“You sort that out,” O’Hara said. “I’ll find something you can wrap it up in.”

Kennet emptied the box and divided the cutlery into a dozen dinner-sized place settings, six lunch-sized, plus the serving pieces.

“Hey, look at these,” O’Hara said. He brought in a smaller box filled with silver napkin rings, each festooned with the same scallop shell as the cutlery. “The Fiskares will have the best-set table on Thanksgiving.”

He was absurdly enthusiastic about the project. With some found cloth remnants, he and Kennet wrapped up each individual setting as if swaddling a baby. One section of the crowded hall had entire bolts of cloth, as if the stockroom of a textile factory had been raided. The men used a blue-on-blue damask to wrap all the littler packages together. Then they wrapped the bundle in a piece of thick, sturdy tweed.

“You’ll need a box to pack it in,” O’Hara said. “Wood, not cardboard, so it doesn’t fall apart on the trip. I bet someone in town could find one. Or make one.”

Kennet was apprehensive when it came time to ask Jorgy to approve the shipment of the small but heavy crate. The captain, looking a decade older, smiled as he signed the chit. “Do a little shopping upstairs, Fish?”

“Just a little, sir,” Kennet said. “Bought something nice for my father.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’ll have a better home than where it came from.”

Kennet wrote a quick letter to Emil and Marta, saying a box would be arriving in a month or so. Christmas present. Put it in the attic. No peeking.

Angels of the River

During the nights, the contemplative majesty of Kremsmunster Abbey was frequently disturbed by men crying out in their dreams. On any given night in any given cell, a GI was talking in his sleep, confessing and reliving his most despicable or most terrifying moments. Thrashing in the sheets, yelling for dead buddies to take cover this time, trying to change the inevitable outcome. They worked themselves up until they rolled off the narrow cots, often striking out at the friends who tried to help them wake up.

“There ought to be a purple heart for a slug from a buddy,” Ingle said, gingerly touching a bruised, swollen lip.

“I said I was sorry,” Maslov mumbled.

Kennet found it odd that only one man in his cell fought nightmares at a time. It was never two guys experiencing bad dreams simultaneously. Never all four of them at once. As if a schedule had been agreed upon beforehand.