had pulled the warmth down with it. She rubbed her arms briskly to warm herself.
    As she bent over to grab the metal ring on one of the cellar doors, she sensed eyes upon her. She looked up to see the German prisoner, the one who had spoken with Thomas, loitering at the edge of the orchard. Was he watching her? He turned away and rolled a wheelbarrow of pruned branches to the woodshed.
    Charlotte shivered as she stepped down into the cool stone cavern beneath the kitchen. She struck a match and lit the kerosene lantern she kept on the shelf. Opening the grain bin, she silently celebrated her find—a handful of wild rice had fallen into a corner. She brushed it into her palm and went back up. The prisoner was gone.
    AT THE SUPPER TABLE , Thomas was filled with enthusiasm about the progress in the orchard. “These fellows are good workers. We should be done with the pruning in a week.” He paused. “But there might be some bad ones out there,” he said to Kate, “so you keep clear of them, all right? Especially that one who knocked you down . . . Fritz Vehlmer’s his name.”
    â€œHe has crazy eyes,” Kate said. “And that scar on his cheek. I don’t want to see any of them ever again. And I don’t want them looking at me either.”
    â€œGlad to hear it,” Thomas said.
    â€œYou need to send that one away,” Charlotte said.
    â€œI told the Army guards to send him back to the prison and bring me a new man, but they said the Army wouldn’t replace him. They assured me that Vehlmer was only interested in Kate’s bicycle. He’s a mechanic, and he heard a rattle as she rode by.” Thomas paused. “They say this fellow’s good at fixing things. I’m going to have him take a look at the tractor. And your bicycle,