Stars Over Clear Lake

by Loretta Ellsworth

  I turned and almost bumped into the man who’d reminded me of Hitler. I’d heard Günther call him Helmut. He was glaring at Jens.

  “Fräulein,” Helmut said in a curt voice, as though he was dismissing me. He turned to Jens and said something I didn’t understand. Jens’s face reddened, and he looked down at the ground.

  I rushed back to the house.

  Seven

  1944

  “Imagine me, Lorraine Kindred, singing with a big band! At the Surf Ballroom!”

  Mom was driving me to church for choir practice. She grimaced and shook her head. “Forget about it. You’re needed at home. There’s a war going on, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “For crying out loud, Mom, the war isn’t taking place here. The Navy Band is performing at the Governor’s Ball, and Miss Berkland asked me to sing one number with them. It’s the biggest celebration of the year!”

  “I know what it is. I’ve lived here my whole life, and you’ll watch your tongue, young lady. If they had any sense of decency, they’d cancel the celebration this year. How can you even think of singing when your brother is in harm’s way?”

  Anger settled in my chest, and I bit my lip and looked out the window before I said something that would completely ruin my chances.

  “If you’d only talk to Miss Berkland,” I said in what I thought was a reasonable voice.

  “That old maid? She’s past thirty. Can you believe it?”

  “What does that have to do with singing?”

  “If she was a mother, she’d understand that things are different now that we’re at war. She shouldn’t have asked you without my permission first.”

  “Honestly, Mom.”

  “Besides,” Mom continued, “why do you want to sing for a bunch of strangers? It’s not as though you’re going to make a career out it.”

  “Miss Berkland said I sing as well as Vera Lynn,” I said with a bit of pride in my voice.

  Mom pursed her lips. “She shouldn’t be encouraging such ideas.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re young and impressionable. How many Iowa girls do you know who sing professionally?”

  “None,” I admitted.

  “We’re simple people, Lorraine. Poking your head up in the clouds will only end up hurting you. I’m telling you this to protect you.”

  I gave up and stared at the cornfields out the window. Neither of us said anything for a while. When Mom finally did speak, her voice was strained. “Did you hear that Steven Powers died last week? He was in France.”

  “I heard,” I said. “His brother is in my class at school.” Steven had worked at the Decker Plant and was engaged to a girl from Mason City. They had planned to get married as soon as he got back from the war.

  Mom whispered, “Pete is probably in France.”

  “Pete’s going to come back,” I said.

  Mom turned and squinted at me. “How do you know that?”

  “I just know.” In reality, I just couldn’t imagine it any other way. Life wouldn’t make sense if Pete wasn’t in it. “I pray for him every night,” I said, to convince her. Not that I prayed as much as Mom, whose mottled black rosary beads spent more time in her hands than in the white ceramic box with the cross on it.

  “You think Steven Powers’s family didn’t pray for him?”

  “I guess they did.”

  “They most certainly did. But that didn’t keep him from getting killed.”

  “Bill Burgen’s brother came back,” I said, as proof that not everyone who went off to war died.

  “He came home shell-shocked. And it was a miracle he lived.”

  “Daddy doesn’t think Pete’s going to be killed. Why do you have to be so sour all the time?” I said, then immediately regretted it when Mom pulled the car over to the shoulder and stopped.

  I braced myself for a slap on the face for mouthing off. But Mom closed her eyes and shook her head. I almost wished she would slap me. Instead, Mom put her head down on her white knuckles that were gripping the steering wheel.

  “You don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “Your father has already accepted the course of this war as far as your brother is concerned. He’s only interested in duty and honor. He’d rather have a dead hero than a live coward.” She lifted her head and looked at me. “So don’t say that I’m sour. I’m worried, is all.”

  Worry? It seemed to be more than that.

  We were silent the rest of the way there. When Mom pulled up to let me off, I knew I should just let it go. But I was more like Dad; I had his reddish hair and light complexion and the conviction that I could make everyone see things my way, and that if I believed something hard enough I could make it true. Mom had Swedish roots in her past, and her family had always been kind of gloomy. She had an uncle who’d shot himself in the barn when one of his hogs died.

  “Mom,” I said before I got out, “I know you’re worried about Pete. I’ve seen you getting worse with worry, like it’s taking over everything else. But worry didn’t ever save anyone’s life.”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “But I can’t just stick my head in the sand like everyone else in this family. And tell that woman you’re not singing at the Governor’s Ball.”

  I got out and Mom drove away. I walked into church and knelt in the last pew. I could hear the organ above me, Miss Berkland playing a slow rendition of “Ave Maria.” The afternoon sun cast a hazy sheen upon the altar.

  “Dear God,” I prayed, “please keep Pete out of harm’s way. End this war and bring him home soon, before Mom loses her mind. And if You have time after that, please allow me to use this talent You gave me. If it is Your will.”

  *

  “Salve, salve, salve Regina,” I sang as Miss Berkland played the pipe organ in our church balcony. My voice echoed off the empty pews below.

  She held the last note for an extra beat, then clapped her meaty arms together. “The Lord gave you beautiful vocal cords, Lorraine. You’ve got the voice of an angel. We’re so lucky to have you in the church choir.”

  Church was supposed to be about God, not me or my singing. But I felt a certain satisfaction in showing off my voice, even if it was just during mass at St. Patrick’s.

  That’s why I was spending one afternoon a month under Miss Berkland’s tutelage. I told Mom it was for the church choir, but in reality, I wanted to learn how to sing professionally.

  Miss Berkland had a plain, round face framed by short, tight curls, and carried her extra weight beneath a collection of long jumpers that she wore over frilly lace blouses. She directed the choir at school during the day and at St. Patrick’s on the weekends. Her voice was like silk, and I wondered why she wasted her time on a bunch of high school kids.

  Miss Berkland made a tsk sound. “It’s a shame your mother won’t let you sing at the Governor’s Ball. It would be a feather in your cap to add to your résumé.”

  She said “résumé” as if I actually had such a thing. Other than a few recitals at school and a solo in the church choir, my biggest audience was the chickens in our coop.

  “If it would help, I could talk to your mother. You know, I toured with a local band when I wasn’t much older than you. I could tell her what a good experience it would be for you.”

  I shook my head. Mom would just wonder why Miss Berkland hadn’t landed a husband while she was on tour.

  “Mom isn’t what you’d call musical,” I explained. “She doesn’t see how singing fits into farm life.”

  “It doesn’t,” Miss Berkland answered. “A talent such as yours shouldn’t be wasted on the cows.”

  I swallowed hard, thinking, That describes my future to a tee. “Sometimes this all feels like a pipe dream, Miss Berkland.”

  She sighed. “Don’t feel that way. And I don’t mean to dishonor your mother, Lorraine. It’s just that I remember when I sang ‘Look for the Silver Lining’ at the Governor’s Ball when I was your age, and how my mother cried when my picture was in the n
ewspaper. It was the proudest moment of her life.”

  She stopped and dabbed at the corner of her eye with a tissue. “I know your mother only has your best interests at heart. You’re young. There will be other opportunities.”

  “Will there be?” I asked.

  Miss Berkland smiled at me and nodded. “Of course. How about we sing something fun?” She looked around to make sure Father O’Connor wasn’t within earshot before she started playing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”

  I took the high part and Miss Berkland sang the low harmony. I laughed at the pipe organ’s version of the song as it floated down the steep pews of the old balcony, past the wooden railing, and rattled the stained-glass windows of St. Patrick’s.

  Eight

  1944

  Missing out on singing with the Navy Band nearly broke my heart. Mom said it was for the best, that we shouldn’t encourage such revelry during wartime.

  “But it’s patriotic,” I insisted.

  “We’re patriotic enough,” Mom said. “Look at all we’ve sacrificed already.”

  “My cousin’s friend is the drummer for Ray Gray’s Orchestra,” Stella said at school the next day, trying to comfort me. “They’re playing at the Surf next week. Maybe they’ll let you sing a number with them.”

  “Mom would never allow it.”

  Stella put an arm on her hip. “And who says she has to know? Just tell her you’re going to the dance with me, stag, like lots of girls do.”

  Pete had started bringing me along with him to the dances last year, and Mom had never objected. All the kids went stag, except for the serious couples. But I hadn’t gone since Pete had left.

  “No, it’s too risky,” I said, not wanting to jeopardize my date with Scotty.

  Cooking for the POWs kept Mom busy, and even though the radio was still on and the globe took up table space, she had taken an interest in her chores again. The lack of letters from Pete was a source of worry, though. Mom made frequent walks to the mailbox and would wait for the mail carrier if he was late.

  Each day when I brought the food I was thanked by soft-spoken Günther, whose beret sat lopsidedly on his head while thick, round-rimmed glasses framed a kind face.

  “How do you speak English so well?” I asked.

  “I studied philosophy at Cambridge University in England,” he said.

  “This must be hard for you, doing menial farm work,” I said.

  “It is better than being on the war front,” he replied. “We are lucky. We are safe from the fighting here. And we feel useful.”

  I told Daddy what Günther said.

  “They’re saving our crop,” Daddy said. “They’re hard workers, and they like getting away from the prison camp.”

  “They’re forced labor,” I reminded him.

  “Not exactly. We pay them. Not what they’re worth.” He nodded at the basket of food. “That’s why I like you bringing out extra vittles for them.”

  “They earn money as prisoners?”

  “They get coupons that are like money. They use them to buy cigarettes and stationery at the prison camp canteen.”

  It was hard not to like some of the men, even when Mom acted like having them on our farm was a treasonous crime.

  Large-framed, quiet Ludwig had been a mechanic before the war, and helped Daddy tune up the tractor engine. He showed me a tattered photo of his daughter, a chubby toddler with curly blond hair looking wide-eyed at the camera. His eyes were misty as he kissed his first two fingers and touched them gently to her image.

  Jakob was a jovial man who laughed a lot and loved to eat. He was preparing for a chess tournament at the camp. Daddy brought out his old chess set, and Jakob and the prison guard Norman spent lunch in fierce competition.

  Günther loved to read. He asked Daddy lots of questions about farming and the United States. Daddy said he thought Günther was trying to reconcile all he’d been told about our country with what he was seeing.

  Helmut was different from the rest. He had a permanent scowl and refused to eat with the others. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but when the other men were helpful or friendly, he barked at them in German, and he never thanked me for the food. When he took off his sweaty shirt, I saw a tattoo under his arm. The letter A.

  I asked Günther about it.

  “It is a mark of the SS,” Günther said quietly. “A mark of authority.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is his blood type. It assures him first treatment if he is wounded. That very likely saved his life when he was shot in the stomach.”

  It seemed unfair. I’d read about Hitler’s elite. Helmut conducted himself like one of those Aryan types who thought he was above others.

  Jens was still a mystery to me. He was so much younger than the other men, only a year older than Pete.

  The first week I ignored his attempts to talk to me, even as he met me with a smile and a friendly “hello,” and offered to carry my basket. I just nodded and walked away.

  But he was persistent, his smile ever-hopeful. And his blue eyes were kind and vulnerable. I slowly began to talk to him, at first just a few words, then more as his vocabulary improved. He waited for me each day with his dictionary. He had also signed up for a language class at the Algona camp, taught by Günther. I didn’t know all that much about him except that he wanted to learn English and was too stubborn to ask Günther to translate for him.

  His expression was one of constant struggle as he searched for words to communicate with me.

  “Buska? Scheisse!” he said, pointing at the basket, his mouth failing to form the word.

  Günther looked up from his book and laughed. “Nein, mein Kamerad.”

  “Basket,” I said, and waited for him to repeat it.

  “Basket,” he said then looked at me. “You help?”

  “Help?”

  “He wants you to tutor him,” Günther said.

  “That’s your job,” I said.

  “Not enough time,” Günther said. “He is impatient to learn.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said, shaking my head at Jens.

  “Verboten?”

  “He wants to know if it’s forbidden,” Günther said.

  “Forbidden? I don’t know. Mom wouldn’t—well, tell him I’ll think about it.”

  I looked to Günther, who translated.

  “Okay?” I said.

  “Okay,” Jens said. “Basket,” he said firmly, and handed it to me, as though he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Nine

  2007

  I focus on the white plastic pitcher with a pale blue cap as it sweats cold water down its side. I remember wiping the condensation off a similar pitcher as my husband lay dying last year, as if I could somehow wipe away the cancer that was slowly consuming him.

  And now here I am, in a room with the same hospital-grade pitcher. I shiver and pull the blanket up over the flimsy hospital gown. I’m still spooked. I don’t believe in ghosts. I know I couldn’t possibly have seen those people at the Surf. But they looked so real.

  Just then Daisy’s voice echoes from the hallway. “I want that doctor to see my mother now!”

  I’m embarrassed by her shouting. Sugar leaves a sweeter taste in your mouth.

  “I’ll page him right away,” the nurse says.

  Well, you can’t argue with success.

  Daisy enters the room. “He’ll be here soon, Mother. Nurse!”

  A woman who looks roughly the same age as Daisy hurries in. She’s plump, with fine lines around her eyes.

  She checks the monitor and wiggles a flashlight in front of my eyes. “Can you tell me what your name is and what the date is?”

  “Lorraine Deters. It’s Saturday, August eleventh, two thousand and seven, and I’m fine, really. I just think the champagne got to me. I don’t usually drink.”

  Daisy crosses her arms. “You should have better sense than that, Mother.”

  “Now, don’t get your pantyhose
in a twist, Daisy. It was only a toast.”

  “Of course you had a toast. It was a special occasion,” says the nurse, whose nametag reads Janet. “Just the same, I think we should let the doctor look at you.”

  I give the nurse a grateful nod. I want Daisy to go back to the ball, but of course she won’t think of it. She’s duty-bound and will go to her grave that way, even though it’s killing her that all her country club friends are back at the Surf enjoying chicken Florentine without her.

  “You don’t need to stay. I’ll call you after the doctor examines me,” I promise. “Someone can come pick me up.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone,” Daisy states firmly. “Not after what happened. Mother, you were talking nonsense right before you passed out.”

  “What nonsense?”

  “You’ve always told me you met Dad at the Surf. And now today you said that wasn’t how you met? Honestly, Mother, how could you have forgotten?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my mind, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “So the champagne caused a memory lapse, too?”

  I sigh and wait for the nurse to leave. “There’s something I haven’t told you,” I start to explain, but just then Dr. Baker rushes into the room. He’s thin with a receding hairline, a man hitting his mid-sixties who is always in a hurry and doesn’t have any notion of retiring soon. I’m amazed at how he keeps going.

  “Is my favorite girl causing trouble?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” I reassure him. “Just a bit lightheaded.”

  “Well, after what you’ve been through this year, that’s perfectly understandable. Still, let’s check you out and make sure you’re in the same great shape as you were six months ago.”

  Daisy leaves. Dr. Baker puts the cold stethoscope on my chest. “Your heartbeat is kind of low, but you’ve always had a bit of a slow heartbeat, haven’t you?”

  “Isn’t that supposed to be good?” I ask.

  “Yes, but if it drops too low, which sometimes happens as we get older, that might explain why you felt lightheaded and fainted. Were you short of breath before you passed out?”

  “Yes, a little,” I confess. I’d thought my breathlessness was just a response to being at the Surf again.