Safe Haven

by Anna Schmidt

  “Let me see what I can do tonight,” Theo replied. The one thing that he had noticed about Oswego was that everything was close enough that he could walk—even to the fort. That was one of the best things about small towns. On their way to the workshop he saw an old bicycle also in need of repair.

  Mrs. Velo saw him looking at the bike. “Use it if you can fix it.” Inside the cluttered shed she pulled a chain that turned on the single lightbulb overhead. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said and headed back across the yard to the house, where a taxi was just pulling into the driveway.

  He watched through the square, four-paned window curtained with dust and cobwebs and saw a woman get out of the cab. She was tall and thin with long dark hair. She wore a light-colored skirt and a printed, short-sleeved blouse and sandals with that wedge heel that made Theo wonder how women kept their balance. Over one shoulder, she carried a large purse, and when the cabdriver removed the luggage from the trunk there was one large suitcase and another smaller case that Theo realized was a typewriter.

  At supper the regular boarders had quizzed Mrs. Velo about the new arrival. “A reporter?” one man guessed.

  “Sort of,” Mrs. Velo hedged. “She’s a friend of a friend.”

  “A stranger, then,” the woman seated next to Theo huffed.

  “We are all strangers,” Mrs. Velo said softly, “until we become friends. She is here to write about the refugees.”

  “I hear the government has spent a lot of money fixing things up for them,” the woman—Hilda Cutter—said in a tone that sounded as if she were sharing some huge secret. “New refrigerators and ovens in every apartment and …”

  Theo had barely paid attention to the rest. Hilda Cutter struck him as a gossip and someone who was always looking for the negative aspects of any situation.

  But watching the new arrival as he gathered the tools he would need to repair the fan, Theo recalled Mrs. Velo’s vague description of this woman from Washington and he wondered what “sort of” meant. Was this woman a reporter or not? Maybe she was with the government and needed to keep her identity secret. Someone from the government might arrive with a typewriter. She might have connections. Maybe he could talk to her about how best to get his uncle and aunt and cousin out. He turned his attention to the repair of the fan as he planned his approach.

  Suzanne followed Mrs. Velo up the steps to the wide porch furnished with several wooden rocking chairs, a porch swing, and window boxes filled with bright red geraniums that lined the railing. The front entrance had a leaded-glass window set into a solid-looking wooden door behind a screen door that Mrs. Velo held open for the cabdriver.

  “Just set them down inside there,” Mrs. Velo instructed, reminding Suzanne that the cabbie needed to be paid and sent on his way.

  She fumbled through the contents of her purse, pushing aside her comb, compact, lipstick, several wadded handkerchiefs, a fistful of pencils held together with a rubber band, a small notebook, and finally her billfold. She paid the driver, adding a less-than-generous tip because she noticed that she had very little cash and it would be Monday before she could get to a bank.

  “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Velo,” she said, following the woman inside. She was standing in a large foyer with a carpeted stairway on one side leading up to a landing that featured a window seat under another leaded-glass window and then turned to continue the rest of the way to the second floor.

  “My late husband was quite handy. When we bought the place, it was a disaster,” Mrs. Velo replied as she picked up Suzanne’s large suitcase as if it were empty and headed past the stairway toward the back of the house. “Your room is back here,” she said.

  On the way Suzanne caught a glimpse of a large, dark dining room, its long table covered in a lace cloth, and a far more inviting kitchen with the window over the sink crowded with clay pots that appeared to be filled with herbs. She tried to pay attention as Mrs. Velo ran through the house rules.

  “Breakfast is at seven, supper at six. You’re on your own for lunch. No food in your room. No hot plates or candles, either. Here’s a key to the room.”

  “Does this also fit the front door?”

  Mrs. Velo blinked at her as if she had suddenly spoken in a foreign language. “Nobody in Oswego locks their houses,” she said. She crossed the room and raised the blinds before opening the window that overlooked the backyard and a shed. “You’ll get a nice breeze off the lake most nights, but in this weather you might want to run the fan.” She pointed toward a small table and wooden chair. “I know you asked for a desk, but this is the best I can offer. You’re welcome to use the desk in the living room, but be aware that that’s for the use of all the boarders.”

  “This is fine,” Suzanne assured her as she set her typewriter case on top of the table and unhooked her bag from her shoulder. “I have the money here for the deposit and first month’s rent, although I might not be here an entire month and …”

  Mrs. Velo looked directly at her for the first time. “You said you were doing a story on the refugees.”

  “I am.”

  “Honey, they are here for the duration of the war, and if you ask me there is no possibility in heaven or on earth that the war will be over before the end of the month.” She stood in the doorway, her hand on the knob. “Of course, depending on the story—the depth of it I mean—I guess you could get the gist of things in a week or so, but I rent by the month.”

  Suzanne flinched at her landlady’s lecture. “I understand,” she said, handing the woman the envelope with the cash. “Thank you.”

  The door was half closed before Mrs. Velo opened it again. “You missed supper. I’ll bring you a sandwich and some iced tea. At breakfast you can meet the others. You might be especially interested in that young man there,” she added, nodding toward the window.

  Suzanne saw a tall man leave the shed and walk toward the house. He was carrying a small electric fan. “Your son?”

  Mrs. Velo frowned. “My son is in the navy, stationed in the Pacific somewhere. That young man is Theo Bridgewater. His uncle, aunt, and cousin are among the refugees. Like I said, you might want to talk to him.”

  Suzanne studied the man with interest. “I’ll be sure to meet him,” she said as she heard the door click closed.

  Theo Bridgewater was at least six feet tall, lanky with long arms and legs and a way of moving that made him appear confident and at the same time approachable. He was wearing jeans that looked as if he might have owned them for a decade or more, a short-sleeved cotton shirt with a white T-shirt underneath, and a baseball cap that hid his facial features from her. She could not guess his age, but given his ease of movement, he was not that old.

  Then she recalled the conversation she’d had with her landlady about the length of her stay. “I rent by the month,” Mrs. Velo had stated emphatically as if Suzanne had suggested that she would expect money back if she left early. Great, Randolph. You really are getting off on the right foot here.

  Edwin had always told her that she had a habit of getting so wrapped up in her story that she forgot she was dealing with human beings with feelings and opinions of their own. “You come on like a dog with a bone, Suzie. Sometimes it takes a gentler touch.”

  No one had ever accused Suzanne of being gentle or approachable. Even as a child and teenager she had stated her opinions in such a way that other kids avoided her. Oh, they would elect her to run the student government or manage the school’s newspaper, but when it came to friendships—not to mention romantic relationships—most people eventually gave up.

  More recently Gordon Langford had given up. “Face facts, Randolph. The man used you and then cast you to the curb,” she muttered. As soon as the story he’d urged her to write was published and exposed for the fabricated mess that it was, he had disappeared. Well, not entirely. He had defended himself by saying that “the reporter”—he had referred to her as if they had never met—had twisted his words. He had denied everything, and he had not
returned her calls. And why should he? He had achieved his purpose, for in spite of the fact that his accusations could not be proven, he had raised questions about his opponent’s integrity.

  A light knock at her door proved a welcome interruption as Mrs. Velo presented her with a tray loaded with a tall glass of iced tea, a plate with a multilayered sandwich of ham, cheese, tomato, lettuce, and who could tell what else between slices of thick crusted bread. There was a small dish of sliced lemon, a sugar bowl, a cloth napkin, and a side dish with the most mouthwatering slice of chocolate cake Suzanne thought she had ever seen.

  “This is so kind,” Suzanne said as she accepted the tray. “I can’t thank you enough. I really didn’t have a chance to eat and—”

  “It’s a onetime deal,” Mrs. Velo said, retreating into the hallway. But then she winked and added, “Have to be sure you paint me in a good light when you write that story.”

  Suzanne laughed and realized that it was the first time she had found her sense of humor in days—weeks. “Thank you,” she repeated even as she felt tears well.

  “Oh, honey, it’s just chocolate cake,” Mrs. Velo said, coming back into the room and taking the tray from her. She set it on the writing table and then took a seat on the end of the bed and patted the space beside her. “Is this your first big assignment?”

  “No.” Tears were coming in waves now along with hiccups and sniffles.

  Mrs. Velo leaned back to retrieve a tissue from the box on the nightstand. She handed it to Suzanne and then waited while she composed herself.

  “I’m so sorry. I must be overtired. I get emotional when I’ve not had enough sleep, and you’ve been so very kind, and …”

  Apparently satisfied that Suzanne was not going to have another breakdown, Mrs. Velo stood up. “Edwin told me that you’re good at reporting. He did say you can be a little over-enthusiastic, but it was clear to me that he wouldn’t have sent you here if he didn’t think you could handle this. You do know that the town is fairly crawling with reporters and photographers?”

  “How do you and Edwin—Mr. Bonner—know each other?”

  “Eddie grew up here. We went all through school together.” Suzanne did not miss the way Mrs. Velo’s voice softened, and her eyes got that faraway look people got when they were lost in a memory. “But that’s all ancient history,” she added, seeming to snap out of her reverie. “Now let me offer one piece of advice, Suzanne. We are like a family, so do not hide away here in your room. Get out and get to know the others and the folks in town. You’ll find most people in Oswego can be mighty friendly once they get to know you.”

  “I will,” Suzanne assured her. “Starting with breakfast. I promise. But for now I’d just like to unpack while I enjoy this wonderful meal and then take a hot shower and get to bed. It’s been a long day.”

  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” Mrs. Velo exclaimed. “The bathroom. It’s at the top of the stairs. There’s a hook and latch for privacy.” She pulled out the bottom drawer of the dresser and removed a stack of towels. “I’ll collect and replenish these every week—Monday is wash day. You’re welcome to wash out personal items, but no hanging them in the bathroom to dry.” She took a drying rack out of the narrow closet and set it up on a mat in the corner of the room. “If you need to iron something, there’s a board built into the wall next to the icebox in the kitchen—the iron is kept on the top shelf of the pantry.”

  She glanced around as if searching for anything else she might have forgotten. The melting ice settled in the untouched glass of iced tea on the tray. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she said then patted Suzanne’s cheek. “It’s all going to work out, honey. You’ll see.”

  The door closed for a second time, and Suzanne sat down at the writing table and ate her supper as she gazed out the window and the sunlight faded to dusk.

  Will it all work out? And what is “it”? The war? My story? My life?

  The train slowed, waking Ilse with the break in its seemingly endless rhythm. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, and in spite of the early hour, it was obvious that this would be another hot, humid day. She sat up and leaned closer to Franz as they stared out the window, eager for their first glimpse of the place they would stay. A murmur rolled back toward them from the front of the car.

  “What are they saying?” Ilse asked her husband, whose command of languages far exceeded her own ability to speak only German and basic English.

  “There’s a fence,” he replied. “With the barbed wire on top. Like the camps,” he added. His voice became a whisper as he stared out the window at the fence, the low white wooden buildings that stood in rows like soldiers near a small cemetery. The men—some in uniform—hurried around inside the fence. And she knew that Franz was back in the prison camp where he had been taken for questioning and then held for months. The place where he had been beaten and starved. The place where he had suffered much more that he would not tell her. He had escaped from that camp and found her and Liesl in a nearby village, and together they had made their way over the Alps and into Italy just as the Allies were liberating that country.

  “It is not the same, Franz,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around his thin shoulders. “This is America. They might have the fence for all sorts of reasons. It is not the same.”

  But she was less certain as they climbed down from the train and were ushered inside the fence.

  As they waited in line to be registered, she fingered the tag they were all wearing—the one with a number and the words U.S. Army Casual Baggage imprinted on it as if they were no different from the cardboard suitcases and paper bags that held their belongings. Of course, some travelers clutched fine leather suitcases and satchels as well. The finer luggage pieces bore travel labels from exotic places like Paris and Rome and Monte Carlo. But those were the exception, and she knew that those refugees also wore the casual baggage tags. When one is an outcast, she thought, one has no other identity.

  Ilse looked around. Townspeople lined the outside of the fence, pointing and whispering and watching them as if they were animals in a zoo. Some men held large cameras. News photographers, she guessed. Children, women, and a few men—most of them older—made up the rest of the crowd. Well, why shouldn’t they stare? She and the others must seem so very foreign and exotic to these Americans dressed in clean and well-fitting clothes and wearing proper shoes and socks. Some of the women wore straw hats that blocked the sun and shaded their features. Ilse touched her hair and knew that it hung in limp waves. She tugged at her dress, trying without success to lengthen the skirt. They had wanted to look their best for their arrival, but the disinfection process had squelched those hopes, and after riding all night on the train, the clothes they wore were wrinkled and stained with sweat. They must look like exactly what they were—people without a country or home to call their own.

  “Mama?” Liesl clung to her arm. “Why are those people staring at us, and why are they behind that fence? Have they been naughty?”

  Ilse realized that her daughter’s perception of things was that they were free and the townspeople were the ones being held behind the wire fence. The idea made her smile. “They are curious,” Ilse replied as they inched closer to the table where men were seated, checking the numbers on their tags against names on lists. She was reminded of all the times that she and Franz had had to show their identity papers while living in Munich. Just going to the market, a person could be stopped and harassed and questioned. Ahead of them, a Jewish family stepped up to the table, and she wondered if they would again be required to wear the ugly yellow felt stars that had labeled them in Europe.

  “Welcome to Fort Ontario,” the smiling man at the table greeted them when it was their turn. Another man standing next to him translated the words into German and handed Ilse a paper bag stuffed with towels and a bar of soap. He was also smiling. Ilse had noticed that about the Americans. They always appeared so open to new people. Their niece Beth had been like that.

&nbs
p; After their names had been checked off, they followed others up a hill to another line and more tables labeled CUSTOMS where they were separated from their few belongings. They had all heard the stories—and some of these people had actually had the experience—of such procedures in the concentration camps. People had been told that the baggage they had checked as they boarded a train would be delivered to them later, but instead, they had been led off to their deaths. For this reason, most of their fellow travelers on this journey had kept what hand luggage they could with them, and they refused the help of boys from town who met their train and offered to carry their baggage for them. The boys reminded her of the youth corps in Germany—the “brown shirts”—but someone explained that they belonged to a group called Boy Scouts that had nothing to do with war or politics.

  “I will tag your belongings,” the young man explained and went on to assure them that their things would be delivered to their quarters as soon as possible—probably while they were at breakfast. Did they really have a choice?

  Franz set down their two suitcases, bound by twine because the edges were coming apart, and stood watching while a man tagged them and then handed him half th≠≠e tag as a receipt. “This way,” their guide and interpreter said as he led them and others toward one of the barracks. Inside Ilse expected to see a barren dormitory packed with rows of bunks perhaps stacked three high like the barracks Franz had described to her after his escape from the prison camp. Instead a hallway led past doors, each with a name on it. She began to recognize some of the names as families they had met on the ship coming across the Atlantic. Franz stopped before the last door. He ran his finger over the small placard that read FRANZ, ILSE, AND LIESL SCHNEIDER.

  Their guide—yet another smiling young man wearing pressed trousers and a crisp white shirt—handed Franz a key.

  “Wilkommen,” he said as he continued the tour in German. “Bathrooms are shared—men’s on the second floor and ladies’ on this level.” He opened the door with their name on it and stood back to give them a chance to enter the small apartment.