Stars Over Clear Lake Page 11

  “They have an armed guard,” Scotty said.

  “You don’t say?” Lance took out a pack of Camels and tapped the end against the table, producing a long cigarette. He played with it between his fingers. “So, what do you think of having Nazis on your farm?”

  “I don’t think about it, to be honest,” I said, not meeting his eyes. “They’re just filling in until the war ends and Pete comes home.”

  “But you must see them now and then,” he persisted. “Any of them try to escape?”

  The thought almost made me laugh. “No. Where are they going to go in the middle of Iowa?”

  He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and flicked a match to light it. Then he sucked a deep puff and let it out slowly. “If I were one of them, stuck in a prison camp away from women, I’d go visit the farmer’s daughter.”

  I felt my cheeks heat up but didn’t look away. I didn’t want to give Lance the satisfaction.

  “It’s giving me chills just talking about those monsters,” Stella said, rubbing her arms. “I’m freezing now.”

  Stella’s words stung. I had chills, too, but they were from Lance’s leering gaze. They weren’t monsters, I wanted to insist. The only monster was sitting across from me.

  Lance and Scotty split the bill. “Let’s go downstairs and I’ll introduce you to Carl Fox, the owner of the Surf,” Lance told Scotty, as though he was trying to impress him. Scotty was the class president, a star athlete, and strikingly handsome. Everyone wanted to be his friend. Why he’d want to be friends with Lance Dugan, though, was beyond my understanding.

  But Lance turned on the charm when he introduced us to Carl Fox, a dark-haired man who’d built the Surf and three other ballrooms around the Midwest. Mr. Fox lived in an apartment in one of the turrets above the Surf with his family.

  “It’s the cat’s pajamas! You’re living in a castle!” Stella said.

  “Well, it does offer a good view of the lake,” he said.

  Mr. Fox found us a prime table next to the dance floor, one that was reserved for prominent guests.

  “We’re right up where the rich folks sit,” Stella said, nudging me. “Did you ever think we’d be sitting here?”

  “It’s not that swell,” I replied, even though I did like sitting closer to the stage. As much as I hated being with Lance, I was always enthralled by the ballroom. The stage was surrounded by palm trees, and murals along the walls depicted ocean waves and sailboats, even a lighthouse!

  The furniture was rattan and a large window to the side of the stage opened up to the lake. Pinpoints of light in the middle of the lake were boats making their way to the Surf.

  Del Courtney and his Orchestra filled the stage, the men dressed in matching black suits and red ties. Their insignia was printed on a big drum. A woman wearing a long black jacket-dress stood in front of them, singing into the microphone. She had a sultry Peggy Lee quality to her voice and I felt jealous watching her. What would it be like to stand up there in a flowing gown and sing with the band? I’d come close to being on that very stage for the Governor’s Ball. But Mom wouldn’t allow it.

  People were already on the dance floor. There was a mix of dancers, but mostly older people. Not many teens could afford the steep ticket prices for Del Courtney, and the few that were present were accompanied by their parents.

  Scotty had a worried look on his face. “I’m not a big dancer,” he told me. “I can manage a waltz but nothing more.”

  “I’ll show you,” I promised. “You’ll be doing the Lindy Hop like Fred Astaire.”

  “Or I’ll be falling on my face like Charlie Chaplin,” Scotty said, not convinced.

  “Don’t worry,” Lance said. “Either way you’ll make an impression.”

  Lance drew a hand through his thin hair and took Stella’s hand. “Let’s show him how it’s done, babe.” Stella was a good dancer and loved to show off. She jumped up and followed Lance out onto the floor.

  We sat for the first few songs, then Scotty’s face lit up when the music turned slow. “I can handle this,” he said, pulling me up. Scotty managed a reasonable waltz, although with his lanky build he towered above me. I looked over at Stella, who had her head on Lance’s shoulder. If I hadn’t gone swimming that day, would Stella be dancing with her head on Scotty’s shoulder right now instead? She was too short, I decided. Her head would be pressed against his chest.

  “I wish we didn’t have to ride back with Lance,” I told Scotty as we danced.

  “Aw, don’t mind him.”

  “Why are you friends with him? He’s such a bully.”

  Scotty shrugged. “I guess he doesn’t bother me much. And his father is a friend of my dad. Mr. Dugan promised to help me find work after college, especially if I do well in basketball. Why is your best friend dating him?”

  I couldn’t imagine what Stella saw in Lance other than his father’s money. But I never imagined that Stella would be a money-grubber. I’d thought she had more class than that.

  At the break Stella grabbed my arm and pulled me to the women’s restroom.

  “That Lance is a wolf on a scooter,” Stella said as she fixed her hair in front of the large mirror. “His hands were everywhere except where they were supposed to be.”

  “Stella, you should have slapped him! You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of behavior.”

  She smeared a thick layer of red lipstick on her lips and stared at me in the mirror. “Don’t be a prude, Lorraine. It’s all part of the game. I let him think he’s got a chance, then shoot him down later.”

  The way she’d been leaning into him made me wonder if she really would shoot him down. “I’d be careful around Lance Dugan. I don’t trust him.”

  Stella laughed. “We town girls can take care of ourselves. You country bumpkins are the ones who need help.”

  On our way out of the bathroom Stella almost bumped into a young man carrying a tray of dirty dishes. He dropped a glass, which clattered and broke on the floor.

  “Watch out, clumsy!” she yelled as she made her way around him.

  I shook my head, wondering at how Stella was changing before my eyes into some kind of spoiled hussy. I stopped and bent down to pick up a piece of glass that had slid over by my foot. I stood to hand it to the worker, meeting his eyes.

  A small gasp escaped my lips. It was Jens.

  Twenty

  1944

  “Jens! What are you doing here?”

  “Washing dishes,” he said, shifting the tray so he didn’t lose another glass. His white apron was stained with coffee and red sauce.

  “Günther said you were practicing for a concert.”

  “Ya, we did play. A good concert. A man from City Chamber asked me to help out here. Later they need saxophone player, and they use me.”

  “You’re going to be playing here tonight?”

  “Yes. Other musician is sick.”

  “Will you be coming back to the farm?”

  He shrugged. “I go where they tell me.” He looked at my dress and nodded. “Pretty dress. You here with boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “I must go work,” he said, busying himself with picking up pieces of broken glass, avoiding my eyes. “Goodbye.”

  “Wait!”

  Jens looked up at me. “What?”

  “I, um, just want to tell you that…”

  “You miss Jens?” he said, a smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

  “Yes, I mean, I miss seeing you every day, and bringing you food, and, uh, tutoring you. By the way, your English is sounding good.”

  “I work hard at it. Soon I will be more skilled in speaking.”

  “You’re already proficient,” I said. “At least, you are in my opinion. And this is a good opportunity for you. I’ve never heard of any, uh, guys like you, getting to play at the Surf Ballroom.”

  “Yes. Very good opportunity.”

  “I’ll finally get to hear you play.”

  He nodded
. “Yes. But I prefer to be at your farm. I miss you,” he said, suddenly more serious.

  A lock of hair fell into his eyes. My hand reached down, but I stopped myself from touching him. He stood, and for a long moment our eyes locked.

  “What are you doing?” Stella’s voice burst out. “I thought you were behind me.”

  I jumped.

  She cast a suspicious glance toward Jens, then saw the mess on the floor and the piece of broken glass in my hand. “Oh, you shouldn’t be doing that, Lorraine. You’ll ruin your dress. Let him pick it up.”

  “Yes. Let me do it,” Jens said quickly. “You go with your friend.”

  I handed him the piece and followed Stella back to the table.

  “Who was he?” she demanded.

  “Just a worker here.”

  “He had an accent.”

  “I think he’s from France,” I lied.

  Stella stopped and tugged on my arm. “That was no French accent. I saw the way you were looking at him. Who is he really?”

  Stella could always tell when I was lying. “He’s one of the POWs who worked on our farm. Please don’t tell anyone,” I said when I saw the distressed look on her face.

  “Why would they have them here?” She peered around the room as though she suspected every worker in the place to be a Nazi.

  “They needed a saxophone player. It’s just for tonight, I think.”

  Stella shook her head. “You shouldn’t be associating with him. People will talk if they find out.”

  “Find out what? That I know him because he worked on our farm? He’s just a boy. Honestly, Stella. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Well, I’m not going to say anything, but I don’t approve of them having German prisoners right under our noses. He could be a spy. He could be planning to blow up the Surf. You ever think of that, Lorraine?”

  I nodded toward the boys waiting at our table. “He’s not. I swear he’s not going to do anything of the sort. Just don’t tell anyone. Especially Lance. Promise?”

  She bit her lower lip for a moment before she finally nodded.

  I pulled her arm. “I can count on you this time?”

  “Of course,” she said, tugging out of my grasp. “He was cute, though, wasn’t he?”

  “Jens?” I shrugged. “I didn’t notice.”

  The band was playing an upbeat swing tune. Lance pulled Stella onto the floor and they attempted the Lindy Hop. Lance could barely bend over and his suit looked like it was going to burst wide open on his full frame. After less than two minutes he collapsed on his chair, red-faced and breathing heavily.

  Scotty laughed and patted him on the back. “Nice try. Maybe next time you’ll make it through a song.”

  “Maybe next time you’ll drop dead,” Lance said between breaths.

  The set included slow tunes and ballads and Scotty and I danced the entire time. Then the bandleader held up his hand. “Who wants to hear a rockin’ number?”

  Everyone shouted and clapped.

  The band started with “Straighten Up and Fly Right,” a King Cole Trio song, and that’s when I saw him. Or rather, I first saw Norman, dressed in his uniform, standing off to the side of the stage. He didn’t have his rifle visible. He could have been a fan for all anyone knew.

  I followed the sound of the saxophone to the stage. There he was, dressed in a black suit and red tie like the other band members onstage. I’d never seen him dressed in anything other than work clothes. His hair was slicked back. Jens stood up and performed a solo, improvising the arrangement with a rhythm I’d never heard before. People cheered and hopped up onto the dance floor.

  “The guy’s got a good beat,” Scotty said.

  I could only stare.

  Scotty wanted to try the fast dance. He was too tall and lanky to do the jitterbug without bumping into people around him, but I gave him an encouraging nod. Mostly I kept my eyes on the stage, on Jens, who had a chance to catch his breath while the other musicians performed. He searched the crowd and his eyes settled on me. I smiled at him and nodded. Then he started playing again.

  Scotty followed my eyes to the stage. “He looks familiar,” he said. “Do you know him?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I’m exhausted. Let’s sit down.” But Scotty continued to stare at Jens. And then I saw Stella watching me.

  I stole quick glances at Jens for the rest of the set. When it was over, he disappeared. We stayed until the last song. Lance drove me home first and Scotty walked me to the back door. We’d almost reached the steps when Scotty drew me around the side of the house, away from view.

  “I’ve been wanting to do this all night.” He leaned down and kissed me, his hands pulling the back of my neck. It was a hard, awkward kiss and his teeth knocked against mine. “I’m about as good at kissing as I am at dancing,” he apologized when I pulled back.

  “No. It was perfect,” I lied.

  “You’re just being nice.”

  “It was my first kiss,” I said, wanting to rub the back of my neck where he’d pulled on it.

  He looked pleased. “I’m so glad I was your first. A pretty girl like you, I thought you’d have lots of boyfriends by now.”

  “Of course not, Scotty. You’re the first boy I’ve ever dated.”

  “This is going to be a great year, Lorraine. I don’t care about all the crowds watching me play basketball; I only care if you’re there. Promise me you’ll make it to my games.”

  “Sure. If I can.”

  He gave me another quick kiss. “It just takes practice,” he said. “I intend to practice a lot. And I’m not referring to basketball.” He smiled and led me to the door.

  I watched him get in the car and waved as they pulled away. I was meant to be Scotty’s girl. We attended the same church, we both had one sibling—Scotty had a younger sister—and we’d known each other since we were kids. He was kind and considerate, and so handsome that the sight of him left me weak in the knees. I was lucky to be Scotty’s girl.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about Jens.

  I went inside. Daddy was still waiting up for me; a copy of the Farmer’s Almanac lay open on his lap.

  “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” I asked.

  “I wanted to make sure you made it home okay. And usually it’s the parents who say that.”

  I wondered if Daddy knew we’d been kissing. “I saw Jens. He was playing the saxophone with the band and working in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll be! You don’t say! Günther said that other prisoners work in processing plants and nurseries, but that’s the first I’ve heard of one playing at the Surf.”

  “I’m sure they don’t advertise it. It was probably just this one time. The regular band member took ill.”

  “How’d he do?”

  “He’s good. Really good. I’ve never heard anyone play like that.”

  “As good as your singing?”

  “Daddy,” I said, embarrassed. “You can’t compare the two.”

  “Günther said they may be shipped out soon.”

  I froze. “Shipped out? Why?”

  “They’re being sent to England. They move the prisoners around, I guess. I could still use their help. I have some late corn to pick.” He paused and looked around. “Don’t tell your mother, but I’m gonna miss those guys.”

  “Even Helmut?”

  “Well, maybe not him so much. But it’s going to be awful quiet around the farm. I guess I got used to them being here.”

  “Me, too,” I squeaked out, then turned to go to my room. My throat was dry and my hands were shaking.

  “So, did you have a good time?” Daddy asked from behind.

  As I walked up the stairs, I could only nod, not wanting him to see the tears in my eyes.

  Twenty-one

  1944

  “A prisoner escaped last night,” Daddy whispered to me the next morning at the kitchen table.

  “Who was it?”

  “Norman didn’t s
ay. Someone dug under five fences and squeezed out. They searched Algona but didn’t find him. Now the FBI and Iowa State Patrol are joining in the search.”

  “You don’t think it’s anyone we know, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Norman would have told me. Where would a POW go? We’re in the middle of the country out here.”

  I shrugged, relieved it wasn’t Jens who’d escaped.

  Daddy let out a small laugh. “They’re tightening security for all the prisoners now. I guess that means Norman will have to start carrying his gun again.”

  As he put on his cap Daddy said, “Don’t tell your mother.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  I remembered Lance’s words about visiting the farmer’s daughter. The words tasted like bitter tea in my mouth.

  *

  Later I found Günther sitting away from the others, reading a local newspaper.

  “I heard Jens play at the Surf Ballroom last night,” I said.

  “He is a gifted musician. But he misses the farm.”

  “It’s not the same without him here,” I said.

  “You have feelings for him.” It was a statement, not a question.

  So he’d noticed. Did they all know? Did Daddy know? I nodded, too afraid to say it out loud. Did my feelings make me a Nazi sympathizer?

  Günther turned a page of the newspaper to the picture of a local boy, Jerry Ashland, who’d died when his ship was sunk by torpedoes. He belonged to our church and was only a year older than Pete. Mom had broken down at the news of his death.

  Günther pointed at the picture. “A German newspaper would have only shown the dead enemy,” he said. “When the war is over, and I believe it will be soon, and the Allies win, much will change in my homeland. The future will be bleak, and my country will need to be rebuilt. I tell only you this, no one else, because it is a dangerous point of view to acknowledge the impending collapse of the Third Reich.”

  He looked over at Helmut, who was eating a piece of fried chicken. Günther lowered his voice. “Many of my fellow prisoners feel the same but do not say anything.” He nodded at Helmut. “Men like him will fall apart when we lose. That is as it should be. Each day during the drive here, he points at a large farmhouse, telling us it will be his when Germany wins the war. But last week we watched films that showed the concentration camps. Some say it is American propaganda, but it fills me with shame.”