The Major's Daughter by J. P. Francis Page B

talented chef—and now felt restless and bored in the growing shade. He considered walking to the canteen, where he might use his scrip to purchase cigarettes or beer, writing paper and soap, but he imagined the Nazi men would be stationed there. Better, he knew, to stay clear of them.
    He had not moved from his station near the barracks when the PA system crackled once and Mozart began to play over the speakers. For a moment, he could not believe what he heard. The radio sputtered several times, then seemed to fix on the appropriate station, and the music came through the system with quiet joy. He looked around him; everyone had suddenly slowed, their eyes meeting one another’s with wonder. Such a thing hardly seemed possible, but as he listened more closely—what was the piece? He couldn’t remember, but he recognized it as Mozart, his fellow countryman—he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. Someone had gotten the notion to broadcast a concert, perhaps as an Easter present, and the music danced out into the muddy courtyard with incomparable beauty.
    Several men wept at the sound. August stood, unable to determine a course of action for himself. What to do with the sudden happiness the music brought? He closed his eyes, positioning himself in the last strong sun rays of the day, and allowed his mind to travel back to Vienna, to the wonderful coffeehouses, the
kaffee mit schlag
steaming as the waiters carried them to the table, the snowy drift of a newspaper turning slowly, the steady pluck of the pendulum in the Black Forest wall clock, the scent of chestnuts cooking on an open brazier in late winter. The music carried everything with it, and it suddenly felt dangerous, as if it might puncture his heart in a way that would not mend. Nevertheless, he could not resist it.
    When he opened his eyes he saw Collie, the major’s daughter.
    She stood on the other side of the fence with two young women beside her, three draft horses waiting like forgotten balloons on the leads behind them. Her beauty struck him; he had tried to see her every day, a glimpse of her as important to him as food or drink. All the men talked of her. She was like a lovely shooting star that came into view only briefly, always when least expected, and now, meeting her eyes, he raised his arms as if to dance with her and bowed. She smiled and looked down, but her younger friend, a slim, happy-looking girl, bowed back and held up her arms to mirror his own. He began slowly moving, pretending to dance, and the girl—how happy she looked, and how she blushed—followed his lead. They should have stopped, he thought, because it was a silly game, but he found he wanted to keep dancing, and she became bolder as the music continued, despite one of the other women saying a word that sounded like a name. Then the other woman—not Collie, but a third woman—reached out and put her palm on the young girl’s arm to stop her, but the girl shook her off and continued dancing anyway. August felt tears build in his eyes, and he felt tremendously grateful for the girl who danced as his reflection. Other people along the fence line smiled, too, at their pantomime, and when the music built to a conclusion and then halted, they received a round of applause from the onlookers.
    The girl blushed again and August bowed his thanks. The girl curtsied in reply, then scrambled onto her horse as lithe and as quick as a mink. For a moment longer he gazed at Collie, and he believed she gazed back, and when she moved to mount her horse, she could not keep her eyes from returning to his, the world around them gone while their stare continued, his heart following her.

Chapter Four
    T ime passed quickly. That was one thing Collie determined as the weather progressed and became warmer. The days seemed like a string of white beads, each one linked by news of the war, by more absurd songs pouring out of the radio, by mounds of paperwork and by the