Sing to Me, Papa

Copyright © 2000 by Patricia McCune Irvine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction based on some actual historic names, characters, places and incidents.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part Two

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part Three

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Also by Patricia McCune Irvine

THE PORT OF NO RETURN

To Suzy Lechner

whose true experiences made this fiction possible

and my many friends and colleaggues

who helped with the myriad details of research

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

The spring day was pure Southern California. A muted breeze had blown away the smog so the sapphire sky was flushed and cleansed and electric above the San Gabriel Mountains, shadows deep in velvet purple.

The day had seized my spirit and expanded my soul. I wanted to shout with the delight I felt, but I couldn’t do that. I’m a quiet person, introspective, timid.

Oh, perhaps not any more—the years bring subtle changes. But I clearly remember being afraid of almost everything when I was a child. Unless, of course, Papa was nearby to protect me. Or Mama was there. Or Franz. Or Sergeant Ruppert. Or Corey. Then I was bold enough.

Papa, especially, was my hero. He was tall and husky with a huge thatch of brown curly hair and a strong, resonant, baritone voice. He loved to sing and tell stories of his boyhood. And I loved to sit beside him or on his lap and listen to his tales and German songs. He always sang in German. Sometimes, Mama and I even sang along with him.

Now, as I thought of Papa, a sigh escaped from deep inside me and Megan glanced over from her position on the grass by the flower bed.

What is it, Grandmama?

Nothing, darling.

Megan returned to her weeding. I stood up to get the kinks out of my muscles and moved over to my yellow wooden garden bench. I admired the roses, both whites and yellows, some each of Crystalline and Graham Thomas and then a few lesser varieties from the supermarket. And the Shasta daisies, white with bright yellow centers and the dainty marguerites that surrounded the modest patch of grass. Everything that bloomed in my garden was either yellow or white.

One of the reasons the new neighbors call me eccentric.

I ran a hand through my short, almost white hair, smiled over the top of Megan’s golden-yellow curls and thought of changes, decades of changes. Not just because of the passing of time, either. Or advances in technology.

Because of Papa.

Megan, sweetheart, come sit with me a moment. I want to tell you about my papa.

Megan pressed her lips together and studied me with her clear blue eyes. She jumped up, finally, brushed off her knees and joined me. But the golden curls swirled as she slowly shook her head.

You don’t want to hear about Papa?

You’ve told me about your papa.

He’s your great-grandfather.

I know. But Grandmama, I’d rather hear about you. About when you were a little girl like me.

You’ve heard most of that before, too. I smiled. Our stories were intertwined, Papa’s and mine. I could not really offer them separately.

Tell me again, Grandmama.

Oh, Megan. Those blue eyes.

I hugged her and she hugged me and I blinked back a few silly tears.

You lived in Chicago, Megan prompted.

Yes. A long time ago. In the nineteen thirties.

Megan wasn’t disturbed nor intimidated nor bored with the passage backward in time. Probably when she was older she’d lose interest, but now she seemed truly enchanted and was eager to continue.

That day, that one terrible day, you were playing with the kids in the neighborhood.

Yes.

And suddenly one of the bigger girls came running down the sidewalk and yelled at you so the whole world could hear.

But Megan stopped and her eyes widened in indecision. I nodded my approval but she couldn’t go on. The scene she was about to describe saddened her and her face bunched up to hide her pain.

You tell the story, Grandmama.

I nodded again and felt my eyes glaze over as my mind slipped back through the years. I began my tale in a sort of trance and by the time my daughter, Martha Victoria, arrived at the end of the week to retrieve Megan, almost the entire story had been told once again, a small portion each day so Megan would always ask for more.

I think we both realized it wasn’t just a simple story of words strung together in tidy sentences. Or of one-time vivid pictures that had faded with each passing year. No. This was our family chronicle. And Megan, ten years old, knew she was part of the legacy.

Anyway, there were just the two of us in the garden. I was aware she felt important and would accept my words whether she understood all of them or not. Of course, I couldn’t tell her certain things—

I knew I was enveloped in the past. Wrapped in an essence invisible to my new neighbors. I was not daunted, but never quite free, either. Not as if I’d dragged the past with me through the years as excess baggage, but more subtle, like an aura that at any unexpected moment might influence my behavior, delicately or secretly. Yet, I could relive any tiny piece of it at will.

Yes, I was eccentric.

Papa had moved to Chicago from his small east German village of Furth im Wald because he could find no work in Germany. The depression and starvation and hopelessness in those years after the first world war, continued relentlessly with no end in sight.

So I found work in America, Papa explained to me in his deep baritone, and I found Marta here. He smiled at both of us and stroked her cheek and patted my head.

And then he told us a story of his lively boyhood days in Furth im Wald in the Bohemian forest. Papa had left his mother in Furth im Wald but vowed one day to return. He promised her he would.

Mama was different. She came from the large city of Stuttgart and didn’t ever want to return to Germany. She loved her new country and wanted to be a part of it. To belong.

Mama’s hair was a thin brown that escaped easily from the bun at the back of her neck. Secretly, I always wished my own hair could have been like Papa’s. But I was Mama over and over: my hair—even in long, thin braids. My pale blue, almost no-color eyes. My wiry body. My uncertainties and self-doubts. My desperate need for Papa. And the necessity to please him. Our shining one.

In her reserved way, Mama was more sophisticated than Papa, but she was dredged in the same Teutonic folkways and maintained her subordinate role.

Even so, sometimes in the evenings, Mama sang duets with Papa, shy in her shaky contralto. Or she watched and smiled and ran her fingers through his brown curls so his song ended in a hug and a laugh. And Mama laughed. And I laughed, too.

Papa was Gerhard Mueller. Mama was Marta. I was their only child, Gretchen, and I felt blissfully secure in our contentment. At least as long as Papa was not far away.

That was our life for eight years in Chicago. Then all our smiles and stories and songs and laughter and happiness abruptly ended for the three of us one day in 1939 when halfway across the world the German army smashed into Poland.

Adolf Hitler is a crazy little man, Mama said that night at dinner. Her voice was strong and cross, not at all her usual soft-spoken self.

Adolf Hitler is giving the German people back their pride, Marta, Papa said, equally as positive. People were cold and hungry and poor and jobless and now they can hold up their heads again.

Mama jumped to her feet and shoved back her chair with such vehemence it crashed to the floor behind her. She left it there and began to clear the table before we’d finished eating our dinner.

What good is pride, Gerhard, if you have no freedom? Mama asked. Her words were cold and her hands trembled. Have you forgotten Austria and Czechoslovakia already?

What was happening? I squeezed my eyes shut as the quarrel ricocheted inside my head. My stomach turned hollow. I’d never, never heard such harsh words between Papa and Mama and I was already eight years old.

Sing to me, Papa!

He welcomed the diversion. What does my pretty little Gretchen want her papa to sing?

Anything. Anything.

I picked up Mama’s chair and then Papa sang:

Tief drin im Boemerwald, da liegtmein Heimatort;

es istgar lang schon her, dass ich von dort bin fort.

And so on, in German.

Deep in the Bohemian Forest lies my home place.

It is already a long time I’ve been away from there.

But the memory remains so strong.

That I never forgot the Boehmerwald.

And the chorus:

It was in Boehmerwald, where my cradle stood,

In the beautiful, green forest.

Oh, Papa. Tief drin im Boehmerwald was his favorite song.

But for the first time I didn’t actually hear him. My attention had stuck with the crazy little man and Mama’s concern for those far away countries. I wondered how she could care so much about Austria and Czechoslovakia and Poland that she’d actually argue with Papa about them. But I was afraid to ask her.

The bitter discussions continued day after day, week after week, for months. Mama grew bolder and Papa angrier. I was desperate to understand, but no explanations ever penetrated their stubborn opinions.

But I did know the awful arguments between Papa and Mama began with Hitler and his invasions.

At first when a quarrel started, I tried to keep Papa singing. I’d run to him.

Papa! I’d say and jump on his lap. His laughter always returned, if only for a little while, and I felt secure again. Sing to me, Papa.

But the songs didn’t last.

Gerhard, if you like it where no one has any freedom, why are you here in Chicago earning money and enjoying your free words?

It never stopped.

But one day, when Papa was still at work, the questions that had been jammed inside me blurted out of my mouth without my even being aware.

Mama, Poland is nowhere near Chicago, is it?

No. It’s nowhere near.

Then, why do you and Papa— I couldn’t finish after all.

I’m afraid for him.

My heart beat clear up in the back of my throat. Afraid? Why? Mama?

"I’m not sure, Herzerl, honey. I just don’t think it’s right. I can’t explain it."

Nobody ever explained anything.

But around the neighborhood in Chicago and at his work, Papa spoke out more and more about the marvels of Germany and the wonderful exploits of Adolf Hitler. Mama stopped arguing with Papa and began to plead.

Gerhard, dear, you must be careful.

Why must I be careful? If this is a free country?

Bitte, Mama said.

Please, I repeated and ran to Papa. Bitte.

But he paid no attention to either of us. Our pleas were brushed aside.

And after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941 and the United States was involved in war, the authorities in Chicago had heard all they were going to from Papa about Adolf Hitler.

My friends stunned me with the news.

One minute we played peacefully together—I think it was hopscotch—and then in the next second my life splintered to pieces, never to be quite mended again.

An older neighbor girl dashed down the sidewalk and screeched so the whole world could hear, Gretchen Mueller, your papa’s in jail! Gretchen Mueller, your papa’s in jail!

After the first shock, the others joined in the chorus with shrill taunts. They were—awful. Your papa’s in jail. They pointed their fingers at me and laughed and repeated the terrifying announcement. Over and over.

My papa was in jail. Our shining one. My hero.

Chapter 2

The seconds seemed hours. I was paralyzed and stood with my feet heavy on the sidewalk. My face burned.

Then, as quickly, I spun around, blind with hurt and anger and my own tears, and raced home.

I clattered up the front steps of our small house and threw myself at Mama who waited for me in the middle of the room. She knew I was coming. Dear Mama.

My papa’s not in jail! He’s not in jail!

I pounded one tightly squeezed fist on Mama’s back and waited for her to tell me I was exactly right.

Instead, she pulled away and peered straight into my eyes and whispered gently. Careful words so I could understand and accept this new difficulty. Adversity, in all its camouflages, she reminded me, could be either the sunshine or the storm, whichever we finally chose to believe and act on.

Maybe. But I suffered too much at the moment to be philosophical and shifted uneasily from fury to petulance to despondency.

"Herzerl, honey, listen to me. Gretchen, your papa—he’s in a men’s camp. It’s a camp."

Then Mama’s breath caught and made a terrible sound. Her eyes filled and she began to cry, too, and we huddled together.

But her quiet words had deafened me. My head filled with echoes of the truth, and it was a long time before I could leave her comforting arms to sit in a chair and confront her with the questions that plagued me.

Mama, why didn’t Papa listen to you? I asked at last. You knew he would go to jail if he didn’t—if he didn’t—

I told you it’s not a jail, Gretchen. Mama’s composure had returned so I found it easier to recapture my own. It’s a camp, she repeated in positive tones, as if it made any difference to me what we called Papa’s place of incarceration.

Why didn’t he listen to you, Mama?

Because he’s stubborn.

I flinched at her curt answer and pressed my hands against my ears.

Mama saw my anguish and was quick to soften. "Herzerl, you know your papa has always been intense about politics."

Yes, I know that.

Well, don’t you see? On the surface, he sings and laughs and tells stories and he’s calm and steady and works hard, but underneath—underneath he—

Mama stopped.

Underneath he what?

Well, Gretchen, underneath he—he boils with passionate beliefs. And sometimes, too many times, they just—explode—out of him.

I was silent a long time before I spoke again. And then my words were barely audible and emerged painfully from a tight, dry throat. I always thought—well, I always thought Papa was— Then I couldn’t go on.

"You loved him, Herzerl. You still do. That hasn’t changed."

But something had changed.

Yet, I vowed to be brave like Mama. To stop blubbering. To gather up the fringes of control. Hope for the sunshine to return.

To speak not as a child.

"Mama, I always thought Papa was—perfect. You know what I mean. Perfect."

I hesitated. When Mama didn’t add anything, I continued in a glib, unconvincing monotone.

That much has changed, I said. Because now I know I was wrong. Papa isn’t perfect. I stiffened as my calm, adult observation jolted through me.

Gretchen—

Now I realize—well, I realize he doesn’t know absolutely everything there is to know. My intellectual acceptance coated the ache in my heart, but tears squeezed through tightly shut eyes and spilled down my cheeks.

And I understood then, as I’m certain Mama did, there is no more devastating revelation than to learn, in a way which cannot be denied, that one’s own dear papa is human and vulnerable—just like everybody else.

I took a few deep breaths and straightened my shoulders again. I studied Mama and felt an unexpected closeness to her. I wondered why I hadn’t realized before how important she was to me. I wondered whether I had hurt her feelings with my special, obvious adoration of Papa.

Maybe Mama was the sunshine.

And as those fresh ideas rippled through me so did another. Back to the child again. Because a tiny part of me, deep inside, clung tenaciously to the hope that tomorrow would be perfect again with my dear, dear papa.

But that kind of tomorrow was not to be. Nor any tomorrows after that. I attended school every day, but no longer mingled with my classmates. Not a one. And I wouldn’t play with the neighborhood children. No more hopscotch on the sidewalk. Or jump rope, either.

Mama found a job and never mentioned what kind of work she did. And I didn’t ask. We lived without laughter and without songs or stories. We lived without our Gerhard Mueller.

The days and nights were all the same—gray, dismal, scary, lonely. One after the other. Week after week. Months and months of them. Mama didn’t complain. I didn’t complain. The whole world was at war. How could we complain? Be brave. Be brave. Remember the sunshine will come again.

When a year had passed it seemed a lifetime. Mama and I had taken the streetcar to visit Papa on three occasions, but they were not successful visits.

Why do you come so seldom? Papa asked. His voice was dull and he spoke in German.

We have no car, Gerhard. I work six days a week—

Everybody works six days a week, Marta.

I know. We’ll try.

But three times was the best we could manage.

So when the authorities—and I never was certain who those authorities actually were—but it was then they told us we could live together as a family, with Papa, if we would agree to move to a camp in Crystal City, Texas, where facilities were located for families such as ours.

You mean other fathers have spoken out too much? I asked Mama later that night before I went to bed. My papa is not the only one?

I guess your papa is not the only one.

Do you want to do it, Mama? Do you want to go to Crystal City, Texas, to be with Papa?

"Yes, Gretchen. But what do you want? I’ll listen to what you say."

Oh, Mama. I was eleven years old and she would listen to me. She was actually interested in my opinion. Pride surged through me and I squared my thin shoulders and for one brief moment brought a smile to my face.

Yes, yes, Mama. I want to go to Crystal City, Texas, to be with Papa.

You have forgiven him, then? For not being—perfect? A smile was on her face and in her voice and we were beginning to be happy once more, Mama and I, just thinking about living with Papa again.

My head bobbed up and down and a grin stretched my cheeks and I threw my arms around Mama and we remained clasped together for the longest time. We were in each other’s arms, but we were both thinking of Papa.

So as soon as the necessary details were taken care of, we moved to the camp in Crystal City, Texas.

I was dizzy with anticipation, but I knew at once Papa was not the same. Our few visits with him through the last year had not prepared me for him in Crystal City. Not just the way he looked. Worse than that. He didn’t sing and he didn’t laugh. With no change as the days progressed.

He worked every day in the camp laundry or the woodwork shop and was paid in red cardboard discs made to look like coins, for use at the camp store.

A sigh quivered through me as I gazed around the camp. No trees. Nothing green at all. Only a cactus patch here and there. Mounted guards circled outside the fence. The sun steamed all the time. Red ants crawled the dirt and spiders made their webs throughout our sparsely furnished duplex. Already, I understood we’d probably never see Chicago again. But then, I guess I didn’t really care about that.

Each morning, I felt the Texas heat early. My clothes were sticky with it and my braided hair was damp at the back of my neck. Every day, I waited a long time in line for my turn at the community shower. I talked to no one. The other people seemed unreal, as if they weren’t there. Phantoms.

One morning, after my shower, I returned for breakfast at our half of the duplex. Many identical duplexes stood side by side and I had to count the buildings to locate our own. I stared out at the flat land, the relentless sun, the guards forever circling and tossed my braids back with a flick of my hand.

Gretchen?

Yes, Mama?

Have you had your shower? Are you ready for breakfast? Your school starts soon. Your friends will be waiting.

Yes, I’m coming.

Mama always said that about my friends. As if I had any. As if I ever wanted any again as long as I lived.

I sat next to Papa at the kitchen table and he patted my head and actually smiled.

I think we won’t be here in this concentration camp much longer, he said.

Papa smiling? I smiled, too.

Gerhard, don’t use that word, Mama said, not smiling at all. This is absolutely not a concentration camp.

I see mounted guards all day long.

It’s an exchange camp, Mama insisted. A relocation center for Germans and Japanese. You know that perfectly well.

Marta—

I mean it. It was your bad tongue that got us here in the first place.

Well, call it what you like, Papa said, because as soon as I can get us to the top of the list, to exchange us for a Jewish family, we’re going back to Germany, to Furth im Wald. So speak German. All the time.

Gerhard!

That’s right, Marta, we’re going back to Furth im Wald.

Papa, no!

Of course, I couldn’t go back because I’d never been to

Papa’s old village. Mama’d never been there, either. But I didn’t say that.

Gretchen, you’ll love Furth im Wald.

"But Papa, aren’t they having a war over there? A really bad war? With bombs bursting all over and people getting killed?

He didn’t answer and I turned to Mama.

/a, she answered, careful to speak in German.

I stared at her. Well, then, wasn’t she going to argue with Papa? Like she did in Chicago? Please, Mama, bitte.

But Mama offered no argument. She spoke with a meekness I’d never seen before. Worse than meekness. Defeat.

Maybe Grandmother Mueller can help us, she said, and I cringed for her with no real understanding of her capitulation.

At that moment, a cockroach scuttled across the floor and slipped between two loose boards. Papa sprang after it. He seized one of the boards with his bare hands and jerked it free.

Marta, get the kerosene! he ordered and Mama scurried after it and I watched, mesmerized.

When all was calm again, I left the kitchen and the duplex that looked like all the others and dragged myself to school.

I tried to keep my thinking under control, but why was Papa the way he was? Until Mama told me, I didn’t know he was boiling inside all the time, ready to explode. I had never known that about him.

Disappointment and the tattered ends of shock billowed through me in warm waves. Perspiration prickled my forehead. Because now I realized another thing: that very same explosive temper wounded Mama much more than it hurt me.

Poor Mama. She’d turned meek so abruptly when she mentioned Grandmother Mueller.

Papa, I knew, was courageous. He didn’t indulge in self-pity when the authorities arrested him. He never grumbled under the black cloud. He met his troubles head-on. But with no caution, just a law unto himself. In his own obstinate way, he felt he was still in command. Well, he truly was in command of Mama and me.

Even in the middle of a monstrous war, with submarine-filled oceans and Europe a mass of battlefields, I realized Papa would somehow get us safely to his village of Furth im Wald, deep in the mountains of Old Bavaria.

Mama knew it, too. But she had lost her private war with him. Now and then her smoldering anger caught fire for a quick moment, but her sagging spirit could not compete for very long.

As I poked my way to school, I actually shivered in the heat. I tried to shut off my mind by watching the mounted guards, but that didn’t help.

School didn’t, either.

My mind churned over so many things I wondered whether I actually could be growing up, not chronologically, of course, but perceptively.

My own personal path to that higher place, that more mature level of existence, had begun a bumpy one. And I was certain the next few years would seldom be smooth or straight or easy. For a moment the nostalgia of my happy early life in Chicago spread through me. But Chicago was over. I would not pine for it. And with a force of my own will I cut off its life supply.

That night, after dinner, Papa was talkative.

Adolf Hitler has been master of all Europe for a long time, he said, proudly, as if the Fuehrer’s successes somehow drifted onto Papa’s own shoulders.

So, even though all of Europe was being bombed by allied planes, we Muellers would be immune, somehow, to harm or misfortune or calamity.

Gerhard, you know—

Now, Marta, Papa said, then turned to me. His voice was strong again, laced with conviction. Gretchen—

/a, Papa.

Don’t you worry. Your mama will be glad once she’s in Furth im Wald. And you will be, too. No more cockroaches or spiders or big red ants. You’ll see. Marta will love the tall trees and gentle hills and the old meandering river—the Warme Pastritz. You’ll skate on it in wintertime and in summer, you’ll swim. And you’ll have friends in Furth im Wald. You’ll see.

No, Papa. No friends. I don’t want any at all. Ever.

Well, you’ll meet your Grandmother Mueller. She’s a fine, strong woman. If she didn’t have room for us, we couldn’t be exchanged. We have a lot to thank her for.

Papa was gentle and persuasive and hypnotic and soon Furth im Wald didn’t seem such a bad place. Infinitely better than this camp at Crystal City, with the heat and all the bugs.

I glanced at Mama. Why was she so unhappy about going to Furth im Wald? Traveling could be fun. Seeing Papa’s village. Meeting Grandmother Mueller. Tremors of anticipation slipped down my back.

Mama, it will be exciting!

Herzerl—

"Bitte, Marta," Papa said.

I watched resignation spread over Mama’s face, saw her shoulders droop. She glanced at me, but her pale eyes had become opaque and I could see nothing in them. No light. No life. No sunshine. Nothing. She spoke in a whisper.

"Go to bed, Herzerl."

And I did, once again my usual, polite, submissive self. Child self.

But I still loved Papa. I could never forget our blissful days in Chicago. Where Gerhard and Marta had loved each other and the three of us had been a family, with Papa singing in his beautiful baritone, or telling lively stories, laughing. A lifetime ago.

Oh, Papa, why did you—oh why—

Chapter 3

Papa went again and again to see the camp authorities about our being exchanged for a Jewish family. He was so desperate to get us to the top of the list. I knew he shouted and begged and pounded his fists on the furniture.

Mama, I wish Papa wouldn’t do that, I said as I set the kitchen table for our lunch one Saturday in July. I stopped with Papa’s knife and fork still in my hand and stood immobile and stiff, my mind not on my chore.

Do what, Herzerl?

You know how he—explodes. You explained that to me.

Yes, I know.

Well, why does he do it?

Mama sighed. So we can get to the top of the exchange list, Gretchen. You know that’s the reason. Mama spoke with tolerant understanding of both Papa’s behavior and of my own.

So he believes we’ll never get to Germany if he doesn’t beat his fists on the table and make a lot of noise? I asked, a bit bewildered by my own criticism.

That’s right, Gretchen. And you see, he’s probably correct. Because they’ll get so tired of seeing him, they’ll—well, they’ll put us right to the top of the list. You must understand what Papa’s doing.

I nodded and finished setting the table as my mind, as much as possible, caught up with Mama’s revelation.

But—

Now what, Herzerl?

Mama, you don’t want to go to Furth im Wald, do you?

No, I don’t.

Neither do I.

Mama inhaled a long thin breath and her face transformed magically with relief and gratitude. She was silent until her elation subsided.

I thought you were looking forward to the mountains and the trees and the meadows and the river and all the beauty Gerhard told us about, She said at last.

Sometimes.

And meeting your Grandmother Mueller.

Sometimes. But most of the time I’m—I’m afraid of the war.

My terrible admission, considering the rest of the world was very brave, released some of my fear into the space between Mama and me.

She put a gentle hand on my arm.

Gerhard says there is nothing for us to fear, she said.

I squinted up at her. Don’t you remember? Papa doesn’t know all there is to know about everything. Remember, I learned that recently.

This time, Gretchen, you’d better hope your papa is right.

Our discussion ended then and I gathered up the tiny wooden doll furniture Papa had made for me in the woodwork shop and sat on the ground in front of the duplex and waited for him to come home for lunch. I arranged and rearranged the little leather-cushioned chairs on the dirt. I watched the mounted guards surreptitiously as they watched me. And I wondered whether Papa would ever be able to convince the authorities to move us up the list.

Already, we’d waited months. An eternity of limbo. Thoughts thrashed in my head, but I still could not solidify my true feelings about Papa’s longed-for move. My indecision remained constant—if such a condition is possible—and I sat on the dirt with my troublesome thoughts until I felt the sting of a big red ant on my ankle. Then I jumped up, brushed off my cotton dress, gathered up the miniature pieces of furniture and ran inside.

And so we continued to wait through the sticky summer months, past fall, until the early nips of December.

I longed for snow, but I knew Papa had only one wish that totally filled his thinking moments. He had no other concerns. Just get us to Furth im Wald.

And poor Mama cared for nothing. Her resignation was absolute. And so hurtful to me sometimes I could hardly look at her. Especially when the camp at Crystal City became unbearable and Furth im Wald seemed a lovely place to live.

Then, one late December afternoon, Papa rushed into the kitchen where Mama and I were preparing dinner. His face was bright red. His eyes glowed.

"We’re going! he shouted, his deep speaking voice pitched higher than I’d ever heard it. We’re going as soon as the papers are ready. We’re going!"

His excitement found my indecision and dissolved it in a wink and then streaked through me until I jumped up and down and ran into his arms. We were going. At last. We were going.

Then, I turned to Mama and saw her forlorn face and drooping shoulders. Our exuberance, Papa’s and mine, could not penetrate her surrender, could not make her one of us again.

"Papa, say something so Mama will want to go. Bitte. Say something to her."

He remained silent, and all I could utter, pleadingly, was, Mama— before my eyes closed and my breathing faltered.

Marta doesn’t want to go to Germany, to Furth im Wald, Papa said finally, and I winced under his heavy tone.

"Herzerl, don’t you understand? Mama’s voice quivered as her submission lifted for one final, hopeful moment. The allied forces are winning the battles of the oceans. They are closing in on Germany—"

Marta!

It’s a fact, Gerhard. Gretchen must know. You cannot keep her ignorant of the truth. She faced me again.

"Herzerl, German cities are being shattered by air attacks."

I froze.

Not in Furth im Wald, Papa said quickly. Furth im Wald is a small village. There is no reason to attack Furth im Wald. None at all.

Hitler’s empire is crumbling, Mama finished, in a last desperate attempt to change Papa’s plans.

I looked to him for reassurance.

Papa stood tall. His voice was still strong. Marta doesn’t want to go, Gretchen, so she’ll say anything to keep us here. Besides, where does she get her information? Who tells her these things at this concentration camp?

Relocation center, Papa. An exchange camp.

And who would believe it, anyway? Papa went right on as if I hadn’t just corrected him.

Me, trying to correct Papa!

"We are going to Germany and that’s final, he said. We’ll talk no more about it. We’ll start packing to be absolutely ready. We can take very little with us. Nothing much but our clothes.

Can I take my doll furniture, Papa?

No, Gretchen, you cannot. You are getting too old for that, anyway.

But you made it especially for me. You made the leather seats from your old Chicago gloves.

I know. I’m sorry. You can’t take it.

No one spoke after that. I was speechless with disappointment over the necessity to relinquish my one personal possession. Mama’s obedience, by her silence, was now secure.

So Papa was still the final word in our house. We complied