The Copper Series Read online

  * * * *

  Not long afterwards, Rosita and Esmeralda took the train to San Diego to meet Ramon as the hospital ship docked and to stay near him while he was in the rehabilitation facilities.

  While they were away, Robert organized a work crew of volunteers from the First Presbyterian Church and from St. Mary’s Catholic Church to make adjustments to the Gonzalves’ home to accommodate a wheelchair. It was a one-story home so modifications were manageable. Robert, Ernest from the telegraph office, Judge Pryor, Tom O’Reilly, the mining supervisor, and a handful of others built a ramp over one section of the porch stairs. They added a railing in the bathtub, moved furniture to allow for a wheelchair to pass by easily, and made other adjustments.

  I brought hot coffee over to them mid-afternoon and found Robert hammering away at a little ramp he had built over the front door stoop. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up, denim work jeans on, and his hair wasn’t slicked back. Now I understood the rationale behind the heavy dose of pomade hair gel. His hair looked like a thatched roof.

  It was a very different look from the usual Robert, who wore a necktie to the breakfast table. Privately, I had often wondered if he slept in a necktie, too. I didn’t think he even owned a pair of work pants. I watched him for a minute before he realized I was there.

  He looked, well, rather attractive as a carpenter.

  He glanced up at me, and for some ridiculous reason, I felt my face grow hot. “I brought hot coffee,” I said, lifting up the thermos.

  He stood up and stretched. “Perfect timing. I’m ready for a break.” He looked at his hands and rubbed the areas where blisters were forming. “Guess I haven’t been using a hammer as much as a pen lately.”

  “It’s kind of you to do this for Rosita.” I poured a cup of coffee from the thermos and held it out to him.

  He took a grateful sip. “I’m really doing it for Ramon. If I know him like I think I do, he won’t want help from anyone. He’s an independent type of man. What the Mexicans call a ‘macho man.’ A man’s man. A gaucho.”

  I looked at him, puzzled.

  “You know, a cowboy. He used to ride in the rodeos over in Bisbee. He was kind of a local legend in his day.” He took another sip of coffee. “I’ve even been wondering if we couldn’t do some things to help make his barber shop accommodate a wheelchair. I know the men in this town want to get him back on the job. Rosita is a very nice lady, but she can’t cut hair if her life depended on it. Ramon is really the talent behind the shears.”

  He put down his coffee cup and picked up his hammer, looking at it thoughtfully. “So I’ve been thinking about ways to make barbering easier for a man in a wheelchair. Maybe lower the seats and mirrors.” He glanced over at me. “What do you think?”

  “What do I think? I think, well, I think you’re an extraordinary kind of minister,” I said, and quickly went inside to take the coffee thermos and cups to the other helpers.

  When Ramon, Rosita and Esmeralda returned to Copper Springs, Ramon was given a hero’s welcome, complete with a town parade. It seemed as if all 874 members of the town showed up for the parade. The men of the town, especially, seemed eager to shake Ramon’s hand and ask him when he planned to be back at the barber shop.

  I felt a little worried that the makers of pomade would notice a dip in their sales soon.

  Judge Pryor declared the day “Ramon Gonzalves Day” and presented him with a flag of Arizona. Rosita could not have looked any more proud of her soldier husband, dressed in full uniform with a purple heart pinned to his chest, sitting proud in his wheelchair on the makeshift platform.

  I knew America had been wounded by Pearl Harbor, by the tragic loss of over 2,000 soldiers, and by being unprepared for an attack by the Japanese. I knew most Americans felt it was their patriotic duty to fight the evil dictators of Germany and Japan.

  But a little part of me, a cynical part, I’m ashamed to admit, wondered if Ramon’s missing feet were the first time the town of Copper Springs understood that a world at war had far deeper consequences than rationing sugar and missing your favorite barber.

  Chapter Six

  The next day, Miss Gordon asked me to take lunch over to Robert in his office because she was washing and waxing the kitchen floor and didn’t want anybody walking on it. The floor was tiled with black and white small tiles, hard to keep clean. Her bane of existence was that floor, scuff marks being a particular nemesis.

  “And take that flea-ridden mutt with you, too. If I don’t watch him every minute, he starts chewing on the parlor rug,” she groused.

  I waved to William to catch his attention so that he would look directly at me, and slowly said, “Come! See Dad.”

  Robert looked pleased when we arrived at his office door; he was ready for a break. “Oh, so Aunt Martha is wrestling with the floor again. Glad to be away from it!” he said cheerfully when I explained the basket on my arm. “Looks as if she wants you and William to picnic with me; she packed enough for the three of us.” He cleared his desk, picked up William and put him on top of it, cross-legged, as I pulled up a chair. Dog sprawled contentedly at Robert’s feet.

  “What’s the title of this sermon?” I asked, grateful to see that Robert must have visited Ramon’s barbershop this morning. Ramon offered to give Robert a haircut as soon as he saw him, before the long line-up of men with haircuts in need of desperate repair began. He said it was his way to thank Robert for organizing the wheelchair accommodations made to his house, but I suspected it was probably because he was appalled at the state of Robert’s hair under Rosita’s watch. Gone was the slicked-back look, lathered with pomade.

  “What do you think of this sermon title? ‘Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief!’ The text is from the Gospel of Mark, when a man seeks help from Jesus for his son.” He glanced up at me. “Think it would catch attention?”

  “I do.” I sat down, watching him as he placed something into William’s hand. I knew that sermon was for him. He was that man talking to Jesus.

  Robert had given William two pennies to compare. One of them was made of copper, one made of steel. Responding to a shortage in copper, the government had just started to replace copper pennies with steel ones. After William had finished examining the pennies, I said, “something wonderful happened today.”

  Robert glanced my way with mild interest.

  “William said ‘mmmmm.’ He meant ‘more’! I understood exactly what he was trying to say! He wanted more milk, and he used a word to tell me!”

  He tried to suppress a grin without success. “Louisa, how in the world did you survive as a Resistance Worker when you show your emotions as plain as a roadmap?”

  I frowned. It was true. I couldn’t hide a thing. “They never let me talk to anyone,” I admitted. “The only two jobs they would give me were surveillance and eavesdropping. Dietrich often said I had a lethal curiosity.”

  Robert burst out laughing. Bored by the lack of attention, William wandered into the sanctuary. He liked to find bulletins Sunday church-goers left scattered in the pews and make paper airplanes of them, sailing them airborne around the sanctuary. As Robert watched him go, he said, “it’s a miracle to see what is happening to William. I hope you know how grateful I am.”

  “The credit belongs to William. He’s an amazing boy.”

  I started to unpack our lunch when Robert asked, “Any new word about Dietrich?”

  I shook my head sadly.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Louisa, I still can’t understand when Dietrich became involved in assassination attempts. When I knew him, back in seminary in 1931, I remember he was very concerned about the direction Germany was heading. There had been an election that had brought socialists to a majority power, and I recall how upset Dietrich was about that election.”

  “Did Dietrich ever tell you about the radio address he gave the day after Hitler became chancellor?”

  Robert shook his head.

  I sat down across from him. “He was giving
a speech on true leadership, warning the Germans of the dangers of absolute obedience. Suddenly, he was cut off the air. Right in mid-speech! It was one of the first times the government suppressed free speech.” I looked at him cynically. “A portent of what was to come.”

  Robert tilted his head. “But how did Dietrich go from being against war to actually participating in plots to assassinate Hitler? It’s hard to understand. I thought Dietrich even leaned a little toward pacifism. I’m not saying the world wouldn’t be a better place without Hitler in it, but to actually assassinate him? It’s just, well, it’s hard to believe.”

  “It wasn’t an easy decision for him. Of course, Dietrich wasn’t going to actually be the one to assassinate Hitler. But he was willing to be totally involved despite what it might cost him personally. I think he assumed that, after the fall of Hitler, it might mean the end of his career as a pastor. He was even willing to risk that, to lose his reputation. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Just last year, we all realized we were being watched. Dietrich’s mail was censored, and his telephone was tapped. He became more vigilant, but he didn’t make any change in his activities. He was fearless.”

  I tucked my hands under me, thinking back on those last few tension-filled days I had spent in Germany. “It was different for me. I couldn’t sleep. Or eat. One morning, Dietrich handed me an envelope to deliver, and my hands shook so much I dropped it. I bent down to pick up the envelope, looked up at him, and we both realized I was done. I couldn’t handle the pressure anymore. That very afternoon, they whisked me off to Switzerland.”

  Everyone knew I was a danger to them as well as to myself.

  As I fell silent, Robert said reassuringly, “Louisa, you did more than most. You can’t blame yourself.”

  Maybe not. But I would never forgive myself for not being more courageous or more faithful. Or both.

  Robert interrupted my private flagellation. “But I still don’t understand how Dietrich went from resisting Hitler to planning to assassinate him.”

  I stood up and took the napkins out of the basket, handing one to Robert. “After he worked so hard to keep the Church free of the influence of the Nazis, he realized it was becoming an impossible situation. At first, they tried to use the German courts to overthrow Hitler. After Hitler invaded other countries, they tried to get the People’s Court to declare him insane. That effort collapsed, and it became clear that war was inevitable.”

  I smoothed out William’s napkin and placed it on Robert’s desk, like a placemat. Then I did the same for me. I was stalling for time. I still felt quite upset about Dietrich’s arrest; it was difficult to talk about him. I fought a dreadful premonition of what might be in store for him.

  “And so…” Robert prompted.

  I looked at him. “So…Dietrich faced the question of which was the greater guilt-tolerating Hitler or removing him. He finally decided there are situations in which a Christian must become guilty, out of love, to help those who are suffering. There’s a passage in the New Testament in which Jesus warns his disciples that they who take the sword shall perish by the sword. Dietrich felt those words had spoken to his own heart. It was about that time that he agreed to help in an attempt to actually assassinate Hitler.”

  “What happened next? Was there another plan?” Leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, he was listening to me with intense concentration.

  “Oh, yes, a number of them. Another time, Hitler was on his way to the Russian Front, and one of the officers in Hitler’s entourage was asked to deliver two bottles of brandy back to Germany to give to a General as a celebration for his anniversary.”

  I unwrapped William’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich and placed it on his napkin. “The package actually contained a bomb. Hitler’s plane took off but later landed without incident. The Resistance Workers scrambled to retrieve the package. Somehow, the detonator had failed to ignite.”

  I put some cut carrots next to William’s sandwich so he would be sure to eat them. He avoided all vegetables with the exception of potato chips.

  “Yet another time, Hitler was scheduled to be at a military exhibition. A young officer had two plastic bombs in his pocket and was planning to approach Hitler, set the fuses, and explode the bombs. But Hitler suddenly changed his plans and left after being there just a few minutes.”

  I handed Robert a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and picked up one for me. I sat down and opened it slowly. Then I looked solemnly at Robert.

  “When I left, the Gestapo didn’t know all of the details, nor did they know all who were involved, but we knew suspicion was growing. With all of his contacts and connections, Dietrich helped Jews to escape through Switzerland, as he did with me, paying their expenses out of his own pocket. It’s occurred to me that they might have traced a trail leading to him. I’ve wondered if that’s why they’ve arrested him.”

  Suddenly, Dog stood up, hackling and growling. A door clicked shut.

  “Did William go back to the parsonage?” Robert asked.

  I stood up and went over to the office door that opened to the sanctuary, but there was William, carefully placing paper airplanes in the large Bible on Robert’s pulpit. I turned and looked back at Robert in alarm. “Is Jackson here today?” Jackson was the church janitor.

  “No. He only comes on Fridays.”

  Could someone have been listening to us? And why?

  * * * *

  During church on Sunday morning, I looked around at the faces, many of which were becoming familiar to me. Elder Ray MacNeil stood to read Scripture from the pulpit Bible. He opened up the Bible, took a deep breath to begin reading the text, but then abruptly stopped himself. One by one, he pulled out paper airplanes William had hidden.

  He gathered the airplanes, turned to Robert, and said, “Reverend, I believe these belong to you.” The congregation erupted in laughter; I looked over at William as he looked at me with wide eyes. Neither of us dared to steal a glance at Robert’s aunt, who was, no doubt, glaring down at us from the choir loft.

  Robert’s sermons saw a definite upturn after he let me edit them. Every single week, we would argue agreeably about my comments, he would sigh in exasperation, but many of my suggestions would be woven into his sermon by Sunday morning.

  The pews were a little less empty. I overheard two ladies at Ibsen’s store one day when I was picking up a few things for Miss Gordon. “So I’m going to try that Presbyterian Church next Sunday. Have you noticed the titles out on the marquee in front of the church? This next week’s is: ‘What Are You Going to Do?’ And last week’s was ‘Are You Sure?’ About what? That’s what I want to know.”

  The other lady leaned over and whispered loudly, “you know all about that preacher, don’t you? You don’t? Sure you do. Remember what happened to his pretty wife? Such a shame. You don’t know? Well, you won’t hear it from me. That Martha Gordon made it clear to everyone in town she would personally draw and quarter anyone who uttered a word about the preacher’s pretty wife. She would, too. But you’ve seen his little boy, haven’t you? That little blond boy one who doesn’t talk? Such a shame.”

  What about his pretty wife? I wanted to interrupt to ask but didn’t. What could have been such a shame? I was dying with curiosity to know more about this mysterious woman, but out of respect for Robert, I knew I shouldn’t ask.

  I had lived in the Gordon household for six months; I had learned quite a bit about Robert. I knew he loved his coffee, and I had learned, by experience, he didn’t like to talk in the morning until he had his first cup. He stayed up late at night to read and study. He would drop anything to help someone. It seemed as if at least once a week, most often late on Saturday nights despite the demands of a busy Sunday morning church service, there would come a persistent rapping on the door, and Robert would dutifully head out to solve the visitor’s problem, without question or complaint. A few nights ago, he was asked to stop a fight between two miners who were drunk and threatening to kill each other.

>   People tended to view a minister as someone who belonged to them, day or night. A parsonage wasn’t respected as a home but considered a twenty-four-hour- a-day office. It often occurred to me, were it not for his aunt’s cold countenance, many more than drunken miners would be knocking on the parsonage door in the wee hours.

  But there was much about Robert that I didn’t know nor did he make easy. He was a man typical of his generation: He guarded his emotions and kept his opinions to himself, veiled by a gentleman’s exterior. It took patience and persistence to try and have him be more forthcoming about personal details. Usually, I had to have a reason to find out more information.

  It was only when we celebrated his birthday one evening that I learned he was thirty-four years old. His age surprised me; he seemed older. Another time, after I had wandered through the church cemetery searching without success for his wife’s grave, I noticed his parents’ deaths were separated by only a few days. When I asked him about them, he told me his parents had both died from an influenza epidemic that swept through the town when he was away at seminary, more than ten years ago. Forty-four people in the town died from that epidemic—not uncommon in those days.

  “It’s so sad to think your parents’ deaths could have been prevented with this new medical miracle.” I pointed to the newspaper headline. Just this year, in 1943, the first antibiotic, penicillin, was finally made in mass production and was now available for large scale use. It was having a significant effect on the battlefield by rapidly conquering the biggest wartime killer: infected wounds.

  “Yes, that thought occurred to me.”

  That was all.

  Another time, I was playing the piano with the pedal on mute one evening so I wouldn’t disturb Miss Gordon when Robert came in to the parlor and sat down to listen. When I finished the piece, he asked what I had been playing.

  “It’s called Two-Part Invention by Johann Sebastian Bach,” I answered. “The left hand, the bass cleft, plays a melody, and the right hand, the treble cleft, echoes it. Here, listen.” I played a few measures for him. “I had a teacher at University who said the two-part invention symbolized an ideal marriage. Each hand had its work to do, but together, they complemented each other.”