chance to flap untidily in the breeze, pinned as they were on all four corners directly into the big bulletin board hung to the side of the postmaster’s window. Not once on Miss James’s watch did wadded-up envelopes, torn scraps of letters, or ripped catalogs lie on the floor below the tiers of gun-metal lockboxes, as they did in some towns down Cape. One entered, as one did every day, and was immediately met with a sense of calm born out of rigid adherence to an unwavering routine.
“I just think you ought to be more careful, Iris,” Mrs. Cripps sniffed now. “There’s that German man around, as you well know. The other night I was coming home and there was his light shining straight through the window above Harry’s Garage—no curtains at all, you understand? It could be seen plain as day on the water, shining straight through like that. And then he snapped it off. What do you make of that ?”
“He was probably going to bed.” Iris tossed the envelope into the sack.
“Yes.” Florence inclined her head. “Well, that’s what I thought, but then, I hadn’t walked much farther when it went back on again.”
Iris didn’t answer.
“It may have been a sign, Iris. He might be a part of a German invasion, their advance man on the ground.” Florence drew the phrase out, impressed with herself.
“He has a wife over there,” Iris said evenly as she could. “In a refugee camp. In France.”
“So he says.”
“Yes,” Iris flashed back.
“I read all about those camps,” Florence sniffed. “There’s no need to tell me. But why is she there in the first place? She must have done something to get herself in there—at the very least stuck her neck out somehow.”
“I expect there was something wrong with her papers.”
“Exactly.” Florence nodded, a little triumphant. “That’s exactly my point. You’ve got to be careful. You’ve got to watch out, watch yourself. It’s horrible, but honestly, the French have had a hard enough time without all these people, Jews and what have you, displaced by the war, flooding in from all over Europe, masses of people suddenly to deal with, as if they hadn’t enough already. First the Germans, now this, and she may not be, but some of them are dangerous, you can be sure of it—”
“It’s been very hard on the man, I think,” Iris broke in to shut the woman up. Otto Schelling came in every day with a letter addressed, Frau Anna Schelling, Gurs Ilot K 20, France ; and on Thursdays, he’d add to it a postal order she’d fill out in the amount of five dollars, earned working over at Harry’s Garage. Deep set and dark blue, his eyes regarded her from a long way off as she asked the necessary questions— How are you? Same amount as last week?— taking the single dollar bills he pushed across, writing him a receipt. He wrote a letter every day. And he had never yet gotten a letter back. Every afternoon, he turned around and walked back out as quietly as he had come in, with the exhaustion of a man who hurled himself against the wall of each passing day, and would do so again and again, until the wall broke.
“We all have to be careful, Iris.” Florence was determined to be mild. “That’s all I am pointing out.”
“Careful about what?” The doors had opened on Marnie Niles sailing in. “I thought I’d find you in here, Florence,” she declared, satisfied.
Mrs. Cripps raised her eyebrows at Iris, punctuating the end of their conversation before she turned around to Marnie. But her attention was caught by the sight of Emma Fitch’s head wrapped in a yellow scarf bound who knows where, crossing the frame of the open door.
“Isn’t she the tiniest thing?”
“Yes, yes she is.” Marnie had to agree.
All three women followed Emma out of sight. Iris quite liked “the little bride,” as everyone in town seemed to think of her. She dove in and out of conversations gamely, offering commentary on what her husband thought, what her husband was
“I just think you ought to be more careful, Iris,” Mrs. Cripps sniffed now. “There’s that German man around, as you well know. The other night I was coming home and there was his light shining straight through the window above Harry’s Garage—no curtains at all, you understand? It could be seen plain as day on the water, shining straight through like that. And then he snapped it off. What do you make of that ?”
“He was probably going to bed.” Iris tossed the envelope into the sack.
“Yes.” Florence inclined her head. “Well, that’s what I thought, but then, I hadn’t walked much farther when it went back on again.”
Iris didn’t answer.
“It may have been a sign, Iris. He might be a part of a German invasion, their advance man on the ground.” Florence drew the phrase out, impressed with herself.
“He has a wife over there,” Iris said evenly as she could. “In a refugee camp. In France.”
“So he says.”
“Yes,” Iris flashed back.
“I read all about those camps,” Florence sniffed. “There’s no need to tell me. But why is she there in the first place? She must have done something to get herself in there—at the very least stuck her neck out somehow.”
“I expect there was something wrong with her papers.”
“Exactly.” Florence nodded, a little triumphant. “That’s exactly my point. You’ve got to be careful. You’ve got to watch out, watch yourself. It’s horrible, but honestly, the French have had a hard enough time without all these people, Jews and what have you, displaced by the war, flooding in from all over Europe, masses of people suddenly to deal with, as if they hadn’t enough already. First the Germans, now this, and she may not be, but some of them are dangerous, you can be sure of it—”
“It’s been very hard on the man, I think,” Iris broke in to shut the woman up. Otto Schelling came in every day with a letter addressed, Frau Anna Schelling, Gurs Ilot K 20, France ; and on Thursdays, he’d add to it a postal order she’d fill out in the amount of five dollars, earned working over at Harry’s Garage. Deep set and dark blue, his eyes regarded her from a long way off as she asked the necessary questions— How are you? Same amount as last week?— taking the single dollar bills he pushed across, writing him a receipt. He wrote a letter every day. And he had never yet gotten a letter back. Every afternoon, he turned around and walked back out as quietly as he had come in, with the exhaustion of a man who hurled himself against the wall of each passing day, and would do so again and again, until the wall broke.
“We all have to be careful, Iris.” Florence was determined to be mild. “That’s all I am pointing out.”
“Careful about what?” The doors had opened on Marnie Niles sailing in. “I thought I’d find you in here, Florence,” she declared, satisfied.
Mrs. Cripps raised her eyebrows at Iris, punctuating the end of their conversation before she turned around to Marnie. But her attention was caught by the sight of Emma Fitch’s head wrapped in a yellow scarf bound who knows where, crossing the frame of the open door.
“Isn’t she the tiniest thing?”
“Yes, yes she is.” Marnie had to agree.
All three women followed Emma out of sight. Iris quite liked “the little bride,” as everyone in town seemed to think of her. She dove in and out of conversations gamely, offering commentary on what her husband thought, what her husband was
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