Ozzie’s shoulders stiffened. “Who?”
“Gottfried,” Jelka hissed in a way that conveyed her agitation at Ozzie for making her say it. As if saying his name broke the fragile incantation that Katja’s birth had cast between them.
“And?”
“He’s fallen ill. He hopes that because he can no longer work, they will make his transfer back to Germany quick. It could happen at any time.”
Ozzie looked down at Katja, sleeping peacefully across his lap. Her belly rose and fell as her sweet, milky breath curled against his arm. From his comrades in his platoon, Ozzie had heard stories about the radical behavior of German POW men returning from harsh conditions in Polish mines, Soviet camps, and war-ravaged France, only to find that their wives had betrayed their sacrifice by taking up with other men and bearing their children. Ozzie had done a little research and discovered that because Gottfried was married to Jelka, it was his legal right as her husband to make decisions as far as Katja was concerned, and that worried Ozzie. He would have no rights and no claim to Katja because Jelka was married. The last thing Ozzie wanted was another man in charge of his daughter. A scorned man who would no doubt resent Katja because she wasn’t his and because she was Negro.
“I’m scared,” Jelka whispered.
“You don’t have to be.” Ozzie reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“My neighbor’s son returned two days ago from a camp in the Soviet Union. He was the one who brought me the letter from Gottfried. He was so skinny and hunched over. His eyes had no life in them.” Her lips quivered. “Gottfried is going to expect me to take care of him. Maybe he would try to get you arrested and have them remove Katja from our home. I lie awake at night thinking of all these things.”
“Shh.” Ozzie reached for her with his free arm. “It’s going to be all right.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I said I will protect you, and I will.”
Ozzie just didn’t know exactly what that would entail. If he were to tell the truth, the horns of this dilemma kept him up at night too. He had witnessed the German women at the American bars on payday with their half-Negro children, hungry and begging for scraps. Katja deserved better, and he wouldn’t let Jelka’s husband lay harm to his child. But going AWOL? That was a different beast.
“Maybe you can take the baby down to your friend’s house in Ulm and stay with her and her American husband for a while. Till we figure things out.”
“I want you to come with me. I want us to be a family. I do not love him.” She grabbed his chin, blinking back tears. “Now I am with you.”
Ozzie didn’t know what else to say, so he squeezed her hand. This was his family now, and Ozzie’s first duty was to protect them at all costs.
CHAPTER 26Mannheim, Germany, September 1951
ETHEL
On her way home from yet another day petitioning the courts on behalf of potential adoptive families, Ethel made a quick stop at the commissary to pick up a bag of flour so she could make cupcakes to celebrate the children’s first day of school. Franz, Heinz, and Monika had returned to their German elementary school to start the year, but once their adoption paperwork was complete, Ethel would transfer them to Mannheim Elementary, the American school set up by the Department of Defense for an international education.
With Anke on her hip, Ethel arrived at the one-story school a few minutes early for the children. In the yard were three wooden benches set against the chain-link fence. While she waited on one of the benches, she pulled a coloring sheet and two crayons from her purse for Anke.
Three German mothers were talking to one another on the bench adjacent to Ethel, and she noticed that they kept glancing over at her. Then one woman broke from the group and strolled over.
“Hallo,” she said, swooping her brown hair into a knot at her neck.
“Good afternoon,” Ethel said, protectively laying a hand on Anke.
“The Brown Fairy?” the woman asked in a thick accent.
Ethel’s cheeks blanched. An article that ran in theMannheimer Morgen,the local newspaper, had reportedly dubbed Ethel “The Brown Fairy” for her work securing goods for the German mothers with half-Negro babies; it even gave a plug to her adoption agency.
“People call me that, but my name is Ethel Gathers.”
The woman fidgeted with her hair again. “My baby. I can’t keep. Will you help?”
Ethel looked up at the woman and nodded. It was not the first time a German woman had asked for her help. She had been cornered on the streets several times and asked to take half-Negro children home with her. She reached into her purse for a scrap of paper and wrote down the name and address of St. Hildegard’s orphanage.
“Sister Ursula will help you,” she said to the woman, who squeezed her hand in thanks as the school bell rang.
The elementary children were released by class, and eight-year-old Heinz bounded to Ethel first, holding up a math assessment. “One hundred,” he said, smiling, showing off his missing front two teeth.
“Excellent,” Ethel said, pulling him into a hug.
