Safe Haven

by Anna Schmidt

  “I should have seen,” Ilse moaned. “The children had been so sick with whooping cough, and she had not had sleep for days. We all should have. …”

  “Sh-h-h.” Franz comforted her as they sat across from each other at the kitchen table and held hands. They did not speak for several minutes. Ilse noticed how exhausted her husband looked. He was only in his forties, but he looked like a man of sixty. The war had aged all of them. She was about the same age as Franz’s sister, Ellie, yet when she had stood next to Ellie at their Thanksgiving reunion, she had been well aware that she had felt every one of her years and then some while Ellie had looked so young and vibrant.

  “Your hands are freezing,” she murmured, taking Franz’s hands in hers and keeping her voice low so that they did not wake Liesl, asleep in Ilse’s bed in the next room. “I’ll make you some tea.” She started to get up, but Franz gripped her hands more tightly.

  “Stay here,” he pleaded, and then she felt his tears wetting their joined hands like the first raindrops of a downpour. She leaned across the table and stroked his cheek.

  “The children—so very young,” he whispered hoarsely. “How could she do that to them? To Geza? He loved her so much.” His tone had turned bitter and angry.

  But Ilse understood how a young mother might think that killing herself would be the best possible solution for her husband and children. How many times back in Munich had she considered a similar plan? For that matter, hadn’t Franz himself tiptoed around the idea?

  “Karoline was not in her right mind, and who can blame her? This weather—the constant wind and snow and cold already now in December with months yet to go, not to mention the uncertainty, the hopes raised and then dashed again. And every time there was a new report about what the Nazis are doing to the Jews, Karoline’s grief for those children she left behind was inconsolable.”

  “Why did she leave them?”

  Ilse shrugged. “She never told me the entire story, but I know the divorce was bitter and her first husband would not allow her to bring them. Even so, she felt that she had abandoned them.”

  “But the children could have been safe here with her. And what about the children she had with Geza? What will happen to them?”

  Ilse had no answers. And truthfully she was incapable of thinking about the future for Karoline’s family. The leaden weight that had dwelt within her during those years of uncertainty in Munich was back, filling her chest with its familiar unbearable and crushing presence. “I wish Theo were still here,” she said.

  But after their family reunion at Thanksgiving, both Ilse and Franz had insisted that Theo needed to go home where he could at least find work to compensate for the money it had cost to stay in Oswego. “We’ll be fine,” Ilse had assured them, and they had believed her. Ellie had even commented on how wonderful it was to see her feeling so much better than she had the last time they had been together ten long years ago shortly after Liesl’s birth.

  So Theo had left, and a few weeks later the reporter Suzanne Randolph had announced that her former editor had offered her a paid position at the paper in Washington. “He says I can come back here when the war ends,” she had explained on the snowy afternoon she came to say good-bye. Ilse had not realized how much she looked forward to the time she spent with the lively American and the French actress, Gisele, as Suzanne plied Gisele with questions and gathered material for the stories she assured them would make all Americans aware of their plight.

  As 1944 came to a close it seemed that everyone had deserted them—the ladies from the various charities that had provided them with books and art supplies and household goods and helped organize programs, classes, and other activities rarely stopped by, citing the weather, the rush of the holidays, and the difficulty of the drive from Syracuse or other distant places. Even Ruth Gruber, the government liaison who had accompanied them across the Atlantic and who was their most outspoken advocate for the right to stay in America, had gone back to her job at the Department of the Interior in Washington, assuring them all that she could do more for their cause there than by staying in Oswego. The one good thing was that two women teachers who had moved into one of the brick houses on the hill had stayed on and continued to work with all the refugees on their English lessons.

  There was a light knock on the door, and with a weary sigh that went beyond physical exhaustion Franz pushed back his chair and went to answer.

  “Come in, Gisele,” he invited.

  The Frenchwoman removed her leather gloves and unfastened the knot in the silk scarf that covered her hair. It was a wonder to all the women in the shelter how Gisele managed to find such beautiful accessories in the bags of donated clothing that had poured into the fort in those first weeks.

  “Terrible business,” she murmured as she leaned down to kiss Ilse’s cheek. She smelled of the cold and cigarettes and the exotic perfume she always wore.

  “Sit. I was just going to make some tea.”

  “Lovely.” Gisele shrugged out of the men’s gabardine overcoat she was wearing and let it drape over the back of the chair. “I think we need to get in touch with Suzanne. You can be sure that the government will wish to bury this story, and if you ask me, that young woman is one our best hopes for stirring the pot.”

  “Do you think this is the time for politics?” Franz asked.

  “Oh, Franz, at this point everything is an occasion for politics. It is becoming crystal clear that if anything is to be done, we must do it ourselves. Mrs. Roosevelt’s visit last September was nothing more than a show for the photographers, and have we seen any results at all from that national radio broadcast a few weeks ago?”

  “You have a point,” Franz said. “But back in Munich we made the mistake of thinking that people would rise up in protest against Hitler after they distributed the White Rose leaflets, and nothing ever happened.” He got the same faraway look in his eyes that always accompanied any memory of his involvement with the Resistance. “Those young people thought they could change the minds of people in power, and they died for their troubles.”

  “No one is going to die,” Gisele assured him. “This is America.”

  “Someone already has,” he observed. “Karoline Bleier died last night.”

  “By her own hand, Franz. The government did not murder her as they did those young people back in Munich.” Gisele accepted the cup of tea that Ilse handed her. “I mean no disrespect to Karoline, but if her death is to have meaning …” She turned to Ilse. “Karoline was already lost when she boarded the Henry Gibbons and came here. There was nothing you or anyone else could have done.”

  “I suppose.”

  “It is unimaginable that someone like Karoline or indeed any of those of us who are Jewish could have ever envisioned the kind of mass murder Hitler has set in motion,” Gisele continued. “Don’t get me wrong. We have a long, long history of persecution, but this? This is pure diabolical madness, and the world knows it. Roosevelt knows it, and so do all those high-powered politicians down in Washington and this”—she waved a hand that encompassed the tiny apartment and by inference the entire fort—“this is their answer?”

  Ilse smiled. She had come to understand that although Gisele had long ago abandoned any religious aspects of her Jewish heritage, she was very political. She spoke often and at length about rumors of the establishment of a Jewish nation in Palestine and had hinted that this would be her destination once the war ended. She was indeed a woman of the world. But in spite of the fact that Karoline had been Jewish, her suicide had nothing to do with politics or religion. No, this was a tragedy that crossed all national and religious boundaries within the shelter. This was a mother—lost.

  “I think that for tonight, we must think only of her poor husband, Geza, and the children,” Ilse replied as she removed the kettle from the hot plate and refilled three cups. “Is someone with them?”

  “Director Smart and his wife are helping him make the arrangements. How anyone is going to manage to dig
a grave—to find bare earth under all this snow and ice—is beyond me.” Gisele blew on her tea. “The truth is I had no real reason for coming here tonight other than that I simply could not stand being alone.” As a single woman, Gisele had a bed in the women’s dormitory that occupied one of the other barracks. She would hardly have been alone there, but Ilse understood what she meant. The three of them sat around the table, sipping their tea in silence. Through the thin plasterboard walls, they could hear the howl of the wind, and above and to either side of them they heard the murmur of their neighbors’ conversations and activities. It occurred to Ilse that in this place it was impossible to be alone. But to be drowning in loneliness was something altogether different.

  Suzanne had had to swallow a whole lot of pride with her return to the newspaper. Edwin had made it clear that she would start from the bottom, so she was back to covering activities such as local council meetings and the garden club’s annual holiday sale of trees, wreaths, and such. Although she was living and working in the very heart of the nation’s capital, Edwin had been adamant that she was to stick to local news that did not include anything to do with politics or the war. He had stopped running her essays about life in the fort, promising to reconsider if something of note happened to change things there. But when Selma Velo called with news of the first suicide in the fort shortly after the New Year, Suzanne was sure that Edwin would immediately make arrangements for her to return to Oswego. After all, he was the one who had sent her there in the first place.

  “A woman—a young mother and wife—has taken her own life,” she argued when Edwin lifted his thick, dark eyebrows. “Surely—”

  “And according to the schedule, you are already late for the meeting of the Parks Committee.” He pointed to the large chalkboard that dominated the newsroom and kept track of everyone’s assignments and whereabouts.

  “Edwin, this could be a big story.” She intentionally lowered her voice so she would not seem to be whining or pleading.

  The editor leaned back in his chair, and it squealed in protest. “Go cover the parks meeting.” He reached for his pen and started marking up an article another reporter had filed.

  Suzanne’s heart sank, but she knew when she was beat. She trudged toward the door.

  “On the other hand, Suzie, if you have no plans for the weekend, I believe there’s a night train that you could probably make if the parks meeting doesn’t go on all night.”

  Suzanne grinned. She considered retracing her steps and giving the man a hug, but that might be grounds for him to change his mind. So she stayed where she was, facing the door, her back to him. “I’ll check into it. Thanks.” He hadn’t said anything about how long she could be away, but she would fight that battle later.

  Selma Velo had her old room available and was more than willing to rent by the week. She seemed glad to see her. Hilda Cutter was less than thrilled. “I thought you were done with those people and their hard-luck stories.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Hilda.” Suzanne carried her suitcase and typewriter into her room and felt a little like she had just come home. She sat on the side of the bed and glanced around. Outside the window she saw the old truck that Theo had restored parked next to the shed. It was covered with snow and looked abandoned.

  Like the people at Fort Ontario, she thought. Like the woman who finally decided that she could stand it no more.

  The boardinghouse was not the same without Theo. For one thing, there was no buffer for Hilda’s rampant prejudice against the Jews—her tirades always backed up by Hugh Kilmer whenever he was in residence. The other boarders had moved on, so it was just the three of them and Selma. Selma was distracted by the lack of news from her son serving in the Pacific and rarely paid much attention to the talk at meals.

  Suzanne realized that she had gotten used to the times she had spent with Theo during the autumn—sitting on the front porch swing, taking walks together, seeing a movie, or going to watch the high school football game. And where her temper would flare and her voice rise to a frustrated screech when Hilda got going, Theo had a way of changing the subject or making a counterpoint in a way that was both gentle and effective.

  Once he went back to Wisconsin and she to Washington, they had exchanged a single letter, but he had warned her that he was terrible when it came to writing. Then she had gotten busy with her work and had made do with a postcard when she really owed him a letter. She had thought of him often, but the weeks had gone by.

  And speaking of work, she had a job to do.

  “I’m going over to the shelter,” she told Selma as she passed by the kitchen. “Don’t worry about me for supper. I’ll grab something to eat in town.”

  “Tread easily,” Selma warned. “This woman killing herself is not something the powers that be down there in Washington would likely want spread around. And with all the snow and cold, we have all the earmarks of an especially rough winter. That’s bad news for everyone, but for the folks at the fort …” She shook her head without finishing the thought and turned back to the stove.

  “Good advice,” Suzanne replied, sitting on the hall bench to pull on her boots. “I thought maybe I could talk to Theo’s aunt and uncle.” In Suzanne’s mind the Schneiders were more likely to give her the human details of the story while Gisele St. Germaine’s take on the suicide would be far more political.

  Selma shrugged. “Might be a place to start.”

  But when Suzanne reached the shelter and trudged up the path to the row of white barracks that were barely distinguishable from the mounds of snow that surrounded them, she had second thoughts. She had no way of knowing if Ilse and Franz had even known the woman. Nearly a thousand people lived in this place, and as with any community it was impossible for them to know everyone. Also, she should have let Ilse and Franz know she was coming. Of course, the only telephone in the entire compound was in Joseph Smart’s office, and in this weather it was unlikely that he would have been thrilled to try and get a message to Theo’s relatives. On top of that, darkness came early on these gray overcast days, the path was slippery, and the wind off the lake cut right through her coat so that she wrapped her arms around her body as if trying to prevent the heat from escaping.

  She looked up, blinking against the sting of icy snowflakes that had begun falling, and saw someone coming toward her—a woman wearing a silk scarf and dressed in men’s trousers and a man’s belted overcoat. “Gisele?” she called. She could think of no one but the French actress who would be bundled up in men’s clothes and still manage to look completely elegant and feminine.

  “Suzanne? What on earth are you doing here?” The two women had come together on the path. “Ah, but Karoline’s death is news, is it not?”

  “Yes.” Suzanne had learned some time ago that it was useless to try and pretend with Gisele. The woman was uncanny in her ability to see through to the truth. “I thought I might try and speak with Ilse and Franz.”

  “Why? What have they to do with it?”

  “I think that Ilse might have been friends with the woman. I remember meeting her once when I was visiting. And the children were there, as well.”

  “This is not a good time,” Gisele said. “Tomorrow is the funeral.”

  “So soon?”

  Gisele shrugged. “It is our way.” The simple statement reminded Suzanne that Gisele—like the dead woman and her family—was Jewish.

  “But in this weather?”

  “People die in all seasons.” She rearranged her scarf. “Come. It has started to snow for a change,” she said, the sarcasm of her statement obvious. “I’m freezing, and while I cannot promise it will be much warmer in the dining hall, you are welcome to come with me. We can talk there.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Suzanne glanced back at the barracks—at the window she knew belonged to Ilse and Franz. A single lamp glowed behind the lace curtains.

  Gisele followed her glance. “I told them I would bring back sandwiches. If you like, you ca
n deliver them. It will give you the opportunity to say hello and catch up on news of Theo.”

  “I … that is …”

  Gisele hooked arms with her and started back down the path to the dining hall. “Do not pretend that you are not curious for news of him. You cannot fool the French, ma chérie. We practically invented love.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Suzanne replied, and Gisele’s low, throaty laughter echoed across the deserted grounds.

  Shortly after Theo returned home to the farm, his father’s friend Jim Sawyer, a local attorney active in party politics, invited Theo and his dad to come with him to a political meeting. Theo went more out of boredom than anything else.

  Over the months he had lived in Oswego, he had made daily visits to his uncle and aunt while bureaucrats in Washington wrestled with their fate. He had been there when President Roosevelt’s wife—the popular and influential Eleanor—made her visit, and he recalled how hopes had been raised by her promise to do everything she could to help those who wished to stay in the United States to do so. But nothing had come of that. He was curious to see whether or not news of the refugees had even made it to Wisconsin.

  Much of the discussion that evening revolved around the need to find a viable candidate from their district to run for the House of Representatives in the fall. The current congressman from the opposing political party was retiring after serving several terms.

  “This is our chance,” Jim Sawyer had told the others. “We need a fresh face, someone not directly connected to the war or to Washington. But the candidate also needs to be someone who knows the system and can figure out how to get things done. Once this war ends, people are going to want to get back to a normal routine and look to the future.”

  Others disagreed and thought that their best hope to win the election in the fall would be to put forth a war hero as their candidate or at the very least someone who had served in either Europe or the Pacific. But Jim was adamant—and persuasive.