EASTER IN WAR TIME
It was Easter Sunday. Such a strange Easter, quite unlike any the girls
had ever known before, for though the world was bathed in bright spring
sunshine, and a robin was singing his merriest song in the elm-tree
outside the schoolroom window, there was a strange feeling of solemnity
about everything--a feeling as if something were going to happen, and
the storm might break at any moment.
They had walked to church as usual, but even on the quiet village
street little groups of people were talking earnestly together, and
every face they saw was grave, and a little anxious. The service had
been beautiful, and the village children had sung the Easter carols, as
they always did, but after the regular Easter sermon, the clergyman had
made an earnest appeal to his congregation to do their duty as loyal
Americans, and to be ready for sacrifice now that the call had come.
Gretel had felt her heart thrill as she listened, and she could not
help glancing at her schoolmates for sympathy. Amy Bowring was crying
softly, and Ada looked flushed and excited.
“I’ve been praying all winter that we might not have to go into the
war,” Molly Chester whispered, as they walked down the aisle, while the
organ played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” “but I’m glad we’re in now. I
shouldn’t like to be ashamed of my country.”
They had walked home very quietly, nobody feeling much inclined to
talk, and now the midday dinner was over, and most of the girls had
gathered in the schoolroom to write their weekly letters home. One
of the things which had helped to make Miss Minton’s little school
popular for so many years was the fact that she had always tried to
make it as much as possible like home. There were a few rules, which
must be followed, but in general the girls were allowed to do very
much, out of lesson hours, as they would if they were in their own
homes. Miss Minton always declared that she would not keep a girl in
her school whom she could not trust, and when girls--and boys, too,
for that matter--are put on their honor, it is really surprising how
comparatively seldom they get into mischief. So the girls at Miss
Minton’s were allowed to spend their Sunday afternoons very much as
they would have spent them at home, although there was a general
understanding that Sunday was the day for writing home letters. No one
was obliged to attend afternoon service unless she wished, but in the
evening they sang hymns, and Miss Minton asked Bible questions, which
was quite exciting, as everybody tried to be ready with a correct
answer, and Miss Minton had a disconcerting way of skipping about, so
that it was impossible to guess what question she would ask next. On
this Easter afternoon Grace, Olive, and one or two of the other girls,
had gone to church with Miss Laura, and Miss Whiting, the arithmetic
teacher, but Gretel, Geraldine, Molly, Kitty, Angel, and Ada were all
in the schoolroom writing letters.
For a while it was very quiet, with only the scratching of pens, and
an occasional rustle of paper, to break the silence, but at last Ada
finished her letter, and remarked, as she slipped it into the envelope:
“I’ve written Mother that I don’t intend to take another German lesson.
I know she’ll approve.”
“I envy you,” said Kitty. “I wish I could write the same to my mother,
but I know she’d say I must do as Miss Minton thinks best. I hate
German.”
“So do I,” chimed in Amy, “but I suppose we’ve got to study it as long
as Fräulein stays. Did you ever see any one with such a long face as
Fräulein has worn ever since war was declared?”
“I’m sorry for her,” said Molly, sympathetically. “She must hate to
feel how everybody dislikes her country. I should have a long face,
too, if I were in her place.”
“You wouldn’t if you were loyal to America,” declared Ada. “You would
be glad your old country was getting what she deserved.”
“There are some good, loyal Germans in this country,” put in Angel.
“Gretel knew ever so many when her father was alive, and some of them
were lovely; weren’t they, Gretel?”
“I don’t believe all Germans are wicked,” said Gretel, blushing. “Those
musicians who came to Father’s studio were very kind and generous to
each other. I don’t believe any of them would have done the terrible
things we’ve been reading about in the papers.”
“Wouldn’t they, though?” scoffed Ada. “Just give them a chance, and see
what they would do. My mother says she wouldn’t trust a German, not
if----”
Ada paused abruptly, as the door opened, and Fräulein herself appeared
on the threshold. The little German teacher was looking flushed and
agitated, and stood for a moment, glancing from one face to another,
until her eye met Gretel’s sympathetic gaze. Gretel was feeling rather
hot and indignant at the moment. Ada’s words had hurt her keenly, and
she was conscious of a sudden access of affection for Fräulein, who
seemed so forlorn and unhappy.
“Would you like to go for a walk, Fräulein?” she asked, kindly. “I’ve
finished my letter, and I’d love to go with you.”
Fräulein shook her head, and her lip quivered.
“I have come to say good-bye to you all,” she said. “I go this evening.”
There was a little stir of excitement, pens were laid down, and all
eyes were turned in surprise towards the German teacher.
“We--we didn’t think you would go,” gasped Molly, and Angel added
politely:
“We are very sorry. I hope no one in your family is ill.”
“No,” said Fräulein, “it is not illness that causes me to leave. It is
because Miss Minton thinks it best. She says none of you will wish to
study German any more this year.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Geraldine said,
awkwardly:
“It’ll be rather jolly to have a holiday in the middle of the term,
won’t it? I wish I were going to have one; don’t you, girls?”
“I do,” said Angel. “I don’t believe it will be a long holiday, though.
The war will surely be over by next autumn, and then, of course,
Fräulein will come back.”
“I do not think so,” said Fräulein, and there was a sound in her voice
that might have been either pain or anger. “The war will not be over
as soon as you think. Germany is still very strong; she will not give
in for a long time yet. And in the meantime the poor Germans in this
country must starve, I suppose.”
“Oh, no they won’t, I’m sure they won’t!” protested Angel. “It is
very hard for them, I know, and I am dreadfully sorry, but if we were
in Germany now it would be just as hard for us. I don’t believe Miss
Minton meant to be unkind.”
“She thinks herself justified, I suppose,” returned the German woman.
“You all do that, but it does not alter the fact. However, that is
not the question now. I have come to say good-bye. I am taking the
five-thirty train to New York.”
All the girls except Ada rose politely.
“Good-bye, Fräulein,” said Molly, holding out her hand. “I--I hope
you’ll have a pleasant summer.”
The others followed Molly’s example, and they all shook hands. Then
Fräulein turned to Ada.
“Will you not bid me good-bye?” she said. “I know you have never liked
me, but may we not part friends?”
“Good-bye, Fräulein,” said Ada, coldly. “I am sorry you think I have
never liked you. I have always tried to be polite.”
“Actions speak louder than words,” quoted Fräulein, and without another
word, she turned to leave the room.
“I’ll come and help you pack,” said Gretel, and, with a reproachful
glance at Ada, she followed the German woman from the room.
“Well, of all the disagreeable, impertinent people!” burst out Ada, as
the door closed behind them. “To tell me I never liked her! It’s quite
true, of course, but I didn’t suppose she knew it.”
“I don’t see how she could have helped knowing it,” said Geraldine,
bluntly. “I think you might have been polite enough to stand up and
shake hands. None of us cares much about her, but it isn’t necessary to
be rude.”
Ada reddened, and bit her lip.
“I don’t care how rude I am to a German,” she said. “I hate them all,
and all loyal Americans ought to hate them. Think of Belgium and the
_Lusitania_. I’m not like your friend Gretel Schiller.”
Geraldine sprang to her feet; her eyes were flashing.
“Ada Godfrey,” she cried, her voice trembling with rage, “you are
the meanest girl I ever knew. You know perfectly well that Gretel is
as good an American as any one of us. She can’t help the fact that
her father was a German. If you ever say a thing like that again
I’ll--I’ll----”
“Oh, don’t quarrel, girls,” expostulated Molly. “Of course we know
Gretel is all right, and it really was very rude to treat Fräulein as
you did, Ada. Of course, she was rude, too, but then she is in a pretty
hard position. Some Germans are very nice. We had a Fräulein when we
were little, and we all loved her dearly. If we dislike Fräulein, I
think it’s principally because she has never seemed to care much about
us.”
“She seemed to care a good deal for Gretel,” muttered Ada, but she said
no more, and Geraldine also relapsed into silence, and went on with the
letter she was writing her twin brother at St. Mark’s. But if any one
had chanced to look over her shoulder, it would have been seen that
Ada was still in her black books. For Jerry Barlow was as devoted in
his allegiance to Gretel as his sister, and Geraldine was sure of his
sympathy.
Meanwhile Gretel had followed Fräulein up-stairs in silence, neither of
them uttering a word until they had reached the German teacher’s room
and closed the door. Then Fräulein spoke.
“Impudent little beast!” she said, and then collapsed in the
rocking-chair, and began to cry.
Gretel was very uncomfortable. She was sincerely sorry for Fräulein,
and angry with Ada, but at the same time she felt convinced that things
could not be quite as bad as Fräulein had represented. So, instead of
putting her arms round her friend’s neck, and comforting her--which was
what Fräulein expected--she remained standing in embarrassed silence,
till the German woman demanded between sobs:
“Have you nothing to say to me? Have you, too, turned against me
because of this cruel war? Ah, I did not expect this of you--I did not
think----” Sobs checked further utterance.
Now, Gretel had a very soft heart, and the sight of this distress was
more than she could bear. In another moment her arms were round her
friend, and she was trying to draw Fräulein’s hands down from her face.
“Oh, Fräulein dear,” she protested, crying herself from pure sympathy,
“I am so terribly, terribly sorry! Do try not to be so unhappy. You
know I haven’t turned against you; I couldn’t do such a thing. I am
your friend; I would do anything I could to help you. You can’t help
being German. You are no more to blame for this dreadful war than
Father would be if he were alive now.”
“Of course I am not to blame,” choked Fräulein, “but people treat me
as if I were. It is cruel and outrageous, and what is more, I will not
endure it.” And suddenly Fräulein’s foot came down with a stamp, that
rather startled Gretel, for she had not realized before that her friend
had a temper.
“I know it is cruel,” she said, soothingly, “but I don’t see how we can
help it. People are sometimes rather unkind to me, too, although I am
only half German.”
“Half German,” repeated Fräulein, scornfully; “yes, that is it, you are
only half German. You will not help the cause, but I am not afraid; I
will work for my country! I----”
“Oh, Fräulein, don’t talk like that,” interrupted Gretel. “It isn’t
right. You are an American citizen. If people heard you say such
things, you might get into dreadful trouble. Perhaps, after all, you
will be happier away from here. I sometimes wish I could go away
myself, when Ada--I mean when people say unkind things about Father’s
being German; but I am afraid it would be cowardly to ask Percy to let
me go home before the end of the term.”
“I have been dismissed,” cried Fräulein, returning to her grievance,
“dismissed for no fault, except that I am a German--one of the hated
race. I am turned out like a dog; I may starve for aught they care.”
“Oh, that is terrible!” gasped Gretel. “Do you mean that Miss Minton
didn’t pay you your salary?”
“Pay! What is pay? Do they think because they offer one a little money
everything is to be forgiven and forgotten? Yes, she has paid me for
the rest of the season, but how long will that money last, and when
it is gone what am I to do? My uncle will only let me share his home
while I have money to pay my board, and who will employ a German now
that this country has gone mad, and joined our enemies?”
“I know it’s going to be very hard for you,” murmured Gretel. “Percy
gives me a very large allowance--much more than I really need--if you
would let me help you----”
Fräulein’s face softened.
“You are a dear, generous child,” she said, “but it would never be
allowed. If your brother were to find out that you were helping a
German, your allowance would be stopped on the instant. Of course, you
might be able to keep him in ignorance. I am not thinking of myself but
of others. Are you obliged to render an account of how your allowance
is spent?”
“No,” said Gretel; “Percy and Barbara are very kind. They never ask
how I spend my money, but I always tell them. I couldn’t do a thing I
thought they might disapprove of without telling them. It wouldn’t be
fair.”
Fräulein sighed and shook her head.
“Then you may be quite certain you will never be able to help a German
in distress,” she said, “but you have a kind heart, and there are not
many kind hearts in this cruel world now.”
There was something very pathetic in the quiver of Fräulein’s voice,
and in her red, swollen eyes, and all at once Gretel found herself
recalling the dingy little flat, where her friend’s relatives lived.
After all, it was very sad to be alone in an enemy’s country in war
time. Before she quite realized what she was doing, her arms were round
Fräulein’s neck again, and she was kissing her, and murmuring in her
half-forgotten German:
“Dear Fräulein, I love you very much, and if I can ever help you in any
way, indeed, indeed I will try.”
An hour and a half later, Gretel was standing at the hall window,
watching the station bus, with Fräulein and her belongings inside,
disappearing from sight in the gathering dusk. In spite of herself,
she could not help a little sigh of relief.
“Poor Fräulein,” she said to herself, “I’m terribly sorry for her, of
course, but I can’t help feeling rather glad she’s gone. I am sure
she’ll be much happier with her own people, even if she does think she
won’t.”
She was turning to go up-stairs when she encountered Miss Laura,
coming out of Miss Minton’s private sitting-room. Miss Laura was much
more approachable than her sister, and would sometimes condescend to
be quite friendly, even confidential with the girls. On the present
occasion she stopped Gretel to inquire rather mysteriously:
“Has she gone?”
“Do you mean Fräulein?” asked Gretel. “Yes, the bus has just left.”
“Well, I must say I am relieved,” said Miss Laura. “I was so afraid she
would make a scene of some sort; those foreigners are so dramatic. She
has quite upset Sister; she was so rude; really almost violent in her
language. I should have been frightened to death, but Sister is always
so calm. She assured the woman there was no reason for her leaving at
once. It was merely a question of discontinuing the German classes
during the war. Fräulein flew into a rage, and declared she would go
by the first train, and that no earthly consideration would induce her
to spend another night under our roof. Downright ungrateful conduct, I
call it, after the care Sister took of her when she was laid up so long
with bronchitis last winter. But then, what else can one expect from a
German?”
Again the hot blood rushed up into Gretel’s cheeks, and she hurried
away that Miss Laura might not see the tears that had started to her
eyes.
“I don’t suppose they mean to be unkind,” she told herself, as she went
up-stairs to her own room. “Perhaps Miss Laura didn’t even remember
that Father was a German, but it does hurt when people say such things,
and I can’t altogether blame Fräulein for being angry, although, of
course, she had no right to be rude to Miss Minton.”