Safe Haven (12 page)

Liesl considered this. “No. I am just Liesl.”

The public address system squealed, announcing the start of the day’s program. Director Smart was approaching the podium, and everyone pressed in closer to the makeshift stage. He outlined the day’s schedule—remarks from dignitaries, followed by tours of the shelter’s facilities, and then a social hour for everyone to get better acquainted.

But first he made some announcements: the quarantine was officially lifted, and starting immediately, the residents of the shelter would be allowed special passes so that they could go to town to shop or see a movie or have a meal in one of the local restaurants. Furthermore, the children would be attending the local schools. This announcement was met with applause by the residents and a smattering of audible gasps by the locals.

Director Smart explained that the passes would be valid for six hours a day and residents must return to the shelter by midnight. Furthermore, they could not travel beyond the boundaries of Oswego. As he continued speaking, Ilse could not help thinking that in spite of this loosening of restrictions they were still incarcerated, still under the bonds of authorities with no voice to speak for themselves.

As if she’d been hearing Ilse’s thoughts, Suzanne edged closer and murmured, “The government giveth, and the government taketh away.”

Ilse glanced up at her. She realized that Suzanne looked less like the all-American beauty and more like the cynical journalist—the one in any society charged with challenging and questioning authority. Yes, Suzanne and Gisele together would craft a powerful story—perhaps one that would help the cause of the hundreds of refugees who were now safe, although hardly free.

It was evident to Suzanne that Franz Schneider had his suspicions about her. He was unfailingly courteous but certainly made it clear he had no plans to engage with her on more than a superficial level. For Theo’s sake—and perhaps his wife’s—he would be polite, but he would offer nothing of himself.

Ilse, on the other hand, surprised Suzanne by seeking her out after the tours and introducing her to a woman who wore an expression that seemed to Suzanne to reflect the same sense of cynicism that Suzanne felt about the world in general. She had a regal elegance about her but also a bohemian casualness that drew attention to her. She was wearing a pair of men’s gabardine trousers with a necktie threaded through the belt loops and a crisp cotton, long-sleeved blouse. She had pushed the sleeves up to her elbows and turned the collar up so that it accentuated her long neck. On anyone else in the gathering, the outfit would have come off as pretentious or just sad. On Gisele it was the height of fashion.

“You are French?” Suzanne asked when Ilse left them together while she went to get glasses of lemonade.

Gisele shrugged. “I like to think of myself as a citizen of the world—it comes in especially handy in times like these.”

“Your English is certainly impeccable.”

“As is my German, my Italian, and of course, my French,” Gisele replied with a smile.

Suzanne did not take offense. It had been a stupid thing to say. “Ilse mentioned that you are an actress.”

“Among other pastimes. There is not much opportunity for me to ply my acting craft these days. Although Ivo over there seems determined to create the next great acting troupe right here in Fort Ontario.” She smiled and waved to a man across the way. “I am inclined to join his little band of thespians. It will certainly help to pass the time. And you, Suzanne Randolph? What is it that you do to pass the days of your life?”

“I am—was a reporter for a newspaper in Washington—the capital city of the United States?”

Gisele smiled. “I am aware of the place where your government makes its policies. Of more interest to me is your use of the past tense. Are you no longer a reporter for this newspaper?”

“It’s complicated. I am working as a freelance reporter for now.”

Gisele’s knowing smile lit her face. “You were dismissed?”

It occurred to Suzanne that Ilse was taking her time getting that lemonade for them. And what had happened to Theo? “Yes, but—”

“And this story—our story—will be your salvation?”

“Well, that just sounds desperate,” Suzanne said, trying to laugh.

“Are you good at your craft?”

“Yes. I am quite good,” Suzanne replied.

“Then let’s work together and tell this story. I am not getting any younger, and it is my understanding that your New York theater prefers younger actresses to grace their stages.” She glanced around as if looking for a quieter place for them to go, and her gaze fixed on Theo. “And who is that gorgeous creature coming our way with Ilse?”

Suzanne felt a rush of pure jealousy at the way Gisele was watching Theo as he and Ilse came across the parade ground, carrying glasses of lemonade.

“That’s Theo Bridgewater, Ilse’s nephew. His mother and Franz are sister and brother. They live on a farm in Wisconsin, and Theo is here to try and get the authorities to let Franz, Ilse, and Liesl come back with him.”

By the time she finished this explanation, Theo and Ilse were close enough to hand them the lemonade. “Gisele, this is my nephew Theo Bridgewater,” Ilse said.

“So I have been told,” Gisele replied, offering her hand to Theo as if she expected the man to kiss her ring—if she had been wearing one.

“Gisele is going to help me tell the story of Fort Ontario,” Suzanne explained.

“No. I am going to help you tell the
human
story, Suzanne.” She waved her hand to encompass the crowd around them. “The story of who these people were—and still are. That is the story that will get us the freedom we deserve and long for, don’t you agree, Theo?”

The man was actually blushing. “I’m just a farmer, Miss St. Germaine. Suzanne is the reporter.”
Oh, all of a sudden he’s just a farmer?

Gisele hooked her free arm through Theo’s. “Aren’t you charming,
mon chéri
? But part of this story is also your story, is it not? And so we shall work together, the three of us.”

Somewhere along the way, Suzanne realized that Gisele had taken complete control of the situation. Her smile was radiant and filled with warmth, but her eyes were steely cold, and Suzanne realized that the Frenchwoman had her own agenda when it came to her stay in the Fort Ontario Emergency Relief Shelter. The question was, did Gisele’s agenda match hers?

  CHAPTER 6  

T
heo needed to work. It was obvious that it would be some time before the war ended, and until then it was equally clear that nothing would change the current status of the refugees. But his parents were adamant that he stay in Oswego.

“They need family around them right now,” his mother told him when he pointed out that it was closing in on harvesttime at the farm and he could be of far more help there. “Matthew can help Dad with that.”

There was simply no changing their minds. So Theo began scanning the newspaper’s want ads each morning after breakfast. Down the hall he could hear the click of typing as Suzanne composed another article about the people in the shelter. He noticed that there were times when it seemed as if her fingers flew over the typewriter keys—like a pianist playing a ragtime tune. Other times he would hear a few tentative taps with long pauses between and then complete silence. This was one of those mornings.

This was also the September morning that he saw the ad for fieldworkers to help harvest apples. He’d heard that the crop had been especially abundant this season and orchards around the area were scrambling to get the fruit picked. He pulled a piece of the scrap paper Selma kept on the desk and wrote down the address for the orchard. Then he walked down the hall and knocked on Suzanne’s door. It was probably not the world’s best idea to invite her along on a job interview, but he’d come to realize that he would take any excuse to spend time with her.

When she opened the door he was a little taken aback. Her hair was a jumble of untamed curls haphazardly pinned up and away from her face. She wore no makeup, and she was dressed in a wrinkled blouse and a pair of dungarees that were baggy on her slender frame. The thick, black-rimmed glasses she wore whenever she was working were perched on top of her head.

“Hi. Want to take a ride with me?”

She frowned up at him and rubbed her eyes with the knuckles of one hand. “Kind of working here,” she said, barely concealing her annoyance at the interruption.

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, from the sound of the typing—or the silence of not typing—seems like you might need a break.” He held up the paper where he’d written down the orchard address. She glanced back toward the typewriter and groaned. “I’m stuck,” she admitted.

“So come for a drive in the country with me and get unstuck. I’m going to check out a job.”

“You don’t have a car that I know of,” she reminded him.

“Selma said if I could get that old truck behind the shed to run I could use it whenever I needed to.” He grinned. “Selma likes me.”

“Teacher’s pet,” Suzanne teased. “Okay, when you get that thing running—if I am still here, meaning, if I have not completed this assignment and moved back to Washington—sure, I’ll take a drive in the country with you.”

“Ah, it won’t take that long. I got the thing running a couple of days ago. Just need to pick up some gasoline and we can be on our way.” He checked his wristwatch. “How about you be ready in, say, half an hour?”

She laughed. “Did anyone ever tell you that you should run for office? You certainly have the gift of persuasion.”

“And I ain’t bad-looking, either.” Now where had that come from? He felt his neck and cheeks getting red—a deeper shade than his normal sun-rusted complexion.

“Persuasive and with an ego to match—yep. You are prime material for the world of politics. Go get that excuse for a truck gassed up while I change, and I’ll meet you out back.”

Even after she closed the door, he stood in the hall for a minute grinning. Then he heard Hilda Cutter coming down the stairs, and he slipped out the back door.

The orchard was not that far out of town, and as the rattletrap of a truck bumped and wheezed its way down a dirt road, Theo saw about half a dozen men in identical coveralls standing on wooden ladders propped against apple trees. A few other men were dressed as Theo was in blue jeans and a cotton shirt. And there were a few soldiers.

“Why are some of the men in those coveralls?” Suzanne asked, reading his mind. “Are they from the local jail or prison or something?”

Suddenly Theo realized exactly who these men were. An article in the paper had described Nazi prisoners of war in the area working on farms and in local canning factories. “They’re Germans,” he said. “Prisoners of war.”

“Here?”

Theo shrugged. “Some of them. We saw quite a few of them back in Wisconsin. They get sent wherever they are needed to fill the void left by so many American workers serving overseas.”

He recalled the first day when he had stood outside the fence at the fort, waiting for the refugees to be processed, searching for his aunt and uncle. There had been an incident involving some POWs and the refugees that morning.

He told Suzanne about seeing an American soldier marching a small group of POWs across the crowded parade ground toward the tunnel that led out to Seventh Street and back to town. As they passed by, their murmured conversation caught the attention of some of the refugees, and quickly word spread that these men in coveralls were Nazis. Several of the refugees stopped what they were doing and turned to observe the POWs, and then one of the refugees shouted a taunt mocking the men in coveralls. When the soldier escorting them heard a POW reply with an offensive slur, he glanced around nervously and ordered the POWs to quicken their step. But the taunts and even some laughter followed them, and the air was charged with hatred on both sides.