“He was in Dachau,” the priest murmured. “He survived all that. And now . . .”
“Why didn’t he come to you or me? If we’d known . . .” Her head dropped. “But what could we have said? What could we have offered him?”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself. You’re not the one who makes these callous rules.”
“What about all the others? The old people with no families, the cripples, the TB cases . . . What’s going to happen to them when this place closes down?” She snapped her eyes shut, furious with herself for welling up. What use were tears? She should have seen this coming, spoken to someone higher up, demanded to know what was to be done for those who would never make it to another country. “I’m sorry.” She fumbled for a handkerchief.
“No need to apologize. It’s good to let it out. I wonder how you keep going, with all you have to deal with.” He paused. “These people will not be abandoned. The Church is aware of the problem. I’m hoping to stay on in Germany, to help with that work.”
Martha screwed her handkerchief into a tight ball. His words shamed her. She’d given just two years to the DPs—but he was giving them his whole future. You had to be a special kind of person to put aside your own hopes and dreams for the sake of others. It hadn’t occurred to her, as a child going to church in New Orleans, that this was what being a priest really meant.
“It’s not what I imagined I’d be doing,” he said. “I always hoped I’d go back to Poland. But I guess none of us could have seen what was coming.” He shifted his weight, stretching out his bad leg. “What will you do when the camp closes?”
“You know about Stefan and me? That we’d like to be married, but . . .”
He nodded. “He does talk to me.”
“I don’t know what we’re going to do.” Each week that passed brought a creeping sense of hopelessness for a future with Stefan. Seidenmühle was to be closed and amalgamated by the end of October. Her job would no longer exist. What would happen then? “Stefan has passed up every chance to emigrate to the countries that would take him,” she went on. “I’ve asked my husband for a divorce, but he doesn’t reply to my letters. Our only hope is for Stefan to be able to emigrate to America with the girls in his own right.”
“You think you might have to go back to America alone?”
“I can’t bear the thought of that. I keep telling myself that it can’t be long before America follows the example of Canada. The newspapers say there’s a bill going through Congress.” She tried to inject a note of optimism into her voice. But there was no guarantee that the bill would be passed. The wheels of government turned so slowly. How was anything going to change in time for Stefan to join her on a boat to New York?
“As long as you’re alive, and you love each other, you’ll find a way to get through this.” He tapped the side of his head. “What goes on in here makes you despair. But in here . . .” His hand moved to his chest. “Love is hope.”
CHAPTER 33
At the end of June, Martha received a call from Major McMahon. The Displaced Persons Act was now set to become law in the USA.
“You need to get moving right away,” he barked down the phone. “They’re going to let two hundred and two thousand DPs in. They can apply in advance of the act being passed, so the sooner those forms are filled in, the better.”
Martha had to suppress the whoop of joy she was dying to let out. “That’s such good news. I’ll get the word out right away.”
“There are discriminatory clauses,” the major said. “In fact, there’s a whole bunch of ’em. I’ll send over all the details.”
Martha ran to find Stefan, who had gone across to one of the kitchens to get coffee. When she saw him coming toward her, she grabbed the pot of hot liquid from his hand, laid it on the ground, and threw her arms around him, not caring if anyone saw.
“Hey . . . what happened?” He gave her a bewildered smile.
“America!” She beamed back at him. “You’re going to America!”
The elation of that warm summer morning was short lived. The details of the new DP Act arrived with the afternoon guard detail. The major hadn’t exaggerated the number of discriminatory clauses. There was just one that applied to Stefan. Martha’s insides curled like burnt paper as she read it out to him: “‘No adopted children or stepchildren to be allowed entry. No child under the age of sixteen who is not the son or daughter of the named applicant shall be granted the legal right to residence in the United States of America.’”