by Anna Schmidt
“Yes, thank you. You and Mr. Bridgewater have been so kind.”
Early Sunday morning Suzanne helped Theo and his dad with the chores. They insisted that she at least attempt to milk a cow. “She’s a natural,” Paul announced. “You better hang on to this one, Son. She’s a keeper.”
“I plan to,” Theo replied.
Again Suzanne wondered if he was teasing. After his warnings about his mother’s matchmaking, why would he say such things? Perhaps she had misread his declaration of love? Maybe he had simply meant that he cared for her—as a friend he could count on. When it came to romance, Suzanne had been burned before—most recently and seriously by placing her trust in Gordon Langford. Not that she put Theo in the same category at all, but men had a habit of saying things they didn’t necessarily mean the way she might think they were meant. Theo would never intentionally hurt her. Still, she needed to be careful that she didn’t get swept up into the whole Norman Rockwell thing.
“This milking thing is hard work,” she said lightly. “When’s breakfast?”
After a huge country breakfast of pancakes, eggs, sausages, and biscuits, everyone pitched in to wash the dishes and move the dining-room chairs to the living room. They arranged the extra chairs along with the living-room furniture in a circle for the meeting. As soon as everything was in place, Ellie stationed herself by the front door to welcome the others, while Paul took a chair in the circle, signaling the beginning of the meeting and the silence that this entailed. Everyone entered the room in respectful silence and took a seat, although they each smiled and nodded at Theo, who had waited for Suzanne to choose her place and then sat next to her. Within a few minutes the room was full of people—and stillness. At first Suzanne felt anxious and out of place. She was a fraud among these believers, and they didn’t seem to notice.
She closed her eyes, willing her hands to relax and fall open on her lap with palms facing up. After a few seconds she became aware of the sounds within the silence—the distant lowing of the cows, the wind playing with a wind chime on the front porch, Theo’s steady breathing. Gradually she felt the clamor of work and deadlines and future decisions melt into the silence, replaced by a sense of calm and serenity that she had not felt in a very long time.
After a while Paul stood, and Suzanne waited for his vocal ministry. “I am thinking today,” he said, “about what a truly special Independence Day we will be celebrating this year. The war in Europe is over, and we have been brought out of that darkness.” In the tradition of Friends everywhere his message was brief—a single observation offered for others to ponder.
He sat down, and as was their custom, the room went silent once again. Now Suzanne found herself thinking about the residents of the fort, especially those she had come to know so well. She centered her thoughts on Ilse. Her husband was dead, her home was gone, and she had nothing more than the possessions she had managed to acquire since coming to America. She was facing such uncertainty for herself and her child.
For the first time in a very long time, Suzanne realized that she was praying for God to watch over Ilse and Liesl and hold them in His Light as they began this new phase of their lives. Then she realized that silent tears were leaking through the lashes of her closed eyes and bathing her cheeks. She let the tears fall, aware that she had sorely missed this simple act of sitting in silence and releasing all of her worries and concerns to the higher power of God’s Light.
The Fourth of July celebration at the fort was the residents’ first experience with this unique American holiday. Several buildings were festooned with bunting in red, white, and blue, and walking past, Ilse was reminded of the early days of the Reich when every public building had been draped in the brilliant scarlet accented by the black cross of Hitler’s Nazi Party. That felt like another time—another life. The war was over, and as had been the case following the first war—the so-called Great War to end all wars—Ilse understood that once again her beloved homeland lay in ruins economically and physically. So it was hard for her to completely enjoy the celebrations these Americans staged to celebrate their independence. She had to wonder if Germany would ever truly be independent again—the rest of the world must hate them so.
“Mom, can we go downtown and watch the parade? Please?” Liesl was wearing a red blouse with navy-blue shorts and a white bow in her hair. Her accent carried only a hint of her German heritage, and now that the war had ended she had stopped asking questions about what would happen to them next. It was as if she had decided to ignore the promise they had made to return to Germany. “Mom? Can we please?”
“Yes, we can go.”
Liesl ran to her and gave her a kiss. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll go see if Gisele wants to go with us while you change.”
“Change?”
“You can’t wear that.” Liesl scowled at Ilse’s faded housedress. “It’s a holiday.” She ran to the locker that served as their closet and pulled out a white dress that Ilse had worn once. “This one with a red belt.”
“I do not have a red belt.”
“I’ll borrow one from Gisele … and a hat.” She blew Ilse a kiss and raced out the door.
Ilse watched her go. How she dreaded the day they would return to Munich, dreaded the sadness and distress that such a move was bound to cause Liesl. Yet they had to go somewhere. The fort was to be shut down—the process had already begun. Gisele had once suggested that Ilse tell the authorities who managed the surveys that she and Liesl would go to England where Beth and Josef were—where they had family.
“You can search for Marta and the children from there as easily as you can from Munich,” she had argued. “It would be the perfect compromise for Liesl. You have told me how she adores her cousin Beth, and she would still be in an English-speaking country.”
But just before Theo left for Wisconsin, he had told her that Beth and Josef had applied for visas to come to the United States.“ She doesn’t want to say anything to our folks just yet,” he had added. “She doesn’t want to get their hopes up in case they get turned down.” Of course being married to Josef—a German and the son of a Gestapo agent—made the likelihood of rejection more of a probability. If Beth and Josef could not get visas, then going to England might be worth considering.
“Ready, Mom?” Liesl had not even reached the door before she called out.
“Mind your manners, young lady,” Ilse scolded her. “You are not the sole occupant of this building.”
“Sorry. Why haven’t you changed? I brought the belt, and Gisele has a hat for you.”
“It is not necessary for me to dress up, Liesl. This is an American holiday.”
“And we are guests of the Americans, so it’s like a party and we should show respect by looking our best, right?”
Gisele hid a smile. “The child has a point. Go change.”
Ilse let out a sigh of frustration and headed for the tiny bedroom, pulling the curtain that covered the doorway closed behind her. She put on the white cotton dress that had a small round collar, a flared skirt that fell to the middle of her calves, and tiny pearl buttons from the neckline to her waist. She threaded the slender red patent leather belt through the belt loops and then stepped into a pair of white sandals. She twisted her mostly gray hair into a chignon low on her neck and positioned the hat—a straw cloche with a red grosgrain ribbon for a band. She looked in the mirror and smiled.
“You look ten years younger, my friend,” Gisele said when Ilse pulled open the curtain.
“You look so pretty, Mom,” Liesl exclaimed.
Ilse felt her cheeks blush with the pleasure of their compliments and busied herself pretending to look for her handbag. It seemed like a very long time since anyone had told her she looked pretty—something Franz used to tell her daily.
“Thank you both. Shall we go?”
Gisele crooked her elbows, inviting Ilse and Liesl to link arms with her, and like three young girls, they set off for town.
The streets were crowded with peop
le waiting to see the parade. Everyone was in a good mood, laughing and talking in voices high pitched with excitement. As the trio from the fort made their way along the street looking for a vantage point from which to see the parade, Ilse could not help but notice that no one looked at them with wariness or even reserve the way the locals had looked at them when they first arrived. Now the citizens of Oswego greeted them with smiles that were—for the most part—warm and welcoming.
“There’s Nancy,” Liesl cried out and took off to catch up with her friend and the rest of the Driver family. At that very moment Ilse saw Detlef Buch watching her from across the street.
He tipped his hat and walked parallel to her on the opposite side of the street as the units of the parade moved by. He had something to tell her—she was certain of that. But when Gisele saw him, she took Ilse’s arm and led her to where Liesl and Nancy had found a place to stand where they could see the parade more clearly.
When Ilse looked back she saw that Herr Buch had stopped walking, although he was still looking at her. When her eyes met his, he tipped his hat again and disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER 19
Two weeks after the Fourth of July, Suzanne was back in Washington, cleaning her apartment preparatory to moving back in. With Theo in Wisconsin and the shelter preparing to close down and soldiers returning from Europe looking for work, there was little for her in Oswego these days. Edwin had offered her some freelance work, and she had taken a part-time job at a shop just down the street from her apartment to make ends meet.
Surprisingly true to his word, Gordon provided her with updates on his search for Marta and also gave her information about the fate of the refugees. The hearings at the fort had resulted in a positive report from the subcommittee. But when the matter was moved to the full committee, the congressmen had rejected the recommendation for sponsored leave and had in fact upheld the original plan for all refugees to return to their country of origin or some other country willing to receive them now that the war was over. It appeared that the United States of America was not one of those countries.
The single bright spot in her days was Theo’s nightly telephone calls. She had protested the expense but had to admit that those calls were the highlight of her day.
As she unpacked and got resettled into her apartment, she had turned on the radio to keep her company. A man’s voice droned on in the background. Vaguely she recognized the voice of Robert St. John, a well-respected broadcaster for NBC’s radio network. She was paying only scant attention to the message when all of a sudden she heard, “But now … now they were being invited to America as guests of the United States!”
She ran to the small front room to turn up the sound. Could it be? After all this time was it possible that a national broadcaster was actually talking about the residents at the fort?
“Nineteen of those refugees we invited to this country have sons in our armed forces, fighting for liberty and democracy and freedom. Yet the parents are kept behind wire fences.”
The journalist went on talking about how the people in Fort Ontario could only leave the fort for six hours a day, could not even visit family members living in the United States unless those people happened to live in Oswego, had been deprived of the opportunity to accept gainful employment or pursue a career. He called FDR’s action a “gesture” and a “token.” His tone and inflection left no doubt where he stood on the subject of what should happen for the refugees. He was adamant that they had earned the right to stay.
Suzanne’s heart was racing. Finally someone relatively well known was telling the real story of the residents of Fort Ontario, and he was not pulling any punches. He gave the usual excuses—that they had known they would be sent back, that to let them stay could disrupt the economy, that they had come under Roosevelt’s administration and now Roosevelt was dead.
“Guests of America? They’ve overstayed their welcome. Let them go back where they came from,” St. John said sarcastically. And then he added a message for his listeners. “If you don’t happen to feel that way, drop a card to your congressman.” Suzanne leaned even closer to the radio as static threatened to overpower the message. “The fate of these … people…[static] … may well depend on whether you care. I hope you do.”
An announcer ended the broadcast by reminding the audience that they had been listening to Robert St. John. The refugees could not have chosen a more passionate and effective spokesperson. Over the course of his career, St. John had been beaten up by Al Capone’s thugs, had covered London during the Blitz, and had been wounded by the Nazis in the Balkans. His style of delivery could sometimes take on the tone of a fire-and-brimstone preacher, but he always made his point. He was a newsman Suzanne had long admired.
Now she had to wonder if his broadcast would get results. Maybe he had gone too far. After all, Roosevelt had at least made the gesture—token that it was. So although she had no doubt that he would get a reaction, the question was, what kind of reaction. She wished she could talk to Theo but knew she needed to wait for his call. In the meantime she had to speak with someone. So she called Edwin.
“I take it you just heard St. John’s broadcast,” Edwin said as soon as he knew she was calling. “Pretty powerful stuff there.”
“Do you think it will make a difference?”
“Depends on who was listening.”
“Truman?”
“Possibly. If you came back here to follow the story, Suzie, then follow it. Will the public speak up, and will it make a difference? Call St. John—maybe he’ll give you an exclusive. Good to have you back in town, kiddo.” He rang off.
She mentally calculated how long it might take for public opinion to kick in. It was possible that some newspapers might publish a story with excerpts from the broadcast. That would certainly broaden the audience. She still had a contact at the National Broadcasting Company’s news department in Washington. She flipped through her roster of colleagues and dialed her friend, who promised to let her know if there was a significant reaction to St. John’s broadcast.
Then she made herself a peanut butter and banana sandwich and sat down to wait for Theo’s call, while she made notes for the interview she hoped she might get with Robert St. John.
Jim Sawyer had been dead wrong about what people wanted in a candidate for Congress. They might be war weary, but that did not mean they didn’t want a soldier—a hero—as their candidate. The other party had figured that out, and Theo found himself running against a former marine who had been sent home after being wounded at Normandy.
The two candidates had a good deal in common. They were about the same age, had college educations, and came from families that were well respected in the district. They were both tall and athletic. Both had an easy smile and a natural grace when it came to meeting people. But one of them had gone to war—and the other had not.
“You can’t be thinking that way,” Jim argued. “The election is months away, and anything can happen.”
“I’m just being pragmatic.”
“You’re talking like you’ve already lost—given up. It’s starting to come across in your speeches. Stop talking about those people out in the fort in New York. This is Wisconsin. The voters want to know what you plan to do for them, not your aunt in Oswego.”
“I talk about my aunt and niece because they illustrate why this country went to war in the first place. I talk about them and others from the fort because every one of them has had to find courage and strength and stand up to evil.”
“But those stories have nothing to do with the folks you will represent. They want to know how postwar will affect their lives—farm prices, jobs, their kids.”
“I get that but—”
“Look, son, you need to pay attention to what I’m telling you. Either you change your message, or you lose this election. It’s that simple. So you decide.” He walked away and did not look back.
Theo watched him go. He knew the man was right. He’d seen it on the f
aces of the small crowds that showed up to hear what he had to say. The minute he started talking about his experience with Smart’s advocacy group, they lost interest. Theo had even been heckled once or twice. “What do a bunch of Jews have to do with us?” one man had shouted. “Let them honor the promise they made when FDR brought them here and go home.”
Of course, that was exactly the point that Theo had been trying to make—the residents of the fort had nothing to go back to, unlike the people in Wisconsin. Yes, the voters here had survived the Depression and the war, and in some cases they had paid a heavy price for that, but now was a time for rebuilding and for coming together. And it was because Theo knew that these Americans understood hardship and survival that he would have thought they would have responded to his message of coming together in a world where every person could enjoy the freedoms that were the foundation of a democracy.
But he also understood what Jim was telling him. More to the point, he knew that Jim was right. He could not make change by simply wishing people would act in a certain way. As always at the end of the day, he was looking forward to his nightly call to Suzanne. She understood what he was trying to do. They would just have to come up with a simpler way for him to deliver his message—one that would touch the citizens of Wisconsin and get him elected to Congress.
He had barely said hello before Suzanne began telling him about Robert St. John’s broadcast. “This is it,” she said, her voice almost squeaky with excitement. “Now all across this country people are bound to rise up and insist that Congress act. Oh Theo, finally.”
She told him about the story she was working on that would focus on listener reaction to the St. John piece. “I called the station, and if phone calls are any indication, public opinion is running high on the positive side—almost eighty percent. There have even been calls from former servicemen talking about what the refugees would find if they are sent back.”
“And the other twenty percent?”
