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7
Sofie
Huntsville,Alabama
1950
A crowd was assembled beneath the shade of a cluster of oak trees that day. I was heartened to see that after just a few minutes, the American and German children were all mingling freely. Language didn’t make much difference when it came to climbing trees and playing tag.
The formalities began when a man clapped his hands and called us all to order, then took a microphone and stepped up onto a box. He introduced himself as Christopher Newsome, and a young man beside him translated his words into perfect German. Newsome pointed to a tall, bearded gentleman with thick glasses that magnified his eyes.
“I’m sure you all know Calvin Miller—he’s the general manager of this program.” More translation, and then a smattering of applause. “First of all to our new German friends, welcome to America!” Translation. Applause. “Now, to all of you American ladies—I want you to listen carefully. These women have come all the way round the world to start a new life here, and we need to support them. Make a new friend today. Make plans to meet up for coffee or for dinner or to get the children together to play, okay?” Translation.Muchweaker applause. The popping of champagne bottles.
The Germans had been working alongside the American scientists at Fort Bliss for some time before they all transferred to Huntsville, and their rapport was obvious. Jürgen was soon surrounded by men listening intently to his every word. At least one thing hadn’t changed in my husband—that obsessively focused look in his eyes when he talked about rockets was as familiar as the back of my own hand.
I took a glass of champagne and walked lazily around, observing the crowd. The women quickly formed two distinct groups. The American women were the louder group—their voices and laughter rang across the lawn. On the other side of the table, the German women were standing clumped together as if they were all trying to hide, their voices low and their eyes downcast. I helped myself to a plate of food and then approached the German side.
Claudia’s eyes lit up. “Everyone, meet my new neighbor, Sofie,” she said.
“Hello,” I said, waving vaguely. I recognized several faces as women I’d met once or twice over the years in Germany. “Oh, hello there, Greta. Margarethe, how are you? It’s been so long. Elsa, nice to see you too.” And to the rest of them, I waved and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you all.”
“Sofie is Jürgen Rhodes’ wife,” Claudia added cheerfully.
Was I imagining the tension? It was as though the smiles on those women’s faces intensified just a little when I approached, shifting from genuine to forced. I looked back to Claudia, who seemed bewildered.
I was not bewildered. This was exactly why I’d hoped none of Jürgen’s former workers had come to America.
“I really need some more of that chicken,” Greta said.
“I’ll go with you,” Margarethe added.
“Oh, I need to find a restroom,” one of the other women said.
“I know where it is,” Elsa interjected. “I’ll show you.”
The group dispersed quickly.
“That was strange,” Claudia said slowly. “It’s probably just that some of those women have been here in the United States for a few months already, and maybe a little clique has formed...”
“Gu-ten tag,”an American voice said, and we turned to see a short blonde woman had joined us. She spoke very slowly but butchered the pronunciation badly.
“Hello. I speak English,” I said, then motioned toward Claudia. “But my friend here doesn’t.”
“Oh!” the American woman said, surprised but visibly relieved. “I’m trying to be friendly, but it’s awfully hard when we’re speaking different languages.”
“They’ll all learn in time,” I told her. “I’m Sofie, and this is Claudia.”
“Hello,” Claudia said awkwardly. The woman beamed at us.
“I’m Avril Walters.”
Claudia excused herself, wandering just a few steps to join a little cluster of German women. One by one, their eyes all flicked to me, then quickly away.
“Which one is your husband?” Avril asked. I pointed to Jürgen, and her eyes widened. “Jürgen Rhodes is your husband? Well, isn’t that something? My husband says he’s a genius.”
“Which is yours?” I asked. She pointed to two men who were standing side by side at the table. I recognized one as Calvin Miller, so knew her husband must have been the man beside him.
I glanced back to the German women and saw Claudia was whispering with one of them, her brows drawn. She shook her head fiercely, then looked back at me, but now when our eyes met, she looked away. My heart sank. The German men had been brought to America as prisoners, and even those who knew Jürgen’s history had no choice but to work with him, especially in the beginning. It was different for the wives. We had arrived as free women and could socialize, orrefuseto socialize, as we saw fit.
“I’m just so excited to meet you,” Avril gushed, startling me with the volume of her voice and her enthusiasm. “I’ve never even met someone from Germany before. How did you learn to speak English so well?”
“I had British nannies when I was young, and sometimes we traveled with my parents,” I said absentmindedly, watching Claudia studiously avoid my gaze.
“You know what, Sofie?” Avril said, flashing me that warm smile. “We should have coffee next week.”
