When We Meet Again (19 page)

“Yes, of course. He’s quite a famous American painter, isn’t he?”

“Right. Is there any way Peter could have been friends with him? Maybe when they were young? Or could they have been in the army together? Gaertner is from Germany too.”

Franz thought about this for a moment. “There was an Otto Gaertner in school with Peter. They were friends, I remember that. But I don’t think he had any brothers. Gaertner isn’t a terribly uncommon name, you see.”

I exchanged looks with my father. “Do you have any idea where we could find this Otto Gaertner?”

“I believe Otto died during the war,” he said. “Of course the parents are long gone too. I think perhaps you have arrived at a dead end, as you Americans say.”

“Not if we go to Atlanta,” my father said.

I turned to him, my stomach doing a little flip. I hadn’t been back to Atlanta since I left at the age of eighteen, a secret daughter in my womb. “Atlanta?”

He nodded. “It’s where the painting came from. And it’s where Ralph Gaertner lived. I think it’s our only logical move at this point. If he was tied to Peter, we might be able to find a family member there who can tell us something.”

“And then you will tell me?” Franz asked. His tone was suddenly desperate, and I was surprised to see tears glistening in his eyes. “You see, I am an old man, and many of my memories have abandoned me. But you
never forget that which you regret. And my greatest shame in life is the role I played in sending Peter out into the cold with no home, no family. It was a terrible thing to do. I have regretted it every day since.” He paused and looked up at the two of us. “But if you are his son, and you are his granddaughter, some piece of my brother lived and returned to Germany. And that warms my heart.”

The thought made me ache. “I’ll let you know if we find anything,” I promised.

“And the painting you mention,” he said after a moment. “I would like to see it someday.”

I dug my iPhone out and pulled up the photo I’d taken. Franz slipped on a pair of reading glasses and studied it for a long time before handing it back to me. “She was beautiful, your grandmother,” he said softly. “I can see why Peter fell in love with her. But my dear, he could not have painted this himself. He just was not an artist.”

I nodded and pocketed my phone, feeling dejected.

“Thank you for visiting,” Franz said, reaching out to shake my father’s hand and then mine. “And now, I must take my rest. Talking of the past makes me feel very tired.”

“Of course,” I said as my father and I stood. We followed Franz toward the door, which he opened for us.

He paused and put a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him, and he held my gaze for a long time. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I am very sorry for the role I played in separating you from your grandfather. He was a good man, and I wish you could have known him.”

“Maybe it’s not too late,” I said. I gave Franz a quick peck on the cheek, and then my father and I headed down the stairs and out into the morning sunlight.

DECEMBER 1947

F
or a month after the end of the war, Peter thought—with an absurd kind of hope—that perhaps he wouldn’t be sent back. There would be a record-keeping error, or Camp Belle Creek would somehow be passed over, its prisoners released by default.

But of course that was foolish, and he knew it. Still, as the days ticked by—and as Peter was moved to a work detail making repairs to the dike around Lake Okeechobee—he allowed himself to dream. He would find a plot of land here! He would build a farmhouse with his own hands! Perhaps he would find a job teaching literature to children in a school!

“
Tagträumer,
” Maus muttered more and more frequently.
Daydreamer.
It was like throwing bricks from a glass house, though. Maus was the biggest daydreamer of all, spending his days doodling pictures of his hometown with a stick in the sand and sketching shapely women on the sides of their barracks with discarded pieces of coal. His head was always in the clouds.

“I am the daydreamer?” Peter asked one day.

“You forget that we are the enemy,” Maus replied tersely. “And now we are the
defeated
enemy. Why would they want us here?”

“Because we have worked hard,” Peter replied firmly. “We have been kind and respectful, and we have fallen in love with their country.”

“Yes, but their country hasn’t fallen in love with us, you see,” Maus grunted.

And though Peter knew that Maus was right, that he was living on borrowed time, he was still hit with a wave of shock when Harold came into the prisoner barracks early one Tuesday at the end of June and gave them the news.

“You will be sent three days from now to a camp in Great Britain,” the guard said, reading from a piece of paper. He looked up. “Pack your things, boys. You’re going home.”

Peter saw Margaret just once more, on the eve of his departure, and it was only because Harold had taken pity on him. “I know you love her, Dahler,” the older man had said gruffly without meeting Peter’s eye. “But for God’s sake, don’t get caught, or I’ll be on the hook for it.” He paused and looked Peter in the eye. “Your intentions are honorable?”

“Oh, yes sir.”

“And she loves you too?”

Peter hesitated. He didn’t want to create any problems for Margaret.

“Son,” Harold said, his voice softening, “I don’t disapprove. And your secret’s safe with me.”

Peter looked up. “Yes, sir. I cannot believe it, but she loves me too.”

Harold nodded. “Then go. Just be back by eleven. My shift ends then, and I can’t protect you after that.”

Peter glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already 8:30 in the evening. The other prisoners were packing, laughing, joking around, sure that they were about to be reunited with the people they loved. They would never notice him gone, except perhaps for Maus. But Maus would keep his secret.

“Thank you, sir,” Peter said. Harold nodded, and without a word, he pointed Peter toward his car. They climbed in and drove in silence to just outside the camp gate. “Go,” Harold said. “And when you return, I suspect you know where the torn corner of fence is located.”

Peter looked at him in surprise, but Harold just smiled. “I was young once too.” He handed Peter his wristwatch, gave him a serious look, and said, “Remember, eleven. Not a moment later.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter got out of the car and shut the door. He leaned in to thank Harold again, but the guard was already pulling away, heading toward town.

Peter slipped into the shadows at the side of the road and hugged them all the way to Margaret’s house, running as fast as his legs would take him. His hours were limited today, and he didn’t know how long it would be until he saw her again. He had to seize every possible moment.

It wasn’t until he was nearly at her house that it occurred to him that her family would still be awake, that it would perhaps be impossible for her to sneak away. He emerged from the sugarcane at the edge of her property, and his heart sank immediately. Of course the windows of her house were ablaze with light. Peter stared from the shadows for a moment, his mind whirling. He couldn’t just walk up to her front door and ask her parents if she could come out, now could he? Nor could he throw pebbles at her window again and risk exposing their relationship. Plus, he had Harold to think about. If Peter was caught roaming through Belle Creek alone, it would be Harold who would answer for it.

No, he would have to think of something else. But he was due back to the camp before eleven, which didn’t give him much time.

While he thought, his feet carried him toward Margaret’s clearing, the one in which he’d held her, kissed her, made love to her. If he could live somewhere for the rest of his life, he decided, it would be there, in the memory of her. Perhaps when he returned to Belle Creek one day, they would buy the land the field sat on, raze the center section, and build a house. It was a dream to hold on to.

He was so deep in thought when he reached the clearing that it didn’t occur to him he wouldn’t be alone. But no sooner had he emerged from the cane than something hit him in the midsection. “Oof!” he grunted, the breath knocked out of him as he doubled over. He was suddenly on high alert. A townsperson had found him out! A police officer was here to arrest him! But when his vision cleared, he saw that there was not a waiting mob in the clearing. It was just Jeremiah, breathing hard, his eyes wide, looking as surprised to see Peter as Peter was to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Jeremiah demanded. He set down the knapsack that he’d slung at Peter and reached out a hand. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Peter shook his head. “No, Jeremiah. I did not mean to startle you.”

“Shouldn’t you be at the prison camp?”

“They’re shipping me to England tomorrow. I had to see Margaret again.”

Jeremiah looked confused. “But she ain’t here.”

“I know. I don’t have much time, and the lights in her house are still on. I don’t know how to get her attention without her family realizing I am here.”

Jeremiah chewed his lip for a moment. “You really love her?”

“I do.”

“You won’t hurt her, will you?”

“Never.” He hesitated. “You really care about her, don’t you, Jeremiah?”

Jeremiah nodded. “Yeah.”

Peter understood then that while Margaret had been light and salvation to him, she had been mother and protector to Jeremiah. The boy wanted the best for her too. “Jeremiah—” he began.

“I will go get her,” Jeremiah interrupted. “I will bring her to you. You make her happy, Peter.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. The boy turned to go, but Peter reached out for his arm. “Wait. Will you look out for Margaret while I’m gone as best you can?”

Jeremiah nodded. “Of course. But I’m fixing to leave soon. Margaret’s going to get me out. It ain’t safe for me here. She found a children’s home in Georgia that’ll take me. She’s going to help me get the bus fare.”

“Is she?” Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever loved Margaret more than he did in that moment.

“Of course. Don’t you know by now that she’s the one looking out for all of us? Including you?” And then Jeremiah was gone, slipping silently through the dark fields toward Margaret’s house.

Nearly an hour passed before Margaret arrived. Peter was getting antsy; it was already ten minutes after ten, and he’d need to leave in another ten minutes—twenty if he ran all the way—in order to make it back to camp on time. He was so relieved to see her suddenly standing before him in the moonlight that as he stood up, his legs shook under him for a moment. “Margaret,” he whispered. “My sweet Margaret.”

She was breathless from running, and there were tears in her eyes. “You’re going?”

He nodded. “Tomorrow morning. First thing. They’re shipping us to England.”

She blinked a few times, as if the news was too much to bear. “I knew the day would come. So I suppose you’ll go back to Germany from there?”

Peter nodded. “I wanted to give you my address in Holzkirchen so that you’ll have a way to reach me.” He handed her the piece of paper he’d been carrying in his pocket all evening. “And I will write to you here, as often as I am able.”

She nodded, slipping the paper into the pocket of her dress. “And you will return one day?” Her tone was shy, worried.

“As soon as I can.” He waited until she looked up and met his gaze. “I promise, Margaret. My life is with you. I will come for you.”

“I know,” she whispered. She melted into his arms, and they stayed like that, holding each other, until Peter finally pulled away, his heart heavy with regret and fear. Her face was lit by the moon, and she seemed to glow like a spirit in the darkness. Like she was already disappearing.

He touched her cheek, trailing his fingers gently down her jawline to her collarbone. “I will love you forever, Margaret. I will see you again soon.” He kissed her long and hard, and then he pulled away, his eyes already filling with tears he didn’t want her to see. “Good-bye, my Margaret. Until we meet again.”

And then, with the greatest regret he’d ever felt, he slipped back into the shadows of the sugarcane field. He didn’t look back, because if he had, he would have stayed forever.

Peter, Maus, and the rest of the prisoners from Camp Belle Creek found themselves, some three weeks later, in rural Lancashire, England, where they were thrown in with hundreds of other prisoners who had been held in America throughout the latter years of the war. Peter was shocked from the moment he stepped off the transport. England had been leveled, parts of it obliterated, in a way that was horrifying. Peter had served in Africa, where the battles were mostly man against man. Here, it appeared that the German army had attacked the land itself. Cities had been bombed, fires had spread, and what must have once been beautiful was now a charred ruin.

And so when the guards were unkind to the prisoners, or when they forced them to work much longer hours than they’d worked in the United States, Peter bore it without a word of complaint. He looked around and felt a vast burden of guilt and sadness. It was his countrymen who had done this, and that meant it was his responsibility to fix it as best he could. Some days, he was called to work in the cotton mill in Barnoldswick. Other days, he was sent into the small towns throughout the county to begin the lengthy process of repair and restoration. But although the buildings were being mended and reconstructed, though the churches were rising once again toward the sky, though the physical traces of the war were being slowly washed away, Peter knew that their physical labor couldn’t begin to fix everything. Everywhere he went, there were mothers who had lost sons to battle, wives who had lost husbands, children who had lost fathers. The war had hit hard here, and though structures can be rebuilt, souls remain forever damaged.

Peter accepted the tough conditions, the long hours, the backbreaking labor without complaint, because working his fingers to the bone also allowed him to fall deeply asleep each night, exhaustion his lullaby, despite the fact that he hadn’t heard from Margaret. He had given her his home address in Germany, of course, and while he had received occasional short missives from his father, he had received nothing from her. Surely his father would have forwarded her mail if she’d sent any. Peter had written many times to ask if any letters from America had arrived, but his father always wrote back in the negative if he replied at all.