The War Outside

by Monica Hesse

  I think it will be Heidi, but it’s not; it’s my father, pushing open the door, waving when he sees me.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask immediately, walking over to the entrance. He was supposed to be home with my mother until I came for lunch.

  “The patient is sleeping,” he says. “She was reading a sentence out loud and then her head was on her chest.”

  “Oh.” I look back toward the counter, where the girls are pretending not to listen in. “Should I tell them we don’t want the cake after all?”

  He shakes his head. “No, get it. Actually, I was thinking you and I could eat here and let your mother have the hour to sleep. Or at the mess hall if you prefer, but it’s cow tongue today.”

  We order more Apfelkuchen, and when the Pfeffernüsse come out of the oven, my father insists we get those, too. They’re too soft; they should have been allowed to cool, but the pepper and molasses are the right kind of spicy.

  “Mrs. Fischer is a wizard,” he says to Lena when she brings them to our table. “Please pass our compliments.”

  “She said this is the last batch for a while. No more molasses in prison camps.”

  My muscles tense and I wait for my father to get angry, but instead he laughs and tells her she’d better bring us extra, then.

  “You seem happy,” I say cautiously.

  “I’m having lunch with my daughter. Doesn’t it make you happy?”

  I can’t remember the last time I didn’t worry about my father getting upset about something. I can barely remember the last time we sat together like this, just the two of us, and had an easy conversation. It’s been months. It’s been eleven months and twelve days, when we repaired a rotted board in the barn and he told me he had a feeling it was going to be a girl, a sister, but not to say anything to Mutti. The next day the FBI came.

  “The lake was in Germany,” he says, when we are both on our second piece of cake.

  “What?”

  “Earlier. When you were talking about the Lammey boys seeing you in the lake.”

  “Earlier, when Mutti was in the hospital?” I say. It’s been two weeks since that conversation. He must have swimming on the brain because everyone does.

  “You said you were afraid the Lammey boys were going to see you practicing in your underthings. But the Lammey boys weren’t there. You learned how to swim in Fasaneriesee, the lake by your grandparents’ house, when we took you back to meet them.”

  I didn’t remember that. I barely have any memories of Germany. My parents hadn’t planned on taking me so young, but Vati’s father got sick and they wanted him to see me before he died.

  My father reaches into his pocket and fumbles around before pulling out a folded handkerchief. He slides it across the table and nods for me to open it. Inside is a delicate golden bar with a blue porcelain bloom: a cornflower, the national flower of Germany.

  “It was my mother’s brooch. Your mother and I were going to give it to you for your birthday, but we decided not to wait.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Put it on,” he encourages me, fastening it for me under the collar of my dress. “You look lovely.”

  “I look the same; it’s just a pin.” My face reddens. “I don’t mean it’s just a pin. I mean…”

  “I’m very proud of you, Margot. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. But I have never heard you complain.”

  “It’s all right,” I mumble. “I know it’s not forever.”

  “I wanted to give you something that reminded you that you’re not from here. This is where you are right now. But it’s not who you are.”

  My face burns from the compliment, which is exactly what I needed after earlier today when the people at the Union Store thought that was exactly who I am. “I know it’s not forever,” I repeat. “And I know things will all be okay when we go home. Mr. Lammey will realize that he can’t lease our land to someone else. He’ll—”

  My father drops his head, looking down at the table. His face has darkened.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He looks up again and tries to smile. “We don’t need to talk about it now.”

  “You heard back, didn’t you?” My stomach falls. “He’s already leased the land.”

  My father reaches across the little table in the middle of the bakery and puts his hand over mine.

  “The house isn’t there anymore, Margot,” he says quietly.

  In the background, Lena is arranging trays of bread by the register. The metal scrapes as she slides each one onto its shelf.

  “What do you mean, the house is not there anymore? You mean someone else is living there right now.”

  “When Mr. Lammey wrote back, he told me he’d heard noises in the middle of the night. Someone had painted swastikas on the barn and burned the house to the ground.”

  I am still having trouble understanding what my father is telling me.

  Gone. All gone. The books I couldn’t fit in my suitcase. The radio we were told wouldn’t be allowed. The flames must have been huge and smoky. The last room my father finished before he was taken was the bedroom that was going to belong to the baby my father thought was going to be a girl. Some of the wood was still green. That room doesn’t exist anymore. That baby doesn’t exist anymore.

  “Who did it?” I whisper. “Did they catch them?”

  In a small town like Fort Dodge, we know almost everyone.

  “Margot,” my father says. From the sound of his voice, it’s not the first time he’s said my name. I look up. “I wasn’t going to tell you, at least not like this. I didn’t think there was a need for you to know yet. Are you okay? It will be okay.”

  He leans over the table, over the crumbs of cookies. He is calm. Too calm. I don’t know how he is so calm; he is never that way.

  Lena is pretending not to listen, but I know she is. Finally, she comes over, shifting her weight back and forth. I want to be angry with her for spying, but when I look up, she is bashful and embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Do you want anything else, or can I close the bakery? It’s just—I only work here on my lunch hour to fill in for Mrs. Fischer while she’s on her break, but she said I could leave to get to the swimming pool.”

  I push my chair back with enough force that the table rocks on its legs. Lena steadies it, and then my father catches me, by the hand. I wave my other hand to show them that I’m fine, this is all fine.

  “Remember, none of this has to do with you,” he tells me. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “Is this why you gave me the pin?” I ask. Was my grandmother’s brooch a reward meant to soften the fact that our house is gone?

  My family needs that house to have something to go back to. We need to have something to go back to so that we can have something to look forward to. We need to have something to look forward to so we don’t lose our minds and we can all stay together.

  “No,” Vati says. “That was because I’m proud of who you’ve been. And it was an apology for how difficult I have made things for you and your mother recently. I haven’t been thinking straight, but I am going to take care of our family, and it is all going to be okay.”

  “What do you mean it’s all going to be okay? How can you say that?”

  “When I first learned, I was as upset as you are,” Vati says. “But I’ve had time to think. I have a plan. You don’t need to worry anymore. Do you see how I’m not worrying? You should hurry or you’ll miss the pool opening. You love swimming.”

  I love swimming. It will be fine. He is wrapping up the cake and the leftover Pfeffernüsse for me to run home to my mother. Eight Pfeffernüsse. Nine. It will be fine. I am trying to keep Crystal City in its box.

  ELEVEN

  MARGOT

  THE FEDERAL HIGH YELL SQUAD IS GOING TO DO CHEERS. THE football team will also be there, in uniform. Haruko says this is ridiculous, that the football players are wearing their uniforms only to justify the fact that they have uniforms whe
n they’ll never play any real games. She says this theatrically, after I get back from dropping off the tea next to my sleeping mother. She says it to some of the other girls, but I can tell it’s me she is trying to make laugh. Not because of what happened with my father, she doesn’t know about that. Because of what happened earlier, with the tea.

  We’re walking together now. The whole school, both elementary and upper levels, for the first glimpse any of us have had of the pool with water in it.

  There’s already a crowd of adults waiting when the students arrive. Most of the camp has come out for this, either carrying bath towels or in their nicest clothes for the official opening ceremony. A length of ribbon has been tied between two posts at the pool’s entry; platters of food are being laid out, and a photographer takes pictures of all the littlest kids lined up in their bathing suits. German and Japanese women together are arranging stacks of plates. A young German mother admires the cups that an older Japanese woman has brought to lay out with a bowl of punch. I’ve never seen committees from both groups working on something. This is the only holiday the camp has ever had to celebrate together.

  The pool is big and round, black like a lake. Wooden diving platforms float in the middle; a rope divides the shallow from the deep end. The water is circled by a concrete deck where people can lay out their towels.

  “Look,” Haruko says to Chieko and to her sister, Toshiko. She points to a sign on one of the fence posts. Next month they’re offering lifeguard training for detainees.

  “I wonder who will guard the pool until then?” Toshiko says.

  “Probably him.” Haruko points to a skinny dark-haired lifeguard. A camp guard, stripped of his rifle and wearing red swimming trunks instead.

  My house is gone, but my father says it’s going to be all right.

  Mr. Mercer says he has two announcements. First: A field trip outside the fence has been arranged for tomorrow, for the upper-level students of the federal school. A special Friday treat. Miss Goodwin smiles. She must have arranged it. And second: Tonight’s evening roll call is canceled so we can enjoy the festivities. He makes a speech about how the detainees who built the pool should be proud of their hard work, and how it will provide a respite from the heat. Before he cuts the ribbon, he signals with his hand, and a small group carrying musical instruments starts to play “When the Saints Go Marching In.” This must have been a compromise. I am sure that some of the camp wanted them to play the American national anthem, and others protested.

  I try to listen to the band. But after a few bars, I hear another song, coming from outside the pool gates but getting closer, competing with the sound of the trombone and trumpets.

  “What in the world—?” Haruko starts to say. For a minute people politely ignore the other noise, until a few walk to the edge of the concrete deck to see what’s going on.

  I shade my eyes: Whatever the noise is, it’s coming from the opposite side of the pool but there’s a glare on the water.

  It’s a small parade of men, marching around the periphery. One of them is holding a flag and waving it. It’s black and white against a red background.

  I know immediately what’s happened. The Bund has won its negotiations, the ones they have been having for weeks. To celebrate the opening of the pool, they have been allowed to display a Nazi swastika. They brought their own song, too. The “Deutschlandlied,” sung by this straggling group. That’s what the noise was. No, wait, I am wrong. The men have sung the first verse of the German national anthem, but instead of the second verse, which is about nice things like music and wine, they are singing about the swastika.

  “This isn’t the real anthem,” I say.

  “What song is it?” Chieko asks, her curiosity winning out over disgust. “What do the words mean?”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to think about the words. I don’t want the work of translating them into English and I don’t want any of my classmates to know how awful they are.

  The camp band that had been playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” has stopped. A few feet away, a woman in a housedress wipes her floury hands on her apron; it’s Mrs. Fischer, come from the bakery to see what the commotion is. To our left, another German woman kneels to whisper something to her little boy. Then she looks over to me with anger in her eyes. She turns back to the parade and, while I watch, she spits in the direction of the marching men, into the dirt.

  I’m grateful for that woman’s spit. It tells me I am not crazy. There’s still right and still wrong. Most of us prisoners know the difference. Frederick Kruse was only elected to his position because the votes were too spread out among the saner candidates. He got a plurality, not a majority. It was a fluke. It wouldn’t happen if we held the election again. Most of us know the difference.

  Suddenly, someone grabs my hand. I know without looking that it’s Haruko. I’ve never felt her hand before this, but in the middle of this crowd of people, in front of everyone, Haruko has reached for my hand and she doesn’t let go. She laces her soft fingers between my bony, knuckly ones and squeezes tightly. Startled, I look over to her. She is staring straight ahead, unblinking, toward the parade. The “Horst Wessel Lied” is loud in the background. And the feeling of her hand is what’s keeping me upright when this song is making me want to sink to the ground.

  We both stand there, our clasped hands hidden by the folds of her pink gingham dress.

  The small parade gets closer and louder, finishing its circle around the swimming pool and turning to march down a street in front of the beer garden. Now that they’re at their closest point to us, I can make out some of the faces. The blond pockmarked man who can fix electric fans. Mrs. Fischer’s potbellied husband, who Mrs. Fischer does not wave to as he passes, who she instead regards with a stony stare.

  I thought Mr. Kruse would be the man waving the flag, but when I spot him at the front, he doesn’t have anything in his hands. His job is to marshal the other walkers, cueing everyone with the next line of the song. As they reach the fourth verse, everyone’s hands raise in a Hitler salute, like I knew they would.

  “What the words mean…” I start to say out loud, to Chieko, but really to Haruko. “The words are telling people to clear the way for the Brownshirts. To cheer for Hitler’s banners, flying all over the streets. Because the banners represent… because they represent…”

  “What do they represent?” Haruko asks.

  As the parade comes almost to us, I can see that it’s the man next to Mr. Kruse who is actually carrying the swastika, on a polished flagpole. And I can also see that man is my father.

  TWELVE

  MARGOT

  WE HAD BROUGHT OUR SWIMMING SUITS TODAY. I PACKED MINE this morning with our oldest bath towel, to make sure I wouldn’t forget it during lunch. Vati watched me do it. Our whole conversation in the bakery, he knew I’d been planning to come here. He must have known he was planning to come, too.

  “What do the banners represent?” Haruko asks again, turning to look at me now. “You started to say—because they represent what?”

  Dimly, I realize Haruko is asking me to finish a sentence it feels like I started a century ago, about the lyrics of the “Horst Wessel Lied.”

  “That’s my father.”

  “Where?”

  She scans the crowd. Not the small crowd of Nazis, but the crowd of regular people who have come for the opening. She doesn’t think my father could be with the other crowd.

  “I have to go.” I can’t let her see me fall apart. She’s still holding my hand. She would never have held my hand to comfort me if she knew which side my father was on.

  “They’ll go away again. Look, they’re already leaving,” she says, pointing to the Nazis, who have finally come to the end of their song and are dispersing. The camp’s musicians haven’t started playing again yet; they’re looking at one another, wondering if they should.

  Chieko noticed Haruko and I are talking; any minute she’ll ask what about.

 
; “I have to go,” I tell Haruko. “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know how I get home. I don’t know if I run fast or slow, because I don’t remember any of the route. One minute I’m standing at the swimming pool. The next I’m standing in front of my house and I’m panting. Panting, so that must mean I ran fast.

  Inside my mother is resting. She starts to sit up to ask me what happened; from our house you would have been able to hear the sound of the march. I cut her off before she can say a word.

  “Did you know? Did you know he was there and he was going to—?”

  “Did I know he was going to what?” Her eyes get sharp and then soft. My mother is so quick at figuring out the meanings between unspoken things. She didn’t know, her expression tells me. But she suspected.

  “We have to go find him.” She struggles to her feet, finding her housecoat to pull on over her dress. “We have to bring him back from—he’s probably at the beer garden. I bet that’s where they would all go.”

  “I’ll go find him. You stay here. I’ll bring him home.”

  “Margot, I’m not going to let you deal with this mess alone.”

  I’d thought my father was calm when he told me about our house burning down. But it wasn’t calm that I saw when he told me he was going to care for our family. It was delusion. The way he planned to fix our burned-down house was to go and march with the Nazis. I haven’t been thinking straight, he said. I have a plan. Why didn’t I notice those were odd things to say? I was so relieved to see him relaxed that I didn’t ask what his plan was.

  More music. My mother and I both hear the German anthem, hummed by my father as he walks up the path. He stops when he sees us in the doorway.

  “So you’re waiting for me,” he says.