by Anna Schmidt
Ilse could not believe her eyes—two rooms just for them. “Kitchen?” she asked.
The smiling young man explained that all meals would for now be served in the mess hall.
“Mess hall?” Liesl repeated and giggled. “We will eat in a messy hall?” During the years that Beth had lived with them, Liesl had learned basic English, but—like Franz, whose English was fluent—sometimes certain phrases made no sense.
“Dining hall,” the man explained. “We’ll go there next.”
The apartment was furnished with a wooden table and four chairs, a wall shelf that held a few cups and glasses, and a single cot in the room where they stood. Beyond that Ilse could see another room with two more cots and a footlocker at the end of each cot for their clothes. With her imagination, she began decorating the place. She had seen wildflowers on the hillside near the lake as the train pulled in. Perhaps later she and Liesl could go pick some for the table. There were no curtains on the window in the bedroom. We will have to do something to cover that, she thought.
“Ilse?” Franz put his arm around her shoulder and turned her back toward the hallway. “He says it is time to eat.”
“In the mess hall,” Liesl announced in English, and once again she giggled. It occurred to Ilse that their daughter had immediately responded to the kindness of the American. She was sure that this was Beth’s influence.
The scent of cooking food would have guided them to the dining hall even if their interpreter had not been with them. When they entered the long brick building, they were taken aback first by the noise—people talking in several languages, people laughing and exclaiming over the bounty before them. And indeed it was a feast—even more impressive than the meals they had been served on the voyage from Italy. The long wooden tables were filled with large glass bottles of milk, bowls the size of Ilse’s mixing bowls at home filled with hard-boiled eggs, plates stacked high with sliced bread, dishes of jam and marmalade, and trays that held small boxes labeled CORN FLAKES. Ilse watched in fascination as one of the Americans demonstrated how to open the box and then add milk so that the box became the bowl.
She and Franz glanced at each other and burst out laughing. It felt so wonderful to share a moment like that. For months they had had to settle for scraps or wait in long lines while someone dished up half a cup of watery soup. The bread here was white and soft. While Ilse was not sure she liked it as well as she had the heavier rye bread they had enjoyed from the bakery that occupied the ground floor of their apartment building back in Munich, it was ever so much better than the gooey gray concoction that passed for bread in Europe these days.
Their interpreter explained butter was still rationed. Franz pumped the hand of their guide, thanking him in German and English. Then he led the way to a crowded bench at one of the tables. The people already there squeezed closer together to make room for them. Smiling, they shoved the food into their mouths as if they might never again see such a meal. Ilse saw some people hiding slices of bread and hard-boiled eggs in their pockets as they had at meals on the ship—just in case.
“America,” one man kept murmuring to himself as he ate. “America.”
Ilse understood his disbelief. But as she looked out the window behind where Franz was filling Liesl’s glass with milk for a second time, she could see a large American flag snapping in the breeze off the lake. The only barrier between them and that flag was the fence, its thorny wire making Ilse all too aware that they might be on American soil but they were not yet free.
CHAPTER 2
Theo had risen early and skipped Mrs. Velo’s breakfast to get to the fort. He had hardly slept. Aside from the heat that seemed to rise up from the lower floors and stagnate in the attic rafters, the excitement that he was going to find his aunt and uncle—his mother’s only brother—and bring them home with him to the farm had kept him up most of the night.
As he stood outside the fence, waiting for the train to arrive, he supposed a stay at the fort was a necessary step on the road to true freedom for his aunt and uncle. But he shuddered to think what their first impressions might be as the train rolled onto the siding and they got their first look at the place that would be home for at least the next several months.
It was nearly 7:00 a.m., and the train was scheduled to arrive before eight. In spite of the early hour, locals had begun to gather on street corners and rooftops to get their first look at the refugees. Inside the wire fence men—some in uniform, others in coveralls—were setting up tables and shouting instructions to one another about the best way to process the new arrivals. Theo heard hammering and saw men carrying paint buckets as they exited the barracks. A man in uniform called out instructions to the painters in German, and Theo was at first puzzled but then realized the men in coveralls were German prisoners of war. How would the refugees react to their presence? Could some of the POWs have been guards in the prison camps the refugees had escaped from?
The soldiers and Americans in civilian dress seemed anxious to get the work done and move these prisoners out before the train arrived. Every once in a while, someone would look in the direction the train would come from and then shout at the POWs to go back to work.
On the bus trip from Wisconsin to Oswego, Theo had stared out at the passing countryside and thought about what the refugees would think of this new land once they boarded the train that would bring them to the shelter. Oswego, like Milwaukee, was on one of the Great Lakes, and he knew from having gone to Milwaukee on vacation with his parents that the expanse of water was so huge that even if the day was perfectly clear it was impossible to see the other shore.
In the distance he heard a train whistle. Immediately the low murmur of conversation among those waiting rose to a higher pitch. They crowded closer and craned their necks to watch for the train that slowly chugged its way onto the siding and stopped. Boy Scouts were lined up at each car’s exit along with staffers from inside the fence who had now moved outside to facilitate the arrival. As the refugees slowly climbed down from the train and entered the lone gate that led them inside the shelter, Theo searched for his uncle and wondered if maybe he should have taken time to buy a small gift for Liesl—perhaps a doll. Well, presumably there would be time for that.
In minutes the grounds of the fort were jammed with hundreds of people along with the staff that was trying to get them registered and settled. It was impossible to pick out one individual. And as he made his way along the perimeter of the fence, studying each face, Theo realized that after years of being imprisoned and hunted his relatives were bound to look different—older, thinner. But he had not been prepared for the haunted expressions that he saw—eyes that were ringed with dark circles and that darted from person to person with suspicion; mouths that had clearly not smiled in some time but that were tight, thin lines; skin that was pale and shrunken.
This is what starvation and other constant deprivations can do to a person, he thought. These are the faces of fear and doubt and uncertainty. Even though they were safe on American soil, it would take time for these poor souls to believe they were truly safe.
He edged closer to the fence next to a news photographer and a reporter interviewing one of the townspeople. “It’s not so different, I guess,” the local was saying. “Last year we had the colored soldiers come for training and some boys from the South—couldn’t read nor write, but they turned into right good soldiers. Now don’t get me wrong—there was some in town who got all upset about those groups. But it all worked out just fine, and so will this.” He jerked his head toward the masses of people shuffling toward the tables to be checked in. “May God bless them all,” he added and shook his head.
The reporter turned to Theo, and the photographer swung around as well. “How about you?” the reporter asked.
“Not so fast, Andy,” a woman interrupted as she pushed her way past the photographer to stand between Theo and the reporter.
“Suzanne Randolph,” the reporter exclaimed. “We all thought—”
“Well, think again,” she said, not allowing him to finish whatever thought he’d been about to put into words. “I’m working this story, and Mr. Bridgewater here is one of my sources so back off.” She gave the reporter a playful push, and he laughed. Then he threaded his way along the fence to find someone else to interview.
“How do you know my name?” Theo asked. He recognized her as the woman he’d seen get out of the cab at the boardinghouse the evening before, but they had not been introduced.
“I missed you at breakfast this morning, but Miss Cutter filled me in. That woman is quite the busybody. You’ll want to watch yourself around her.”
And you, Theo thought. “What did you mean telling that reporter that I was your ‘source’?”
“It means I’ve got dibs on your story. Believe me, not every reporter would have backed off, but Andy’s one of the good guys.” She rummaged in the large shoulder bag he’d seen her carrying the night before and after some effort found a small notepad and pencil. “So what is your story, Theo Bridgewater? And is it really just Theo or maybe Theodore or as a boy were you Teddy?”
“It’s just Theo,” he said, wondering if this woman ever paused for a full breath and looking around seeking a way to escape her questions.
“Miss Cutter—Hilda—said you came here from Wisconsin—does she have that right?”
Theo nodded as he continued to scan the lines of refugees. “Excuse me, please.” He pressed close to the wire fence, hooking his fingers through the openings. “Franz Schneider,” he called. “Ilse Schneider,” he added, thinking that perhaps if he called out their names they would hear him. But there was so much noise, so many people talking in so many different languages, and on top of that was the chatter of the curious townspeople who surrounded him.
“Are those your relatives?” the reporter asked, squeezing closer to the fence herself as she continued to take notes.
“Look,” Theo began, not wanting to be rude but also not interested in being the center of her feature story.
“You look,” she said, lowering her voice. “From what I know your family will have to stay there until the war is over, and then they will be sent back to wherever they came from—originally. As in before they found themselves on the run or in some camp or whatever.”
“I know that, but my uncle and aunt have family right here in the United States so why should they have to go back to where they have nothing?”
She gave him a look of pure pity. “Theo, at least half the people in there have what the government likes to call ‘fireside’ relatives, meaning a spouse, a child, or a parent already living here, and it makes no difference. They signed a paper stating they understood the ground rules.”
“How do you know all this?”
She grinned. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job to know. So let me tell your story, and maybe that will help. Nothing in America is more effective than the power of the press,” she assured him.
He thought he’d never met a woman with more confidence, but there was also a kind of nervous desperation about her that made him cautious. “I don’t know, Miss …”
“Suzanne. We’re going to be living under the same roof for the time being, sharing meals and such. And if you think Hilda Cutter won’t be waiting to grill you about the minute details of why you are here, think again.” She shrugged and gave him a beaming smile. “Might as well trust me.”
“Hilda Cutter is not a reporter,” he reminded her.
“And because of that, she can’t help your family members on the other side of this fence. I can at least try.”
The lines of refugees were being moved up the hill toward the barracks.
“I’ll think about it,” he said as he eased his way back through the crowd and looked for some way that he might find a vantage point closer to the barracks. It was no use. They were too far away. A few minutes later, the refugees were led into a large building that someone mentioned was the mess hall.
Suddenly the parade ground was deserted, and the only remaining signs of the people that had crowded onto its soft grass were the piles of baggage and the tables where they had checked into their new home.
What now? He decided to walk back into town and get that present for Liesl and mail the postcard he’d written the night before to let his parents know that he was here. He saw that most of the townspeople had started to leave. The show was over—for now.
Okay, she had come on too strong with the country boy. His eyes had held that deer-in-the-crosshairs look. She hadn’t missed the fact that they were beautiful eyes—blue with the long thick lashes that were such a waste on the male of the species. But any way she looked at it, the guy had practically run from her. Of course he was far too polite to be so obvious. A true gentleman. She sighed. A rare breed indeed.
But she was here to work—to resurrect her career. She was able to get the attention of one of the staffers and quiz him. Rumor had it that the following afternoon—Sunday—the camp director was planning a reception. Invitation only but Suzanne knew some press would be included. She was determined to be among the invited reporters.
“Andy,” she called out, spotting her fellow reporter across the way. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Depends on what that cup of coffee might cost me,” he replied.
“A pass to tomorrow’s reception would be nice.”
He laughed. “Those are readily available. Just show them your press credentials.”
She felt the now-familiar heat of embarrassment rising up her neck to her cheeks like the scale of a thermometer. “Well, see that’s kind of the problem.”
“You’re on your own?”
“I have a market for the story once I get it but until then …”
Andy frowned. “Look, Suzie, I’d like to help you, but there’s nothing so dangerous as a desperate reporter who’ll do practically anything to get back in the game.”
She had always liked Andy’s straightforwardness. “You’re right, but then there are reporters—like me—who did do whatever it took to get the story and paid a heavy price. I’m a quick study, Andy. You don’t have to worry about me, and you can be certain that the paper interested in buying my story will have it checked word for word and fact for fact.”
“Edwin Bonner?” he guessed.
She nodded. “So will you help me?”
“I’ll see what I can do, but Suzie, the chances are not good. Beyond that you’re on your own.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re the best,” she said.
“If I do this, promise me that you will not mess up,” he replied.
“I won’t. I promise.”
They made arrangements to meet outside the fort’s gate the following day and went their separate ways—Andy and the photographer to get some shots of the town and Suzanne to the park near the boardinghouse to work on her plan for the story and eat the apple she had taken from the bowl Mrs. Velo kept by the front door.
An hour later, she stopped working and leaned back, her face upturned and her eyes closed when a shadow darkened the sunlight. She opened her eyes and sat up straight. Standing in front of her was Theo Bridgewater, and he was holding the most beautiful doll she had ever seen.
“It’s my uncle, aunt, and cousin,” he said without preamble. “Franz and Ilse Schneider and their daughter, Liesl. The doll’s for her,” he added, holding it out to her. “Do you think she’ll like it? I mean there was also a baby doll with a crib and all but …”
“She’ll love it,” Suzanne assured him. She scooted over to make room for him next to her on the park bench. “What made you change your mind? About the story?”
“I didn’t change my mind. I told you I’d think about it. I did, and I can’t see the harm. Like you said, it might even help.”
Suzanne grinned. “I’m getting a press pass for tomorrow’s reception.”
“Okay.” It was evident that he did not get the significance of this.
“That me
ans I will be on the other side of the fence so I can find your relatives and you can stake out a place along the fence where you can be reunited and you can give Liesl her doll.”
Theo’s smile was slow to come but when it did, it was like the sun coming out after days of clouds and fog. He was one good-looking guy. Of course, Gordon Langford had also been easy on the eyes.
From the time they first entered the fenced area, Ilse had noticed that the staff always tried to refer to the place as a shelter rather than as a camp. She suspected they wanted to distract the new arrivals from the fact that their new home had many things in common with the concentration and labor camps that the Nazis had set up back in Europe. The hours of that first day passed in a blur of settling in and enjoying two more incredible meals in the dining hall. Lunch featured meat loaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, and carrots. The main course was rounded out with a salad of fresh, crisp lettuce and tomatoes so juicy and filled with flavor that Ilse could not get enough of them. For dessert they were each given an orange, and afterward she and Liesl walked to the field where she’d noticed the wildflowers growing to pick a bouquet. Franz had gone to reclaim their few remaining possessions.
But when she and Liesl returned to the small apartment with their flowers, Ilse saw a large carton that she did not recognize sitting on the wooden kitchen table. “Was ist los?”
“Open it,” Franz urged, and she noticed that he was fighting a smile. Liesl climbed onto one of the chairs. “Open it, Mama,” she said excitedly.
Ilse pulled the twine loose and spread the flaps of the cardboard box. She took out the first item—a cotton dress perfect for Liesl. It was blue gingham with white daisies embroidered around the neck and hem.
“Oh, Mama, it’s beautiful,” Liesl exclaimed as she took the dress and held it up to her thin bony body. “What else?” She leaned in to see what other treasures might be inside the plain brown box.
