by Anna Schmidt
“Persuasive and with an ego to match—yep. You are prime material for the world of politics. Go get that excuse for a truck gassed up while I change, and I’ll meet you out back.”
Even after she closed the door, he stood in the hall for a minute grinning. Then he heard Hilda Cutter coming down the stairs, and he slipped out the back door.
The orchard was not that far out of town, and as the rattletrap of a truck bumped and wheezed its way down a dirt road, Theo saw about half a dozen men in identical coveralls standing on wooden ladders propped against apple trees. A few other men were dressed as Theo was in blue jeans and a cotton shirt. And there were a few soldiers.
“Why are some of the men in those coveralls?” Suzanne asked, reading his mind. “Are they from the local jail or prison or something?”
Suddenly Theo realized exactly who these men were. An article in the paper had described Nazi prisoners of war in the area working on farms and in local canning factories. “They’re Germans,” he said. “Prisoners of war.”
“Here?”
Theo shrugged. “Some of them. We saw quite a few of them back in Wisconsin. They get sent wherever they are needed to fill the void left by so many American workers serving overseas.”
He recalled the first day when he had stood outside the fence at the fort, waiting for the refugees to be processed, searching for his aunt and uncle. There had been an incident involving some POWs and the refugees that morning.
He told Suzanne about seeing an American soldier marching a small group of POWs across the crowded parade ground toward the tunnel that led out to Seventh Street and back to town. As they passed by, their murmured conversation caught the attention of some of the refugees, and quickly word spread that these men in coveralls were Nazis. Several of the refugees stopped what they were doing and turned to observe the POWs, and then one of the refugees shouted a taunt mocking the men in coveralls. When the soldier escorting them heard a POW reply with an offensive slur, he glanced around nervously and ordered the POWs to quicken their step. But the taunts and even some laughter followed them, and the air was charged with hatred on both sides.
Suzanne twisted in her seat, her head out the open window. Once they got past the orchards and reached the cluster of buildings where Theo assumed he would complete his job application, she sat back in her seat. “Those soldiers are just leaning on the fence, talking and smoking. Any one of those POWs could escape,” she said in pure disbelief.
“Maybe the other guys—the ones in regular clothes—are also guards.” He pulled the truck into a space next to a door with a sign reading OFFICE. “I’ll just go see if they have any openings. You’ll be okay here?”
As if she hadn’t heard him, she opened the truck door and climbed down. She walked to the fence and stared back toward where the men were working.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he added, and she waved without looking back at him.
Inside the office, which was really more of a corner of the barn, a man wearing overalls and a battered straw hat sat hunched over a pile of papers, a telephone receiver gripped in one hand. “Yeah, well if we don’t get this crop picked, it’s going to rot. Look Joe, you’ve got those folks just sitting there in the fort. How about a little help?”
He listened and at the same time motioned Theo to the only other chair in the room. “A dozen or more,” he said then leaned back in his chair and smiled at Theo. “That would be fine, Joe. If you can pull that off, then I owe you one.” He chuckled at something the person on the other end of the line said and hung up. “Sorry about that. Please tell me you’re looking for work.”
Theo stood and offered the man a handshake. “Theo Bridgewater, and yes, sir, I could use a job.”
“It’s temporary,” the man warned. “I’m Harry Walls, by the way.” He gripped Theo’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Walls.”
“It’s Harry. Can you start tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be here. I appreciate this.”
“There is this one thing. You got any problem working with the Germans?”
“No, sir.”
“How about some of the refugees from over there at the fort? I was just on the phone there with Joe Smart, asking him for help. He thinks he can send some men over. I might need some help keeping the two groups separated.”
“My uncle and aunt are refugees,” Theo told him. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble. Most of the men in the shelter are older—except for the boys, of course, and they’re in school so I think it’ll all work out.”
Harry gave him a look that said he wasn’t quite so sure. “Desperate times,” he muttered and picked up the phone again.
Theo walked out to the truck, but Suzanne was nowhere in sight. He started down the road toward the orchard and finally spotted her. She was standing at the foot of one of the wooden ladders, her head back as she looked up at a man dressed in coveralls while she spoke to the soldiers by the fence.
Ilse was worried about Franz. His physical health was improving daily, as was Liesl’s, but he still drifted into periods of silence and melancholy.
“I am not useful,” he told her at night when they lay in the cots they had pushed together so they could whisper without waking Liesl in the next room and without being heard by their neighbors on the other side of the paper-thin partitions that passed for walls between the units.
“You are useful to me and to Liesl,” she assured him. “And once we are allowed to leave this place, you can apply for a position with the university that Theo reminded us is near the farm.”
“Perhaps.” He turned on his side and said no more.
Franz had been elected to the advisory council that had been established shortly after the quarantine was lifted. But that effort at instituting some form of self-government among the refugees had quickly fallen apart. He had also been invited to offer lectures as part of a series of programs for the adults, but he had refused that.
“To what purpose?” he had asked when Ilse urged him to accept the invitation. She had not been able to offer him an answer.
So when Ilse heard one of the other women talking about the possibility that some of the men would be allowed to leave the shelter during the day to work in a nearby orchard, she went to the office of the shelter’s director and asked to speak with Mr. Smart. Perhaps if Franz could work for a bit outside the fence, he might see the possibility that one day they would be free—free of the fort and free to pursue the life that had been so savagely interrupted.
She was surprised that Director Smart knew who she was and who Franz was. He even inquired how Liesl was doing in school. The refugees had all been impressed with the way this man made every effort to integrate himself into the community of the shelter. He and his family lived in one of the brick houses on the hill that had once been home for officers serving at the fort. And there had been more than one occasion when he had called this group or that together to apologize for not fully appreciating the differences in their cultures.
All the refugees saw in Joseph Smart an advocate and a warrior—the man who was their best hope for staying in America as truly free people once the war ended.
“Come in, Mrs. Schneider. How can I help you?”
Ilse felt suddenly shy in his presence. He was dressed in a business suit as he dressed every day—as once Franz had dressed for his job at the university.
“I have heard that perhaps some of the men here may be given an opportunity to work outside the shelter.”
“And you thought perhaps your husband might be one of those selected?”
From the expression that flashed across the director’s features, Ilse knew instantly that he would refuse her. She leaned forward, her voice high and urgent as she pleaded her case. “I am worried about him. He spends a good deal of time alone down by the lake just staring out at the horizon.”
“I must be frank with you, Mrs. Schneider. At his age and having suffered the physical abuse he endure
d while in prison, your husband does not have the stamina required for a day of picking apples.”
His voice was so soft and kind that Ilse felt as if she might start to cry. “Please, help me,” she whispered, wrapping her fingers in her handkerchief.
The director stood and turned to look out the office window that faced the other community buildings. “I have been thinking that perhaps we could use help in organizing our library, Mrs. Schneider. We have cartons of books donated by the charities that had already brought clothes and household items. Perhaps the townspeople would have books to give as well. It occurs to me that we would be in need of a librarian—someone to record and organize the collection.” He turned to face her. “Do you think your husband might be interested?”
“Yes, oh yes. That would be perfect.” Ilse stood up and grasped Joseph Smart’s hand with both of hers. “Will you ask him? I really don’t want him to know I have been here. He is a proud man, and …”
The director smiled and patted her hand. “Yes, of course. Your visit will be kept between us, and I will be in touch with your husband. Will that be all right?”
“Oh, Mr. Smart, thank you so much.” He really was the kindest man.
Once Suzanne returned from the orchard with Theo, she could barely sleep for all the ideas for articles that were racing around in her brain. What she had discovered about the treatment of the POWs just by asking the soldier guarding them a few questions was mind boggling. But she kept it all to herself, even when Hilda tried to pry at mealtime.
Of course once she learned that Theo and Suzanne had spent the afternoon together, Hilda’s interest focused on a possible romance between them. She read movie magazines two and three times over and enjoyed reporting the Hollywood gossip to anyone who would listen. But her main topic of conversation continued to be “those people,” making it very clear that she did not consider Theo’s family—or indeed anyone who was not Jewish—in that category. Her constant harping on the refugees continued unabated through early autumn.
But one night in October after Edwin had turned down her article about the German POWs for a second time, Suzanne could stand Hilda’s diatribe against the Jews no longer.
“Just exactly who do you think is the enemy in this war?” she asked, forcing herself to keep her voice calm and conversational.
“Well, the Nazis, of course,” Hilda snapped. “I’m not stupid, Suzanne.”
The salesman sprang to Hilda’s defense. “Sure, it’s the Germans we have to fight, but Hilda has a point. If it weren’t for the Jews, we never would have gotten ourselves into this war. If they hadn’t completely ruined the economy in Europe with their greed, Hitler never would have come to power. And everybody in this country knows those New York Jews have FDR in their pocket.”
Apparently Selma had decided not to remind her boarders of her rule against the discussion of either politics or religion at mealtime. She sat at one end of the table, her head bent over her soup spoon as she blew on the liquid to cool it. But Suzanne saw that her eyes were darting nervously from Hilda to Suzanne and then back again.
The other two boarders said nothing as they, too, concentrated on their meal. And Theo was looking her way, but she saw in his eyes that his message to her was that she should see arguing with Hilda for what it was—a losing battle.
She was inclined to agree until Hilda pushed her advantage. “My guess is that the very newspaper you work for is owned by Jews. They manipulate the news to suit their purposes. Half of them are Communists, and we all know that the Communists are the next big threat to our democracy. Why, just—”
“Hilda?” Suzanne’s voice to her own ears was dripping with sweetness. “Remember when you thought the Jews in the shelter were receiving special treatment? Luxuries like expensive appliances and household items?”
Hilda’s cheeks reddened. “I admitted that I had been taken in by local gossip,” she said grudgingly.
“You were wrong, then?”
“I can see that you are trying to make a point, Suzanne. What exactly is it?” Hilda’s smile was more of a grimace.
“My point is that when we don’t know all the facts we can be taken in. Take, for example, the German POWs that Theo and some of the refugees—some of the Jewish refugees—are working with in the orchard.”
“What about them?”
“Well, a simple comparison of their current status might clarify some things for you. For example, while both the POWs and refugees live in encampments surrounded by fences, the POWs have more liberty when it comes to their daily lives than the refugees enjoy. For that matter, they enjoy some privileges that many American citizens do not. Does that seem right to you?”
The salesman chuckled. “You see, that’s what you newspaper people do. You put these so-called facts out there with nothing to back them up.” He shoveled another overloaded forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.
“Oh, you want the facts. Okay. Some of the American soldiers guarding the POWs are Negroes, and there are restaurants right here in town that will serve the POWs but will not serve these American soldiers because of their race. Furthermore, the POWs are paid the same daily wage as a United States private—about eighty cents a day. Over a month that adds up to about twenty-four dollars. That’s six dollars more than the stipend received by the highest-paid member of the refugee community. They also get clothing twice a year and their officers are not required to work at all. Does that …”
“Well now, little lady, we do have this thing called the Geneva Convention,” Hugh interrupted. “The idea is that if we treat these Nazis right, then our boys might not suffer when they get captured over there.” He pronounced Nazi as Nat-zee.
Theo spoke up finally. “Well, you have to admit that it doesn’t seem quite fair that the government provides the POWs with things like art supplies and reading materials and two packs of cigarettes a day when the refugees have had to depend on the generosity of the various charities for such things.”
“I have heard,” Selma said quietly, “that in spite of every kindness shown them, some of the POWs offer the Sieg Heil salute when the American flag is raised or lowered.”
No one said anything for several minutes, and then Theo stood and placed his napkin beside his plate. “If everyone will excuse me, I have promised to join my uncle and aunt and cousin for a meeting for worship tonight.” He looked at Suzanne, and she knew that his invitation to join them delivered earlier that day stood. But although they had both been raised in the Quaker faith, Theo still found solace in practicing that faith while she did not. To her way of thinking to sit in silence and wait for enlightenment when she did not believe there could possibly be a higher spirit offering such enlightenment seemed hypocritical.
She shook her head and got up to help Selma clear the plates and serve the dessert of butterscotch pudding. Behind her she heard Theo exhale a disappointed sigh. They had talked about their differences when it came to faith. Would he rather she pretend?
CHAPTER 7
In mid-October Suzanne decided to make an appointment with Joseph Smart. She wanted to hear his ideas about the shelter and how it was working, and she hoped to get him to reveal some of the thinking of his colleagues back in Washington.
“Here is what I will tell you, Miss Randolph,” he said. “The process of reconditioning people who have suffered as these people have is accomplished—if at all—in two stages. The first focus must of course be meeting the immediate need for the basics: shelter, clothing, food. To attend to their physical needs.”
“And stage two?”
He gave a wry smile. “Ah, that is the more complex process. It is attending to their psychological needs, their mental health and spiritual well-being. That is a process that we have only just begun.”
“In what ways?”
He shrugged. “We offer the trappings of a normal life—sports, films, plays, concerts, classes, and lectures. We offer job training and English lessons—the opportunity to prepare for life after
the war. We encourage interaction among the diverse nationalities within the shelter and try to find ways for the townspeople and our guests here at the fort to interact.”
“And is it working?”
He leaned forward. “What do you think? You are living in town, are you not? And I have observed you speaking with some of the refugees—Gisele St. Germaine in particular.”
Suzanne smiled. “Now there is a woman who speaks her mind.”
Smart sighed. “You have no idea.” He templed his fingers and studied her. “You are friends with the nephew of one of our families, I believe?”
“Theo Bridgewater. We live in the same boardinghouse. Why?”
“Halloween is coming, and I would like to offer something for the children. Something that would give them the experience of an American Halloween but without—”
“They could go on a scavenger hunt,” Suzanne blurted, remembering one of her very favorite Halloweens when her mother had given a party for her entire class. “They could go out in teams and in costume and—”
“Do you think that you and Theo Bridgewater might be willing to facilitate this scavenger hunt?”
She must have given him a blank stare because he quickly added, “You see, Miss Randolph, I believe that in order for you to truly tell the story of the residents of the shelter, you need to spend time with them without that time being for the purpose of an interview or gathering facts for your next article.”
He was offering her access to the community in a way few other reporters had experienced. This was huge. “Yes,” she agreed. “I mean, yes, I’ll talk to Theo, and I’m sure he’ll agree to help with the party. And maybe we can get Gisele involved and Theo’s aunt and uncle, and I know that Liesl—”
Joseph Smart stood up, signaling an end to their meeting. “Excellent. Put together a plan for me to review.”
Suzanne shook hands with him and left the office. On her way out through the tunnel that separated the fort from the town, she thought that really all anyone could offer people forced to live lives of uncertainty while they awaited the end of the war were these momentary reprieves in the form of some kind of event or entertainment. Any way one looked at the situation, they might be in America but they were still a long way from being truly free.