A Woman's Place

by Lynn Austin

  Once inside, Helen felt her stomach turn in revulsion when she saw the Germans. Some three hundred prisoners milled around in the warm spring sunshine, clothed in blue uniforms with the letters PW stenciled on their backs and trousers. The men appeared so ordinary. Who would ever think that they had unleashed such horror on the world—twice! Two dozen of them worked to cultivate a square of land that looked as though it was going to be a garden. They turned over the earth with spades and used hoes to break up the clods.

  “I’m surprised they’re allowed to have hoes and shovels,” Helen told the guard. “Things like that could be used as weapons.”

  “Our guns are loaded, ma’am.” He lifted his rifle to emphasize his words, offering Helen a close-up look. The dark, satiny steel—or whatever it was made from—looked sinister to her. She couldn’t imagine a gentle young man like Jimmy or Albert carrying one of those guns, much less firing it. Nor could she imagine boys like Dirk Voorhees and Larry Wire and all the others she had taught in school toting weapons. She felt her anger rising as she walked with the mayor and the others to the warden’s office.

  “How did the world’s leaders ever allow the Germans to engulf the world in a second war?” she asked aloud. “We should have killed all of them the first time.”

  The board members crowded into the warden’s office, which was little more than a hut. Helen listened with mounting unease as the state official introduced one of the blue-clad prisoners to everyone.

  “I’d like you to meet Meinhard Kesler. His English is very good, so we’ve put him in charge of the other prisoners and assigned him the task of interpreting for us.”

  Kesler extended his hand in greeting to all of the men, but Helen folded her arms across her chest in refusal. The German was in his fifties, a slightly built, unassuming man with short, graying hair. Helen would have expected a Nazi officer to be stern and severe, but this prisoner had a friendly smile and a gentle expression in his blue eyes. He looked more like a kindly shopkeeper than a ruthless Nazi. Helen wouldn’t let herself be fooled by him.

  “You seem a bit old to be a common soldier,” she told him. “The state specifically promised us that no officers would be sent here.”

  “I am neither, ma’am.” His voice was soft, his English strongly accented. “The Nazis make me a soldier because they need me in their army to fix the … how do you say? The connections—the wires and so forth. My age does not matter to them, only my skills.”

  “I’m going to let Meinhard lead the way,” the state official said, “and take us on a little tour of our camp facilities.”

  They followed him outside into the brisk spring air, crossing the grassy compound to enter the first of three wooden bunkhouses. The spartan interior housed rows of iron army cots and mattresses, all neatly made up military style with green woolen blankets. A woodstove sat in the center of the bunkhouse, but there was no fire in it today. Helen saw very few personal items aside from the usual toiletries and writing paper. A radio stood on a homemade table near the window.

  “We are getting up at five-thirty in the mornings,” Meinhard explained, “when they blow for us the whistle. And we must be putting out the lights in the nighttimes at ten o’clock.”

  “These look like decent accommodations to me,” Helen said. “In fact, they’re much like the bunkhouses our own American soldiers live in during basic training. It seems you and your fellow prisoners are being treated rather well. Wouldn’t you agree, Herr Kesler?”

  “Oh ja. I do agree, ma’am. So do my men. In truth, some of them are saying this kindness shows you Americans are weak. But most of my men, like me, are grateful.”

  When they had looked the place over, Meinhard guided them out of the building and across the compound to the mess hall. The nearly windowless building held rows of wooden tables and benches and another unlit stove. A crew of prisoners worked in the kitchen in the rear, but no aroma of cooking food drifted out.

  “The noon meal is usually something simple,” the state official explained, “like bologna sandwiches and a beverage. But we give the prisoners breakfasts and evening meals that are always hot, nutritious, and filling. Right, Meinhard?”

  “Ja. It is not bad food. Some are saying it is better than when we are in the German army. But you will see no large bellies,” he said, gesturing to his own thin waistline, “or … how do you say? Two chins.” The mayor and board members smiled at his little joke, but his attempt at humor annoyed Helen.

  “The mess hall also serves as a classroom,” the warden added. “Tell them about it, Meinhard.”

  “We have two of the men who were teachers in Germany, and they are giving school lessons to whoever wants them. Some men have never learned to read and write or do the arithmetic. I am teaching English—even though mine is not so good.”

  “Miss Kimball, here, is a schoolteacher,” the mayor told him.

  “Ah, you are a teacher? Maybe you would come sometimes, and teach English classes with me? You see for yourself what we are like.”

  “Never.” Helen’s reply was quick and cold. “I’m trying to get this camp closed, not join your fun and games.” The group fell silent for a moment, apparently stunned by her reaction. Finally, the state official cleared his throat.

  “The mess hall is also where the prisoners hold religious services on Sunday. It was Meinhard’s idea to instigate these services, right?”

  He nodded. “We must lead them ourselves, since we have no one who is a minister. We are welcoming a priest or minister from your town, if he likes to come.”

  “Over here is the camp canteen,” the warden said, leading the way. He unlocked the top half of a double door that opened to reveal a small storage closet packed with a variety of items. “Before you accuse us of coddling the men, you need to know that the canteen is required by the Geneva Convention. We sell cigarettes, beer, candy, toiletries—things like that. Each prisoner gets an allowance of ten cents a day in canteen coupons to spend any way he likes. He can earn eighty cents a day by working in a labor detail.”

  Helen turned away, shaking her head. “Remind me to read up on the rules of the Geneva Convention,” she whispered to Archie. “I find it hard to believe that prisoners of war are supposed to have comforts like beer and candy, don’t you?”

  “It’s news to me, Helen. I’ll admit it sounds strange.”

  “How would you describe a typical day, Meinhard?” the state official asked as they emerged into the yard again.

  “Dull,” he said with a faint smile. “Every day is the same as before. After we work, there is not much to do. We play ballgames or hear the music on the radio or read one of the books we have—but the books are few.”

  “Well, what do you expect?” Helen blurted. “You’re a prisoner, not a guest at a summer camp.”

  “Exactly right,” the state official said. “Life here consists of regular hours, regular meals, and lots of hard work. Whenever they aren’t working, the men are locked behind barbed wire.”

  “What do you mean?” the mayor asked. “Aren’t they locked in here all the time?”

  “Well, now that spring is here, those who volunteer for a work crew are being sent out to do farm labor. We already have crews weeding onions and trimming fruit trees for local farmers. But don’t worry, we always send an armed guard with them. The prisoners are never allowed out of his sight. And they return to camp at night.”

  “Do they get paid for their work?” Mr. Wire asked.

  “Yes, but their earnings will be credited to their accounts, and they’ll be reimbursed by their own governments after the war ends. They receive the same wages as other farm workers in this area. As I’m sure you gentlemen know, there is a critical need for laborers with so many of our own local boys in the military. This POW camp is doing area farmers a service.”

  “When we are at home, many of us are working on the farms or in the factories,” Meinhard added. “The men know this work and they like to be doing it. They are not bad peo
ple, you see. Just young men who are given a gun into their hand and ordered to kill the enemy. So they must.”

  “No one in this camp is a member of the Nazi Party,” the warden explained. “Party members are separated from the rest and sent to more secure prison camps. Every now and then a POW camp will get an S.S. member, but I’m told that they are so hated by the other prisoners that they’ve been known to have ‘accidents’ if we put them in with regular soldiers. We’ve never had S.S. members here at our facility, though. We’ve had a few problems—men fighting amongst themselves and so on—but after a few days of eating bread and water, losing their privileges and allowances, and being confined to the camp, they’ve always straightened out.”

  “I understand you work at the shipyard, Mr. Wire,” the state official said. “I’d be interested in talking with you about adding prisoners to your labor force.”

  “We can always use more help—”

  “Wait! You would trust them not to sabotage something?” Helen interrupted.

  “I don’t see why not,” Mr. Wire said.

  “They would be supervised every minute and their work carefully inspected,” the state official explained. “American prisoners are doing forced labor in European factories, so it’s only fair that we put their people to work here. Tit for tat. Otherwise, it is going to be like a summer camp for them out here.”

  “It already is,” Helen grumbled.

  Meinhard led the group over to the garden area, where the prisoners were digging, and named all the different vegetables the men wanted to grow. “That is all there is to show you,” he finished, “unless you like to see the latrine and the showers?”

  “I’ll pass,” the mayor said, laughing. He extended his hand to Meinhard again. “Thanks so much for showing us around. I’m sure the others will agree that this has been very informative.”

  “Are there any other questions?” the warden asked.

  “Just one more,” Helen said. “I would like to ask Mr. Kesler if he also fought in the Great War?”

  “Ja. I was in the … how do you say? With those big guns? The artillery.”

  “Did you fight against Americans?”

  “Ja, of course. In the Argonne Forest.”

  Helen could barely control her fury. The Argonne Forest was where Jimmy had fought. Her voice shook with emotion as she asked, “Wasn’t one war enough for you people? Did you have to start another one so that even more young men and innocent civilians would die? You don’t deserve a place half as nice as this—any of you!” She didn’t wait for a reply but turned and strode back to the gate. She had no more questions for Kesler or anyone else.

  Helen didn’t say a word on the way back to town. She could tell that the tour had soothed the other men’s concerns, and their reaction infuriated her. Mr. Wire and one of the board members were even discussing the idea of employing prisoners as factory workers.

  “I’m very sorry to see that you were right, Archie,” she told him when they arrived back in town. “The prisoners will likely be our neighbors for the duration. That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, however. You can bet that at the first sign of trouble—an escape or any other incident—I’ll be clamoring to get rid of them once and for all.”

  By the time Helen returned home, it was late in the afternoon. The fresh air and hiking had tired her. Today was Thelma’s day to clean the house, and she would be finishing up by now and waiting for her pay. Thelma had insisted on cleaning Helen’s house once a month even though she now worked in the maintenance department at the factory five days a week. Helen was happy to hire her, but the girl must be exhausted.

  “Your friend is here to see you, Miss Helen,” Thelma said as soon as Helen walked through the kitchen door. “I hope it was okay for her to come inside and wait for you.”

  “My friend?” Helen couldn’t imagine who Thelma meant. Then Rosa appeared in the doorway to the den, her dark hair curling around her pretty face, her sultry lips bright with lipstick.

  “Hi. I got something I want to ax you.”

  Helen stifled a groan. She was in no mood for Rosa Voorhees. “What now?”

  “You told us how you wanted to teach kids who didn’t have advantages and things? Well, that was me. I guess you can already tell by how I talk, huh?”

  “Rosa, I had no right to correct your grammar—”

  “Hey, I know I got mad before when you did it, but now I want you to correct me. I want to learn to talk better. And also—please don’t tell them at work—but I never got my high school diploma, either. I really could use your help learning everything. Ever since I got back from Virginia, I been trying to change. I want to learn to cook all Dirk’s favorite dishes and I want to stop drinking all the time and I want to finish high school. Do you think you could help me graduate?”

  As tired as Helen was, the teacher in her rose to the challenge. “I would be very happy to help you, Rosa. There’s a state examination you can take, and if you pass it you’ll receive a high school equivalency diploma. It’s considered just as good as the other kind. I’d be happy to help you prepare for it. You’re a bright young woman, and I don’t think you’ll have any problem passing with a little hard work.”

  “When I write to Dirk I want to use good grammar and spelling and things. He writes such beautiful letters describing everything to me.”

  “They must be good ones. I’ve seen you reading them during work breaks.”

  “I been keeping all of them so he can look back and read them someday and remember everything he done.”

  “He did.”

  “No, I did. I been keeping them and—”

  “Rosa, I was correcting your grammar. You should say, ‘Everything he did, not everything he done.’ And you should say, ‘I have been keeping’ … not ‘I been.”’

  Rosa raked her fingers through her glossy hair. “How am I ever going to learn all this?”

  “I’ll get some materials for you. We’ll go over all of the sections that are on the exam, one by one. I know you can do this, Rosa. Heavens, you learned what to do at work in no time at all—much more quickly than I did. But in the meantime, I’m quite certain that Dirk is so thrilled to get your letters that he doesn’t care one whit about your grammar or spelling.”

  “Can I ax you something else?” Rosa’s pronunciation made Helen cringe, like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “Yes, but please ask me, Rosa, don’t ax me. It’s much too painful.”

  “Okay. What I want to ask you … well, I’m worried because everyone keeps saying Dirk is in God’s hands, and I don’t know much about God—especially about what His hands are like. Everywhere I go it seems like everybody’s praying for all the people they love, yet good men are still dying in the war—like Mr. Wire’s son. What happened? Didn’t they pray right or something?”

  “I’m the wrong person to ask these questions,” Helen said quickly. “Let’s just stick to questions about arithmetic and grammar.”

  “But I remember you told us at work how all your sisters and brothers died, so I figured you must know a lot about it.”

  “Yes … well, when they died I was told simply to accept it as God’s will.”

  “How did you do that?”

  Helen knew that her own response to the losses in her life had been to pull away from other people the way her mother had, to stop loving so she wouldn’t be hurt again. But Helen couldn’t advise Rosa to do that, even if—God forbid—something did happen to Dirk. It would be a terrible shame if grief drove this vibrant young girl to stop living.

  Helen started to speak, then stopped, remembering how Jimmy had once said the same thing about her. “You’re more vibrant and alive than any woman I’ve ever met…. Don’t you know that’s the reason I fell in love with you?” Helen knew she was no longer that same woman.

  Rosa stood wobbling on her high heels, waiting for words of advice. Instead, Helen changed the subject. “Where is Dirk stationed again?”

  Rosa’s pretty fa
ce grew somber. Her wide, dark eyes glistened. “He’s with a battalion of marines in the Pacific Ocean. I looked the place up on a map in the newspaper, but I can’t pronounce it. He has to follow the marines ashore when they land on the beach and set up an aid station in case anybody gets wounded in the attack. But what I want to know is, who takes care of the corpsmen if they get wounded?”

  The knowledge of what Dirk Voorhees faced made Helen shiver. She’d been given too much to absorb for one day. “Maybe the corpsmen take care of each other. Listen, Rosa, it’s too late in the day to start any lessons. I’ll hunt down some materials to use, and I’ll let you know when we can get started, okay? Right now I have to pay Thelma and … and then maybe you can catch a bus across town with her, get to know her.”

  Helen couldn’t seem to herd everyone out of the door quickly enough. For once, she longed to be alone. She never should have asked about Dirk Voorhees and learned what a dangerous position he was in. The marines seemed to get the worst of every battle. What would that poor girl do if he were killed? How would she cope? How did all the other wives and mothers and sweethearts cope with the terrible losses of war? That had been Rosa’s question, but Helen didn’t know the answer. She supposed some people turned to God, but Helen had derived as little comfort from Him as from her own father.

  Once again, Helen’s thoughts turned to Jimmy. Rosa’s fears and her questions about God had brought him immediately to mind. So had Meinhard Kesler, of course. Helen could easily imagine Kesler peering across enemy lines at Jimmy, taking aim with his cursed artillery. Jimmy had answered Helen’s letter, writing to her from France to tell her that his 93rd Infantry division had been assigned to fight as part of France’s Fourth Army in the Argonne Forest. For some reason, she suddenly had the urge to unearth his letter from the drawer in her vanity and read it again.