Tender Mercies
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 6
January arrived with bitter cold and iron-grey skies.
The visits became the structure of both their days. Morning, midday, evening—a rhythm as reliable as the milking itself.
And slowly, in fragments of broken English and halting French, they began to know each other.
“Where are you from?” she asked one morning, pouring him weak coffee she’d brewed from roasted grain. Real coffee was a memory now.
“Michigan.” He wrapped his good hand around the warm cup. “Little town called Petoskey. Up north, on a lake. My dad has a farm there. Dairy, like yours.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You are farmer?”
“Was. Before the war.” His smile was wistful. “Cows, mostly. Some chickens. Nothing fancy, but it was ours.” He paused. “My brothers are running it now. Joe and Michael.”
“You miss it.”
“Yeah.” He stared into the cup. “Never thought I would. Couldn’t wait to get out, see the world, do something bigger than milking cows at four in the morning.” A soft laugh. “Turns out the thing I miss most is exactly that. Funny how it works.”
She understood, even if she didn’t catch every word. The longing in his voice was universal.
“Your family, they know you are...?” She gestured around the cellar.
“Missing in action, probably. They’ll get a telegram. ‘We regret to inform you... ‘“ His jaw tightened. “My mom’s gonna be beside herself.”
“I am sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He looked at her. “You’re keeping me alive. That’s more than I had any right to expect when I crashed.”
The midday visits were shortest—just water, maybe a bit of bread. But even those brief moments became something she looked forward to.
“Tell me about your cows,” he said one afternoon. “You talk to them. I hear you sometimes, in the barn.”
She felt her cheeks warm. “It is silly.”
“No, it’s not. We did the same. Dad used to say cows work better when they know they’re appreciated.”
“Celeste, she is the oldest. Very calm. Good milk.” She counted on her fingers, searching for the English words. “Marguerite, she is ... how you say ... stubborn? She does not like her stall changed.”
“Particular,” he offered.
“Oui, particular. Sophie is young, still learning. And Belle—” She smiled. “Belle, she is sweet. Gentle. Like her name.”
“You named a cow Belle and you’re calling me sweet?” But he was grinning.
She didn’t understand the joke but smiled back anyway.
These moments—these small exchanges about nothing important—felt dangerous in a different way than the German patrols. They made her forget, for brief minutes, that they were fugitive and harborer. Made them just ... two people talking.
The evening visits stretched longer.
After the first week, she brought her mending down sometimes. It gave her an excuse to linger, to sit with the lamp burning while she patched Henri’s old work shirts or darned socks.
Scotty would talk to fill the silence. About flying, mostly.
“There’s nothing like it,” he said one night, his eyes distant. “You’re up there above everything. Above the war, above the world. Just you and the engine and all that sky.”
“You love it.” It wasn’t a question.
“Loved it. Past tense.” He touched his shoulder, still tender. “Don’t know if I’ll fly again after this. Even if the war ends, even if I make it home...” He shook his head. “Might not matter. Might not want to.”
“Why?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I shot down three German planes. Confirmed kills, they call them. Three pilots who probably had families waiting for them. Mothers who’ll get telegrams just like mine will.”
She set down her mending. “This is war. You did your duty.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t make it easier.” He looked at her. “Does it bother you? That I killed Germans? That I’m the enemy of the men who occupy your town?”
She thought about Henri, blown apart by a German land mine. About the Beaumont boy, shot for hiding Jews. About four months of living in fear.
“The men who occupy my town are not my countrymen,” she said quietly. “You are not my enemy, Scotty.”
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