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19
Sofie
Huntsville,Alabama
1950
“How was her day?” Jürgen asked as he walked into the house that afternoon. I was sitting on the couch, Felix on one side of me watching the television, Gisela on the other, crying miserably into my shoulder. I looked at him pointedly, and his face fell. “What happened?”
“Kids here don’t eat real bread!” She wept.
“Uh...” Jürgen gave me a confused look. “Americans eat a lot of bread, Gisela. Maybe you’re confused—”
“Theirbread isn’t brown. It’s white. It’s different and they were all laughing at me because I had the wrong bread. I didn’t know any of the words my teacher said and Mrs. Schmidt’s children said they weren’t allowed to play with me and then none of the other German children wanted to play with me either and the American children already hate me so Isat by myselfand I hate it here!”
Later, once she’d calmed down a little, we retreated into his bedroom and closed the door.
“I spoke to Claudia today,” I told him. “She told me she doesn’t want her children mingling with ours. She said it’s one thing for Klaus to work with you, but that she has come too far to protect her children from Nazi ideology to allow them to ‘mingle’ with the likes of us.”
Jürgen rubbed his face wearily.
“Should I talk to her? Or to Klaus?”
I thought about the anger in Claudia’s eyes and I shook my head.
“No. Not yet, anyway. But if the German children won’t play with Gisela and the American children won’t play with her, she’s going to be miserable.”
“Let’s just give it a little time. We can start with her lunch—if eating our food is really such a big deal, we’ll go to the grocery store right now and buy some American food.”
“I don’t even know what American children eat.” I winced.
“Then maybe we need to find you an American friend,” he said pointedly.
And all of a sudden, I remembered Avril Walters.
“Mama!” I heard Gisela cry from the front yard the next morning.
“Sofie, can you come here, please?” Jürgen called. I was in the bathroom doing my hair and I sighed, frustrated with the interruption. What were they doing back already? They’d only walked out the front door a few minutes earlier. Avril Walters was due in an hour and I needed to wash the dishes before she arrived.
“What is it?” I called, as I walked to the front door. I glanced in at Felix, who was sitting just a foot away from the television—eyes wide as he stared at the screen. He seemed determined to sit in front of it every waking moment. I wasn’t thrilled about that but reassured myself that at least he was hearingsomeEnglish.
I found Gisela sitting on the doorstep, resting her forehead in her palm. She gave me a miserable look.
“What is it?”
“Look,” she muttered. “It’s not just the kids at school who hate us. It’severyone.”
Jürgen was at the side of the road, standing with Claudia and Klaus. Several other neighbors had come out of their houses too to see what the commotion was about. It was a beautiful day—blue skies and bright sunshine.
But no one was looking up at the sky because everyone was staring at the road. I left Gisela on the doorstep and went to see what the fuss was, but my heart sank as I came closer.
In crude red letters almost as high as the narrow road, someone had painted the wordNAZIS. The graffiti had been carefully positioned right at the mouth of the street—centered right in front of our house.
“I can sort this out—you head into that safety protocol workshop,” Jürgen told Karl as I approached. “But, Claudia, since Sofie isn’t quite up to speed with American road rules, would you mind driving Gisela to school with Mila?”
Jürgen gave her a hopeful look. Claudia muttered something under her breath about it being the first and last time, but the next thing we knew, she was backing out of her driveway with Gisela in the back seat.
I called Avril to postpone our coffee to the next morning. She was horrified when I told her about the graffiti, and her reaction reassured me.SomeAmericans were kind—even supportive. After I hung up, Jürgen called the police. I sat in the living room with Felix and listened to his side of the conversation.
