Season of My Enemy Read online

  PRAISE FOR SEASON OF MY ENEMY

  Season of my Enemy explores a fascinating slice of history in America’s heartland during WWII. Author Naomi Musch paints in beautifully vivid detail one woman’s struggle to work her farm alongside the nation’s enemy—a German prisoner of war—during harvest while her brothers fight overseas. Only with time in laboring together and sharing a mutual faith can they finally strip away their differences and reveal one human heart, in its desire to love and to long for peace and a future.

  –Kate Breslin, bestselling author, As Dawn Breaks

  Naomi Musch will transport you to wartime Wisconsin with her glimpse into one of America’s best-kept secrets. As the German Prisoners of War help keep the country fed and the O’Brien family farm afloat, your senses will come alive with the pungent aroma of freshly harvested produce, the whirring and clacking of farm machinery, and the blistering heat of the summer sun. Intrigue, faith, and budding relationships carry the story to a satisfying and thoughtful conclusion. Don’t miss this important piece of history and the lessons it offers us all.

  –Terrie Todd, author of Rose Among Thornes and four other Historical Christian novels

  Season of My Enemy is a well written story of survival on the home front during WWII. Exploring raw and authentic topics like discrimination, prejudice, and POW camps, Ms. Musch weaves a sensitive and beautiful story that will satisfy fans of The Greatest Generation.

  –Candice Sue Patterson, author of Saving Mrs. Roosevelt

  Author Naomi Musch has crafted a poignant and heartwarming story about the American WWII home front. Eloquent description immersed me in the sights, sounds, and smells of harvest time on a farm. I was drawn into the uncertainty, fear, and courage of people on both sides of the conflict as they tried to make sense of a world gone made. The characters have stayed with me long after turning the last page.

  –Linda Shenton Matchett, Amazon bestselling author of Spies & Sweethearts: A WWII Romance

  With exceptional skill, Musch weaves a tale about courage, resilience, and love on the home front during the Second World War. It’s an intelligent and thoughtful read for history lovers.

  –Patti Stockdale, author of the WWII romance, Three Little Things

  Not all heroines wear capes. During the Second World War, many wore bib overalls as they plowed, planted, and harvested fields. Naomi Musch’s courageous heroine faces grief, worry, prejudice, and longing in this tender story of a Wisconsin farm family determined to do their part for the war effort. Sometimes bowed but never broken, their quiet courage is a testament to all those who sacrificed so much during those troublesome years. Season of My Enemy belongs on the bookshelf of every fan of faith-based WWII fiction.

  –Johnnie Alexander, bestselling and award-winning author of Where Treasure Hides and The Cryptographer’s Dilemma

  Season of My Enemy ©2022 by Naomi Musch

  Print ISBN 978-1-63609-291-1

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63609-293-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher. Reproduced text may not be used on the World Wide Web.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover image © Colin Thomas Photography Ltd

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  DEDICATION

  First and always, this is for Jesus, “the author and finisher of our faith” who somehow never fails to teach me important truths through this process of imagining, crafting, writing, and editing a story. He even uses my characters to put themes into my heart and lessons in my life for which I hadn’t had a clue. He’s so good.

  To my brothers and sisters in Christ who live Jesus all the time, who walk the walk and talk the talk, as they say. Especially for my dear friends who, when they say tell me they’ll pray for me or someone I love, I know they truly will. That means the world to me. (I hope you know who you are. I’m afraid I’ll forget someone if I start naming names.)

  For my grandparents Elmer, Marie, Emil, and Dora who are no longer with me but left me a legacy. Maybe God will pass along my dedication: I think so often about each of you and what your younger lives might have been like, especially when I write in this era. I draw often upon images of daily life as I imagine it to have been for you. I’m glad I was able to grow up near you all. In this story particularly, I think of my heritage—German, Polish, Irish, Scottish, and the other mishmash of cultures my DNA tests inform me of. Somehow, they all came together here in Wisconsin—in me.

  I also dedicate this story to my five grown children, Evan, Quinn, Cade, Beau, Jessamyn. When I decided that the O’Brien family in the story would have five siblings, I thought of each of you, two daughters, three sons, each with such individual strengths and talents in our family and with your own unique bonds to one another. My heart bursts with love for you.

  Finally, but not lastly, for Jeff who doesn’t read fiction, only nonfiction, nevertheless he always encourages me, prays for my writing, and gives me the time and space it takes me to pursue my passion. And he tells me stories. (Jeffrey Lee, I love doing the battle of Bedford Falls with you.)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  CHAPTER 1

  Barron County, Wisconsin

  June–July 1944

  Fannie O’Brien stepped inside through the back porch screen door. It clattered shut against a sinking sun that cast long, dripping gold rays across the turned black earth in the western field. She headed straight to the kitchen sink. A platter of cold meat and bread sat on the table for supper, along with a bowl of steamed dandelion greens that Patsy picked that day, but Fannie was too thirsty and exhausted to care about eating just yet. She filled a glass with cold water and gulped it down without a breath. Then she wiped her wrist across her chin, closed her eyes, and breathed long and deep. Finally, she looked at Mom, who sat at the table sipping her chicory coffee, an odd, far-off expression on her face. Lately that was nothing new.

  “You all right, Mom?”

  Mom lowered her cup to its saucer. “Sit down, Fannie. We need to talk.”

  Fannie pulled out a straight-backed chair and seated herself with more of a plop than aplomb. “You didn’t have to wait dinner. Where’s Patsy?” She reached for a slice of bread and a thin piece of beef.

  “We didn’t wait. Patsy ate and is off somewhere.”

  Fannie scraped a little butter over the bread. “Jerry will be in soon.”

  Mom watched her for a long moment.
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  “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I think it’s time we ask for help.”

  Fannie froze, her hand poised in the air, a pinch of bread between her fingers. “Help?” She didn’t mean for her voice to carry the tone that Mom’s suggestion was ridiculously impossible.

  Mom gave a single nod. “That’s what I said.”

  Fannie nibbled the piece of crust, then set the rest on her plate and brushed crumbs from her dirty fingertips. She’d forgotten to wash before coming to the table, and the day’s grit still clung head to toe. Who would ever have thought, just a few weeks ago, that she’d be sitting here with dry, cracked hands, grime embedded at the roots of her hair and in the pores of her knees, and every bone aching like she was sixty instead of twenty-two? She ushered out a weary sigh. “And who might we be getting that from? There’s not a farmer in the county who isn’t shorthanded. Every family we know is struggling to find workers now that the migrants aren’t coming like they used to.” It was a bitter fact. The war had taken their men, her two older brothers included. Her dad in another way. Those who remained behind were either too young, too old, or stretched too thin with their own chores to help anyone else.

  “There are other workers.”

  “Since when?” Fannie let out a huff and folded the bit of meat into her bread for a bite.

  Mom watched her chew, then scooped up some greens. “I’m talking about those German prisoners. The ones the government is sending out to help at the farms and canneries.”

  Fannie nearly choked on a dandelion green. No wonder Mom let her swallow her meat first. “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “No. Don’t even think about that. We’re not going to have those Huns on this place.” The very notion made her chest burn with indignation. “Dad would roll over in his grave.” She lowered her eyes, ashamed for that last part, and let the dandelion work its way down. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said, when she could look her in the eye again.

  “You’re forgiven, but I think you’re wrong. Your dad would tell you it’s got to be done.”

  With grubby fingertips, Fannie stroked a circle on the dark oak tabletop, marked with years of bumps and scratches but as glossy and strong as ever. Every fiber of her body rebelled against Mom’s insistence, but she didn’t dare argue two split seconds after apologizing. She’d let Mom have her say, but Dad would never have allowed it. His farm, this property, would not be trampled on by those men whose every intention was to kill his boys. They maybe already had. For all Fannie knew, some of the very prisoners who had been shipped to Wisconsin could have been involved in Dale’s capture or whatever had happened to Cal. Word locally was that the German prisoners were from General Rommel’s Afrika Korps that surrendered last year.

  Pure Nazis. Every last one.

  “Your dad wouldn’t have wanted you working your fingers to the bone, Fannie. That wasn’t what he dreamed for you. You’ve already sacrificed too much.”

  “It’s my decision.”

  “Your decision? It wasn’t your decision for your brothers to get drafted. It wasn’t your decision for your father to pass on.” Her mom’s voice choked with passion, but Fannie glanced up quick enough to notice she didn’t shed her tears. “You’ve had to carry the load out there in the fields ever since, and I don’t recall that ever being a decision you had in mind to make.”

  In a way, what Mom said was true. Fannie had sacrificed. She’d been so very close to earning her teacher’s certificate from the county normal school. One more semester. That was all. Dad always spoke so proudly of her. “We’ll have a teacher in the family soon,” he’d said. And her job … She loved her job. Yet she’d had to lay aside her education, and she could only manage working one day a week at the library now that the farm work had fallen on her shoulders. Still …

  She wagged her head. “No, I know that. But think of it, Mom. Germans.” She hissed the word like she was talking about a crop full of corn borers.

  The back door squeaked open and slammed shut, and Jerry tromped in.

  “Wipe your feet,” Mom said, just like she did every single time Fannie’s sixteen-year-old brother came inside.

  “I’m starving. What’s for supper? I don’t smell anything.”

  “Cold dinner tonight except for the dandelion greens.” Mom prodded the bowl. “I suppose they’re cold now too.”

  Jerry splashed his hands beneath the faucet sticking out of the tall backsplash and shook them off, showering water droplets. He swiped them over his filthy overalls and took a seat, grabbing for a short stack of bread and the meat.

  Mom didn’t say a word to reprimand him. Her gaze returned to Fannie. “They say it’s safe. They send guards.”

  Fannie’s stomach churned. Germans … here? While both her older brothers were over there fighting them? While Dale languished in a prison camp and who-knew-what had become of Calvin? They hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Even after they sent him the terrible news about Dad’s heart attack, they’d not gotten a single word back. There was no official notice he’d gone missing, but where could he be? Had he been involved in the recent D-Day invasion of Normandy? Was he safe? Alive even? Or would Fannie and her family find out that he too had been taken prisoner?

  And now Mom suggested they bring Germans here to their own farm? It didn’t matter if the army sent guards for the prisoners. No place was safe anymore. She looked hard at her mom. “It makes me sick to think about it. I don’t like it. We’ll manage.”

  “Think about what?” Jerry asked around a mouthful of bread and beef.

  Mom picked up her cold cup and set it to her lips but didn’t drink. Jerry chewed and stared, first at her mother and then at Fannie.

  “Mom thinks we should get some of those Germans to work here.”

  He swallowed. “The PWs you mean? Those over there at that camp?” His brown eyes livened. Somehow he didn’t seem nearly as tired out as Fannie was, even though he’d been working almost as long in the sun and wind as she had.

  She nodded.

  He took another bite. “Wow.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full. You’re not six,” Fannie scolded. Mom was looking far away again.

  Jerry swallowed and took a slurp of milk. Finally, his mouth was empty. “I could keep a gun handy and watch over ‘em.”

  Mom jerked back to life. “You’ll do no such thing. I said, they’ll have a guard.”

  Fannie stiffened. “I don’t like how you’re talking like this is all settled.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, it is. I spoke to George Martinusen over at the co-op. They’re planning to bring them in at their place too. It’ll cost us less than what we paid the migrants.”

  Fannie’s jaw dropped. “You mean we’d have to pay them too?”

  “I wish I could get paid,” Jerry said. “Hey, Fannie, how come you left the tractor out by the fence?”

  “We can’t just force them to work. It’s an agreement of the Geneva Convention,” Mom said.

  Fannie rubbed her forehead as a pain lanced her thoughts. She shook her head. “I ran out of gas.”

  Jerry chuckled. “Forgot to watch the gauge again, huh?”

  Fannie pinched her lips. Yes, so she’d forgotten. Not like she didn’t have plenty on her mind. She’d wanted to finish getting that corner field disked before the sun went below the trees and the mosquitoes came out for their evening feast. As it was, she’d gotten half-eaten on the long walk back to the house.

  Jerry chowed through some more of his meal. “I’ll carry a can out for you in the morning. No big deal.”

  “Thanks, Jer.”

  Mom pushed up from her chair and took her cup to the sink. “I’ll be writing a letter to petition the army for some of those workers first thing tomorrow. I’ve made up my mind.”

  The cold meat sat like a lump somewhere between Fannie’s chest and stomach. She’d poured her heart and soul into the farm. How her mother could make such a big decision just like that, without caring what Fannie h
ad to say about it, just about knocked the wind out of her.

  Mom turned and leaned her backside against the sink. She folded her arms. “I know how this idea sits with you, Fannie. I know it seems like a disgrace. But do you know what’s a bigger disgrace? It’s the idea that our boys—your brothers—Calvin and Dale and all those others fighting in the mud over there—are depending on us. Not just to hold the farm together for when they get back, but because they’ll go hungry if we don’t. You’ve heard the government on the radio saying we need to get our farms in the fight. Well, I aim to keep ours in the fight. Just because your father isn’t with us doesn’t mean we can quit doing what needs—”

  “I’m not quitting, Mom.”

  “I know you’re not. You’re killing yourself. Getting these crops in and harvesting them will help the cause, and it’ll keep this family together, but I don’t plan to sacrifice my daughter for my sons either. Still, we can’t do it all alone. We need help, Fannie. I’ve got my hands full with the animals and the house. Patsy is doing the laundry and helping in the garden. That little girl may be only thirteen, but she’s doing her share. Jerry …” She looked at him sitting there, and her eyes softened. “He’s the man around here now, but he’s still a boy too.”

  His chest momentarily puffed and just as instantly deflated. He swallowed down his last bite. “Just go ahead and agree with her, Fan. She’s right.”

  Fannie didn’t want to agree. She wanted the army to find her big brother Calvin and send him home. What right did they have to call a sixteen-year-old boy the man of their family when there was Cal? He was the oldest. It was only proper that he should be the one to take over for Dad. Not her. Surely not Jerry.

  But Fannie didn’t have that choice. Mom was right. She even made sense. Fannie couldn’t deny it, no matter how badly she wanted to.

  Mom went on. “We have to do this. I’m not saying it’ll be easy seeing those men here. It’ll be a battle. Our own battle.” She straightened away from the sink and lowered her arms to her sides. “But we have to let that be our flame. The thing that keeps us going until Cal and Dale are home. And pray, Fannie.” Her voice caught. “Pray like never before.” She turned away and cranked on the faucet, filling the dish tub with water. Probably now to hide her tears.