PDCOO Chapter 2

Anna Burthe had an inconveniently large heart.

After the war ended, she'd kept bringing in injured stragglers, giving them work on the communal farm, feeding them until they were steady on their feet. She'd helped them find routes home when she could. A few had never left.

But that was right after the war, when labor was impossible to find.

Bringing home another person now would earn white-eyed looks from the neighbors—

Like her childhood friend Dieter, for instance.

Right now.

"Anna! They're saying you brought home some man without a second thought? I'm at my wit's end. If you keep doing things like that, later—uh—whoever ends up as your husband won't like it!"

The restaurant door offered no response.

A passing neighbor caught sight of Dieter talking to the doorframe, sighed, and moved on.

Regardless, Dieter ran the scenario again.

"......Was bringing up a husband too soon? Right. I should change it to 'someone.'"

Deep breath.

Walk in. Say it to her face. Bold and direct.

Think of the day he'd propose—

Someday.

After three more rounds of rehearsal, Dieter pushed open the door with a sweat-damp hand.

Anna was mid-service. Dieter squared his shoulders.

"Anna! They're saying you brought home another beggar? Picking up strays out of pity is all well and good for a day or two, but always—"

He got that far.

He'd been expecting a scrawny vagrant. 'Anna picked up another stray' did not usually conjure images larger than a half-drowned cat.

In the corner of the restaurant, however, something that appeared to be the alpha male of a wolf pack was licking a soup bowl clean.

Dieter's voice came out unsteadily. "A... Anna. Is it safe in here?"

At those words, the wolf—the alarming man—raised his head.

The dark blue wolfskin cape had done it, Dieter realized. But the deep blue eyes beneath the black hair were threatening in their own right.

Anna turned at the sound of Dieter faltering.

"What is it, Dieter? Did you come looking for trouble?"

"H-I had nothing on and stopped by."

"Then since you're here, say hello to our restaurant worker. Mr. Bertram, please say hello."

Anna went over to that enormous man and grabbed his head, turning it toward Dieter like she was adjusting a piece of furniture. Like steering a cabinet.

Eyes like winter water fixed on Dieter.

Dieter swallowed and managed: "Hello. I'm Dieter. A tailor's son. And Anna's childhood friend."

"Hello. I am Bertram. I am repaying a debt owed to Hans. I chop onions. I am not close with Miss Anna."

His voice was extraordinary.

So extraordinary that it took Dieter a full moment to register the content of what had actually been said.

"......Bertram? I feel like I've heard that name somewhere."

"I have also heard the name Dieter many times. I have met seven of them."

"Dieter is a common name, obviously! And what's this about owing Uncle Hans a debt? Did he actually have anything worth lending?"

Anna hit Dieter on the back of the head.

"Well, he might have! There's even a promissory note! Isn't that right, Mr. Bertram?"

Bertram nodded. "Yes. Since the debt cannot be repaid materially, I am repaying it with my body, as Miss Anna wished."

With his body. Dieter's gaze went sharp. Anna grabbed Dieter's cheek and pulled.

"Don't read into it. I'm just having him do chores around the restaurant. Preparing onions, that sort of thing."

"Onions? Why onions of all things?"

"I tried him at various tasks and that turned out to be his strongest. Dieter, since we're on the subject—want to stay for onion soup?"

Bertram, apparently having concluded that introductions were over, lifted his second bowl and drank. Onions swirled.

Dieter's appetite evaporated.

"Is there anything else on the menu?"

"Pickled onion sandwich. Onion omelet. Onion steak, no meat."

Only then did Dieter notice that the entire restaurant smelled comprehensively of onions.

"Is everything onions?"

"Yes! The thing is, I had Mr. Bertram cutting onions, and he got through an entire sack without shedding a single tear. He even rubbed his eyes and nothing happened. I found that so remarkable that I ended up—without quite meaning to—asking him to cut two whole sacks, and then......" Anna gestured vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. "It rather developed from there."

"You find too many things remarkable!"

"Hmph. I don't want to hear that from someone who has never cut an onion in his life. Do you know how hard it is? Even keeping them intact with the skin still on—"

"All right, stop! If you nag like that, who would ever want you?"

"Someone with a generous heart, like—"

But Anna had already stopped paying attention to Dieter.

"Oh! Mr. Bertram! Don't lick the plate—I'll give you more!"

"I am full. There is no need."

"Ehe-hehe, so it was so delicious you licked the plate even when you were full?"

"No."

"......Ah. I see."

"If it dries on, it becomes difficult to wash. I will tidy up."

Three syllables—No—and both Anna's and Dieter's spirits had entirely evaporated.

Bertram rose and headed for the kitchen. The sound of water suggested he was beginning the washing up.

Dieter edged close to Anna and whispered. "Look at those hands. You think he won't break anything?"

"......I suppose I have to trust him."

"I'd worry about other things first. Looking at him up close, he's covered in scars. Whatever he's been through, cutting onions doesn't so much as register."

"Really? He must have been wounded in the war."

"Is it really the war?"

Dieter narrowed his eyes.

Anna understood what he was getting at.

The war had ended three years ago. Those who'd lost their homes, the deserters with nowhere to go—most had settled somewhere by now.

Someone still wandering, still injured, was more likely a criminal.

Dieter lowered his voice. "I'll come by often. If anything seems off, you have to tell me."

"It's all right. Father wasn't the type to lend things to just anyone."

"Is that right? Your mother doesn't know yet, does she?"

Anna's mother had gone to market in the next village and was due back today. She wouldn't allow a suspicious stranger to stay.

Without quite knowing what Dieter was hoping for, Anna held out a blunt knife.

"Since you're here, peel some potatoes."

"What do you even have a worker for!"

"Mr. Bertram's hands are too big—he keeps cutting them in half. The potatoes you peel fit just right in the hand."

She said it casually, rose, and walked away.

Dieter stood there with the knife, indignant—

But watching her go, he found himself smiling anyway.

'The potatoes I peel fit just right in her hand.'

Obviously. He'd always known it.

The village's only restaurant had no name.

"Anna's cookhouse" worked well enough, in a place this size. But visitors seeing it for the first time always stopped in the doorway.

The customers barely filled three or four tables. The restaurant could have fed a company.

All of it traces of the war.

When the fighting intensified, the state had conscripted the entire village—requisitioned for use as a military supply depot. In that process, what had once been Anna's modest little restaurant was converted into a mess hall.

When the war ended and Anna came home, the day they handed her this vast, echoing space as "compensation"—

How absurd that had been.

She'd made the most of it anyway, using the wide floor as warehouse and restaurant in equal measure. For a time, she'd kept the defeated soldiers fed.

Of course, the war's victims weren't only soldiers.

"Miss," the old woman murmured, drifting close. Her hair was entirely white. "Have you seen my son?"

Anna smiled at her warmly. "Finish your soup and I'll tell you."

"Hmph. Too much onion in it."

"People say if it's free, they'd drink soapy water! Just eat it—it's good for you!"

The old woman grumbled but drank the soup.

Every time she moved, dirt fell from what could charitably be called her clothing. She'd been digging up the earth today too, looking for her son. Lost in the war somewhere near here—last word anyone had.

She scraped the bowl to the bottom. At the door, she turned and bowed her head to Anna.

"Thank you for the meal. But have you seen my son? He's a good boy."

"Stop digging tomorrow and I'll tell you."

"I need to find him before the military takes him......"

She shuffled out.

Anna held out the broom to Bertram.

"The floor, if you wouldn't mind."

"Of course."

He took it and swept with quiet obedience. Not the sort to take initiative—but thorough when given instructions.

Which was why the question caught her off guard.

"Do you know where that old woman's son is?"

"What? Are you—are you asking me?"

"Earlier you told her you would tell her tomorrow."

"...Obviously I don't know."

"You lied to her, then."

It wasn't an accusation. He said it the way another man might say the door was open.

A fact, neither more nor less important than other facts.

Anna felt her temper rise anyway.

"What else could I do? If I don't say something like that, she'll go on digging until her fingers wear down to nothing."

"Digging?"

"She's looking for her son. He went missing in the war—the last anyone heard, he was fighting somewhere near here."

"That is a sad story."

"Oh? So you can tell whether something is sad or not?"

"I know what sad is. I simply cannot feel it."

Anna glanced at the window. Her own face looked back: complicated, tired, bored, resigned—the expression she apparently made when she thought about the old woman.

Bertram's face was stone. And he had just said sad—

Like a weather report.

A thought struck her.

"Bertram. Were you—were you ever hit on the head during the war?"

He turned toward her. Fast, for all his stillness.

"I fought extensively. I was injured accordingly. My head was certainly among them."

"Ah. That might explain why you don't laugh or get angry."