While the Locust Slept. Peter Razor

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СКАЧАТЬ … Uh, yeah,” I replied. More pieces to the puzzle suddenly fell into place.

      “Have you thought about what comes after the State School?” she murmured softly.

      “Some. I’d rather go on my own or to relatives.”

      “You became quite ill after your first, ah … trip last summer,” Miss Borsch said, appearing concerned. “It’s not in your file, but Mrs. Steele says your second trip was quite dangerous.” She was referring to the two times I had run away from the school.

      “I didn’t think so.”

      “Anyway,” she murmured, appearing sympathetic, “you can see why you can’t be on your own. Just yet.”

      “Dunno,” I mumbled, but I knew where it all headed. “Couldn’t I go to high school in Owatonna?”

      “I’d like to see you in a regular home, if possible,” Miss Borsch persisted.

      “Older boys go to high school from here,” I insisted.

      “Perhaps they want to do something else,” she replied. “Go into the army, for instance.”

      “Can I do something else?” I groped. “Besides this farm thing, I mean. Somebody said indenture is slavery.”

      “It’s no longer indenture,” Miss Borsch corrected. “It’s farm placement.” Her smile faded, but she retained composure. “And it’s certainly not slavery! I really think you’d like a farm. We’d see that you got a good family, and somebody would visit you to see how things were going.” Her smile could again melt steel.

      “I don’t know.” Trapped, hating myself for letting her lead me on, I looked around at the floor. “If I went on a farm, would I go to high school?”

      “Absolutely!” she said leaning across her desk toward me. “A farmer has to sign an agreement allowing you to attend school. It’s your choice after age sixteen, but the family can’t make you quit. And you are to be paid for summer work.”

      “Oh? Besides food and clothes?”

      “That’s right. We would leave the amount up to you and the family to decide.”

      “What do guys get working for farmers?” I asked.

      “It depends on age and experience,” Miss Borsch replied. “You might start at twenty-five dollars per month for summer work, but you’d work only for room and board while in school.”

      “That’s a lot of money,” I said. It was hard imagining money in amounts over one dollar. My grandmother on my father’s side had sent me a one-dollar bill when I was twelve, and I had seldom possessed more than a quarter or fifteen cents at a time, since. Money bought tickets to movies in town or candy and circulated as part of a barter economy. Relatives sent money to children, and older boys, who seemed to always have money for cigarettes, worked in town or ran errands.

      “You would get more as you grow older,” Miss Borsch pressed. Beaming, she leaned more toward me, but still stared like most office workers.

      I shrank back, my head tilted to one side. I wondered what would happen if I held out. I’d probably be sent to Red Wing, the state reformatory for boys.

      “Yeah, all right,” I said. My decision was not sincere and I sagged into the chair looking nervously around. Sighing my defeat, I mumbled, “When would I go?”

      “A worker will check with the family.”

      “Somebody,” I cleared my throat, “needs a worker?”

      “It’s not that you would go just for work,” Miss Borsch replied, trying not to sound defensive. “But you’ll be expected to help out. Anyway, the family lives near Rushford. We specifically discussed your Indian heritage and they say that’s no problem.”

      Miss Borsch closed her notes. “It’s settled then,” she said with apparent satisfaction. “We’ll call you when the time comes.”

      For a time it seemed Miss Borsch would make good on her promise to let me attend school. As August faded into September, I started ninth grade, riding with the other boys and girls to Owatonna High School, but the scorching wind of prejudice followed me there. One day the science teacher posed a question to the class. No one raised their hand, so for the first time I mustered the courage to raise mine. The teacher scanned past me a number of times. Finally he stopped and stared at me until I lowered my hand. I never tried to speak in that class again.

      Despite the hatred of one teacher, those days were a heady time. I attended football games and pep rallies and, as the weeks passed, began to make friends. I felt better about my life and my future than ever before. Then, in late September, Miss Borsch called me into her office to meet a man and woman who had come to take me away.

       Interview with John Schauls from the records of the State School:

      John: Is anybody interested in Peter? Will they stop to visit him or take him on trips or anything?

      Social worker: Peter has no visitors at the school. The only one seeing him will be a social worker twice a year.

      John: Peter is just the boy I want.…

      John thanked Miss Borsch and pointed at the outside door. “We’s chores to do. Best be going.” He started down the hall. Emma followed him and I followed her. We went through the large double doors and down the front steps of the Main Building to their two-tone green 1934 Ford sedan where I sat in the rear seat.

      I said goodbye to no one except Miss Borsch, and there was less note of my departure from the school than from the cottage. We drove down the hill and past C-15. A pang of loss and helplessness struck me as I glanced back through the rear window. Then I sagged into the seat and stared out the side.

      I was told nothing about a letter that came during the placement process, from relatives in northern Minnesota, nor of this reply: Peter is well. Social Services is seeing to his welfare. It is important that he has no visitors, as that might disrupt his life with a new family.

      No one would know where I went.

      2

       Mr. Kruger, husband of Matron Kruger, was the first man to attack me. I was seven years old and in a deep sleep when a nightmare flashed—my arms were bound tightly and I was being torn from bed. I moaned, then froze when I recognized Mr. Kruger and went mute. Holding me by the left armpit, Mr. Kruger lugged me out of the dorm. My feet slopped the treads going downstairs and banged the doorframe as he carried me into his apartment. A newspaper hiding Mrs. Kruger’s face lowered and I glimpsed her frozen smile. Mr. Kruger flipped me in the air and, when he caught me again, he gripped my left ankle in one hand, my left wrist with the other. Suddenly, I was flying in wide flying arcs, and the room became an insane kaleidoscope. I could only grunt as everything started to gray and I urinated. I must have sprayed Mrs. Kruger as I flew past, but I was unconscious by then.

       I awoke, dizzy and cross-eyed, in the infirmary and was told I had been there two days. Hospital records describe treatment only, not cause, and I have no further memories of that day or the following weeks. Sleep and dark, СКАЧАТЬ