Sofie
Jürgen was sitting in the living room, trying to get Felix to accept a little wooden toy truck. Felix was sitting behind the sofa, peeking out at the truck longingly, but refusing to come out to get it.
There was a knock at the door, and Jürgen sighed and rose to answer it, leaving the truck on the floor. I stayed in the living room with Felix, hiding a laugh as he came out from behind the sofa, scooped the truck up, and immediately took it back into his hiding place.
“He’s your papa,” I said quietly.
“He’s a stranger,” Felix muttered, as he started rolling the truck up and down the back of the sofa.
“Felix, go sit with Gisela, please,” Jürgen murmured from the door, as he returned with another man in tow. I quickly shepherded my son down the hallway to Gisela’s room, then returned to find the guest was sitting opposite Jürgen, his expression solemn. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but something about his stiff posture spoke of authority—maybe even anger or aggression. I felt my heart rate kick up a notch as I carefully took a seat beside Jürgen.
“Can you tell me where you were last night at 2:00 a.m., Mr. Rhodes?” the man said. Jürgen and I shared a bewildered look.
“I was here, of course,” Jürgen said blankly. “Asleep.”
“Does she speak English?” the man asked Jürgen, looking at me.
“I do,” I said abruptly. I cleared my throat, then said, “I’m Sofie Rhodes. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Detective Johnson,” he said. I recognized that name. This was the policeman Jürgen spoke to on the phone the day someone graffitied our street. “Can you confirm that your husband was asleep in your bed last night, Mrs. Rhodes?”
“Of course he was,” I said. A strange, cold chill ran through my body, and a vivid image of a tiny, damp concrete cell flashed before my eyes. I tried to calm myself, reminding myself that American police were not the Gestapo, that Jürgen and I wouldn’t wind up separated and locked up—not ever again. But even if my mind knew the truth, my body did not, and my stomach was churning violently. I could see the terror in Jürgen’s eyes. I knew some part of him was back there too.
“Did you visit the Miller home last night?”
“Calvin Miller?” Jürgen said, confused. “No, sir. I’ve never been to his home, but I was just at work with him all day.”
“Someone broke into their house last night, apparently looking for his wife. Are you telling me that wasn’t you?”
“Of course it wasn’t me!” Jürgen exclaimed. “Why would I break into my boss’s house, then go to work the next day as if nothing happened? That’s insanity.”
“The intruder had a German accent, Mr. Rhodes. And seemed to be looking for Mrs. Miller. I understand you—” his gaze moved to me “—and Mrs. Miller had an altercation last weekend.”
“It wasn’t an altercation,” I said, my voice small as I stared at the carpet, unable to meet the detective’s gaze. “It was a disagreement. I’m very sorry this has happened to them, but it had nothing to do with us.”
The officer folded up his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. He stood, and Jürgen did the same. The two men stared at one another, both standing tall.
“I’m sure you know by now that this town didn’t ask for you to come here.”
“I appreciate that,” Jürgen said calmly. “But your government did. We are committed to being good citizens and to contributing something to your nation. I want no trouble from you or from the Millers, Detective Johnson. You have my word on that.”
“Frankly, Mr. Rhodes, the words of a Nazi don’t mean much to me. That’s what the graffiti in front of your street said, right?” He dropped his voice, his tone dark as he repeated the word. “Nazi?” Jürgen opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it.
“I was not at the Miller household last night, sir,” Jürgen repeated steadily. “I have no problem with Mrs. Miller, nor does my wife. I work very closely with Calvin Miller. His family has had no trouble from me, and they’ll have no trouble from me.”
“You should know, Mr. Rhodes—if there’s one thing the boys at the station agree on, it’s that if there’s a chance to throw one of you in our cell, we’re taking it.”
After the detective left, Jürgen and I sat on the sofa, side by side.
“What on earth is going on?” I asked him uneasily.
“I don’t know. And I don’t know what to do.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I saw Calvin in the lab early this morning. He seemed a bit weary, but he didn’t say anything about this.” Jürgen squeezed his eyes closed. “Things have been a little tense since the party.”
“I’m sorry,” I said weakly.
“No, no.” Jürgen waved a vaguely dismissive hand in my direction. “I know you wouldn’t have spoken without provocation. It’s just...you know how men can be about their wives. He’s protective of her, as he should be, and so knowing you two had that disagreement... I suppose things have been tender between us. I figured it was for the best that we just got on with work instead of trying to hash it out. But now—how am I going to talk to him about this?”
“I think this must be his wife’s doing,” I whispered. Jürgen frowned. “She made it pretty clear she doesn’t want us here. Maybe she’s just trying to cause trouble for us. Calvin might not even know.”
“So...do I talk to him about it tomorrow?”
I shrugged.
“To what end? So he goes home and argues with his wife?”
Jürgen nodded slowly.
“He has a lot of influence, Sofie,” he murmured, closing his eyes briefly. “I really cannot afford to get on Calvin Miller’s bad side. His recommendation will make or break my citizenship application one day.”
We woke up the next morning to find graffiti had been painted on our street again. Bright red letters, over the black paint from last time, all across the entrance to the street. It was already dry by the time Klaus walked out his front door to go to work and noticed it. He came to let us know.
“Lucky I took Detective Johnson’s advice and bought the paint in bulk,” Jürgen sighed.
“This is ridiculous,” Klaus muttered, glancing at the paint resentfully. Other families were coming to their doors now, but the women quickly shepherded their children back inside after they saw the paint. There was a brief meeting between the German men after that, most of them already dressed for work as Jürgen was.
I watched through the window as they stood on the street and stared at the paint. What were they thinking? The truth was, many of these men were members of the Nazi party. Did they feel shame at the reminder, or just frustration at the inconvenience? The answer was there in the slumped shoulders and downturned mouths.
After a few minutes, Jürgen returned to the house, already unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are we going to do?” I asked him. He shrugged sadly.
“There isn’t much we can do if the police aren’t interested in helping us. We thought about a roster of men to watch the street and try to catch the perpetrator, but there seems little point—what would we do with them once we did? The men are in agreement that the best strategy is to paint over it and hope the culprit gets bored of the game.”
I stood on the porch and watched as Jürgen got to work, carefully rolling paint over the words on the street. The events of the previous night, and now this, left me unsettled and confused. I was trying to keep perspective, reminding myself I’d expected a transition period where things might be uncomfortable—but then a man rounded the corner into our street, on the sidewalk opposite our house. I’d seen him before, on that first day as we arrived from the bus station. Maybe he had to pass through our street as he walked to and from work.
The man stopped a dozen or so feet from where Jürgen was painting over the graffiti. Jürgen looked up at him and offered a nod in greeting, which the man did not return. He just stared at the road for a long moment, his face twisted into a smirk. Then the stranger continued casually on his way.
I waited until he was well out of earshot before I walked down the porch stairs and onto the front path. As I approached Jürgen, he turned back to me and shrugged.
“I thought being in a neighborhood with the other German families would be for the best, but it seems there are some downsides to everyone knowing which street we all live on.”
“Yes, I’d say there are some downsides,” I muttered. “I saw that man the first day we arrived and he was no less hostile then.”
“It will get better. This is still new for everyone. The town will adjust to our presence here in time.”
“I hope so,” I said softly, extending my hand. Jürgen took it and squeezed it gently. “And this time, at least we’re together through the struggle.”