by Anna Schmidt
“You seem to know a lot about politics.”
“For a farmer from Wisconsin?” He grinned.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He realized that she did not take teasing well. “I majored in political science at the University of Wisconsin.”
“Really? I mean from what you told me about the farm, I just assumed. …”
“And that’s kind of the overall problem with the world, isn’t it? We all have this tendency to make assumptions before we have the facts.”
“And what are the facts behind being raised on a farm and majoring in political science?”
“When the war first began in Europe, I was pretty sure that eventually we would be in it.”
“You assumed?” She gave him a wry smile, and he amended his former thought. She might not take teasing well but she was not above using it herself.
“I assumed,” he agreed. “Anyway, I was thinking about how I might be able to serve. I wouldn’t be able to join the fight—wouldn’t want to. War is never the answer.”
“I used to believe that, but in this case …”
“There has to be another way, and I guess that’s why I went the direction I did. If I could understand how governments work—the science of politics—then just maybe I could figure out a way to make a difference.”
“How about helping me gather facts so I can write a story that will make a difference for those folks cooped up in the fort?” She looked up at him. “Let’s make a difference together.”
He knew that she was really asking for his help in persuading his aunt and uncle to let her tell their story. “How about this? How about we go together to the open house and you just enjoy the tour the way I will and everyone from town will? How about you putting aside that little notebook you always seem to have in your hand and leave the camera in your room and for those few hours you’re just another visitor?”
“I have a deadline—several of them. My editor wants me to write two or three stories a week. I don’t have time.”
He placed his hand on hers and then withdrew it at once when he realized that he had not washed up yet after mowing the grass. “How about you try letting the story come to you instead of going in there with some preconceived idea?”
She bristled.
“Or I could help you,” he added with a grin.
Ilse looked around the tiny apartment. The floor had been scrubbed, the furniture dusted, the beds were made up with sheets that she had bleached and ironed, and at the foot of each of the three cots was a neatly folded blanket. Their clothes were all stored in the lockers. She had found a glass milk bottle and filled it with flowers for the table, and Franz had helped her hang curtains sent in a box of donated household items from one of the Jewish charities that had been incredibly generous in making sure all the refugees had what one of the ladies had called “the comforts of home.”
“It will have to do,” Ilse said with a sigh as she wiped the table, which was already spotless.
“It will more than do,” Franz replied. “You have turned this place into a real home, Ilse.” The now-familiar dreamy expression came over his features, and she knew that he was thinking of the home they had shared back in Munich.
“You look very nice,” she said as she straightened the knot of his tie. “You’ve put on some weight—at least the quarantine accomplished something. Your clothes fit so much better than before.”
He chuckled. “Don’t you find it amazing how in just a few short weeks—with enough food and some exercise and the lack of fear and worry that we lived with before—everyone is beginning to look less like refugees and more like the people we were?”
“The people we are,” Ilse corrected him. “You are Herr Professor Franz Schneider, and I am your very proud wife. That has not changed.”
Franz studied her for a long moment. “You have changed, Ilse. You have become more beautiful.”
She felt the blush of a schoolgirl stain her face at his compliment and even more so at the fire of desire that ignited within her. Embarrassed at such feelings, she brushed off the compliment. “We should go out and watch for Theo. Liesl is already by the gate.”
When the gates were opened, Ilse was astonished at the number of people who filed through, and it took some time and craning of their necks before they finally saw Theo waving to them from the back of the crowd. He was with the reporter, and it occurred to Ilse that they made a handsome couple—both tall and athletic with those unique American traits of unaffected poise and unconscious self-assurance.
“The reporter is with him,” Franz murmured. “I thought we made our position quite clear.”
“She might simply be coming to see the place. Theo might have asked her to come with him not as a reporter but as a lovely young woman.”
Franz blinked at her as if she had just announced that their nephew might marry this woman. “You are matchmaking?”
“Apparently my skills in that area are unnecessary. It appears to me that Theo is doing quite well without my help.” She nodded toward the couple, and they both saw that Theo was laughing at something Suzanne had said and that at the same time he placed his hand lightly on her waist as he steered her through the throng to where they were standing.
Franz frowned. “I do not wish to become a part of her reporting, Ilse. We may be in America, but when we go back to Germany …”
“If we go back.”
He stared at her. “You do not want to go home?”
Her attempt at a laugh was so filled with disbelief that it came out a snort. “What home, Franz? We have no home—not here and not there.”
“Perhaps not, but you—we—have family. Your sister and the Friends from our meeting.”
“Do we know where any of them are? My sister? Her husband and children? The other Quakers from our meeting?”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Sh-h-h. Here come Theo and the reporter.”
She looked up, her bitterness at their situation still a metallic taste in her mouth. Liesl had run to meet Theo, the doll he had given her clutched firmly under one arm. But Ilse found her focus on the woman—Suzanne. She was wearing a cotton sundress that exposed her shoulders, and her hair was piled loosely on top of her head. Her flat sandals exposed her painted toenails, and over one shoulder she carried a large straw purse.
She was a woman who had probably never known real deprivation, real fear. And she wanted to write about them. Franz was right. Not because anything she might write could cause them problems over time, but because how could this quintessential American beauty even come close to being able to imagine the horrors they had experienced?
Suddenly Ilse wanted her to understand. She wanted all these Americans who sat in their offices in Washington and here at the fort making decisions for Franz and her and the others as if they were incapable of thinking or speaking for themselves to grasp the reality of what they were expecting the refugees to do when the war ended. She would not add to Franz’s worry by becoming involved directly. Instead she would introduce Suzanne to the one person she had met since coming to the shelter who Ilse knew would not tolerate the reporter’s idealism.
She scanned the crowd for Gisele St. Germaine, the French actress she had met in the laundry. With her sarcasm and wry sense of humor, Gisele had had all the women laughing at their situation and snickering at her impersonation of Adolf Hitler. Gisele had made the dictator seem so ridiculous that she robbed him of his power, and afterward the women had talked seriously about how it could be possible that this former housepainter and paperhanger had been able to turn the world upside down.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Schneider,” Suzanne said, extending her hand in greeting. “It’s so good to see you again.”
Liesl was tugging at Suzanne’s arm. “Suzanne?”
“Liesl, this is Miss Randolph,” Ilse corrected.
“Oh that’s all—” Suzanne caught Ilse’s look and changed her words. “That’s right, Liesl.”
> Liesl frowned. “And then am I Miss Schneider?”
Suzanne smiled. “If you like.”
Liesl considered this. “No. I am just Liesl.”
The public address system squealed, announcing the start of the day’s program. Director Smart was approaching the podium, and everyone pressed in closer to the makeshift stage. He outlined the day’s schedule—remarks from dignitaries, followed by tours of the shelter’s facilities, and then a social hour for everyone to get better acquainted.
But first he made some announcements: the quarantine was officially lifted, and starting immediately, the residents of the shelter would be allowed special passes so that they could go to town to shop or see a movie or have a meal in one of the local restaurants. Furthermore, the children would be attending the local schools. This announcement was met with applause by the residents and a smattering of audible gasps by the locals.
Director Smart explained that the passes would be valid for six hours a day and residents must return to the shelter by midnight. Furthermore, they could not travel beyond the boundaries of Oswego. As he continued speaking, Ilse could not help thinking that in spite of this loosening of restrictions they were still incarcerated, still under the bonds of authorities with no voice to speak for themselves.
As if she’d been hearing Ilse’s thoughts, Suzanne edged closer and murmured, “The government giveth, and the government taketh away.”
Ilse glanced up at her. She realized that Suzanne looked less like the all-American beauty and more like the cynical journalist—the one in any society charged with challenging and questioning authority. Yes, Suzanne and Gisele together would craft a powerful story—perhaps one that would help the cause of the hundreds of refugees who were now safe, although hardly free.
It was evident to Suzanne that Franz Schneider had his suspicions about her. He was unfailingly courteous but certainly made it clear he had no plans to engage with her on more than a superficial level. For Theo’s sake—and perhaps his wife’s—he would be polite, but he would offer nothing of himself.
Ilse, on the other hand, surprised Suzanne by seeking her out after the tours and introducing her to a woman who wore an expression that seemed to Suzanne to reflect the same sense of cynicism that Suzanne felt about the world in general. She had a regal elegance about her but also a bohemian casualness that drew attention to her. She was wearing a pair of men’s gabardine trousers with a necktie threaded through the belt loops and a crisp cotton, long-sleeved blouse. She had pushed the sleeves up to her elbows and turned the collar up so that it accentuated her long neck. On anyone else in the gathering, the outfit would have come off as pretentious or just sad. On Gisele it was the height of fashion.
“You are French?” Suzanne asked when Ilse left them together while she went to get glasses of lemonade.
Gisele shrugged. “I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world—it comes in especially handy in times like these.”
“Your English is certainly impeccable.”
“As is my German, my Italian, and of course, my French,” Gisele replied with a smile.
Suzanne did not take offense. It had been a stupid thing to say. “Ilse mentioned that you are an actress.”
“Among other pastimes. There is not much opportunity for me to ply my acting craft these days. Although Ivo over there seems determined to create the next great acting troupe right here in Fort Ontario.” She smiled and waved to a man across the way. “I am inclined to join his little band of thespians. It will certainly help to pass the time. And you, Suzanne Randolph? What is it that you do to pass the days of your life?”
“I am—was a reporter for a newspaper in Washington—the capital city of the United States?”
Gisele smiled. “I am aware of the place where your government makes its policies. Of more interest to me is your use of the past tense. Are you no longer a reporter for this newspaper?”
“It’s complicated. I am working as a freelance reporter for now.”
Gisele’s knowing smile lit her face. “You were dismissed?”
It occurred to Suzanne that Ilse was taking her time getting that lemonade for them. And what had happened to Theo? “Yes, but—”
“And this story—our story—will be your salvation?”
“Well, that just sounds desperate,” Suzanne said, trying to laugh.
“Are you good at your craft?”
“Yes. I am quite good,” Suzanne replied.
“Then let’s work together and tell this story. I am not getting any younger, and it is my understanding that your New York theater prefers younger actresses to grace their stages.” She glanced around as if looking for a quieter place for them to go, and her gaze fixed on Theo. “And who is that gorgeous creature coming our way with Ilse?”
Suzanne felt a rush of pure jealousy at the way Gisele was watching Theo as he and Ilse came across the parade ground, carrying glasses of lemonade.
“That’s Theo Bridgewater, Ilse’s nephew. His mother and Franz are sister and brother. They live on a farm in Wisconsin, and Theo is here to try and get the authorities to let Franz, Ilse, and Liesl come back with him.”
By the time she finished this explanation, Theo and Ilse were close enough to hand them the lemonade. “Gisele, this is my nephew Theo Bridgewater,” Ilse said.
“So I have been told,” Gisele replied, offering her hand to Theo as if she expected the man to kiss her ring—if she had been wearing one.
“Gisele is going to help me tell the story of Fort Ontario,” Suzanne explained.
“No. I am going to help you tell the human story, Suzanne.” She waved her hand to encompass the crowd around them. “The story of who these people were—and still are. That is the story that will get us the freedom we deserve and long for, don’t you agree, Theo?”
The man was actually blushing. “I’m just a farmer, Miss St. Germaine. Suzanne is the reporter.” Oh, all of a sudden he’s just a farmer?
Gisele hooked her free arm through Theo’s. “Aren’t you charming, mon chéri? But part of this story is also your story, is it not? And so we shall work together, the three of us.”
Somewhere along the way, Suzanne realized that Gisele had taken complete control of the situation. Her smile was radiant and filled with warmth, but her eyes were steely cold, and Suzanne realized that the Frenchwoman had her own agenda when it came to her stay in the Fort Ontario Emergency Relief Shelter. The question was, did Gisele’s agenda match hers?
CHAPTER 6
Theo needed to work. It was obvious that it would be some time before the war ended, and until then it was equally clear that nothing would change the current status of the refugees. But his parents were adamant that he stay in Oswego.
“They need family around them right now,” his mother told him when he pointed out that it was closing in on harvesttime at the farm and he could be of far more help there. “Matthew can help Dad with that.”
There was simply no changing their minds. So Theo began scanning the newspaper’s want ads each morning after breakfast. Down the hall he could hear the click of typing as Suzanne composed another article about the people in the shelter. He noticed that there were times when it seemed as if her fingers flew over the typewriter keys—like a pianist playing a ragtime tune. Other times he would hear a few tentative taps with long pauses between and then complete silence. This was one of those mornings.
This was also the September morning that he saw the ad for fieldworkers to help harvest apples. He’d heard that the crop had been especially abundant this season and orchards around the area were scrambling to get the fruit picked. He pulled a piece of the scrap paper Selma kept on the desk and wrote down the address for the orchard. Then he walked down the hall and knocked on Suzanne’s door. It was probably not the world’s best idea to invite her along on a job interview, but he’d come to realize that he would take any excuse to spend time with her.
When she opened the door he was a little taken aback. Her hair wa
s a jumble of untamed curls haphazardly pinned up and away from her face. She wore no makeup, and she was dressed in a wrinkled blouse and a pair of dungarees that were baggy on her slender frame. The thick, black-rimmed glasses she wore whenever she was working were perched on top of her head.
“Hi. Want to take a ride with me?”
She frowned up at him and rubbed her eyes with the knuckles of one hand. “Kind of working here,” she said, barely concealing her annoyance at the interruption.
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, from the sound of the typing—or the silence of not typing—seems like you might need a break.” He held up the paper where he’d written down the orchard address. She glanced back toward the typewriter and groaned. “I’m stuck,” she admitted.
“So come for a drive in the country with me and get unstuck. I’m going to check out a job.”
“You don’t have a car that I know of,” she reminded him.
“Selma said if I could get that old truck behind the shed to run I could use it whenever I needed to.” He grinned. “Selma likes me.”
“Teacher’s pet,” Suzanne teased. “Okay, when you get that thing running—if I am still here, meaning, if I have not completed this assignment and moved back to Washington—sure, I’ll take a drive in the country with you.”
“Ah, it won’t take that long. I got the thing running a couple of days ago. Just need to pick up some gasoline and we can be on our way.” He checked his wristwatch. “How about you be ready in, say, half an hour?”
She laughed. “Did anyone ever tell you that you should run for office? You certainly have the gift of persuasion.”
“And I ain’t bad-looking, either.” Now where had that come from? He felt his neck and cheeks getting red—a deeper shade than his normal sun-rusted complexion.