Dearest Glory,
Merry Christmas!
I’m writing from a narrow cot in the visitors’ barracks of the Algona POW camp. As you can imagine, this room is pretty empty. Tonight, only three beds are full. Well, three and a half. Irene lies snoring on one side of me and Charlie is stretched out on the other, his feet hanging off the edge. They drove me here with plans to drop and go, but the heavy snow changed their minds. I’m glad to have them, and you know, I think they had a good time.
Little Sal is sleeping at the foot of my bed in a soldier’s trunk we converted into a makeshift crib. Charlie kept calling it a manger, which cracked everyone up.
The men here are surprisingly dear. Most are around Toby’s age, but the youngest prisoner is fourteen years old, and the oldest is sixty-five. Hitler must be desperate indeed to draft children and the elderly. Heinrich, the older man, crafted an American army vehicle of scrap wood and canvas. It hung on the tree in the officer’s barracks. Sergeant Freddy gave it to me for Robbie, along with a sculpted angel for Corrine. I’ll ship another package to you as soon as I can. Heinrich carved der Weihnachtsmann (Santa Claus) for Little Sal. The baby blinked his long lashes at the elderly gentleman, and then promptly shoved the sculpture in his mouth.
It’s hard to imagine, but the first time I came to Algona I had no contact with the prisoners at all. I thought that was just fine. I didn’t know if I’d be able to speak with the POWs without my sharp tongue coming out. How could they be so stupid as to follow a madman?
On my start day, Sergeant Freddy met my bus at the gate and walked me through the officers’ club. Those fellas know how to live. The OC has a bar and waiters in formal white dress, and—get this—slot machines! Charlie spotted them at the Christmas party tonight and his eyes glowed brighter than the brass band playing “Blue Skies.” Irene and I steered him toward the bar. We figured it was the safer vice.
Anyway, that first time I reported for duty I sat in a small office and, armed with a cup of coffee and a typewriter, began the translation. Sergeant Freddy had me attack some of the older issues for practice. At first I found some of their writings offensive; using haughty tones, they discussed an immense longing to return to the Fatherland and reveled in their “Germanness.” They complained about what I considered to be minor things in comparison to what I’m sure the American POWs are enduring. But as I read on, I began to realize one thing: these men are happy. Yes, they are working hard (mostly on farms, but also in canning plants and nurseries, and even the hemp plant near Eldora), but they’re getting paid AND enjoying themselves. When not working they hold concerts and boisterous physical competitions. They recite poetry and play organized sports. They make use of the lovely library filled with donated books.
It should have made me angry. Instead, it filled me with the most glorious sense of pride. This is what Sal and Robert fought for, and what Toby and even Roylene continue to defend. This is America. The generosity of spirit, the understanding of human dignity, the concept of allowing our enemies to partake in the bounty of our land, because we are faithful to our promise when we signed the Geneva Conventions and because, quite simply, it’s the right thing to do. These men, our prisoners, see all this and like what they see, believe me.
One sweet boy, his cherry cheeks and golden hair identical to Toby’s, told me he wanted to stay in the States when the war was over. Unsure of whether this was possible, I simply smiled at him and asked, in German, “Won’t you miss your mother?”
“My mother died,” he explained in fairly good English. Then he swept his arm toward the window, at the great fields of northern Iowa. “And now I have a new one,” he added, a note of finality in his voice.
And for the first time I could really see the end of this war, Glory.
Later...can’t sleep...
I was going to save this for another time, but my mind is whirring and I don’t think sleep will come tonight. Strange place, strange noises—and I don’t think it’s Santa Claus pushing his chubby self down the chimney.
I keep assuring myself that every man is tucked in his bed, including the camp, which is now covered by a blanket of snow. Maybe my nerves are still humming from the Christmas party I attended just hours ago. It was one of great cheer. I know we’re in what is essentially a prison, but the men put on the most touching Nativity play (where Little Sal really did lie in a manger), and afterward we were treated to a festive art show. There were prizes, and the competition grew so intense it could’ve heated this entire barracks.
The only problem was most of the men painted the same thing—a family farm. It was impossible to tell if they used memory as a model or if they were simply painting what they’ve been seeing every day working for the local folk. Irene skipped the competition in favor of taking Little Sal to investigate the library, so Charlie and I strolled past the paintings, one after the other, giggling at the prospect of Sergeant Freddy trying to come up with a winner.
As we made our way back to the Officers’ Club, we passed through a door frame hung with mistletoe. I wouldn’t have noticed—who expects to see mistletoe in an all-male POW camp?—but Charlie gently placed his hand on my arm to slow me. He pointed to the hanging leaves and shrugged, then swooped down for his kiss.
I’m not exactly sure why I didn’t stop him. Maybe because underneath the officers’ whiskey, his lips tasted of the honey-rich smoothness of kindness and adoration. When he pulled away he stood close but didn’t touch me. “I’m not saying it has to include me, but you have a future, Rita. It might not feel right to think it, but know inside yourself that it’s there waiting for you.”
We started walking again and my eyes darted around the room, looking for Sal. I was certain he was hiding somewhere in the room, watching us. Of course he wasn’t there, not even his ghost.
I wanted to cry. Did I cross over some great divide? Is the first step in moving on the moment when you can separate the here and now from what was?
I’m crying now, hon. For my husband? For myself? For the sweet babe lying at my feet, who will never feel the comfort of his grandfather’s strong hand holding his?
I’m not sure yet. But then I guess I don’t have to be.
Rita