Stars Over Clear Lake

by Loretta Ellsworth

“How can you say that? Is this because I didn’t spend time looking through those old albums with you?”

  “No,” I insist. “Although, truthfully, you don’t seem to enjoy spending time with me.” There. It’s finally out in the open.

  Daisy rolls her eyes. “You’re overreacting.”

  We’ve been this way for so long that it’s become normal. My strained relationship with my own mother left an imprint on my heart, which is why I’ve ended up tiptoeing around Daisy’s moodiness.

  I don’t want to sound like my mother, to spout words that could just as easily have come from her mouth, but right now it feels unavoidable. I am her daughter, after all. “Someday I’ll be gone, you know.”

  Daisy looks at me and I can see the challenge in her eyes, still there after all these years. She picks up her phone. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  Afraid I’ll make some comment I’ll later regret, I break eye contact and study a bulletin board across from our table. I notice an advertisement for the Grotto of the Redemption. Nearby attractions are listed, including the world’s largest Cheeto, a bed and breakfast in Algona, and a POW museum.

  My heart races. I’d forgotten about the museum. I’d heard that it had opened in Algona to preserve historical data and artifacts from World War II and the POW camp that had existed there at one time. I’d wanted to take Sid there, but he’d been too sick by then. I stare at the flyer as though it’s a magical parchment.

  I’ve never been as religious as Daddy was. I tried, but I often felt as though my prayers went unanswered. But lately, since I’ve been seeing ghosts … well, I have to admit that there’s much I don’t understand. And who knows what I’d see at a POW museum?

  Harry returns just then and sees me looking at the flyer. “Do you want to visit the Grotto? We haven’t been there in years.”

  “Actually, I want to visit the POW museum in Algona.”

  “What POW museum? I didn’t even know we had POWs in Iowa. Why would you want to go there?” he asks.

  “During World War Two we had a group of POWs work on our farm when I was young.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating.”

  “Don’t encourage her,” I hear Daisy mutter. “We don’t want her traipsing all over Iowa and passing out again.”

  “It only happened once,” I say. “Do you constantly have to throw that back in my face? And I’m right here in front of you. I can hear you. I’m not deaf.”

  “I’m only thinking of you, Mother.”

  “No. You’re thinking of one of your commitments,” I say, then immediately regret it.

  Daisy glares at me.

  Harry, sensing the tension between us, sits down and motions to the waitress. “Check, please. And I’ll take that pie to go.”

  Twenty-seven

  December, 1945

  On a cold December day in my senior year of high school, Daddy called to me from the back porch. Mom was in the living room listening to the radio, where Fibber McGee and Molly were debating whether to have a white Christmas tree or a green one. I wondered why Daddy hadn’t joined us.

  “I found this in the mail this morning,” he whispered, handing me a small white envelope, “although if your mother had known what it was, she would have destroyed it.”

  My hands fumbled to open the envelope, my heart racing with possibilities. Was it a letter from Jens?

  In August, Japan had surrendered. Scotty had left for college. So had Lance Dugan. Stella had started our senior year with a promise ring on her finger. Even as the anniversary of Pete’s death passed, I still hadn’t heard anything from Jens or any of the POWs who’d worked on our farm. I knew they were likely in England now, and that they might not be free yet. The camp in Algona still had prisoners, even though the war had ended months ago. I had read in the newspaper that the United States was planning to turn over many of its POWs to France to be used in coal mines and reconstruction. Other reports said they’d be sent to England before being returned to Germany.

  The letter wasn’t from Jens or any of the POWs. It was an invitation to visit the prison camp. Some of the POWs had spent the last year constructing a nativity scene, and it would be presented to the public at a special dedication ceremony.

  “Do you want to go?” I asked Daddy.

  He nodded.

  “What about Mom?”

  “No,” he said. “She can’t handle it. I’m not sure she’ll ever be able to put this past her and forgive.”

  He didn’t say who she needed to forgive.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said, handing it back. Daddy tucked the letter inside his coat pocket. “I was hoping it was a letter from one of the men.”

  “I wish we knew what happened to our boys,” he said. Daddy only called them “our boys” in front of me. “I reckon Helmut is torn to pieces about Germany’s defeat. I heard that after VE Day, seven of the Algona POWs went insane.”

  “Maybe we could call the camp,” I suggested.

  “I miss them too, Lorraine, but I don’t think we should call. It’s for the best. Were you very fond of that young man, Jens?”

  I looked down at the oval rag rug that covered the cracked linoleum, one of many rugs that Mom had made in our house, each woven as tightly as Mom herself. I remembered how Lance had accused me in front of the whole school of being a Nazi lover. “No, Daddy. I mean, we were just friends. I was curious, is all.”

  “Good. I mean, after all that’s happened, with your mother and Pete and all…”

  I turned away. “Can I take the car into town? I’m supposed to help Miss Berkland with the children’s choir.”

  Daddy paused, as if he wanted to say something more. “Sure,” he finally said. “Just be careful with that clutch.”

  Last fall I’d started helping with the children’s choir at church. I’d barely been able to handle Mom’s constant moodiness, and this had been something to get me out of the house. I loved how the little kids called me “Miss Kindred.”

  I drove to St. Patrick’s Church. As I entered, I could hear the children singing upstairs; their voices comforted me as I knelt and prayed. I hadn’t done much praying since Pete had died. I wasn’t sure God was listening to me anymore. But I put my head in my hands and prayed for the safety of Jens and the other men. I prayed that Jens would somehow find his way back to me. And I prayed that Mom would find a way to forgive—not only those responsible for Pete’s death, but Daddy, too.

  “You’re just in time,” Miss Berkland said when I went up to the balcony. “I told the children how you have a solo in the school concert next week. They want you to sing for them.”

  I looked at the three rows of children, ranging in age from seven to ten. They were all girls except for the four boys at the back, but Timmy Miller had a higher voice than most of the girls. They treated me like a local celebrity, all because I was Miss Berkland’s star performer.

  “I don’t think I could do a good job today,” I told her, feeling suddenly depressed at the thought of how this holiday would be the second one without Pete.

  “Nonsense, Lorraine. You shouldn’t ever take your gift for granted. God gave it to you, and it’s your responsibility to use it. Especially at this time of year.”

  “I just don’t feel like singing.”

  Holidays were the worst. The memories were stronger, too painful. I dreaded how Mom would take it this year, if she’d withdraw again. Or would she simply refuse to celebrate? That would be fine with me. Except for my solo at the Christmas concert, I didn’t have much to look forward to. No one had invited me to any holiday parties. Other than Stella and a few friends, the other students at school were polite but standoffish. I’d come to realize that it wasn’t the accusation of being a Nazi sympathizer that had made them so cool toward me. It was the fact that I’d broken up with Scotty Bishop.

  “Perhaps the children can help you get in the mood. They’ll sing with you.”

  The children cheered their support. Miss Berkland played the i
ntro to “Jingle Bells.” Their high voices sang out, “Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh. O’er the fields we go, laughing all the way.”

  I looked at their happy faces, their mouths open wide like they’d been taught. I slowly joined in on the chorus. My voice faltered at first, then grew strong and clear as the song progressed. By the time we’d made it through the second verse and chorus, I was lost in the words and melody. “Oh! What fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh.”

  The children clapped afterward, except for Timmy, who was picking his nose. Miss Berkland nodded at me to curtsy like I would on stage. I bent one leg behind me and pulled my skirt out wide, reveling in the joy that came when I performed. It wasn’t the clapping or the recognition; singing just did that to me. Hitting the notes just right, making that sound belt out the way it did; I marveled that I had it in me. Singing sent pricks of goose bumps up my arms.

  *

  A week before Christmas, Daddy and I drove to the camp. From far off we could see the searchlights skating back and forth across the stark land surrounding the camp. Three miles away were the city limits of Algona, which was slightly smaller in size than our own town, and not touristy. But they had a Gamble Store, and the paths of the Chicago, Northwestern, Milwaukee, and St. Paul railroads intersected there. When we reached the gate, I stared up at the intimidating guard towers and winced at the barbed-wire fencing. I couldn’t imagine Jens living in this place.

  An armed guard met us at the gate.

  “I need to see your credentials,” he said.

  Daddy nervously presented his driver’s license and the letter we’d received. We were then directed to a parking area outside the gates. We’d have to walk through the gate to an area between two rows of high barbed-wire fences for half a mile in the cold night air.

  We went arm in arm toward a compound, noticing others walking in hushed silence ahead of us. The frozen grass crunched beneath our shoes, and our breaths left little icy contrails. Then the group ahead of us abruptly stopped. We huddled in the open like a herd of cattle, barbed-wire fences on either side of us.

  The sound of boots marching in the distance drew our eyes toward the inner fence. A few coughs, and heavy breathing that belonged to the POWs. We couldn’t see anyone in the dark, but we sensed their presence. We stood still, waiting. Then we heard a pitch pipe, followed by voices singing in the dark.

  Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

  Alles schläft; Einsam wacht.

  I recognized the familiar melody right away, as did everyone else. As they sang, a slow beam of light cut through the darkness. In front of us was the crèche, which contained the Holy Family surrounded by shepherds and sheep. They were large figurines, almost life-size, made of clay from the soil of the camp and painted. The scene was magnificent, a work of beauty that spoke of their commitment to perfection.

  The crowd let out a collective “ah” of appreciation. We hadn’t expected it to be so big or so intricate.

  I looked at the shadowy men standing in formation, their voices rising above the barbed wire. They were thousands of miles from home, isolated, a beaten army, waiting to return to a ravaged country. And yet they sang with spirit and dignity on a remote Iowan hillside. And they’d made this gift for us.

  Soon we joined in, singing the English version of “Silent Night” alongside their German version. Daddy squeezed my arm. When I looked at him, I saw tears running down the sides of his face.

  More songs were sung, followed by a short prayer. Then the lights faded and the men returned to their confinement. We turned back, facing a bitter north wind. My legs felt stiff with cold by the time we made it to our car. But inside, my heart was on fire.

  Twenty-eight

  2007

  I visit the Surf during the day. Tourists with cameras are inside, watching a video on a large screen that details the history of the Surf and the bands that played here.

  I explore the greenroom next to the stage, where performers used to wait before shows. The walls are filled with signatures of great performers. I stroll the hallway to the right of the lobby, which is covered from top to bottom with pictures.

  I buy a commemorative magazine at the gift shop and read trivia about the Surf. I learn that a radio DJ took rolls of pictures of Buddy Holly the night he performed here, and when he went to get them developed, they were all blank. Ritchie Valens had flipped a coin for the third seat on the illfated plane and said it was the first time he’d ever won anything. And Waylon Jennings had given his seat to the feverish Big Bopper, then teased Buddy Holly, saying he hoped the plane crashed, a comment that haunted him for years. The Surf had been a landmark before they played here, but their deaths made it a rock-and-roll legend.

  I don’t see the person I long to see, the man I miss so dearly. I drive home disappointed. When I turn into the driveway of my condominium, Harry is standing out front waiting for me.

  I grab a tissue and look at my face in the rearview mirror. It’s blotchy and tired-looking. I get out of the car, dabbing at my eyes.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yes. Um, allergies,” I say as I blow my nose. “What are you doing here, Harry?”

  “You didn’t answer your phone, and Daisy was worried.”

  Harry follows me into the building, up the elevator, and waits for me to get inside. I pick up the phone from the counter, where it’s still plugged into the charger. It lets out a little beep, but I have no idea what that means.

  “She left you six messages,” he says.

  Oh, is that what the beeping means? “I forgot to bring it with me,” I say apologetically.

  “Where were you?”

  “I went for a drive.”

  “You know Daisy doesn’t like it when she can’t get ahold of you.”

  I fold my arms. “Daisy shouldn’t worry so much.”

  He frowns at me as though he can tell there’s something wrong, which isn’t too hard because I look a mess.

  “She worries because she cares,” Harry says. “She can’t handle losing anyone else right now. She’d probably become a basket case. Or more of a basket case than she is already.”

  He smiles at that last part.

  I nod. “Daisy was our miracle child. I didn’t have her until I was in my thirties. I’d had two miscarriages beforehand, and we didn’t think we’d be able to have children. We spoiled her rotten. We couldn’t help it.” I pat Harry’s arm. “But she turned out okay, despite her overindulgent parents. I shouldn’t complain about having someone worry about me. I’m lucky to have people care about me enough to be concerned. Thanks for stopping by to check on me.”

  He’s reluctant to leave. “While I’m here, have you given any more thought to the fire that burned down the original Surf? Any memories surfacing? I’m just wondering because I was finally able to track down two witnesses who were at the fire back then, and one of them’s a firefighter. I learned a lot from them.”

  “Oh?” Goose bumps prick my arms.

  “And it’s funny how your name seems to keep popping up.”

  “My name?”

  “Yes. The firefighter said that you actually helped the Fox family during the fire.”

  I purse my lips, which are trembling. The words are close to forcing their way out. I want to tell Harry everything. It would be a relief to have someone to confide in.

  I’m just not sure the right someone is Harry.

  “I do remember that it was a night of panic,” I say, cautious about what I tell him. “They evacuated nearby houses in case the fire spread. So everyone was pitching in, carrying furniture out of homes, trying to help them save whatever they needed. To top it off, some thief stole two hundred dollars out of Mrs. Fox’s purse, which had been thrown in a dresser drawer during all the excitement.”

  Harry takes a notepad out of his pocket and starts scribbling. “So when did you arrive at the fire? It must have been soon after it started.”

  “I don’t really kno
w.”

  He looks up at me. “But you remember the two hundred dollars?”

  I poke my head with my index finger. “Who knows how this old mind works?”

  “The fire started late, early in the morning. Were you out with friends? Do you remember why you were out that late? Did you go to the dance that night?”

  “Well, I’m sure I was out with my friends. But none who are still alive,” I quickly add. “I think it was a Saturday night.”

  Harry nods. “Technically, Sunday morning. April twentieth. Hitler’s birthday.”

  I put my hand to my throat. “Really? I didn’t know that fact.”

  “Yeah. And the year was 1947, shortly after the end of World War Two. From what I’ve read in old newspaper accounts, there was some kind of explosion right before the fire was discovered. Kind of makes a person wonder.”

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s the thing,” he continues, the excitement building in his voice. “I think there was more to that fire than they knew. For one thing, Mr. Fox had recently sold the Surf to a company in Chicago. And another one of Mr. Fox’s properties, the Terp Ballroom in Austin, Minnesota, was nearly destroyed by a fire in 1945. Not to mention that he changed his name from Carl Fuchs to Carl Fox.”

  I didn’t know that. The things Harry has found out! I put up a hand. “Mr. Fox loved this community. He would never do anything to destroy it.”

  “I’m not saying he did. But, two suspicious fires in less than two years? That adds up to something.”

  “I don’t think you should jump to conclusions, Harry. You have to remember, we didn’t have fire alarms and sprinkler systems back then. A little kitchen fire could easily spread.”

  “You’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself. I have to concentrate on one fire at a time.”

  “Well, I’m really tired. It’s been a long day.” I yawn, hoping he’ll take the hint.

  “There’s one other thing,” he says. “I found a report that listed the injuries. There was only one. And guess who it was?”

  My voice sounds far away. “Who?”

  “Lance Dugan, who happens to be our mayor’s uncle.”

  I keep my face frozen. “Lance Dugan?”