As we were cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, Aunt Martha pointed out to Robert, “That Mattie Osgood has designs on the judge. It’s the third casserole she’s brought him in one week. She looks at him as if he hung the moon.”
“Well, would that be so bad?” he asked reasonably. “I sort of hope the judge will find someone. He’s got a lot of living left to do.”
“He wouldn’t be doing much living with that Mattie Osgood.”
“Aunt Martha, don’t tell me you haven’t buried the hatchet from your tiff with Mattie Osgood over that bake sale for hymnals? That was years ago!”
“Oh, I buried the hatchet all right. But I marked the spot.”
I smiled at the two of them. Many conversations carried on like that between the two. Aunt Martha complained, while Robert patiently tried to point her to a better way.
Elisabeth came stomping down the stairs to find Robert. “I need newspapers articles about dat Goddard man.”
“About Robert Goddard? The rocket scientist?” he asked, surprised.
“Danny vants me to send him everyting I can find about dat man.”
Robert raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Not many people know about him.” Robert Goddard, the father of rocketry, had died on August 10th, just a few weeks ago. “Danny must really be interested in rockets.”
“I told you dat. Someday, he is going to build a rocket to travel to da moon.”
Watching this interchange, William said, “Dad, is that possible?”
Aunt Martha gave a snort.
Robert glanced in her direction and frowned. “Hard to imagine, but it might just happen someday.”
“And cows will have five legs,” muttered Aunt Martha.
He ignored her, stood up and walked over to the top of the icebox where today’s newspaper sat. “I think I even noticed something in today’s news about rockets, Elisabeth. There’s a group of German rocket scientists who surrendered to the Americans and were brought to Texas to work for the Army.” He opened the paper up and spread it on the counter, then pulled out a drawer to find scissors.
“Dad, what makes a rocket fly?” asked William.
Robert turned to him, a puzzled look on his face. “I honestly don’t know, son. We’ll have to do some reading on the subject.”
I was relieved I wasn’t included in that assignment.
On a sunny afternoon in late September, William and I came out of the library only to find that Dog had left his post. We hurried to the parsonage to see if he had gone home, but Aunt Martha hadn’t seen him. When I knocked on Robert’s office to see if he had seen Dog, he waved me in, talking on the phone to someone. “Uh, uh, well, thank you, Mrs. Olasky. Someone will be right down to get him. Again, my apologies for the interruption.”
Oh no.
As Robert replaced the receiver, he shook his head. “Dog,” he said. “Problem at school.”
“I’ll go,” I volunteered and hurried out the door.
In Mrs. Olasky’s office lay Dog, tethered to the leg of a heavy table with someone’s necktie. In a chair, Elisabeth sat tall and pleased. Mrs. Olasky, I noticed, did not look quite as pleased.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Olasky. I won’t let Dog wander again.” I grabbed Dog by the neck-tie and motioned to Elisabeth that we should leave. Fast.
Later, as I was finishing up the dinner dishes, I looked out the kitchen window and saw Elisabeth throwing the ball for Dog. A miracle! I went outside to join her.
“You and Dog seemed to have worked out an understanding,” I said, curious.
“Maybe he is not such a bad dog after all,” she answered. After a while, Dog keyed in on a squirrel and, an evil thought in his head, took off to chase it.
I watched Elisabeth watch Dog. “Did something happen to change your mind about him?”
She gave me a wicked grin. “Dat Dog came to school at lunch, yust when dat bad boy stole my lunch and tossed it in da bushes. Dog went in da bushes and brought my lunch back to me. Everybody laughed at dat dumb boy.”
I gazed at Dog with keen admiration. Such a noble canine! How could he have known that the key to Elisabeth’s heart would be food?
“Would you sit with me a few minutes?” I asked her, patting the step next to me.
Robert had encouraged me to tell Elisabeth about my father’s murder, about my work in the Resistance and fleeing the country. Now seemed like an opportune moment. Elisabeth was softer tonight. I told her everything, though I avoided the part about Karl Schneider’s involvement in my father’s death. And when I was done, all that she said was, “Still, you vere not in da camps.”
“No. I wasn’t.”
“You vere lucky. Your God smiled on you.”
“Why do you think He smiled on me?”
“Because you’re only half-Juden. God does not hear dem Juden’s prayers.”
“He hears your prayers.”
“Da time I vas in da camp, God did not hear me. And He didn’t hear da prayers of da people vhen dey cried to Him on da vay to da shower.”
I didn’t know how to respond. The room that was called the shower was actually filled with sprinklers that sprayed toxic fumes on the prisoners, killing them within minutes.
Elisabeth never mentioned her mother, but was it possible that she had seen her deathwalk to the shower? Oh God, I prayed silently and boldly, give me Your wisdom. Give me Your words. “Elisabeth, I believe everyone’s life has purpose and meaning. I believe that every one of those individuals, every single one, who was led to the showers, mattered to God. Their life mattered, and their death mattered. They were significant to God. There’s a verse in the book of Psalms that says ‘Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints’.”
She listened, head bent low. “You sound yust like Danny. He said not to blame God for da camps. He said we must not blame God for man’s…man’s…” she struggled to find the right word.
“Depravity?”
“Ja! Dat’s da vord. Danny uses da big vords. Er ist sehr klug.” He is very smart.
“I can tell. I think he’s right, too. One thing I know, Elisabeth. No one can hide from God; He’s there whether we like it or not, whether we know it or not. Everyone will have a day of accounting before God.”
“Vill your God punish dat Hitler?”
Dog came barreling up with a ball in his mouth, dropping it on my lap. I picked it up, threw it, and wiped my hand on my skirt. “There’s another Bible verse that says people like Hitler are like wandering stars, and that the blackest darkness has been reserved forever. Someday I’ll read to you from the book of Jude. It’s only one chapter long. The entire chapter feels as if it was written with the Nazis in mind. For how God will punish those who give themselves over to evil.”
“Dat blackest darkness is still too good for dat Hitler.”
I heartily agreed. “I wish I had simple answers to give you. All I really know is how God has dealt with me. He has shown me mercy over and over. I know God loves me.”
She looked at me accusingly. “How do you know dat?”
“How do I know that God loves me? He brought you to me. Sometimes I think you’re a miracle, Elisabeth.”
“Vhat do you mean?” she asked, interested. Skeptical, but interested.
“I think God helped you survive in the camp. He brought Danny into your life to give you encouragement. And somehow He connected you to me even though I lived seven thousand miles away. I think, no, I know that God has a special plan for your life.”
She kicked at a tree root sticking out of the ground, quiet for a moment. “I still don’t vant to be Juden no more.”
“Do you not want to be Jewish or do you not want to believe in God?”
She wouldn’t answer that question. But she did toss something at me. Enclosed in a recent letter from Danny was a sealed envelope from Karl Schneider, addressed to me.
My dearest Annika,
I am diligently working to find leads on Friedrich Mueller. Would you be so kind as to write to me about the information that you shared with me back in August? Include as many details as you can remember, especially any people and places he might have associated with. I will not fail you this time. I hold hope in my heart that you have forgiven me.
Sincerely yours, Karl Schneider
My stomach turned inside out as I read it.
“Vhat does he vant?” asked Elisabeth, watching my face. “You look mad.” She scrunched up her face as if she had just stubbed her toe.
I folded it up tightly and put it in my pocket. “He wondered if you were doing well,” I lied.
Lately, memories of Karl came unbidden, like a gusty wind carrying me away to other times and places.
* * * *
The funeral service for my father was held a few days after he had been murdered. Friends from our Lutheran church helped to make arrangements. My father was buried next to my mother. I went through the motions, numb, as if this had happened to someone else and I was just a bystander.
Karl had been so sweet, so attentive to me this week. Throughout the funeral, he had stayed close to my side, watching me with worried eyes. “Are you going to be all right? I need to get back to University to meet with some people about…well…about making some plans.” Karl had won the competition handily after I had forfeited my spot. But neither of us seemed to care. I certainly didn’t.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
Karl wrapped his arms around me. “Life will get good again, you’ll see.”
I felt comforted by his arms, by his presence, but I knew my life would never be the same.
“Where will you be?”
“For now, I’m staying at Diedre’s. I just can’t go back to the house.”
“Maybe we should get married sooner, especially if I’m to travel with…” He pulled back from me with something on his mind to say. “Annika, there were some important people at the competition.”
I smiled sadly. “I know. I’m glad you won. I really am.”
He bit his lip. “Very important.”
I tilted my head at him. “Who was there?”
“The Chancellor.”
I stepped back as if I had just touched a live wire. “Hitler was in the audience?”
Karl nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you know that he was going to be there?” My face must have shown the disgust I felt.
“Lower your voice.” Karl pulled me over to the side and looked around to see if anyone was listening to us. “I had heard a rumor but…you know how that goes.” His eyes scanned the crowd before he whispered, “I was sent word he wants me to play for official government events.”
My blood froze. “You are going to perform for Hitler?”
Karl gazed at me. “It’s just an opportunity, that’s all. Besides, how am I supposed to turn it down? You don’t turn down the Chancellor. I would be sent to the Russian front faster than I could play a C scale.”
My hands clenched into tight fists. “Hitler was the reason my father was murdered.”
Karl’s eyes were on my shoes, not my face. “Annika, you don’t know why he was murdered. It might have just been a break-in. Those stories are becoming common.”
“There was no robbery. Nothing was taken.” My hand slipped in my pocket to touch my father’s wedding ring, the one hidden in the flour jar. “Someone intended to kill him.”
“Maybe it just got out of hand. Maybe your father fought back. I could see him doing that.”
“There was a Star of David pinned to his chest, Karl. Not to his shirt, to his bare chest!”
Karl winced.
Suddenly, I was hit with my first wave of grief. Fighting tears, I asked, “You would really play for Hitler?”
Karl cupped my face with his hands, a conciliatory look on his face. “Darling, these aren’t normal times. We have to do what we have to do. Think about it—if I do this, I can avoid active military duty. That’s what we both want, to be together, yes?” He kissed me tenderly, told me he would call me later, and left.
* * * *
In mid-September, Robert came in to the kitchen while we were eating breakfast, holding the morning newspaper. “Elisabeth—look at this! The first Jewish Miss America!” Bess Myerson from the New York Bronx was chosen to be Miss America for 1945 in Atlantic City, New Jersey.
“Vhat is dat? Vhat is Miss America?” Elisabeth asked, looked puzzled.
“It’s a beauty pageant for young women. They receive scholarships for college, and travel around the country as a public servant. It’s very symbolic that a Jewish woman was chosen, Elisabeth. It shows that our country is becoming more understanding of other races and beliefs.”
Aunt Martha read the headline over his shoulder. “Do you think it’s going to be easy for her, Robert? That poor woman will be mistreated all over America. Look at that one paragraph.” She pointed to it. “They’ve already tried to get her to change her name.”
“But she refused,” Robert said, impressed. “I think she’s up for the job.”
“I thot dat America liked da Juden. I thot it vas yust da Nazis who hated da Juden,” Elisabeth asked.
“Well, ahem, well,” stammered Robert. “There are many people in America who still have ignorant ideas.”
Elisabeth peered at him thoughtfully. “Like dat Mr. Koops.”
“Exactly,” Robert answered.
Elisabeth cut out pictures of Bess Myerson and taped them onto her mirror in her bedroom. As I was putting away her laundry one day, I told her that if Bess Myerson came to Arizona, we would try to meet her.
She played with her hair, flipping it behind her ear. “I tink dat someday I will be da Miss America.”
“What a good idea,” I said, sitting down on her bed. “But you’ll need two things.”
“Vhat?”
“First, you’ll need to become a citizen of the United States.”
“How do I do dat?”
I really didn’t know. I came into the United States illegally, and then I married Robert, so I had stumbled onto a shortcut. “We’ll have to ask Judge Pryor.”
“So vhat is da next ting?”
“You’ll need a talent.”
“Like vat?”
“Hmm, well…didn’t Bess Myerson play the piano in the pageant?” I rose to leave without saying another word.
The next afternoon, William and I were coming back from the library. Aunt Martha was at the market. As I drew close to the kitchen door, I heard Elisabeth playing the piano. I leaned against the door jam; the sound took my breath away. I motioned to William to go throw the ball for Dog while I listened. We went unnoticed until William threw Dog’s ball so high it got stuck in a bush and Dog barked at it. I heard Elisabeth slam the lid of the piano shut and scurry up the stairs. I went over to the bush, retrieved Dog’s ball and said crossly, “Dog, you cut short the concert.” But inwardly, I breathed, Thank you, Lord, for letting me hear her play.
The next day, the milkman stopped at the kitchen door to chat with Aunt Martha. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, as he handed her two milk bottles. “Almost every day I’ve been getting complaints that people ain’t getting my milk! A different house each time. And I know for a fact that I’ve delivered it.”
Robert and I exchanged a concerned look. Could Elisabeth still be “organizing?” I shook my head. No, no, it was impossible.
One morning in mid-October, I stretched out in bed and waited for the now familiar baby kicks to begin. After the first nudge or two, I got up, threw on my robe, and headed for the kitchen, stopping at the door. There on the floor was a tattered letter from the school that Elisabeth needed, signed and returned. A request for a conference from Mr. Koops.
Oh no. This was no way to start a day.
I dreaded meeting with Mr. Koops. He and Elisabeth were at constant odds. I tried to convince Robert to go in my place, but he had a meeting with the Elders. When the appointed time arrived, I sat on a child-sized chair. Mr. Koops sat authoritatively at his desk. I felt small.
“Well, Mrs. Gordon,” he started with his customary scowl, “things are about as I expected them to be. Maybe even worse. Elisabeth is nearly failing my class. The work is too difficult for her. She has trouble keeping up.”
“She’s still mastering English, Mr. Koops. Look at how much progress she has made in just a few months.”
He ignored my remark. “And she antagonizes her schoolmates.”
“How so?”
“For example, she taught Peter Harwood to say ‘Ich bin ein dumkopf.’ She told him it was a very, very, very bad word. So, of course, he taught all the other boys to repeat it.”
I had to bite my lower lip, hard, to keep from smiling. Unfortunately, as usual, I didn’t conceal it very well.
“I know what that phrase means, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Well, Peter Harwood was hardly a scholar.
“And there are other concerns about her judgment. She’s become friends with another child who doesn’t fit in.”
“Everyone deserves to have a friend, Mr. Koops. Everyone.” I tried to mask my annoyance. I really did. Robert had given me a lecture about holding my tongue with Mr. Koops. He pointed out that losing my temper with Mr. Koops would only make things harder for Elisabeth.
“Yes, well, you know what they say.”
“No, Mr. Koops. What do they say?”
“Peas in a pod.”
I looked at him as if he was speaking another language.
“I meant that trouble finds trouble.”
“Who is this friend?”
“Tanya Myers.”
I hadn’t heard anything about Tanya from Elisabeth, but that was no surprise. She didn’t volunteer information, only her sour opinions about the shortcomings of Copper Springs. “I’m not concerned, Mr. Koops.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “The Reverend might be. His aunt certainly would be.”
How patronizing! How pious! “So, you said Elisabeth is passing your class.”
“I said nearly failing.”
“That sounds like passing to me.” I had heard all I needed to hear from Mr. Koops. I stood up. “Please excuse me. There’s another teacher whom I should meet in a few minutes.”
I went over to Miss Howard’s room and waited, leaning against the wall, until her conference had finished. She looked surprised when she saw me but asked me to sit down. “I don’t have another conference scheduled today,” she said, pointing to an adult-sized chair for me to sit in.
A minor but symbolic act, it seemed. We were seated eye-to-eye.
I took a quick breath. “You didn’t request a conference for Elisabeth.”
“No need.”
Trying not to sound too eager, I asked, “So is Elisabeth doing well in your class? Or well enough?”
“She’s coming along very well. She’s really trying. To be truthful, she’s not up to grade level, but I love her effort.”
I bit my lip. “May I ask you about Tanya Myers?”
“I know who she is but I don’t have her in any of my classes.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
She hesitated. “Just that it can’t be easy for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, her father was killed in the war. Her mother cleans houses to make ends meet. I think they live with a grandmother. But it can’t be easy being the only Negro child in this school.”
Now I understood Mr. Koops’ comments. The nerve of that man! And to make an assumption that Robert wouldn’t want Elisabeth to be friends with Tanya. He obviously didn’t know Robert.
I stood, silently suggesting that God strike Mr. Koops with a bolt of lightning. Then I informed Him that I was going to go tell that man exactly what is wrong with him! Instantly, I felt an inner prompting to do the opposite: to keep my mouth closed. Frustrated, and now annoyed with God as well as Mr. Koops, I went over to the window for a moment, trying to calm down. As I turned back to Miss Howard, I noticed an old piano in the corner. “Do you play?”
“No. I wish I did. The students only have music twice a week and we need to practice the songs for the Christmas musical. We really need the practice,” she emphasized.
“Elisabeth plays beautifully,” I said sadly, “but I don’t think she’s ready.” I had only heard her play that one time. As far as I know, she hadn’t touched the piano since.
Miss Howard came over to stand near me by the window. “Mrs. Gordon, there’s one thing you should know about Mr. Koops. His younger brother was in the army. He was held as a POW by the Germans and executed as he tried to escape.”
The fire passed out of me, as fast as it came. Oh Lord. For once, I listened to you before I spoke. “No. I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me.”
Reluctantly, I stopped by Mr. Koops’ room. He was seated at his desk, correcting papers. He looked irritated when he saw me at the door.
“I just found out about your brother. I’m sorry.”
He visibly tensed up and his eyes narrowed into slits. “My brother was killed because of trying to save those Jews.”
“It wasn’t Elisabeth’s fault,” I said slowly, pointedly.
He turned his attention back to his papers on his desk.
“But I am very sorry about your brother, Mr. Koops.” I turned quietly and left.
On the way home, I stopped at Rosita’s restaurant. It was just a small restaurant, only eight tables, but she was a wonderful cook and it was nearly always full, at least on weekends. I found her in the kitchen, skillfully rolling small balls of dough to make corn tortillas. “Where are Esmeralda and Juan?” I asked her.
“Esmeralda took him home for a good nap. That boy is making me loco en el coco.” She pointed to her head and made a stirring motion. “Crazy. Here. Sit. I get you some dinner.”
I sat on a little chair, watching her bustle efficiently in the kitchen. She placed a plate in front of me with enchiladas, rice and beans. “Double portions. You are eating for two, you know.”
Gratefully, I started eating. Lately, I was always hungry. But I had another reason to stop by. “Rosita, has Esmeralda ever said how Elisabeth seems to be settling in to school?”
She stopped rolling the dough and looked up at me, startled. “Oh yes. She is doing great. Just great. Lots of friends. Everyone loves her.” She nodded with exaggeration.
Rosita was a lovable, big-hearted, sweet-to-the-core person, but she was a terrible liar.