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“That
seemed rather peculiar,” I said to Robert as we walked back home.
“Which
part?”
“Herr
Mueller. He seemed upset about my remarks about Hitler.”
He
stopped. “Louisa, did it ever occur to you that you were answering
questions no one was asking? Why did you launch into a monologue about
Hitler at the dinner table? That could give anyone indigestion. It did
to me,” Robert said, placing a hand over his stomach as he made a
dyspeptic face. “And why on earth did you have to say that Hitler
is nice to his dog?
“Well,” I said, “Herr Mueller did ask for my opinion about
Berlin.” Then, meekly, I added, “and I love dogs.”
Slowly shaking his head, Robert said, “You do have a tendency to speak
your mind, don’t you? It’s a wonder you didn’t get yourself shot in
Germany. I think I’m starting to understand why Dietrich sent you to the
other end of the earth.”
I
looked at him and frowned. It was true. I was far too outspoken.
On
Friday morning of that same week, we were eating a tranquil breakfast on
a beautiful spring day when Herr Mueller stormed up to the parsonage and
banged on the kitchen door. Robert stood up in alarm, nearly knocking
his chair to the floor.
“Gordon!” thundered Herr Mueller. “That boy of yours! He’s at it
again. He cut off all of the buds on my roses! Every single one
is gone! All that is left are green stalks.” He continued to rant and
rave, his face reddened with rage. Aunt Martha, William and I stood on
the other side of the kitchen, timorously watching the interchange.
“Now,
now, Mr. Mueller,” Robert said soothingly, “how do you know that William
cut your roses? Perhaps deer ate the buds.”
“And
when was the last time you saw a deer in Copper Springs? Never!”
he bellowed. “It was your imbecile child. The next time he plays
another prank on me, I am calling the authorities and having him taken
away. Have I made myself clear?” And away he stomped, marching
down the street, green stalks sadly devoid of flowers in his hands.
Robert closed the door and slowly turned back to face us with a very
unhappy look on his face. William bolted up the stairs and slammed his
bedroom door. As we sat back down at the kitchen table to finish our
breakfast, Aunt Martha didn’t say a word and I followed her lead. It
looked as if this battle between William and Herr Mueller was epic and
two sided. And privately, I was on William’s side.
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