Free Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene

tell you what happened. Please!”
    It was just noise to him. A mask cannot really hear. He kept coming toward me. I propelled myself backward, falling into and finally through the tight little branches. From across the protecting hedge he commanded, “Come here this instant!” At his temple a vein was pulsating like a neon sign.
    “Please give me a chance to explain. It was an accident,” I said. “I was aiming at the hubcaps.”
    He pointed a single quivering finger at me. “If you don’t come here this instant I’ll give you a beating you’re never going to forget.”
    Did that mean if I came willingly he wouldn’t hurt me? His face showed no sign of a thaw. Then I felt the warming spirit of Ruth. “The Lord gonna protect all his children.” Fingers crossed, I stepped through the opening in the hedge to stand soldier-straight before my father.
    “Closer!”
    Only one foot advanced before a hand tore across my face, sending me into total blackness. But then against the blackness came a brilliant explosion of Fourth-of-July stars. Red,yellow, blue, and then green. I never knew those stars were real; I had always thought they were only in comic books. The pain was almost tolerable when a second blow crashed against my cheek, continuing down with deflected force to my shoulder.
    Using my arm as a shield, I looked up. I saw the hate that gnarled and snarled his face like a dog gone rabid. He’s going to find out someday I can hate too—“Ahhhh!”
    Knees came unbuckled. I gave myself to the sidewalk. Between blows I knew I could withstand anything he could give out, but once they came, I knew I couldn’t.
    Hands that were in the throes of a fit worked to unfasten his belt buckle. Rolling over, I hugged the hedges. He bent low to send the black leather flying. “Ahhhheeeeehh!” My God! Legs—on fire! After the first flash of piercing pain subsided, my hate roared up strong enough to keep the tears away.
    “I’ll teach you to throw rocks at people!” he shouted, whipping the belt backwards through space.
    “Nooo—ohhhh! Please!” I begged. Can’t stand more— can’t.
    I heard the leather sing as it raced against the air—my eyes clamped closed.
    And then they came, ugly and unexpected, those violent little cries that seem to have a life of their own. Short yelps of injury mingled with anger and defeat.
    A car door opened and slammed shut. A motor gunned as though for a quick getaway and then roared off.

6. Frizzly Freak
    W HEN S ATURDAY CAME I was glad. Most country folks stop working about noontime, and by one o’clock Main Street starts jamming up with muddy pickup trucks filled with yellow-haired children.
    And there’ll be lots of colored folks in town with their kids too, only difference is they’ll be all scrubbed and shiny-shoed like it was Sunday. Another thing that’s different about them, and I do a lot of listening in on other people’sconversations so I know, is how they speak to one another. So respectful and everything. It’s as though they try to give each other the respect that the rest of the world holds back.
    I mean, if you’ll notice how the poor white people talk to one another, mostly they don’t even bother to call each other by name. But the colored are different, always remembering to give each other the title of Mr. Somebody or Miz Somebody except, and Ruth told me this, when they go to the same church and then it’s Brother Somebody or Sister Somebody.
    Saturday has always been my favorite day because my father hires extra salesladies, and he never says a word when I pitch in to help. Working makes me feel useful for a change, and I get to talk with an awful lot of people. If you really, really listen, you can learn things. Sometimes you can learn things people don’t even know they’re teaching. Like the preacher’s wife, Mrs. Benn, who only last Saturday was talking about the greed of some people, always wanting things. And then in the very next breath