When We Meet Again (27 page)

He gestured to a black-and-white photo on the wall, and I leaned in to look. Wooden barracks stood in neat rows, surrounded by raised sidewalks and grassy fields. Another photo showed soldiers marching down a wide road between rows of barracks. “Of course many of the soldiers who passed through were sent out to satellite camps,” Geoff continued. “There was a huge labor shortage during World War II, because so many of our young men were off fighting in Europe and in the Pacific theater. So these young Germans who were suddenly in our country turned out to be very useful. There were more than a dozen locations in Florida that took prisoners from Blanding into smaller camps in the area.”

“Like Camp Belle Creek, down by Lake Okeechobee.”

Geoff nodded. “Exactly. There were camps nearby in Clewiston and Belle Glade too. Between the sugarcane industry, the citrus industry, and the upkeep of the dike that had just been built around Lake Okeechobee, there was plenty down there to keep them busy. But they were in metro areas too. For example, where do you live?”

“Orlando.”

He smiled. “Well, if you’d been here in the 1940s, you could have seen small prison camps right in your city, as well as nearby in Winter Haven and Leesburg. Most of the prisoners in your area worked in the citrus industry.”

I shook my head. “How did I never know about any of this?”

“Many people don’t nowadays. Back in the forties, people in the communities near the camps were aware that there were Germans here, of course. But there wasn’t a ton of newspaper coverage, which I think had something to do with the government not wanting people to panic about having enemy soldiers on our soil. Plus, most of the camps were in largely rural areas, so lots of people in big cities probably had no idea any of this was going on because their daily lives weren’t affected.”

“So what was life like for the prisoners?” I asked. “And would it have been the same here as it was in the satellite camps?”

“The population of the satellite camps was much smaller, of course, so everything would have operated on a much smaller scale. But you might be interested to know that most of the camps operated like small, self-contained societies. Yes, there were guards, but for the most part, the prisoners largely governed themselves. People with higher ranks in the German army were still in charge, in many cases, and there was a lot of pride that came with behaving right.”

I shook my head. It all sounded so strange. “And were many of them Nazis?”

“Frankly, most of the prisoners were just young men who got caught up in something they didn’t really believe in. You didn’t have a choice about whether or not you went to war if you were a young male in Germany. A lot of the prisoners here were actually relieved to not be fighting anymore. Many of them even became so enamored with American life that they applied for visas after the war and eventually immigrated here.”

My heartbeat picked up, and I thought of Peter Dahler. “I know you said you don’t have prisoner records, but would you happen to know if Ralph Gaertner was ever imprisoned in one of Camp Blanding’s satellite camps?”

Geoff’s eyebrows rose. “Ralph Gaertner? The painter?”

I nodded.

“Oh, no, I’m sure I would have heard of it if we’d had a prisoner who went on to become so well known.”

“Oh.” My heart sank a little. “And I’m guessing that the name Peter Dahler doesn’t ring a bell either? Or a prisoner with the last name Maus?”

“No, but again, I don’t have access to most of the records. That said, I might be able to give you something better. There’s a man named Werner Vogt who lives in a retirement home down in Boca Raton. He’s a great supporter of the museum; he was a prisoner at Camp Blanding during the war, and if my memory is correct, I believe he was also in Belle Creek for a brief time. If you’re right about this Peter Dahler being imprisoned there, he might remember him. Would you like his address?”

I nodded, smiling. This could be the best lead I’d had so far. “Do you have a number for him too?”

He shook his head. “He’s in his nineties, and his hearing loss is pretty severe. He doesn’t speak on the phone anymore, but you can either write him a letter, or you can just take a chance and show up at his door. He loves having visitors, and since he doesn’t drive and he doesn’t have any family nearby, you’re practically guaranteed to find him at home.”

I took the address he’d jotted down. “Thank you so much. I’ll try him tomorrow.”

Geoff nodded. “Great. Good luck, then. Tell him I sent you.”

As I walked back out into the sunshine, a strange sense of peace settled over me. It was possible that my grandfather had once been in this very same place, had once looked up and seen these same trees, this same view of the Florida sky. Was he still out there somewhere? It was impossible to know, but for the first time since my search had begun, I really believed I might be on a path that would lead to him. Werner Vogt must have known him. And if that was the case, then perhaps I was only a day away from finally understanding the mysteries of my family’s past.

I had just gotten home from Camp Blanding that night and was loading the dishwasher when my cell phone rang. I dried my hands and glanced at the caller ID, my heart skipping a little as I noticed the unfamiliar number with a 404 area code.
Atlanta.
I held my breath for a ring, but as I exhaled, I forced myself to stay calm. It was most likely a telemarketer, or perhaps a call from the gallery we’d visited in Atlanta a couple days earlier.

When I answered, I was greeted with silence at first. “Hello?” I said again.

I heard a masculine throat clearing, followed by a voice I knew well. “Hey, Emily,” Nick said, just the way he used to. It was enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I dropped the dish towel I’d been holding and leaned hard against the kitchen counter. “Nick?”

“Yeah.” He was quiet for a second, and I closed my eyes, trying to soak it all in. I couldn’t believe he was on the other end of the line, after all these years. “Look, Emily, I’m sorry I asked you to leave,” he finally said. “I needed some time to digest what you’d said.”

“Nick, you don’t owe me an apology. Not at all. I’m the one who should be apologizing, a million times over.”

“I know. But I also have the feeling that you’ve been beating yourself up about this for years.” He still sounded distant and detached, but there was a warmth to his voice that hadn’t been there a few days ago.

“Yeah,” I said. “But that doesn’t make it okay.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Nick took a deep breath. “I want to know everything, Emily. Will you tell me about her? About Catherine?”

And so I did. I told him about how she’d been a healthy seven pounds and three ounces, despite arriving three weeks early. How her eyes and the shape of her mouth had made her look just like Nick, how her narrow nose had reminded me of my mother, how she had even looked a little like my dad in her facial expressions when she tried to look around. I told him about those first few minutes of holding her, how her skin was so soft and pale, her fingers and toes so tiny. And I told him about the emptiness I’d felt, the complete certainty that I’d made a mistake, after the nurse came to take her away. “Every day since then, Nick, I’ve wondered about her and worried about her. She’s in every moment of my life. I never knew I could love someone like that.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time, but I could still hear him breathing. He was still there, still with me. I knew he was processing my words. “She really looked like me?”

“So much,” I whispered.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Em?”

“I was so scared that you’d hate me. I thought you’d leave me.”

He exhaled. “I never would have left you, Em.”

“I know that now.” And I realized as I said the words that I meant them. Nick
wouldn’t
have left. He wasn’t that type of guy. I had made a choice and it had changed the entire way our lives would have turned out. “I thought I was doing what was best for her and for you,” I said finally. “I know that sounds stupid to say now. But having a baby at eighteen would have changed your life, Nick. And maybe we wouldn’t have been good parents to her. I know I was a complete disaster. I wasn’t equipped to handle a baby. I . . . I wasn’t sure if you were either, and I didn’t want to put that weight on your shoulders. I didn’t want us to be like my parents. I had watched them grow to hate each other, and I couldn’t stand thinking of that happening to me and you.”

“And you didn’t believe that men stayed,” he added softly.

My eyes filled with tears as I thought of how my father had hurt me so deeply by vanishing and how I’d grown up hearing Grandma Margaret’s stories of being abandoned too. “I didn’t believe men stayed,” I repeated, my voice hollow.

Nick sighed. “Maybe she never belonged with us. Maybe you were right to give her up for adoption. But I deserved a say in that decision.”

“I know. Of course I know. What I did to you, Nick . . . It is and probably always will be the greatest regret of my life.”

He didn’t say anything, but the strangled noise he made sounded like a muffled sob. It made me feel even worse than I already did. “Everything was so hazy when the nurse gave her to me,” I continued after a moment. “I’d had all those pain medications during delivery, and I was out of it. But, Nick, when I looked at her, at our daughter, it was like you were right there with me. I could see you in her. I don’t think I’d ever loved anyone as much as I did in that moment. I loved Catherine so powerfully that it hurt, but I loved you too. Seeing you in her eyes—” I paused, my voice trailing off. I took a deep breath. “The thing is, Nick, I loved you more in that moment than I ever could have fathomed.”

“Emily,” Nick said, his voice heavy. I waited, but he didn’t say anything else.

“I loved you,” I whispered into the silence. “No matter how angry you are at me, please believe that.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I felt like a fool.

“How can I believe that, Emily?” he asked finally, his voice breaking. “How can you love someone and just walk away the way you did?”

I was crying now, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Because I was ashamed. And I thought that by carrying all the weight on my shoulders, I was saving you some pain.”

I missed him terribly. Seeing him in Atlanta had awoken something dormant in me. But I had to remind myself that for him, I was in the past, not the present. He had a whole life that didn’t include me.

“You didn’t save me any pain,” he said. “I had to deal with losing
you,
Emily. You have no idea what that was like.”

“Yes, I do. I had to deal with losing you too.”

“But that was your choice. Not mine.” He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his tone was stiffer, more formal. “Anyhow, I’m sorry. I didn’t call to get angry with you.”

“Why
did
you call?”

“I don’t know.” Nick sighed. “I don’t know. But . . . but I have to go. I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

I nodded, although I knew he couldn’t see me, but I was crying too hard to say anything in reply. After a moment, the line went dead. He was gone, and as I put down the phone, I felt suddenly exhausted.

Three hours later, I was staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about Nick and Catherine and all the mistakes I’d made when my phone dinged with a text message. It was from the same 404 number Nick had called from before.
I forgive you,
it said.

Thank you,
I wrote back, but he didn’t reply again. Perhaps there was nothing else to say at all. We had completed our arc. I had told him everything, and he had granted the forgiveness I knew I didn’t deserve.

I put the phone down and closed my eyes. It was time to move on.

1950–1963

T
he Statue of Liberty appeared on the distant horizon, and Maus pulled Peter up to the top deck of the ship so that they could both see her beautiful face as they sailed into New York Harbor. “We have finally arrived, my friend!” Maus exclaimed, hugging Peter.

“We’re home,” Peter murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from the copper woman towering more than ninety meters above the water, welcoming them to the United States. He thought fleetingly of Otto, of how this had been his dream too.
After the war, you and I will be great ambassadors for Germany.
Otto’s voice echoed in his head.

This journey was different from the last one they’d taken across the ocean, for this time, both men had their freedom. When they landed on American soil, they could go anywhere they pleased—north to Boston, west to Los Angeles, south to the Carolinas. But Peter only had one goal in mind.
Belle Creek.
Was it really possible that in a matter of days, he might reunite with Margaret and finally look upon the face of his own child?

“You have to prepare yourself for the worst, my friend,” Maus reminded Peter, watching his face closely as they approached the dock. “Margaret may not be here anymore. You have to be ready to live a life in America without her, if it comes to that.”

“Of course,” Peter said, turning away. He didn’t want Maus to see his expression, for he knew that the truth was written all over his face—he would never stop searching for Margaret as long as there was a chance she was alive.

Five days later, after taking the bus with Maus to Atlanta, where they met with Harold’s widow to thank her profusely for her efforts on their behalf, Peter departed alone for Belle Creek. He promised to return to Atlanta when he could, but Maus had no interest in moving farther south, and Peter knew that if he found Margaret, he would stay wherever she was.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when Peter finally arrived back in the town where he’d once been a prisoner, after switching buses to get to Clewiston, hitching a ride to the edge of town, and walking the rest of the way to Margaret’s home on foot. His heart pounded as he made his way up the dirt lane to the house he’d seen a thousand times in his dreams. The walls and roof looked more weathered and faded than he remembered, and the garden out back looked overgrown, as if farming there had ceased. The fear that had been nibbling at Peter’s heart for years swelled huge and ominous. He couldn’t imagine Margaret letting the farm fail like this unless something was terribly wrong.