The enemy materializes before my eyes. He towers over the weeds, taller than me, taller than Daddy, a giant in gray. The letters "PW" are stenciled in black upon his chest.

His hair is shaved so close to his scalp that there's no way to know its color. His beady eyes are an icy blue as they look directly into mine.

This can't be happening! Turn and run! Don't stand there like a fool! Run!

Even though I want to run away, I'm rooted to the spot. It's the same during an earthquake. I become rigid, waiting until the shaking stops, not diving for cover. Instead, I am paralyzed with disbelief.

I gawk at the stranger in front of me, and he's not a figment of my imagination. He's more real than real. I step back and raise my hands into the air. "Uh, what do you want?"

He comes uninvited into my space. "Zig-rette?" he says.

His voice is a whisper. He motions with a hand, pretending to smoke in an effort to make me understand. I shake my head. He motions again, trying to tell me to go get him cigarettes. I shake my head harder. He glances over his shoulder and then back at me. His hand is shaking as he reaches out, and I can see he needs a smoke badly since he's about to have a nicotine fit.

I keep my hands in the air so he'll know I don't want any trouble. I'm trying to be calm so he won't get rattled, but my heart is beating like a tom-tom and echoes in my ears.

He takes a step toward me, and I shuffle back. The whole time I'd been prowling through the weeds, he'd been lurking, ready to pounce on an innocent girl like me. I think of America's most wanted, the index file cards Jimmy and I kept when we were small. We were pretending then, but this isn't make-believe. This is war, and this man's the enemy.

"No!" I say as firmly as I can with my hands in the air. "No cigarettes."

"Yah," he says, snapping his fingers under my nose. His light colored brows come together over his cold German eyes. "Zig-rette!" Completely out of the weeds by now, I can see every inch of him and he's all gray like a black and white movie.

I flinch as he raises a hand. I think he might drop me with a punch to the head. Instead, he pretends to smoke again, thinking I don't understand. I understand perfectly.

"No!" I say, standing my ground. I lower my hands and put them on my hips. I stomp my foot and splatter black oily mud onto his gray clothes. I frown. My words scold as if talking to a stray dog who won't go home. "No, no, no! You're not the boss of me. You can't force me to get you cigarettes."

I'm an American citizen and he's a prisoner of war. It's my sump field, not his.