Safe Haven (17 page)

“Good advice,” Suzanne replied, sitting on the hall bench to pull on her boots. “I thought maybe I could talk to Theo’s aunt and uncle.” In Suzanne’s mind the Schneiders were more likely to give her the human details of the story while Gisele St. Germaine’s take on the suicide would be far more political.

Selma shrugged. “Might be a place to start.”

But when Suzanne reached the shelter and trudged up the path to the row of white barracks that were barely distinguishable from the mounds of snow that surrounded them, she had second thoughts. She had no way of knowing if Ilse and Franz had even known the woman. Nearly a thousand people lived in this place, and as with any community it was impossible for them to know everyone. Also, she should have let Ilse and Franz know she was coming. Of course, the only telephone in the entire compound was in Joseph Smart’s office, and in this weather it was unlikely that he would have been thrilled to try and get a message to Theo’s relatives. On top of that, darkness came early on these gray overcast days, the path was slippery, and the wind off the lake cut right through her coat so that she wrapped her arms around her body as if trying to prevent the heat from escaping.

She looked up, blinking against the sting of icy snowflakes that had begun falling, and saw someone coming toward her—a woman wearing a silk scarf and dressed in men’s trousers and a man’s belted overcoat. “Gisele?” she called. She could think of no one but the French actress who would be bundled up in men’s clothes and still manage to look completely elegant and feminine.

“Suzanne? What on earth are you doing here?” The two women had come together on the path. “Ah, but Karoline’s death is news, is it not?”

“Yes.” Suzanne had learned some time ago that it was useless to try and pretend with Gisele. The woman was uncanny in her ability to see through to the truth. “I thought I might try and speak with Ilse and Franz.”

“Why? What have they to do with it?”

“I think that Ilse might have been friends with the woman. I remember meeting her once when I was visiting. And the children were there, as well.”

“This is not a good time,” Gisele said. “Tomorrow is the funeral.”

“So soon?”

Gisele shrugged. “It is our way.” The simple statement reminded Suzanne that Gisele—like the dead woman and her family—was Jewish.

“But in this weather?”

“People die in all seasons.” She rearranged her scarf. “Come. It has started to snow for a change,” she said, the sarcasm of her statement obvious. “I’m freezing, and while I cannot promise it will be much warmer in the dining hall, you are welcome to come with me. We can talk there.”

“Thank you. I will.” Suzanne glanced back at the barracks—at the window she knew belonged to Ilse and Franz. A single lamp glowed behind the lace curtains.

Gisele followed her glance. “I told them I would bring back sandwiches. If you like, you can deliver them. It will give you the opportunity to say hello and catch up on news of Theo.”

“I … that is …”

Gisele hooked arms with her and started back down the path to the dining hall. “Do not pretend that you are not curious for news of him. You cannot fool the French,
ma chérie
. We practically invented love.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Suzanne replied, and Gisele’s low, throaty laughter echoed across the deserted grounds.

Shortly after Theo returned home to the farm, his father’s friend Jim Sawyer, a local attorney active in party politics, invited Theo and his dad to come with him to a political meeting. Theo went more out of boredom than anything else.

Over the months he had lived in Oswego, he had made daily visits to his uncle and aunt while bureaucrats in Washington wrestled with their fate. He had been there when President Roosevelt’s wife—the popular and influential Eleanor—made her visit, and he recalled how hopes had been raised by her promise to do everything she could to help those who wished to stay in the United States to do so. But nothing had come of that. He was curious to see whether or not news of the refugees had even made it to Wisconsin.

Much of the discussion that evening revolved around the need to find a viable candidate from their district to run for the House of Representatives in the fall. The current congressman from the opposing political party was retiring after serving several terms.

“This is our chance,” Jim Sawyer had told the others. “We need a fresh face, someone not directly connected to the war or to Washington. But the candidate also needs to be someone who knows the system and can figure out how to get things done. Once this war ends, people are going to want to get back to a normal routine and look to the future.”

Others disagreed and thought that their best hope to win the election in the fall would be to put forth a war hero as their candidate or at the very least someone who had served in either Europe or the Pacific. But Jim was adamant—and persuasive.

“We’re moving into a new era, and people are war weary. They don’t want to think about the war. They want to think about the future,” he told the others. “The whole landscape of the world will be forever changed once this thing finally ends. This is the time for new blood, new ideas.”

Theo thought perhaps Jim should be the candidate, and one of the other men suggested that. “I’m too old, and besides, folks know me. We need somebody young who will make voters think about the possibilities of rebuilding their lives after the war.”

“Well, tonight we need to get this mailing out,” one of the others announced, and that ended all discussion of an election that was still almost a year away. They turned their attention to the stacks of papers on the table and began stuffing envelopes, sealing them, and applying postage.

As they worked, one of the men asked Theo’s dad about his brother-in-law. “I understand that Ellie’s brother and his wife and daughter finally made it out of Germany. Will they be coming here to live with you, Paul?”

“Doesn’t look likely,” Theo’s dad replied, and then he explained the terms of the rescue. “Theo knows a lot more than I do about the politics of the thing,” he added. “He was out there with them all last fall.”

The room had gone quiet except for the rhythmic shuffling of paper as the others continued the work, but everyone was looking at Theo, apparently waiting for him to take up the story. So he did.

He tried to give them a clear and thorough account of the situation. He praised Director Smart and Ruth Gruber from the Department of the Interior, recounting in detail how they had fought to make sure the refugees had more than just the essentials. He also talked about the generosity of the charitable organizations, as well as the Nazi POWs enjoying more government support and liberty than those inside Fort Ontario. He concluded with the story of Karoline Bleier’s suicide.

The room went completely still as all work stopped. They all looked at Theo as if waiting for more.

And Theo found that he wanted to tell them more, wanted them to understand the frustration that he felt not only for his aunt and uncle and cousin but for the others as well. He wanted to tell them about the young woman Ilse had told them about in their last telephone call. A mother of two young children who had been through so much and come so close to finally being free to live the life she and her husband had probably thought they would have the day they married.

Finally a man sitting at the far end of the table spoke. “You say the bulk of them are Jews?” The way he said it left little doubt that he thought that explained a lot and was reason enough for the government’s plan to send them back.

Theo thought about Hilda and Hugh and their rampant anti-Semitism, and he had to fight the urge to lash out at the man. He thought about how Suzanne had learned that certain government officials—in some cases entire departments—shared those views. Stan was certainly not alone. In fact, he had a lot of company. But Theo’s father spoke first. “Come on, Stan. In a country built on the idea that all men are created equal, what does it matter if they are Jewish or Methodist like Jim here is or Quaker like my family? They are people who have been persecuted and starved and chained up like animals in those concentration camps—some say they’ve seen even worse. Why else are we fighting the Nazis and their kind if not for the right of all people to live free?”

Stan looked away, and a couple of other people around the table cleared their throats uneasily.

“Besides,” Theo continued, undeterred by the aura of discomfort that had permeated the room, “there are others there as well—Catholics and Protestants—some who are Greek Orthodox. I expect there are more than a few that would not own up to any faith after what they went through over there. The stories they tell—you wouldn’t think such things could be possible in a civilized world.”

“I don’t get it,” another man said as the work resumed. “I mean, the government brings them here and then wants to send them back?”

“It all has something to do with the immigration quotas set following the Great War,” Jim Sawyer explained. “This country could have been overrun with those displaced by that war if those restrictions had not been put in place. It’ll be worse once this thing is over. Our boys and the Brits are blasting most of Western Europe to smithereens. Even folks who have made it without going through what those poor souls in Oswego have had to suffer are going to want out.”

“That makes sense, then. We have to stick to the quotas that are already set,” Stan said.

“Still you scoop up these folks and bring them here …,” another man began.

Stan interrupted him. “Look, Theo told us they signed a paper. They knew what they were getting into. They agreed to go back.”

Theo met the man’s fiery gaze. “The question is, back to what?” he said quietly.

The two women at the table who had accompanied their husbands to help with the mailing and who had not spoken a word both stood and, with smiles that were twitching nervously and too bright, suggested it was time for coffee and cake.

Later that night Theo thought about those women and smiled as he imagined Suzanne and Gisele seated at that table. Now, there were two females who would not have been satisfied with the role of stuffing envelopes and serving the men refreshments in silence. They would not have been able to keep quiet. He wondered what Suzanne was doing now that she was back in Washington. He assumed that she had heard about the suicide, and if he knew her at all she would be fairly itching to return to Oswego and get what she liked to call the story behind the story.

They had each managed to write one letter after parting in the fall, but he wasn’t much of a correspondent and apparently neither was she. The last communication he’d had from her was a postcard wishing him and his family a happy New Year and ending with a promise to write soon.

Downstairs the telephone rang. It was late for anyone to be calling. He heard his father answer and talk for several seconds to the caller, obviously someone he knew well. Then he heard him say, “Okay, I’ll get him,” and start up the stairs.

“Theo?” His dad tapped at his partially open bedroom door then stepped inside. “That’s Jim Sawyer on the phone. He’d like to speak with you.”

“About what?” Theo was already following his father back downstairs.

“He thinks you’d make a good candidate for Congress and wants to know if you’re interested.” His dad started back toward the stairs. “Hey, Theo? This might be the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. I think you can do this, Son.”

Theo’s first thought was that perhaps this was the plan for his life—this was how he could be a part of the change that would have to come with the end of the war. His second was about how disappointed his parents would be when they realized he wasn’t really interested in farming. He hesitated. But his father put all his doubts to rest.

In a few words, Dad told Theo that not only was he well aware of his son’s ambitions but that he gave those dreams his blessing.

  CHAPTER 9