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Authors: Harry Turtledove
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had let her get some rest, too. Now she had to be awake whenever he was. But even if he didn’t actually take naps any more, there were still days when he needed them. This felt like one of those days.
Mary did her best to pretend it didn’t. “Well, then,” she said briskly, “you know we cross the street here—and there it is.”
There it was, all right: the yellow-brown brick building that had done the job since before the last war. The postmaster was the same, too, though Wilfred Rokeby’s hair was white now and had been black in those distant days. Only the flag out front was different. Mary could barely remember the mostly dark blue banner of the Dominion of Canada. Ever since 1914, the Stars and Stripes had fluttered in front of the post office.
Alec swarmed up the stairs. Mary followed, holding down her pleated wool skirt with one hand against a gust of wind. She was damned if she’d give those Frenchies—or anybody else—a free show. She opened the door, the bronze doorknob polished bright by God only knew how many hands. Her son rushed in ahead of her.
Stepping into the post office was like stepping back in time. It was always too warm in there; Wilf Rokeby kept the potbellied stove in one corner glowing red whether he needed to or not. Along with the heat, the spicy smell of the postmaster’s hair oil was a link with Mary’s childhood. Rokeby still plastered his hair down with the oil and parted it exactly in the middle. Not a single hair was out of place; none would have dared be disorderly.
Rokeby nodded from behind the counter. “Morning, Mrs. Pomeroy,” he said. “New notices on the bulletin board. Directions are I should tell everybody who comes in to have a look at ’em, so I’m doing that.”
Mary wanted to tell the occupying authorities where to head in. Getting angry at Wilf Rokeby wouldn’t do her any good, though, or the Yanks and Frenchies any harm. “Thank you, Mr. Rokeby,” she said, and turned toward the cork-surfaced board with its thumbtack holes uncountable.
The notices had headlines in big red letters. One said, NO HARBORING ENEMY AGENTS! It warned that anyone having anything to do with people representing Great Britain, the Confederate States, Japan, or France would be subject to military justice. Mary scowled. She knew what military justice was. In 1916, the Yanks had taken her brother Alexander, for whom Alec was named, and shot him because they claimed he was plotting against them.
NO INTERFERENCE WITH RAILWAY LINES! the other new flyer warned. It said anyone caught trying to sabotage the railroad would face not just military justice but summary military justice. As far as Mary could tell, that meant the Yanks would shoot right away and not bother with even a farce of a trial. The notice was relevant for Rosenfeld. The town would have been only another patch of Manitoban prairie if two train lines hadn’t come together there.
She turned back to Wilf Rokeby. “All right. I’ve read them. Now you can sell me some stamps without getting in trouble in Philadelphia.”
“It wouldn’t be quite as bad as that,” the postmaster answered with a thin smile. “But I did want you to see them. You have to remember, it’s a war again, and those people are jumpier than they used to be. And these here fellows from Quebec . . . I’ve got the feeling it’s shoot first and ask questions later with them.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mary said. “They hardly seem like proper human beings at all.”
“Well, I don’t know there,” Rokeby said. “What I do know is, I wouldn’t do anything foolish and get myself in trouble with ’em.”
“Why do you think I would want to get myself in trouble with them?” Mary asked.
Rokeby shrugged. “I don’t suppose you’d want to, exactly, but. . . .”
“But what?” Mary’s voice was sharp.
“But I recollect who your brother was, Mrs. Pomeroy, and who your father was, too.”
Hardly anyone in Rosenfeld
Mary did her best to pretend it didn’t. “Well, then,” she said briskly, “you know we cross the street here—and there it is.”
There it was, all right: the yellow-brown brick building that had done the job since before the last war. The postmaster was the same, too, though Wilfred Rokeby’s hair was white now and had been black in those distant days. Only the flag out front was different. Mary could barely remember the mostly dark blue banner of the Dominion of Canada. Ever since 1914, the Stars and Stripes had fluttered in front of the post office.
Alec swarmed up the stairs. Mary followed, holding down her pleated wool skirt with one hand against a gust of wind. She was damned if she’d give those Frenchies—or anybody else—a free show. She opened the door, the bronze doorknob polished bright by God only knew how many hands. Her son rushed in ahead of her.
Stepping into the post office was like stepping back in time. It was always too warm in there; Wilf Rokeby kept the potbellied stove in one corner glowing red whether he needed to or not. Along with the heat, the spicy smell of the postmaster’s hair oil was a link with Mary’s childhood. Rokeby still plastered his hair down with the oil and parted it exactly in the middle. Not a single hair was out of place; none would have dared be disorderly.
Rokeby nodded from behind the counter. “Morning, Mrs. Pomeroy,” he said. “New notices on the bulletin board. Directions are I should tell everybody who comes in to have a look at ’em, so I’m doing that.”
Mary wanted to tell the occupying authorities where to head in. Getting angry at Wilf Rokeby wouldn’t do her any good, though, or the Yanks and Frenchies any harm. “Thank you, Mr. Rokeby,” she said, and turned toward the cork-surfaced board with its thumbtack holes uncountable.
The notices had headlines in big red letters. One said, NO HARBORING ENEMY AGENTS! It warned that anyone having anything to do with people representing Great Britain, the Confederate States, Japan, or France would be subject to military justice. Mary scowled. She knew what military justice was. In 1916, the Yanks had taken her brother Alexander, for whom Alec was named, and shot him because they claimed he was plotting against them.
NO INTERFERENCE WITH RAILWAY LINES! the other new flyer warned. It said anyone caught trying to sabotage the railroad would face not just military justice but summary military justice. As far as Mary could tell, that meant the Yanks would shoot right away and not bother with even a farce of a trial. The notice was relevant for Rosenfeld. The town would have been only another patch of Manitoban prairie if two train lines hadn’t come together there.
She turned back to Wilf Rokeby. “All right. I’ve read them. Now you can sell me some stamps without getting in trouble in Philadelphia.”
“It wouldn’t be quite as bad as that,” the postmaster answered with a thin smile. “But I did want you to see them. You have to remember, it’s a war again, and those people are jumpier than they used to be. And these here fellows from Quebec . . . I’ve got the feeling it’s shoot first and ask questions later with them.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mary said. “They hardly seem like proper human beings at all.”
“Well, I don’t know there,” Rokeby said. “What I do know is, I wouldn’t do anything foolish and get myself in trouble with ’em.”
“Why do you think I would want to get myself in trouble with them?” Mary asked.
Rokeby shrugged. “I don’t suppose you’d want to, exactly, but. . . .”
“But what?” Mary’s voice was sharp.
“But I recollect who your brother was, Mrs. Pomeroy, and who your father was, too.”
Hardly anyone in Rosenfeld
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