When Christian walked into the family’s shared house, his father was sitting alone, looking as if he had just been punched in the ribs and was trying to remember how to exhale. At the creak of the cheap plywood floor under Christian’s feet, Franz looked up at his son with red-rimmed eyes and gestured for him to sit in the room’s other wooden chair. Neither chair stood without wobbling.
“Your poor mother,” said Franz, his voice hoarse. “You shouldn’t have come into the room. Seen your sister—”
“I can’t talk about that right now,” said Christian, interrupting him. “I need to clear the air before I can talk about that.”
“Someone just died and you need to clear the air?” asked Franz. “What is wrong with the air?”
“Germany,” said Christian, doggedly. “Why didn’t you tell me about Germany before I got on the train to Texas? You knew where I was. You could have written to me. Asked me what I wanted to do, asked me about repatriating—”
“Excuse me?” said Franz, standing up. “That is what you expect me to talk about? Now?”
“I know it’s not the right time, but why didn’t you tell me that we’re all going to Germany?” Christian pleaded. “That we—that you—agreed to be repatriated to Germany? In the middle of the war? Can you imagine what you’re sending us to?”
“Your sister just died!” Franz shouted angrily. “How did I raise such a disrespectful son? You should not be speaking to me about such a petty thing at a time like this. You should be at the hospital apologizing to your mother for barging into her room while she was in the midst of her tragedy, then try your best to prove that she can one day be happy again with just one child. With you.”
“I’ll do that,” said Christian. “And I’ve already spent time with her today. But first please tell me about Germany. Please.”
“What would you like to know?” said Franz, sitting back down, exasperated. He put his hands in his graying blond hair and grew even more frustrated when several strands came out in his hands.
“How about what will happen to Lange Steel?” said Christian, his blue eyes locked with his father’s. “You always said it would be my business one day. That I would run it with you and then without you. Is that possible if we go to Germany? And what about college?”
“All that will still happen,” said Franz, shaking his head. He sat straight and rigid in his chair even though he was only in the company of his son. Christian hated how his father maintained his pompous air, as if they were sitting in his study in the River Hills house instead of a shack. He looked at him with visible annoyance but his father just sat up taller and prouder as he spoke.
“We did write to you while you were at the Home but our letters obviously never made it up to Wisconsin. They must have been thrown away by the censors,” he said. “Both your mother and I did write.”
“Did you explain about Germany in those letters?”
“No,” Franz admitted. “We worried you wouldn’t come to Texas if we did and we were desperate to have you here. Your mother, especially. You know that. You are her world. Now, more than ever, she needs you. Aren’t you glad you came? To be here for her after something so devastating happened?”
“I am, but that doesn’t mean I want to go to Germany.”
“Is it not better than being here? At least we will be together and not behind barbed-wire fences, falsely accused of crimes against this country. My parents have been notified about our arrival—they have their house waiting for us in Pforzheim. We will be living with war, yes, but not in the way you’re afraid of. We’ll be shielded from the worst of it. This, what happened here, will be the worst of it. That INS man, that murderer, is the reason the baby died. That Lora died,” he said, using the name he and Helene had chosen when the baby still had a heartbeat. “And he’s not going to be arrested,” Franz said, his anger rising with the color in his face. “O’Rourke came to explain,” he said of the head of the camp. “There will be no trial, nothing. O’Rourke said that they’ve already concluded that it was an accident. So that’s all. The guard keeps his job driving that truck that hit her and killed Lora, and your mother has to see him all over camp.”
“There must be someone else you can appeal to?” said Christian, picturing the guard’s pinched, sun-weathered face.
“Me? A prisoner?” said Franz. “I can’t yet. For now we can only control so much.”
“Like going to Germany.”
“Yes, like going to Germany,” Franz replied angrily. “We won’t be there for long, just until the war is over. And that will be soon. Very soon.”
“You know that how, Dad? Do you have some inside line to Roosevelt?” Christian said, tense with anger. “You have no idea. The war could go on for five more years. And just because Oma and Opa are wealthy and plan to put us up in some vacation house doesn’t mean we’ll be safe in Germany. Bombs don’t discriminate based on bank accounts.”
“The war will not go on for five more years. That’s a childish thing to think. The end is near, Christian, I am sure of it. The night before we left Wisconsin, there was news that the Red Army was still swelling by millions. I know that means the war is coming to an end. Russia is changing the course of the war.”
“Even if that’s true, then what?” asked Christian. “We go to Germany for the remainder of the war and try to survive. What about Lange Steel? You’re just going to leave it? Do you even know what’s happening there?”
“I’ve now had a letter from Martin and he’s assured me that he is running it as it should be and is acting president. He will relinquish that title as soon as I am back. I still own Lange Steel, Christian. The government may have frozen our bank accounts but they can’t shut down our businesses forever. Not when there are other people to run them in the interim. Martin just sent me the recent figures and they were heavily blacked out, but if Martin is sending them to me, it means they are good. Lange will be waiting for me—and thriving—when I return.”
“You’re so sure the Americans will let us all back in,” said Christian. “Even you and Mom, who are not citizens. They imprison us here and then after the war they will just let us sail right back over. Let me enroll in college just like nothing ever happened. Why would they spend all the money repatriating us if that were the case?”
“They say there’s a chance we won’t be allowed back in. They have to say that,” Franz said. “But it will all be different after the war. These ideas that have emerged during the war years will feel antiquated. You’ll see.”