The Major's Daughter by J. P. Francis

“The Tell-Tale Heart,” she thought—until the men began streaming back from the woods.
    Luck worked in her favor. She heard a lot of yelling and laughing, and when she glanced out she saw the men—Germans and Americans together—ringed around something at their feet. Lieutenant Peters stuck his head into the administrative building and told her the cause of the excitement.
    â€œThey have a bear cub!” he said, obviously pleased with the discovery. “Come take a look.”
    â€œWhere—”
    â€œIt was in a tree when they cut it down. No one saw it beforehand, and the mother bear must have been scared away. They’ve named it Bruno. Come and see.”
    On impulse she grabbed the letter and tucked it into her waistband. Then she followed Lieutenant Peters outside. The men formed a fence to keep the bear in the middle of their circle. She had a brief impression of something small and black scuttling around at their feet. The men pulled back when they noticed her, many of them holding out their hands as if, presto, they unveiled a great treasure. One man, a German, rested on his knees before the tiny bear and provided a base when the bear needed reassuring. Collie felt her heart melt at the sight of the little orphan. Clearly it missed its mother, but it still toddled around, trying to make sense of what had occurred. The men treated it sweetly. The man on the ground, especially, seemed to feel some proprietorship over it. He guided it when it seemed shaky and twice lifted it up and held it like a baby. Whenever he let it run as it liked, it bawled for its mother and traced the interior of the circle.
    August arrived with his cutting crew before long. Collie saw him, but he was quickly lost in the swarm of men who came to look. The bear served as a magnet; no one could ignore it. August, however, pushed his way to the front of the ranks. When the man in the center saw August he spoke to him rapidly in German. August smiled and translated, his eyes directly on Collie’s.
    â€œHe asks if you want to hold it,” he said, nodding toward the man in the center and the little bear.
    â€œYes, I would.”
    That seemed to please all the men in the circle. The man in the center lifted the bear carefully and handed it to Collie. Whatever discomfort she felt at being the only woman in a circle of men, disappeared the moment she held little Bruno. He was a darling! His fur felt fine and dense, and his black, inquisitive eyes did not leave hers. He weighed little, but what there was of him seemed vital and eager. He had four paws of good claws, and his pointed snout angled out in a brown muzzle. Around her she heard men exclaim in German. She wondered if they understood that she comprehended most of what they said. As if reading her mind, one man—the man who seemed the bear’s owner—spoke to her directly in German.
    â€œDo you like him? His name is Bruno.”
    â€œI like him very much,” she answered in German. “I’m sorry he’s an orphan.”
    â€œWe’ll take good care of him,” the man said. “He can be our mascot.”
    â€œHe’ll get big rather quickly,” said someone from the group of men.
    â€œIn Germany he would be used for the circus,” said the man on his knees.
    â€œMaybe you can teach him to ride a bicycle.”
    She did not intend it to be particularly funny, but the men gave a good, hearty laugh at the joke. She felt the laughter must stem from the idea of interacting with the commandant’s daughter. At the same time it felt good to laugh with the men. She wondered what the editorial writers would say if they could see that Germans and Americans had so much in common after all. She passed little Bruno to Lieutenant Peters, though the bear struggled to stay with her.
    â€œWere you able to translate the poem I gave you?” August asked in German.
    He had crossed the circle and suddenly stood