Stars Over Clear Lake

by Loretta Ellsworth

  “I’m fine.” He squinted at me as though he was in pain, but not from his cuts. “Are you certain this is what you want, Lorraine?”

  I wasn’t sure of anything right then. Perhaps I was still in shock, but I nodded, letting the tears flow. “I’m sorry, Jens.”

  I hugged him tightly, feeling his thin ribs, the concave stomach that still hadn’t recovered from years of deprivation. We held on to each other for a long time.

  “Goodbye, then, mein Schatz,” Jens said, finally pulling back and caressing my cheek, wiping away a bit of ash from my face with his fingers. Then he and his saxophone disappeared into the smoky night.

  Forty-four

  2007

  I grip my purse so tightly on my lap that my knuckles turn white. I’d expected that Daisy would be crabby because I forced her to drive here. But she’s actually enjoying herself, sipping coffee and looking more relaxed than usual. She has the radio tuned to the Lifestyle station, meaning songs from her youth. Elton John is singing “Blue Eyes.”

  I’m the one who’s nervous. I know it’s just a museum. The POW camp was torn down years ago. A few pictures of a forgotten place shouldn’t cause so much anxiety. But it was his POW camp. There’s so much I don’t know about the camp.

  I’ve had second thoughts about going, ever since getting up this morning. I tossed and turned half the night, finally giving up on the idea of sleep at six, and tried to keep myself busy until Daisy arrived at nine. Now I try to make small talk about the weather and the upcoming harvest festival, but my heart isn’t in it. I’m retreating back in time for every mile we drive. I’m remembering that year when everything in my life changed.

  Daisy talks, though, noting the color of the leaves and the early chill in the air that we hope won’t signal an early winter. I barely pay attention, but the sound of her voice is comforting, like a warm blanket on a cold day. Finally the Algona signpost comes into view. I tense, feeling anxious once again. Only my death grip on my purse keeps me from suggesting a retreat.

  We drive downtown and follow a small sign to the museum, located in a former furniture building.

  Daisy parks the car next to the curb out front. “We might be the only ones here.”

  I hope so.

  She looks at me, at my grim expression.

  “Mother, are you okay?”

  I don’t answer her. I take a deep breath and open the car door.

  A man meets us inside the door, and we pay the small admission fee.

  “Would you like a guided tour?” the docent asks.

  “I’d prefer to start by just wandering around, if that’s okay,” I say.

  “That’s fine. If you have any questions or want a tour, I’ll be here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Daisy looks confused, as though she can’t understand why I would pass up a guided tour.

  The exhibit is divided into three sections. One side holds camp-related information, including maps, pictures, and memorabilia. The middle contains cultural exhibits, such as art produced by the prisoners. The last exhibit is a tribute to area residents who took part in the war effort.

  I start with a map that shows Camp Algona and its branch camps in Iowa, Minnesota, and North and South Dakota, and then move on to a picture of a truck similar to the one that brought the men to Daddy’s farm, the familiar seven-sided white star on the door identifying it as belonging to the camp. I stop at a display behind glass that shows uniforms worn by the prisoners, luggage, and a guitar. There’s even a replica of the barracks at Camp Algona. I never really witnessed how the thin, hard mattresses and old wood stoves of the small rooms could be so depressing. No wonder they didn’t mind working on Daddy’s farm.

  Daisy is a few steps behind me. Neither of us speaks as we read and wander among the displays. There are oil paintings and sketches of farms much like the one I grew up on. Pictures of the camp soccer teams, clippings from the camp newspaper. Even the chess champion, Jakob. I let out a short breath when I see his smiling face staring back at me.

  I come to a glass case that houses an instrument. A saxophone. Above it are pictures of the camp band. I catch my breath. There he is, proudly standing with his saxophone next to the other band members. I reach up and put my finger on the picture near his face.

  It was such a long time ago. And it feels like yesterday.

  Forty-five

  1947

  The light rain didn’t last long enough to help. News of the fire spread quickly, and the crowd grew as spectators kept watch through the night. Flames spewed so high into the sky that a fireman barely got off the roof before it collapsed. I cried, drenched and shivering underneath a worn blanket that someone had given to me, as the roof fell down.

  When it was over, only three charred walls remained standing. At the same time, our town was spared tragedy because no one had been seriously hurt. Just a few months earlier, a fire at the Winecoff Hotel in Atlanta had killed over one hundred people. As quickly as the Surf had burned down, the newspaper said it was fortunate that Carl Fox and his family had escaped, and that no one else had been in the building at the time.

  The hoopla surrounding the fire engulfed our small town. Stella was the first to call.

  “Lorraine, I was scared to death. I shouldn’t have left you there alone. I had nightmares about it.”

  “I was fine,” I lied. “No one was inside except Mr. Fox and his family, and they all got out. But it was awful.” My voice hitched as I remembered my panic as smoke filled my lungs, when I thought we wouldn’t get out. Would I ever forget the anguish I’d felt when I thought Jens was dead?

  “What happened with your musician?”

  “Nothing. He … left.”

  “Thank God. The way you were looking at each other, well, I’m just glad Scotty wasn’t there to see it.”

  So was I. I’d been careless, and in a small town where bad news traveled faster than good. No one knew that we’d snuck up to the roof except Lance, who must have seen us and hidden, then waited for us to come down. If Jens hadn’t saved us, we’d all have perished in that fire. Would Lance say anything to the authorities?

  “Everyone in town is just sick about this,” Stella said. “Where are we going to dance now?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed, feeling the sting of guilt.

  “Bad timing,” Daddy had said that morning.

  And he was right. Our town was still recovering from the war, and it needed the business the Surf brought. The loss was going to cost jobs.

  “Do you think they’ll rebuild?” I’d asked him, nervously twisting my engagement ring around my finger.

  “Don’t know that something like that can be replaced.” He shook his head. “You’d think it was another Governor’s Days with all the traffic coming through town to see the burnt remains,” he said, and let out a scoffing laugh. “That place was a landmark for this community.”

  Even though I suspected that we’d caused the fire, people in town speculated that the building had bad wiring.

  The papers reported that no one was injured in the blaze, and that small explosions were heard by spectators, supposedly caused by beer bottles.

  There was no mention of Lance, or whether officials suspected he’d been inside at the time of the fire. I heard he’d been taken to Mercy Hospital in Mason City. This was one time I was glad Lance’s family was above the law. No one would go poking around.

  Scotty called a short while after I’d spoken with Stella. He’d heard that I had been a spectator at the fire and wanted to know all the details. Luckily, that’s all he’d heard. My performance had been quickly forgotten in light of the devastating fire. I answered a few questions before complaining of a headache.

  I was relieved that no one came to question me about the fire or about Lance. And even more relieved when I heard of plans to rebuild an even bigger and better Surf Ballroom, in a different location across the street.

  But I still felt guilty. I should have told the authoritie
s what happened. I should have admitted that we were inside. Even though I convinced myself that I was protecting Jens, I knew I was also protecting myself. I’d be kicked out of school if I was implicated in the fire. And what would Scotty think? He would never have done something like this. I knew I would never be able to look Mr. Fox in the eye again.

  I returned to school just in time to study for finals and to perform in our spring concert. Daddy was too busy with planting to take time off to attend. Mom had no interest in coming.

  The lilacs had bloomed the day before our concert, which Mr. Christiansen said was a good sign. The auditorium was full, and we walked in formation onto the stage in our long, flowing robes. When it was time for my solo, I stepped forward, careful not to trip. I stared up into the audience, not expecting any familiar faces. I was surprised to see Miss Berkland sitting in the second row. I folded my hands in front of me and opened my mouth wide, projecting my voice confidently.

  Fair are the meadows

  Fair are the woodlands,

  Robed in flowers of blooming spring;

  Jesus is fairer,

  Jesus is purer;

  He makes our sorrowing spirit sing.

  I sang every stanza except the last one, in which I rejoined the choir, but not before I saw Miss Berkland wipe her eyes with a handkerchief. Afterward, she took me to lunch at the Bittersweet Café. We ordered egg salad sandwiches and lemonade.

  “Your vocal notes were absolutely perfect, Lorraine. But you also have a sensitive soul. That comes through in your voice every time you sing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I heard this wasn’t your only recent venue,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  I sucked in a breath, wondering what she’d heard. “It wasn’t planned, I assure you.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m happy you had the opportunity.” She leaned forward. “And I heard you were fantastic.”

  “I guess I won’t be singing any solos from now on, since I’m not continuing with school, but perhaps when Scotty graduates next year I can help with the children’s choir again.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve been trying to start a city choir for some time now. You’ll be our star member.”

  I sighed and looked down at the napkin on my lap.

  Miss Berkland reached across the table and patted my hand. “And who knows? When they build the new Surf, perhaps you’ll be singing there, too.”

  I nodded, even as I knew that it would never come to pass, just as I knew I wouldn’t finish college. Soon I would be Mrs. Scotty Bishop with a bouquet of red roses in my hands. This was the way it was supposed to be. This was what I’d chosen.

  *

  When the school year ended I hugged Bernice and we promised to write, then I boarded the bus to Mason City. There was still much to be done before the wedding. I had invitations to send out, and had promised to help Mom make batches of dainty pink and green mints that we would store in the freezer until the big day arrived. I welcomed the busyness. It helped to keep the doubts at bay.

  But coming home opened a floodgate of memories. I started to have nightmares where I was surrounded by fire, and would wake up thrashing in my bed. A few days after I came home I had a particularly bad dream. I stood at the kitchen sink the next morning, taking deep breaths, fighting panic and an urge to run as I remembered the engulfing flames and how Jens had almost died in that fire. The fact that I’d lost him forever since then.

  I started shaking and crying, my tears dripping down into the cast-iron sink.

  “Lorraine, what’s the matter?”

  I startled at Daddy’s voice behind me and wiped my face before I turned around.

  “It’s nothing, Daddy.”

  “Nothing? This is supposed to be the best time of your life. Those don’t look like happy tears.”

  “Just nerves, I guess.”

  “Nerves, huh? You sure about this marriage?”

  “Of course. I know Scotty will make me happy.”

  Daddy patted a chair at the table. “Sit down, Lorraine.”

  I sat across from him, feeling like a little girl about to be disciplined.

  Daddy leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I don’t want your mother to hear this, and if you ever repeat it to her, I’ll deny having said it. It would just break her heart. That being the case, there’s something you should know.”

  He stopped and I thought perhaps he’d changed his mind. He sniffed and wiped a hand across his nose. He always had dirt under his fingernails, as though this land had become an extension of him, a natural part of his body. “Pete told me he was going to enlist. He asked me for permission, and I gave it to him.”

  “Why would you do that?” I whispered. A gush of anguish swept through me. Why had he let Pete go?

  “I know,” Daddy said, reading my expression. “You think I ought to have made him stay. I think about it all the time, wishing I had that moment back. Wishing I had my son back.” Daddy choked on that last line and coughed. “But he was of age, and I had the sense that he would have left regardless. I didn’t want him going off and thinking that he’d abandoned us. And if I’d made him stay, he would have had to live with seeing his friends go off to fight for our country. Think about Norman, the shame he faced every day because he was 4F. The boy walked around with his deferment papers in his pocket, for crying out loud. Pete would have resented me forever.”

  I knew Mom would have preferred a little resentment rather than losing her son. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because forever is a hell of a long time. Pete made up his mind and did what he had to do, despite the consequences.”

  “I’m not Pete, Daddy.”

  “I know you’re not. Just make sure you’re getting married for the right reasons,” he said softly. “You deserve happiness.”

  I reached over and hugged him. “Thanks, Daddy,” I said, although he still had his head in the sand. Didn’t he realize that Mom would never forgive me if I left Scotty at the altar, and neither would anyone else in town? That it might kill Mom? I thought of her weak, overworked heart, of how she could barely make it up the stairs, and these days often slept on the sofa. I thought of Scotty, of his earnest devotion. I thought of how much Daddy and Mom had suffered with Pete’s death, how this would make up for some of the sadness. My marriage was no longer a matter of choice.

  And now I wondered: had it ever been?

  Forty-six

  1947

  As scheduled, Scotty came home from school the next day. He’d gotten a summer job at the bank and we celebrated with dinner at the Northwestern Steak House in Mason City.

  We gorged ourselves on steak, baked potatoes, and warm rolls, then split a piece of banana cream pie. The restaurant was crowded and the tables practically touched each other. A few people stopped to shake Scotty’s hand, but he wasn’t as well known in Mason City, so we didn’t have many interruptions during our meal.

  Scotty had gotten a fresh haircut and wore a new gray suit that he’d bought for his job. The white cuffs of his shirt rode up his arms and he kept tugging on them.

  “I guess I need longer sleeves,” he said. “Or I need to shrink a few inches.”

  “I heard there’s a new store opening up for big and tall men in Mason City. Once you’ve made some money you can buy a shirt from there.”

  He nodded. “I don’t want you to think I’m an old penny pincher, but we probably won’t be able to go out much after we’re married,” he said. “Not for the first year, anyway.”

  “I’m not marrying you for your money,” I said, squeezing his hand. It felt good to touch him again, to feel the way his large hands covered mine.

  “That’s good,” he laughed, “because I don’t have a lot of money.” Then his voice turned serious. “But it will come, I’m sure of that. I promise I’ll always be able to put food on the table, and God willing, we’ll have a nice house someday for our family.”

  “I know we will. A girl can’t ask for
more than that.”

  Scotty cleared his throat. “You remember a kid from school, Zeke Woods? I ran into him the other day. He’s working with Henkel Construction. He said something about seeing you sing at the Surf last month.”

  My hand became stiff. “I met Stella there. I told you I was there the night it burned down, remember? We talked about it on the phone.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He casually brushed a pie crumb off the tablecloth onto the floor. “But how’d you end up singing with the Jimmy Dorsey band?”

  I felt his eyes on me, and the light cashmere sweater I’d worn over my dress suddenly felt too hot. I gave a casual shrug. “I was in the audience. He asked me. Believe me, it was a complete surprise.”

  “It’s not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Scotty said, his brows furrowing.

  I sipped my water, my eyes focused on my glass, hoping he hadn’t heard anything about Jens. “It was a one-time deal,” I said. “It will never happen again. Besides, there won’t be any dances at the Surf now.”

  “That’s not the point. I mean, I know you sang a solo for your choir at school, but that’s different than a ballroom. And I sort of thought you were done with all that singing stuff.”

  I put the glass down. “Singing stuff?” My voice took on a brittle tone.

  “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I want you to sit around the house all day. I mean, I want you to have interests, Lorraine, and I’m all for you singing in church now and then. I just thought, well, with us getting married, that it would be enough for you.”

  He sounded an awful lot like Bernice—or worse, my mom. I ran my finger along the rim of the glass. Normally I’d have rushed to reassure him, but after spending a year away at college and having a solo part in choir, after singing with Jimmy Dorsey’s band on stage at the Surf Ballroom, after surviving the terrifying ordeal of the fire, I couldn’t just let singing go.

  But Scotty wanted me to. I could hear it in his voice, a desperate quality that needed reassurance from me that life at his side would be enough.

  I tried to smile. “Of course it’s enough.”