Stars Over Clear Lake Page 10

  In English class I sat next to Betty Lou, who was the richest girl in town. Unlike Lance, she didn’t flaunt her money. But she always had nicely manicured nails and matching outfits. Her older brother was a combat pilot who had enlisted the day after Pearl Harbor was attacked. As I slid into my desk, I noticed her once-beautiful nails had been bitten to the quick.

  Our new English teacher was a young woman recently graduated from college and completely inept at handling boys like Lance Dugan. I counted three times that Miss Sterling cried in class, and my copy of The Grapes of Wrath had drawings in the margins made by a previous student of Hitler being smashed by Superman.

  When the bus drove up to my house after school, I saw Mom waiting at the end of the driveway. She still wore her white apron over her housedress, her hair in a messy bun. She never met the bus. There could be only one reason.

  Pete.

  The voices of the other students on the half-empty bus faded into a chilling buzz. The wheels squeaked to a stop, and I suddenly didn’t want to get off. If I stayed here in this seat, everything would remain the same.

  The driver looked at me in the mirror and I forced myself to stand. My throat immediately went dry and my heart pounded as I walked up the aisle of the bus, my books propped against my chest. When I stepped off, Mom took one look at me and shook her head.

  “Pete’s fine,” she reassured me.

  “Oh,” I choked out. “I thought.…” I couldn’t say it out loud. It was too horrid a thought.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Mom said. “I just wanted to give you this.”

  She put her hand in her apron and pulled out a letter addressed to me.

  “It’s from Pete.”

  Finally. A letter from Pete. Addressed to me! Mom had received two other letters from Pete, but this was my first. I looked at Mom’s anxious face. “You could have opened it.”

  “I certainly thought about it. But it’s addressed to you, and just seeing his handwriting let me know he’s okay. For now.” Her voice gave out at those last words.

  I stared at the familiar handwriting, thinking about the long trip this letter had made all the way from Europe.

  “Open it!” Mom said.

  I normally would have taken it to my room to read in private, but I tore it open right there in the lingering fumes of diesel exhaust and read it out loud.

  Dear Skippy,

  Never thought I’d miss home so much I’d be dreaming of fresh-tilled Iowa dirt and Mom’s meatloaf and my squeaky bed with the broken spring. I even miss you, Skippy. There. I said it. Happy now?

  Letters are slow in getting to us. I just got two of yours today. A letter from home does more for our troop’s morale than ten Betty Grable pin-ups. We take turns reading our letters out loud, except of course for some of the more personal stuff. They all think you’re too smart for your britches, which I knew all along. I mean, you started school when you were four. Mom says it was because you couldn’t stand me being so far ahead of you, but you were smart even then. And I told everyone how you sing better than Vera Lynn, although none of them believe me when I say that. I guess that’s why Dad talks about you doing something besides farm work.

  I didn’t look up at Mom but felt her frown cross the distance between us. She still hadn’t considered that I would be anything but a farm wife, even when Pete bragged about my singing.

  I’m looking out my foxhole right now. Can’t tell you where in case the Germans get hold of our mail. But it’s hilly here like along the Mississippi River and kind of scenic. If I wasn’t stuck in this hole I’d be enjoying the sight of it, real peaceful and quiet, but then the artillery starts and ruins the mood. The Germans got a truckload of another battalion’s mail and Axis Sally tried to stir up anger and discontent over the radio waves by using their letters against them, telling them that their girlfriends were being taken away by the guys at home. They just laughed, though, so the joke’s on them. There are a couple of other Iowa boys in my troop and we reminisce about buttered corn and even fried Spam sandwiches, which, by the way, I had some Spam last week. The other soldiers call it “4-F ham” but to me it’s a little taste of home.

  I’m writing Mom and Dad next but may not make the post before the mail gets shipped out. Tell Mom I’m fine, that is, if she isn’t reading this right now.

  I stopped and looked at Mom and saw the corners of her mouth turn up slightly, then continued reading.

  You have a lot of time on your hands when you’re sitting in a foxhole, and I keep thinking that the last words I said to you were to keep your mitts off my record player. But if anything ever did happen to me, you’re the only one I’d want to have it, even though you’re clumsy and likely to break it. Just to let you know.

  Keep the Blue Star in the window and I’ll be home before you know it. Word is, Hitler is on the run and we’re going to follow him all the way to Germany. Even though I’m seeing the world, when I get back I’ll be more than happy to spend the rest of my days in North Iowa. Well, I gotta go. Keep singing and don’t grow up too fast while I’m gone.

  Love, your big brother, Pete.

  I glanced at the blue star fastened in our front window, barely visible from the road. Mom was wiping her eyes with the back of her hand but quickly stopped when she noticed my gaze on her. We Iowans kept our crying private, limited to our tear-soaked pillows, never out on the gravel road in plain view.

  “Pete’s fine,” she repeated. “He’s alive, and he’s okay.”

  “I know, Mom.” It felt good to hear her say it. Maybe she wouldn’t be so gloomy now.

  We walked down the long driveway littered with leaves from the ash trees in the front. Pete had been gone two months. It made me think of how lonely the holidays would be without him this year. He’d never spent Thanksgiving or Christmas away from home. I’d have to send an extra-special care package to him and hope he received it. Maybe I’d send a can of Spam. But I didn’t want the Germans getting Pete’s Christmas present.

  “Why don’t you take a food basket to your father and show him that letter?” she asked.

  My mood lightened at the thought of seeing Jens. I carried out the basket of food to the cornfield where Daddy and the men were picking corn. When I saw the men crouching over the cornstalks, joking with one another, it struck me how I no longer viewed them as the enemy. They were just people. I knew how Günther wanted to learn more about the US and return to his country and teach philosophy, but that he was afraid to stand against Hitler because of men like Helmut and the Nazi sympathizers at camp. He’d mentioned that three men had reported themselves as anti-Nazi and were transferred to a different camp for their safety. They would have been beaten or forced to commit suicide if they’d stayed.

  I knew that even though Ludwig missed his wife and young daughter, he liked it at the POW camp because no one was shooting at him and he was learning about mechanics from Daddy. Jakob thought the camp conditions were better than the cold-water flats he’d come from in Germany and he was glad the Russians hadn’t captured him. Günther had told me that the camp offered sports, theater, chess games, and even a camp newspaper.

  Helmut wanted freedom and said that American farmers weren’t smart as they wasted too much land with long driveways, but even he seemed less threatening now. He’d learned that his family home had been bombed, that his wife and sons had barely made it out alive, and that his parents had died. Günther said that seeing the cost of war on his homeland had made Helmut question the value of it. Helmut now said “thank you” to me and even smiled on occasion, though he still remained confident in the German army.

  And I knew that Jens was a quiet, thoughtful boy who preferred to play his saxophone rather than fight; who, if we met under different circumstances, would have been the kind of boy Mom might approve of.

  The men had transcended their POW status as Daddy and I got to know them. Daddy had been learning about life in Germany, and often had some story to share at dinner about one of the m
en, although Mom would get up from the table and excuse herself when he started in.

  The letter in my hand, I rushed to Daddy. “This is great,” he said after reading it. He wiped a hand across his eyes, pretending he had a piece of hay in them even though I knew it wasn’t the hay that was making them mist up. “The war will be over soon and he’ll be coming home,” Daddy said. He patted the letter before handing it back.

  The men gathered at the basket, none of them shy now about the midday snack. But someone was missing today.

  “Where’s Jens?” I asked Günther, finding him apart from the others with his food and a book, per his custom.

  “He’s practicing with the band. They’re performing a concert this weekend, very important because some government officials will be attending.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed back the disappointment, trying not to let it show.

  “I’ll tell him you asked about him,” Günther said. “I know it will make him happy.” He gave me a knowing smile.

  “Will he be back next week, then?” I asked.

  Günther shrugged. “We have no way of knowing.”

  “Oh,” I said again. I’d taken it for granted that Jens would be here. And now I was as unprepared as I’d been when Pete had signed up, thinking that things would be the same when clearly so much change had come into our lives.

  Günther took a step closer and spoke in a low voice. “I would like to thank your mother personally for this good food she makes us. Is it possible I can do that when we leave today?”

  Mom didn’t want to even see the POWs. But Günther spoke the best English of them all. Maybe Mom would see that he was a polite man, not the monster she’d created in her head. “Yes, of course. Just knock on the back door when you’re done.”

  My voice held a hopefulness I didn’t really possess.

  Nineteen

  October, 1944

  “You’re going to get us all killed!” Stella kept her head down so the cloud of dust wafting up from the gravel road wouldn’t get in her eyes. She propped a hand on top of her headscarf to protect her perfectly coiffed bun, which teetered to the side.

  Riding in the back of Lance’s red convertible with Scotty made me feel free. The wind whipped my hair and I knew it would take forever to comb it back in place, but I was just glad to be going out, even if Lance was showing off by driving at ridiculous speeds.

  The last two weeks had been depressing, but I’d convinced myself that it was for the best. When I told Mom that Günther wanted to thank her personally, she had gotten a stricken look on her face.

  “He’s not coming inside. He just wants to thank you for the food, Mom,” I had said, convincing her to open the door. Mom finally agreed, but when Günther had expressed his gratitude in his best English, she’d just nodded, then shut the door on him. Mom would never see Günther or any of the men as anything other than the enemy.

  Her reaction made me realize that I had no future with Jens. He was a prisoner, a boy on the wrong side of the war, and nothing could change that. After the war was over he would go back to Germany and he’d find some pretty German girl and forget all about me. I should concentrate on the boyfriend by my side.

  Lance picked us up early so we could eat at Decker’s Hamburger Stand, which was connected to the Surf. Stella wore a tight-fitting blue dress with pink flowers on it. I had on a white blouse and green jumper and my dressy loafers, and had my hair pulled up to the side with a comb.

  “It always reminds me of a castle,” I said, as the turrets of the Surf came into view.

  Lance laughed and adjusted his tie in the mirror. He had on a blue tweed suit with a matching waistcoat. “The Fox family actually lives there. You know what they say, a man’s house is his castle.”

  “Who needs a castle for a home? I’d settle for a nice house on the lake,” Scotty said, shaking his head. He wore a medium-gray wool suit that rode a bit short in the sleeves, as though he’d outgrown it.

  “I don’t,” I replied, and he squeezed my hand.

  “Drive past once so everyone can see me in this swank car,” Stella exclaimed. “I’m so excited!”

  “Hell, it’s just hamburgers,” Lance said.

  “I’m talking about this car. It’s the cat’s meow!” she said. “Who cares what we eat?”

  I felt like Stella in that regard. I didn’t care if we ate at all. Scotty was holding my hand, my fingers barely peeking out of his large palm. This was the night he was finally going to kiss me; I was sure of it.

  We parked down the block and entered the small restaurant. It was crowded since it was a Saturday night and Del Courtney would be performing. There wasn’t an empty table.

  “I know the owner,” Lance said. “Give me a minute.”

  Scotty, Stella, and I waited while Lance pushed his way to the kitchen, his wide frame barely squeezing through the space between the tables.

  A few minutes later he came back with the owner, who led us up the stairs to the rooftop where a handful of tables overlooked the lake. “If you don’t mind dining alfresco, there’s a great view of the lake up here and no wind tonight,” he said. “We seat special patrons up here.”

  Lance nodded his approval. There were only six others seated on the roof.

  Stella shrieked. “It’s fabulous!”

  It was fabulous. We could see the boat taxis from up here, the ones that took people across the lake and ferried them up to local restaurants or the beach. We could see the stone sea wall overlooking City Beach and the fishermen off the distant peninsula to the right.

  “Look at those people walking along the beach,” Stella pointed. “They look like little ants from up here. It’s positively making me dizzy!”

  “Let’s order,” I suggested, before Stella fainted from excitement. We ordered hamburgers and fries and Cokes.

  “Have you heard the band play before?” I asked Scotty, who was taking in the view.

  “No. This is my first time here. Always too busy with sports. Gotta say it’s gol-darn nice. I’m glad we came.” He flashed his million-dollar smile at me, the one that melted the hearts of all the girls at school, and I felt so lucky to be there with him.

  The food arrived and Scotty flexed his arm as he reached for the ketchup, the arm that would play basketball at Iowa next year, the arm we’d all be talking about for years to come because Scotty was the best player to come out of our school. He and Lance talked basketball even though Lance would have died of a heart attack if he’d dribbled a ball down the court. But Lance knew all about college ball just the same.

  “You should reconsider teams, my man,” he said. “Iowa State made the final four at the NCAA conference this year. Why waste your time on a team that won’t take you there?”

  “Aren’t they rivals?” I asked, although I rarely followed basketball. I knew that Iowa State was in Ames and the University of Iowa was in Iowa City. I didn’t plan on attending either school. I was determined to go far away, although that came with the worry that Scotty would forget about me.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I’d probably sit on the bench at Iowa State, at least the first year. Besides, I like the Iowa coach. This is assuming I don’t get drafted.”

  “The war will be over by then,” Lance said with certainty, and I hoped he was right. “Our boys have Hitler cornered like a rat.”

  “Where are you going next year?” Stella asked Lance. Even though Lance spent more time flushing kids’ heads in the toilet than in class, his father had money to keep him out of the draft and send him to college. And since most college-aged boys were off fighting, there were plenty of open spots.

  “Haven’t decided. Out east somewhere. My mom wants an Ivy League school.”

  “How exciting! I’m dating an Ivy League man!”

  Everything was exciting to Stella tonight. Honestly! She’d made it sound as though she didn’t care for him, as though she was using him. But here she was, fawning over Lance like he was the cat’s meow. I knew Stella’s fam
ily wasn’t all that well off, that she had four younger brothers and her dad had been sick and did part-time carpentry work when he was feeling up to it. Stella had confided that her uncle helped them out with money sometimes, that her mother was embarrassed about it. Would she really go out with Lance just because he had money? The thought of dancing with him sent shivers up my back.

  “Well, Dad went to Columbia so he’s leaning that way. But college isn’t for everyone,” Lance said, glancing at me. “It’s a waste of money for girls, if you ask me.”

  I consistently earned top honors at school in my subjects. Did he know my teachers had encouraged me to attend college?

  “Why is it a waste of money?” I asked, glaring back at him.

  “Because girls are only there to find a husband. You can do that at home.”

  “Not every girl wants to find a husband.”

  “All the ones I know do,” Lance said dismissively.

  Scotty squeezed my hand under the table, and I held my tongue.

  We could hear the band warming up below while we ate. I barely touched my food. Although I’d lost my appetite, I was glad to be away from the farm, away from Mom and her endlessly depressing mood. At least Daddy had the farm to keep him occupied. I had to be around Mom more than he did. But I couldn’t complain without looking like an uncaring, selfish brat. Which maybe I was.

  “Is your father caught up with his field work?” Scotty asked.

  “Yes. He’s ahead of schedule, actually. Picking corn now.”

  “Are they doing it?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  “Who are they?” Lance asked, suddenly interested.

  “Germans from the POW camp,” Stella offered. “Her father’s using them while Pete’s gone.” Then she clamped her hand over her mouth and widened her eyes, as if she’d just remembered her promise not to tell.

  “You’ve got Nazis working for you? I’d like to see that!” Lance said with a smirk. I pictured him heckling them, making remarks that would embarrass Daddy and the men.

  I scowled at Lance. “You’re not allowed. They’re under strict supervision.”