The Lost History of Stars

“Your what?”

“Housewife,” he said more clearly. “My sewing kit. That’s what we call it, our things for mending. I keep my needles and thread and extra buttons in my empty chocolate tin now.”

“Oh.” I had stopped and rooted at the mentioned of a housewife. “I thought . . .”

“I hope Betty will have me when I get back. . . . We haven’t had that talk. Her father scares the wits from me. He’s a butcher, with forearms like a stevedore. Huge mitts. I think he just pulls the meat apart with his hands. He almost crushed my fingers when I came to get Betty for our first night out.”

“Have you sat with her?”

“Sat?”

“Here, the custom is to sit together, with the candle burning.”

“Never heard about this.”

I turned and backed toward the fence so that I could scan for anyone who might be watching. I explained our opsitkers tradition—the parents lighting a candle and leaving the room to give the boy and girl privacy until the candle burned out.

“They just leave ’em be in the parlor? By themselves?”

“Ja.”

“How big are those candles?”

“Depends on how well they like you.”

“Have you done this?”

“Schalk, my brother, has.”

“How old was he?”

“Almost sixteen . . . then.”

“So young.”

“I’m almost old enough, but there are no boys here . . . and few candles.”

No boys. No boys until the war was over. The words made it real. Would there ever be boys? Would I be too old? Would they all be taken? I looked at Maples again. He was not so homely. I asked the Lord’s forgiveness for sinful thoughts. But asking to forgive the thoughts made me rethink those thoughts. I tried to shake my head quickly, and hard, in hopes that the physical action would stop the cycle.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Oh, dear God, he noticed. He must think me daft. Thoughts returned. I asked for forgiveness. The cycle spun in my mind like a dust devil.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

I shook again. Forgive me, dear God.

“Aletta?”

“What? How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I don’t. . . . What happened . . . I mean, with your brother?”

“Nothing, he got frightened and rode off,” I told him. “Only time he’s admitted to being afraid.”

“Just left her there?”

“When he got home, he was shaking. A month later the war started.”

“Well, then going to war was better for him than getting locked up with a gal too young; he might have ended up cursing that candle,” Maples said. “She might look better to him now. He’s had some long, cold nights to think about her. If he can’t wait to get back to her, he’s in love. The way I am with Betty.”

“Do you long for her?”

“Do I long for her? Where did you hear that?”

“My book.”

“I didn’t see that.”

“Not Copperfield . . . the other one . . . from our country. One of the characters said she felt an ‘unutterable longing.’ Unutterable means she couldn’t even talk about it.”

He laughed and my face went hot.

“Well, you can’t know what it’s like from a book. You know it when you feel it. When you’re older.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he said.

Nineteen. Schalk is seventeen, I thought.

“I’m almost seventeen.”

“You are not.”

“Almost . . .”

“You are not. You told me you were fourteen.”

I’d lied so often I was losing track.

“You’ll know when you’re older. . . . You sometimes feel so empty.”

I usually felt the opposite, so filled with feelings that I did not have room for them all, and that caused them to wrestle in a small space. I decided I had heard all I would need from Private Maples. I would walk on the other side of camp; I would not risk getting caught talking to him by my mother or anyone else. As I stepped back to turn from him for the last time, Maples put his hand out to me—his right hand, offered as if to lead me onto a dance floor. He didn’t want me to leave. He wanted me to stop. The gesture implied more: Come closer. My fingers fluttered as I held my palm toward his for this first touch. I wished I had known it was coming; I could have prepared, at least washed my hands. I looked at my nails, jagged from biting, surrounded by a U of dirt. His fingers closed lightly around mine, his palm rough.

“This is for you,” he said, so softly I could scarcely hear. “Read it. . . . Destroy it. . . . Don’t let anyone see it.”

He squeezed my hand harder so that I could feel that there was something cupped in his palm. I circled a fist around it as I withdrew. He tilted his head toward the tents, shooing me away. I settled my left hand in the pocket of my pinafore, but I didn’t walk toward the tent, where there would be no privacy. I dared not look down when others were around. It felt like paper: a folded note. I moved my fingers across it to try to sense the words within. A love note? He was one of those boys who could not say the things he felt, so he wrote them instead. I liked that quality. Coy was the word for it.

For the first time since being in camp, I went to the latrines when it was not a necessity, and I felt none of the usual nausea. Seated at the far end, I unfolded the note slowly, like a present.

It wasn’t from Maples. But I wasn’t disappointed. It was from someone very important to me, someone I’d missed but didn’t know how much until I read the note. And the reconnection with this person would make it impossible to stay away from Private Maples as I had just decided I must.

Dear Lettie,

I hope this gets to you. The messenger sought me out after you told him I was on this side of camp. He said you told him that you missed me, and that was the best news I’ve had since I’ve been here. He told me you were well and said he could get a note to you from time to time. I won’t say much this time in case our messenger is not reliable. I know we could all be punished, but he seemed genuine. I wonder whether his interest is to help us or to trap us. But I thought it worth the risk.

I hope you will feel comfortable writing back so that we can catch up with each other. If not, I will understand. You are my closest family. I have no one else. But I know how your mother feels, and I understand that, too. I don’t want to pressure you or make it awkward with your mother.

I will only say in this note that Tuma was captured by the British. The after-riders were taken when a column of Tommies came up behind them. Sarel said it was likely they were taken to one of the camps that have been set up for the natives. Before he was taken, Tuma heard that the British found Bina in a cave with others. She was put to work in one of the camps. I know how important Bina is to you, so I will say prayers for her well-being, just as I do every day for you and our loved ones.

Love,

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