The Moon Looked Down

by Dorothy Garlock

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Sophie Heller and her family emigrated from Germany to the small town of Victory, Illinois, well before WWII began. But now that the war has deeply affected the town, local residents are beginning to turn a cold shoulder toward them. Then tragedy strikes when a train is derailed, and the Heller family is unfairly blamed. With paranoia and discrimination threatening to destroy the once peaceful town, the handsome teacher from the high school gallantly comes to Sophie’s defense. Against great odds and despite their cultural differences, a romance begins to blossom—but can their newfound love survive amid the escalating turmoil?

Release date: June 23, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Victory, Illinois—June 1942

FIRE! FIRE!”


Sophie Heller woke suddenly from a dream in which she had been picking wild daisies and entered into a nightmare of confusion
and fear. Karl, seven years her junior at thirteen, stood beside her bed in his nightshirt. Even in the darkened room, she
could see that his face was anxious.


“What are you… ?” she muttered. “What’s happening?”

“Get up, Sophie! You have to come quick! There’s a fire!”

“Wait… wait a minute…”

“We don’t have a minute!”

Before Sophie could protest further, Karl grabbed her arm and pulled her from the bed and toward the door. She had scarcely
enough time to grab a shawl from her dresser and hurriedly wrap it about her shoulders before they were out of the room, across
the narrow landing, and racing down the picture-lined stairs.


Struggling not to stumble on the stairs, Sophie caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the glass panes. Looking back
at her through wide, bluish green eyes was a young woman of twenty years. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair framed
high cheekbones, a small nose, and full lips. The image quickly passed from view as she and Karl passed through the front
door, crossed the enclosed porch, and burst out onto the front step, only to stop and stare in amazement and disbelief at
what they saw.


“Oh, no!” Karl cried.

The large red barn their father had built shortly after the family’s arrival in Victory was on fire!

Crimson flames poured from the barn’s front doors and the broken windows on the building’s sides, reaching toward the sky.
Thick black smoke billowed upward and the air was filled with the smell of burning wood and hay. The quiet of the night was
split by the sound of crackling flames and the occasional snap of wood as it surrendered to its fate and crashed to the ground
below. Still, Sophie could only watch in amazement. Frightening though it was, the barn’s destruction was also captivating,
hypnotizing.


With effort, Sophie pulled her eyes from the barn and looked around for the rest of her family. Karl stood rooted beside her,
the dancing flames mirrored in his wide eyes. A precocious boy who loved baseball, Karl was a help on the farm, essential
to their father. Handsome, with a lanky frame and deep blue eyes, he would grow to be a fine man, Sophie was sure. At that
moment, she was glad that he was next to her.


Standing closer to the barn, her parents clung to each other. Her father, Hermann, was a short, squat man whose lifetime as
a farmer had given him muscular arms and heavily calloused hands. He ran desperate fingers through his thick black hair and
his shoulders sagged deep with hopelessness.


Ever at his side, Maria, Sophie’s mother, had both of her tiny hands wrapped around one of her husband’s thick arms. She was
a petite woman who, with her long, golden brown hair and thin waistline, looked far younger than her thirty-nine years. Now,
reflecting the light of the fire, her eyes were wide with fright.


Sophie turned back toward the house. There, in one of the windows, she saw her grandmother, Gitta, peering out from behind
the curtain of her room. Though Sophie could not see the older woman’s face, she knew that she would be worried yet calm.
Her father’s mother, at eighty, found little left to surprise her in life.


A large crack split the night air. Sophie looked back just in time to see part of the barn’s roof collapse in on itself, the
wood crashing to the ground with a deafening roar. The flames paused only for a moment before growing even higher and hotter
in intensity. There would be no chance to save the barn. Their closest neighbors were the Sanderses, but they lived a couple
of miles to the north. Even if they had seen the fire, they would be far too late to help by the time they arrived.


“What happened?” Sophie asked her brother. “How did it start?”

“I don’t know,” Karl muttered, lost in the blaze.

“Was it lightning?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he said again.

Sleeping peacefully in her daisy-filled dream, Sophie had not heard a storm, but that didn’t mean that one hadn’t occurred.
Summer storms in Illinois could be unpredictable and violent, leaving much destruction in their wake. Her eyes scanned the
sky but she couldn’t see any cloud other than the one the fire was making. The moon looked back at her, a crescent three-quarters
hidden, as if it were trying to shield itself from the chaos below. A crowd of stars filled the rest of the heavens, like
gawkers at an accident.


If lightning had not struck, what caused the fire?

In answer to her unspoken question, the night was split by another loud crack, this one coming from the corner of the house.
Sophie’s heart froze at the sight that awaited her. Three men stood side by side, all of them wearing burlap sacks over their
heads. Through the narrow eyeholes they had cut, she could see nothing but a blackness she knew matched their intentions.
All of them wore rough clothing; overalls spattered with grease stains and shirts peppered with holes. The one in the middle
loosely carried the rifle that had fired the startling shot.


“Goddamn Kraut bastards!” he spat.

In that instant, Sophie faced a horrendous truth. The men standing before her had set fire to the barn and they had intended
to herd the family outside because they wanted to do them more harm.


“What is the meaning of this?” her father bellowed in his heavily accented English, his German origins coloring every word.
“Are you responsible for this outrage?”


“Damn right we are,” the man answered defiantly.

“Why… why would you do such a thing?”

“Don’t ya dare play dumb with me, ya stupid Kraut! I’d bet ya thought we’d all just stand around with our fingers up our noses
and not say a word, but ya was wrong! Ain’t no way we’re gonna let no Germans just go on livin’ here and not do nothin’ about
it! You’re just waitin’ to make your move. Just waitin’ to wreck a train or poison the water!”


“What are you talking about? I’m an American citizen!”

“Ya ain’t no American, you’re a damn Nazi!”

The armed man’s words cut through Sophie like a knife, though what he was saying couldn’t have been further from the truth.
The Heller family had emigrated from Germany in early 1933, the same year that Adolf Hitler had become the chancellor of the
nation. While many had believed Hitler’s promises, Hermann had seen only danger. Their exodus had been fraught with peril,
their reasons for leaving many. Settling in Victory, Hermann Heller took great pride in considering himself to be as American
as any of his neighbors.


“I’m not a Nazi!” he now protested.

“The hell ya ain’t,” countered the man standing just to the right of the one with the rifle. Smaller than his armed companion,
he glanced nervously from Hermann to his ally as if he were searching for approval. The man to the left of the gunman remained
silent and impassive. From the way they behaved it was obvious to Sophie that the one with the gun was in charge.


“Just another Kraut lie,” the leader said.

With her heart pounding in her chest, Sophie closed her eyes tightly, as if by wishing hard enough the nightmare before her
would just miraculously disappear. But when she opened them again, nothing had changed. Sweat glistened on her brow, not from
the heat of the burning barn but from fear.


The fear of death!

“Sophie,” Hermann said sternly. “I want you to take Karl and go in the house.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, girlie,” the gunman warned. Catching the light of the flickering flames, the gun’s barrel
rose upward and another shot rang out. The bullet smashed into the wooden planks of the front steps, launching a shower of
splinters. Glancing down, Sophie saw that the shot had pierced the wood no more than a couple of inches from her foot. Her
shawl fell from her shoulders, landing at her bare feet. Her mouth opened and closed with no sound. Beside her, her brother
trembled with fright.


“Next one hits her,” the gunman said coolly, as a thin tendril of smoke curled skyward from the end of the rifle.

“How dare you!” Hermann bellowed. “How dare you come here and do this to us, threatening my children! If you so much as touch
them I will kill you! Only cowards would hide behind a mask!”


“Hermann…” Maria tried to restrain him, but her husband shook off her grasp.

“You best watch who you’re callin’ a coward,” the gunman said as he moved the rifle so that it pointed toward Hermann. “Now,
if you wanna keep on drawin’ breath, what you’re gonna do is take this here family of yours and get the hell out of Victory
County. Go back to Germany and Hitler. We don’t want your kind here.”


Ominously, one side of the burning barn chose that moment to give way, and a cascade of wood crashed to the ground with such
force that Sophie jumped in fright. The sound was so raw that it seemed as if the barn were in pain. Once the rubble had settled,
she could see that all that remained of the building was part of one wall and the frame of the front doors.


“We are not leaving!” Hermann shouted defiantly.

“Then you’ll die.”

“Goddamn right, ya will!” the one to the left echoed.

Sophie looked hard at her father. She could sense the anger rising in his breast. He and his family had been hounded and threatened
out of one home in the nation where he had been born, and now his new life in America was also in jeopardy. She had never
seen him so angry. She also knew that he meant to act, and that made her blood run cold.


“Ya ain’t got no other choice.”

“You will not tell me what to do!”

Hermann Heller strode across his property toward the three men. With each step he gained determination, his heavy hands clenching
and unclenching with a rage that threatened to consume him. The two men to either side of the gunman stepped backward; the
sight of their prey pursuing them was unsettling. The gunman, however, stood his ground. For Sophie, time seemed to stand
still.


Her father was going to die!

She cringed, waiting for the shot that would rip her father from her life, but still it didn’t come. Instead, Hermann moved
closer and closer to the men, his strong hands before him as if he meant to wring the life out of them before he even got
them in his grasp.


Finally, when Hermann was only a couple of feet from them, the hooded leader stepped quickly forward and, with both hands
and all the strength he could muster, swung the rifle’s butt at his attacker. The hard wooden stock hit the side of Hermann’s
head with an audible crack. The farmer fell hard to the ground, his face striking the earth. With great effort, he struggled
up to his hands and knees, his body quivering. In the light of the still raging fire, Sophie saw a wetness on the side of
her father’s face and knew that it was blood.


“Hermann!” Maria shouted as she fell sobbing onto her knees.

“Father,” Sophie said, her voice little more than a whisper.

The armed man stepped behind Hermann, raised the rifle high above him, and drove the butt of the gun into the back of the
wounded man’s head. The blow knocked Hermann back to the ground, where he lay silent and unmoving.


“Stupid son of a bitch,” the gunman snarled.

Watching her father being savagely beaten struck Sophie as worse than seeing him shot and killed. Death would have been final,
but his suffering from the blows that had felled him continued. Unsure whether her father was dead or alive, she felt consumed
by anger.


“Just shoot that Nazi bastard!” the smaller of the masked men shouted as he danced from one foot to the other in excitement.
“What in the hell’d he think he was doin’ chargin’ after ya like that?”


“He weren’t thinkin’ at all.”

Hot tears began to run down Sophie’s cheeks and fall onto the coarse fabric of her nightshirt. She could hear her mother’s
sobbing mix with the gulping breaths Karl was taking to control his panic, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at either
of them… she couldn’t look away from her father and the men who had done him harm!


Her parents had taught her to know the difference between right and wrong. If you were to see a wrong being done, and you
had the ability to stop it, you had to act! To do otherwise was as great a sin as the wrong itself! As she stared at her father’s
motionless body, Sophie felt the full force of her parents’ lesson.


She stepped off the porch.

The dew that covered the grass was cool against her feet but Sophie couldn’t feel anything; even the heat of the roaring fire
was beyond her. Her anger at the heinous acts of the three men propelled her forward.


“Sophie!” her mother shouted. “No!”

“Well, would ya lookee here?” The gunman chuckled.

As she approached, Sophie could see the man’s hands tighten on the stock of the rifle and she began to brace herself for the
blow she would certainly receive. There was nothing she could do to stop them, to hurt them like they had hurt her family,
but she didn’t care. Her father was defenseless, and he needed someone, needed her, to protect him.


She covered the distance quickly, falling hard to the ground next to her father. Running her hands across his back and up
to his neck, she tried to give all the comfort she could. Faintly, she could see the rise and fall of his chest and thanked
the stars that he was still alive. With a start, her hands found the wound on his scalp. When she held her hands up to her
face, she could see the bright crimson blood. Tightly holding one of her father’s rough hands, she turned her face to glare
at the three hooded men.


“I won’t let you hurt him again!” she shouted.

“Ain’t nothin’ ya can do about it!” the smaller man said with a laugh.

The leader stepped closer, raising the rifle until the barrel was pointed right at her head. Now that she was close enough
to the man, she could see his eyes through the holes in the burlap bag; they danced wildly as they sized her up. Anger continued
to rise inside her. No matter what was about to happen, she’d face it with her head held high!


“It’s like I always say,” the man said. “The only good Kraut is a dead one.”

There wasn’t even time to say a prayer before her whole world went black.

SOPHIE HELLER HURRIED down the busy street, oblivious to the hustle and bustle, the cars and trucks, the daily life of Victory. Her eyes passed
from one sight to the next quickly, not alighting on anything or anyone for long as she kept moving ever forward. She could
not, would not be late!


Above her, the summer sun pounded down mercilessly. Rain had been promised for days, but those promises had proven to be every
bit as empty as the cloudless afternoon sky. This day was a scorcher if there ever was one! Red, white, and blue American
flags hung limply from every storefront, stirred by only the slightest of breezes. Pushing one errant strand of hair from
her eyes, Sophie wiped the back of her hand across her brow. Her simple blue blouse clung tightly to her skin, the fabric
as wet as if it had just been pulled from the wash.


“Good afternoon, Sophie,” a woman’s voice called to her from somewhere near the bakery.

She gave no response save a nod before hurrying on, clutching her purse tightly to her chest, aware that whoever had spoken
to her would find her behavior rude. Still, her concern was not great enough for her to stop. She had a task that would afford
no wait, and, moments later, she finally reached her destination.


Ambrose Hardware sat in a long, thin brick building on a corner of Main Street, right next door to the grocer. With its wide
display windows, crisp sign, and long awning, Robert Ambrose’s business was as familiar a sight to the town’s residents as
Marge’s Diner, McKenzie’s Barber Shop, or the post office, and every bit as vital. Victory’s lone hardware store served everyone
from the town’s most venerable families to the newest arrival.


Stepping into the welcome shade provided by the awning, Sophie looked through the large show window. Past the stenciled lettering
on the glass, she could see hammers, saws, several buckets of paint, and a pair of shovels, but it was the centerpiece of
the display that grabbed her attention, sending a chill racing across her skin, even on such a hot summer day.


Two large posters stood side by side on a pair of chairs, their bright headlines shouting a clear message to every passerby.
The first showed a smiling man holding a treasury bond in one hand under the banner of:


WANTED—FIGHTING DOLLARS

MAKE EVERY PAY DAY BOND DAY

The second poster was far more sinister-looking than its companion. On it, the dark eyes of a German soldier looked out from
under the brim of an iron helmet, his steely gaze clearly showing his harmful intentions. The poster read:


HE’S WATCHING YOU

Sophie had seen these posters and others like them in the windows of stores and homes across town, attached to lampposts and
telephone poles, and even in the back window of a pickup truck. While she shared their sentiment as a proud American, she
couldn’t help but worry that the more sinister poster had it backward; she and her German family were the ones being watched!


Faintly, Sophie caught her own reflection looking back at her in the glass. She looked haggard, bone-tired from lack of sleep.
She hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup or do a thing with her hair. To do so had suddenly seemed so unimportant, so trivial!
But she certainly looked a mess. Gingerly, she rubbed the swollen knot at her temple; the slightest touch was enough to send
sharp ripples of pain racing across her head.


Now, even a week after the burning of her family’s barn, the wound was still angry and tender. She hadn’t so much as seen
the blow coming! When the gunman brought the butt of his rifle down upon her skull, the brief flare of pain had not been as
bad as the pounding headaches that had plagued her for days afterward. Thankfully, the wound was hidden in her hairline, far
enough out of sight to keep anyone from asking any questions.


As she stood before the hardware store, Sophie knew that the physical pain she had suffered was nothing compared to the shame
and hurt she still felt at the indignities that had been visited upon her family. These wounds were deeper and more difficult
to heal. She wondered if their scars would ever truly vanish. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door.


Sophie entered Ambrose Hardware to the sound of small bells ringing above the door. The blistering heat of the summer day
followed her inside as if it were a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. After the bright glare of outdoors, it took a moment
for her eyes to adjust to the store’s darkened interior.


The store was crowded with goods in every nook and cranny; pots and pans, spools of thread, wire and rope, buckets of paint,
and tin pails full of nails. Small compartments ran the length of the nearer wall, rising from the worn wooden floor to the
high tin ceiling, their treasures hidden behind the smoky dark glass of each drawer. The very air carried with it the scent
of available goods—oils, soaps, and wood—all gently pushed by the ceiling fans that turned lazily above her head.


“Afternoon, Miss Heller.”

Robert Ambrose stepped from the store’s stockroom, wiping his hands upon the dark vest that covered his button-down shirt
and matching tie. Though Sophie felt certain that the store owner was nearly as old as her father, he carried himself like
a much younger man. He was betrayed only by the slightest of hints to his true age; the silver hairs that were sprinkled across
his black mane, the round, wire-rimmed glasses that sat high upon his thin nose, and the deep wrinkles that spread from around
his mouth when he smiled all spoke of a man in his early fifties. Of medium height and build, he had a reputation about town
as a bit of a teetotaler; no tobacco stained his long fingers or teeth and he would never be found staggering from a tavern
as the morning sun broke the horizon. Decent and hardworking, he had built his business with his own two hands.


“Good afternoon to you, Mr. Ambrose,” she answered.

“Still blazing away?” He nodded toward the front door.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I swear it’s not fit for man or beast out there,” he remarked. “It gets a mite lonely in here when folks aren’t brave enough
to venture outside on days like this. Between the war and this darn heat, I’m going to have a bear of a time this year!”


“Did you have enough time to go over my father’s list?” Sophie asked, a bit too anxious to engage in talk of the weather.
“I know you asked me to come back today, but if you need more time—”


“No, my dear, it’s fine,” Mr. Ambrose said as he slid a pencil out from behind one ear and consulted the list she had left
with him earlier in the week. “I’ve managed to round up most of what your father was asking for, all except for the roofing
pitch. That will have to be ordered from Springfield, but it shouldn’t take more than a week at best.”


“He’s certainly grateful for all that you can do.”

“Your father’s been coming here from the first day you and yours set foot in town.” The hardware store owner smiled. “Darn
shame losing a building like that, but I’ll do all I can to get him back on his feet.”


“He’ll be glad—”

“Gosh darn it all,” the man suddenly blurted, snapping his fingers across the piece of paper with a crack. “I forgot all about
those hammers! I best check and make sure I don’t…” He mumbled to himself as he disappeared back into the inky darkness of
the storeroom.


As much as it shamed her to admit it, Sophie was thankful that Mr. Ambrose had left her when he did; casual talk of what had
happened on that fateful night made her skin crawl. Remembering the flames that had stretched toward the night sky, the sounds
of the barn collapsing, the armed and hooded men, and the dark crimson of her father’s blood as she cradled his head in her
arms still made her tremble. She knew that she should go forward with her life, leave the past in the past, but she found
it too hard.


Her father had no such trouble. The morning after their lives had been forever changed, Hermann Heller had been out picking
through the still smoldering wreckage of the barn, his head swathed in thick cloth bandages. Within days, he’d written a list
of things he would need to reconstruct what they had lost. He would harbor no talk of the police or of following the advice
given to them by the hooded men to leave their home, to leave Victory behind. Whenever he was asked about that night, he became
upset, his voice quickly rising in anger. Sophie could not understand her father’s defiance; she could not stop asking the
questions her father refused to give voice.


Who were the hooded men? Why had they committed such acts?

These questions haunted Sophie every bit as deeply as the events of that night. From the moment she woke every morning to
the instant she fell asleep at night, she thought of the men who had hurt her family. She waited, fearful that they would
return to make good on their horrific promise, but every night their failure to reappear made her all the more fearful. Her
dreams had also been poisoned; gone were the visions of wildflowers, replaced by biting laughter and hungry flames.


Even in this store, Sophie’s eyes sought out the hated men, straining to find them hiding behind the stacks of washpans or
for sight of their reflections in the dark glass of the wall of compartments. To her, they potentially lurked behind every
corner, across every street, and even within every nod, smile, or stare that came her way.


They could be anyone… anywhere.

Her thoughts were broken by the ringing of bells as the door to the store was opened and a pair of men entered, one of them
nearly as large as one of Mr. Ambrose’s display cases, the other as reed-thin as a broom. Sophie immediately recognized them
and smiled brightly.


Charley Tatum was nearly as wide as he was tall, with a personality that was more than a match for his girth. A farmer who
worked the land just south of Victory’s limits, he was a familiar sight to the town’s inhabitants. He was quick to laugh,
and his voice boomed over every conversation he joined and filled the church with a deep baritone every Sunday morning. Dressed
in dark overalls, he wiped his sweat-beaded brow and flushed red cheeks with a handkerchief before burying it deep in his
pockets.


“Well, I do declare, Miss Sophie!” he bellowed, breaking into a toothy grin. “You get more lovely just about every time I
see you! ’Fore long, the simple folks of this here town are gonna see you on one of them there movie posters!”


“My mother says it’s not nice to tease,” she chided him.

“Who’s teasin’? Why, there ain’t but nothin’ any of them Hollywood beauties has got on you! Not that Betty Grable. . .