Soldier Doll by Jennifer Gold Page A

stack of magazines to the floor. They all turn and watch as the stack topples.
    â€œWell,” says Elizabeth’s dad. He looks over at her. “It’s actually Elizabeth’s find, really. She was the one who spotted it. At a yard sale,” he adds.
    Elizabeth blushes. She reaches into her bag and brings out the soft pink bundle. Carefully, she unwraps the blanket and lays the doll on the table. She looks up at Dr. McLeod. “It’s a soldier doll,” she says.
    â€œA soldier doll,” repeats Dr. McLeod. Her eyebrows narrow and she frowns, looking puzzled. Then, her eyes widen as her confusion transforms, becomes comprehension. “Not the soldier doll? From the Margaret Merriweather poem?” She gives them a sharp glance and leans in to get a closer look at the little figure.
    â€œActually,” says Elizabeth’s father, “that’s what we’d like to find out.”
    Elizabeth and her dad both gaze at her, looking hopeful.
    â€œWell,” she says. She shakes her head. She picks up the doll and stares at it. “Well,” she repeats.
    Dr. McLeod studies the doll. Elizabeth watches as she turns it over and over in her hands, taking note of its features. She does this for some time. After a while, she looks up at them and gingerly places it back on the table.
    â€œOkay,” she says. She trades the doll for a purple pen, clicking it on and off repeatedly. “I need to run some tests. And do some research. But I can tell you that this doll appears to have been made some time very early in the twentieth century.” She reaches for a notepad and jots something down.
    â€œSo it could be the soldier doll? The real one?” Elizabeth leans toward her eagerly.
    â€œIt could be. But it’s too early to say for sure.” Dr. McLeod makes detailed notes on the doll now. She turns the figure to the left, then the right. She scribbles again in her notebook.
    â€œIt’s not another Titanic dish, though.” Elizabeth looks over at her dad, who is looking at the professor with some concern.
    â€œWhat? Oh! That.” Dr. McLeod laughs. “That was funny, wasn’t it? Well, it’s too early to say. This could very well be the real thing. I need to run more tests, though.” She turns the doll back over, gives it a penetrating stare.
    â€œThere’s something, though, something odd—” She frowns, thinking. Her voice trails off. She gets up and goes over to one of the bookcases and pulls an older-looking volume from the shelf. Reading, she frowns again.
    â€œUh-oh. Bad news?” Elizabeth’s voice is light, but she’s concerned.
    â€œNot bad, necessarily. Just strange.” Dr. McLeod points at the book. “The uniform. It’s the wrong color for a British soldier. Merriweather was English, and she wrote the poem some time during World War I. The doll should be wearing a British uniform.” She turns the textbook out so they can see the illustration she’s referring to. The soldiers in the photograph are wearing thick woolen tunics dyed khaki.
    They all look over at the doll; it stares back at them blankly.
    â€œIt actually looks more like the German uniform from the First World War.” Dr. McLeod opens the book to another page, showing them the gray-clad soldiers. Elizabeth peers at the photograph, realizing the professor is right.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Elizabeth asks curiously.
    â€œIt means we need to do more investigating. I need to run some tests. Send it to the lab.” She picks up the doll and touches its coat. “Odd,” she says again.
    Elizabeth thinks of her dad in their old family pictures, waving at the camera in full military regalia. Of course different countries would have different uniforms. She’d never given it much thought before, but it makes sense, like in sports: you need know who’s on your team. She thinks of Afghanistan and of camouflage and