Free The Cherry Harvest by Lucy Sanna

questions about his background and sympathies. He wasn’t one of Hitler’s men.” He paused a moment. “I’d be right here with him.”
    â€œI don’t like it,” Charlotte said.
    Thomas leaned forward. “Believe me, I see most of those PWs as the enemy. And I don’t want them near my home. But Karl . . . I think we can trust him.”
    â€œ Think? ” Charlotte balled her fists. “You think we can trust him?”
    â€œI’ll come in with him when we’re done with our work in the orchard. He can tutor Kate after supper.”
    â€œAre you suggesting we invite him for supper?”
    â€œI wasn’t proposing that, but it would be good for us to get to know him over a meal.” Thomas sucked on his empty pipe.
    â€œAnd how do you expect me to add another plate to the table?” Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “I have enough for us today and tomorrow, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to share our food with some prisoner who gets all he needs from the Army.” Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron. “If Kate’s math isn’t good enough for the university, so be it. She can attend one of the state normal schools and teach until she gets married.”
    â€œI don’t want to go to a state normal school.” And I may never get married, either. Professor Fleming isn’t married .
    Charlotte untied her apron and threw it on the counter. “If you insist on such foolishness, I want to meet this man. Yes. Bring him here for supper. Station a guard at the door. But it’s up to you to get the fixings. I have nothing to offer.”
    Kate thought of the play, the girls in the dorm. She’d do anything to get away and make it on her own. She hesitated, then whispered, “I’m willing to give up one of my rabbits—”
    Mother’s eyes widened.
    â€œNot to eat,” Kate said quickly, “but to trade. After all, what are my rabbits worth if I can’t make it at the university?”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    CHARLOTTE PUT THREE QUARTS of goat’s milk into the front wicker basket of her bicycle and two butchered rabbits into the back and then peddled down Orchard Lane, fat tires bumping along the gravel. The lane led through rows and rows of cherry trees, fragrant now with pink and white blossoms and buzzing with bees. Within two months, blossoms would turn to fruit, and as long as God didn’t damn them with pestilence, flood, drought, disease, or frost, Charlotte would be making cherry pies by the end of July. Drought was unlikely at this point, but the others remained real possibilities. At the end of the lane Charlotte veered onto County Trunk Q, north toward town.
    In summers past, this road hummed with traffic, families heading for orchards and beaches, merchant trucks delivering supplies. But there were few tourists now. And with tires and gasoline in short supply, the only vehicles Charlotte passed were occasional farm trucks hauling feed or animals.
    But here was crazy Walter, sitting proud on the seat of his hay cart filled with junk, tapping the hind end of his ancient mule. Withhis long gray hair and beard, he could be Jesus’s own grandfather. He waved and gave a toothless grin. Charlotte waved back.
    When Charlotte reached Turtle Bay, the early sun was slanting across the paved road, touching the town with golden light. She rode past the Farmers’ Co-op, Ginny’s Dress Shoppe, the credit union, and the barbershop where Old Man Berger’s yellow mutt lay sleeping. Down the street she breathed in the yeasty warm fragrance wafting from the open door of the bakery. And there was Ellie Jensen, putting up a sign on the window of her dry goods store.
    â€œMorning, Charlotte.”
    â€œMorning, Ellie.”
    Charlotte parked her bicycle in front of Zwicky’s Market. Inside the clean, orderly shop, Catherine Zwicky readily accepted the goat’s milk in trade for a