Safe Haven (22 page)

“What time is your meeting with Mr. Smart?”

“Two.” She looked up at the clock above the mantel. “And speaking of that, I should get ready.”

“Good luck,” Theo called after her as she left the room.

She felt good about the future. For the first time since the scandal surrounding her story broke, she felt as if she had finally found a story she could follow with certainty—a feel-good piece that could inspire and teach—and this time she wouldn’t have to struggle with fudging facts to make the ending turn out right. This time the ending would be what it would be. The story was the people living in the shelter and the lives that had been stripped from them by war.

This time she would get it right.

The phone in the hall rang, and a minute later Selma tapped at her door. “Call from Washington, Suzanne.”

“Oh, Edwin,” she murmured as she grabbed her coat and pocketbook so she could take the call and still make it for her meeting with Smart, “give up already.”

“Hello,” she said, drawing out the last syllable in a lighthearted tone.

“Suze?”

The voice was male but definitely not Edwin Bonner’s.

“Hello, Gordon,” she said warily. A dozen questions raced to mind—among them,
How did you find me?
She settled for the obvious. “What do you want?”

Ilse was surprised at the depths of loneliness and isolation she felt after Franz died. Of course she had known she would grieve—and for some time—but this was grief on a level unlike any she had ever experienced. She was surrounded by the other residents of the fort—many of them friends who showed concern for her and for Liesl by stopping by unannounced to visit or leaving little tokens of their concern outside the apartment door.

Ilse was touched by their concern, but the reality was that without Franz she felt as if she were only half the person she had been. For Liesl’s sake—and because she knew that it would be what Franz would want her to do—she forced herself to accept the kind invitations extended by these strangers who had once looked on Franz and her with disdain and even outright hatred because of their German heritage. Thankfully it was her constant worry about her child that kept her going.

Liesl had taken to spending long periods of time alone. Rather than going to play with other children in the snow or in the relative warmth of the recreation center, she would sit at the apartment’s kitchen table doing homework or reading.

One late afternoon she had disappeared around suppertime. At first Ilse had believed that Liesl had simply gone ahead of her to the dining hall for the evening meal only to get there and find that no one had seen the child. She and Gisele had searched for her, asking her school friends if they had seen her and walking to the library where she had spent hours helping her father catalog and shelve books. But she was not to be found, and the sun had nearly set. Soon it would be dark.

“Let’s split up,” Gisele suggested. “I’ll go to the theater—perhaps she’s with Ivo and the others. You go to the recreation center.”

With hope fading and images of Karoline Bleier’s frozen body racing through her thoughts, Ilse agreed. As she approached the recreation center, she heard the stumbling notes of a simple waltz played on the old upright piano, and her heart leaped with relief. She tiptoed inside and saw her daughter seated at the piano, staring intently at the keys as she worked out the melody.

The old building was cold, and Liesl was wearing her coat and a pair of old gloves with the tips of the fingers cut off. Unwilling to interrupt Liesl’s practice, she slipped into the hallway and found the narrow stairs that led to the basement and coal bin. She found a small metal bucket and placed some pieces of coal in it. As she climbed the stairs to the entrance, Gisele came through the front door. Ilse motioned for her to be quiet and then nodded toward the closed double doors that led into the recreation hall. Gisele peeked inside and then closed the door.

“She must be freezing,” she whispered.

“I got some coal but I’ll need a match to light it.”

Gisele reached inside the pocket of her gabardine overcoat and produced a box of matches. The one luxury that Gisele allowed herself was smoking. She was rarely without a cigarette whether she was working, sitting at a meal, or visiting with friends.

Together they managed to light the coals, and Gisele held the door open for Ilse to carry the bucket into the hall. “I’ll stop by later,” Gisele whispered. “I’ll get you both something from the dining hall.”

Ilse nodded and crossed the room to where Liesl was still studying the sheet music as she picked out the notes.

“It is so very cold in here,” Ilse said calmly as if the two of them had been having a conversation all along.

Liesl’s fingers missed the keys she wanted and skittered across the keyboard. “Oh, Mama, I am sorry. I lost track of the time and—”

“I was worried.” Ilse held out the bucket. “Here, warm your fingers over these coals.”

Liesl did as she was told.

“So you are serious in your wish to learn to play?”

“For Papa.”

“Then I will teach you.”

Liesl’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know you could play, Mama.”

“I know the notes and how to read music. I am not as gifted as your father was, but I can teach you if that’s what you want.”

For the first time since Franz had died, Ilse saw the sparkle of excitement light their daughter’s eyes. “Oh yes, Mama. Please teach me.” She wriggled her fingers to show Ilse that they were all warmed up and ready.

Ilse laughed. “How can I teach you when I am holding a bucket of hot coals?”

Liesl frowned then glanced around the hall. “If we could hang it somewhere,” she mused.

“Come. We will begin tomorrow when the hall is open and there is heat. I will not be responsible for setting fire to the building.” She wrapped her free arm around Liesl’s shoulders as she held the bucket of coals well away from her body and led her daughter to the door. “Gisele is bringing us some supper.”

“Does she know about this?” Liesl motioned back toward the piano.

“Yes. Why?”

“I want to be really good at playing before anyone knows.”

“There is no shame in learning, Liesl.”

“But I don’t want to fail and disappoint Papa.”

“You could never disappoint your father, and besides, it is in the trying that you will succeed.”

Outside she set the bucket on the frozen ground, and Liesl helped her fill it with snow until the coals were extinguished. “Tomorrow,” Liesl announced, “I will ask if we can borrow this bucket and use the coals during our lessons. I’ll ask Mr. Smart, and I bet he’ll know exactly how we can keep the building safe and still have the warmth.”

She was so much like Franz had been when Ilse first met him. So sure of himself and always finding a solution for any objection or problem she might raise or set forth to him. It occurred to Ilse that it was Liesl’s determination to honor the memory of her father that would in the end be the mother’s salvation.

It was amazing how the sound of her name on Gordon Langford’s lips brought back every good and bad memory she had of their time together. But Suzanne had learned her lesson. She understood that whatever Gordon wanted had nothing to do with her well-being and everything to do with advancing his political career.

“What do you want, Gordon?” she asked again.

He chuckled. “That’s my girl—all business.”

She forced herself to remain silent. She forced herself to swallow the accusations and anger she had wanted to hurl at him for months. Just the sound of his voice brought it all back to her. But she remained silent.

“Hey, dollface,” he said, letting his voice slide into that sultry register that had once sent chills of longing for his kiss up her spine. “It’s me.” He waited then let out a long breath. “Look, I know I really messed things up—for both of us.”

“You could say that. So once more I will ask, what can I do for you this time, Congressman Langford?”

“So that’s the way you’re going to play this? No room for forgiveness in that icy heart of yours?”

She glanced up the stairs and lowered her voice. “This is not a private phone, Gordon, so …”

“Then meet me.”

“You’re here? In Oswego?”

Again the laugh. “Yeah, well, until tomorrow. Like I said, things have been a little rough. I got pulled off the Ways and Means Committee and reassigned to Immigration. I’m up here checking out this business of the suicide.” He cleared his throat. “So meet me at the hotel. Let me buy you dinner.”

This was indeed a step down for him. Suzanne felt a twinge of sympathy.

The clock over the fireplace chimed quarter to two. “I have to go, Gordon. I have an appointment.”

“Meet me for dinner—six o’clock. I really want to talk to you. I really want to explain.”

How many nights had she stared at the water-stained ceiling in her Washington apartment and imagined his call? Those very words?
I really want to explain
.

“All right—six o’clock. And Gordon? This is dinner only.”

“Good to know you haven’t changed, dollface—still handing out rules. See you at six.”

As she walked to the fort for her morning appointment with Joseph Smart, she thought about the book she wanted to write. For reasons she did not fully understand especially because her focus was the community at the shelter, she kept thinking about one of the German prisoners of war that she had attempted to interview that day she’d gone with Theo to the orchard.

The man had been older—in fact, he had reminded her a lot of Franz Schneider. Both men seemed worn down in similar ways. Both were quiet to the point of being withdrawn. Both met strangers with a gaze of open suspicion and wariness. When she had tried to speak with him he had smiled politely and climbed the wooden ladder until the branches of the apple tree obscured his upper body.

Even then she had suspected that this man was different from the other prisoners she observed working in the orchard that day. She would have bet that he was a high-ranking officer. He moved with the posture of someone used to giving direction and orders rather than taking them. But prisoners who were officers were not required to work, and this man had been working as hard as anyone.

Those German POWs were incarcerated on a farm not far from Oswego. Before breakfast, Selma had mentioned that she had seen some of them in town as recently as a few days earlier.

“Where did you see them?” Suzanne had been helping Selma set the table. It was not something required as part of her rent, but she thought it made sense to get on Selma’s good side in case the day came when she had to ask for an extension on paying her bill. That was more of a likelihood than Suzanne cared to admit. She needed a job.

Her meeting with Joseph Smart did not last long. He turned down her request to work even part-time at the shelter. “Conflict of interest,” he’d said.

“How? I no longer work for the newspaper, and—”

“Are you planning to write more stories, Miss Randolph? Or perhaps a book?”

“Maybe.” Her tone had been defensive.

“The residents of Fort Ontario are free to speak with you or not as they wish, but many of these people have been traumatized beyond belief by people in authority.”

“But I have no authority over them,” Suzanne had protested.

“If you are a part of my staff, you may be perceived to have that authority, and I will not impose that on the residents here. They have already been through so much.” He had stood then, signaling the end of their meeting. “I have read your essays from earlier, Miss Randolph. You are a gifted storyteller.”

Storyteller? I am a journalist
.

But instead of protesting, she accepted the director’s handshake and left. Now as she folded a napkin to lay on the dinner table, she wondered if perhaps waiting tables might be an option.

“Have you thought about stopping by the newspaper here in Oswego?” Selma asked as if reading her mind. “I know the editor, and I could put in a good word for you.”

Suzanne had admitted to Selma that her meeting with the shelter director had been disappointing. “I’ll look into it. Thank you.”

She returned to her room. With an hour to go before she was supposed to meet Gordon at the hotel, she sat on the side of the bed and stared out the window, thinking about her book. She had no idea how to go about this. In the fall during the weeks she had spent in Oswego talking to a variety of the shelter residents, she would have thought she had gathered enough material to at least make a start. But her curiosity about the prisoner of war kept intruding. Suddenly she knew the answer.