“No need to whisper, honey,” Becca laughed gently. “It seems none of those women speak a word of English. But Mr. Newsome still wants us all to invite them for coffee to help them settle in.”
I looked at her in disbelief.
“Are you going to?”
“Well, it’s hard when they don’t even speak the same language, but yes, I was going to try. For the program, you know, but…” She winced. “It doesn’t feel right, does it?”
“These people should probably be on trial at Nuremberg, not sipping champagne in Huntsville. They’ll infect this town like a disease.” I took a second glass of champagne and looked around the crowd. Elijah Klein was with the men, but his wife, Leah, was standing behind Becca, flicking decidedly uncomfortable glances at the Germans. “It’s bad enough that these monsters aren’t in prison, but to put them to work, side by side, with American Jews?”
“It’s not right,” Leah said flatly. “I didn’t want to come today, but Eli insisted. I just hate that he’s working with these men.”
“How does he stand it?” Becca asked, her voice hushed. Leah sighed impatiently.
“He says the end justifies the means. Honestly, does it even matter if we put a rocket into space? Who cares?”
“Kevin says that if we don’t work with these men, the Soviets will beat us to it,” Becca muttered, shaking her head. We all paused. No one wanted the Soviets to beat us at anything.
“The problem isn’t that we’re working with them,” I muttered. “The problem is that they’re here as free men.”
“The Germans murdered millions of people! Millions of Jews,” Leah said, her voice trembling. “We should not be welcoming them to this country.”
A small crowd was gathering around us as we talked, the American women ending their private conversations and listening in to mine.
“Are you going to invite these women for coffee, help them settle in and all that?” one woman asked. “I was going to, but it didn’t sit right with me…”
“Don’t,” I said abruptly. “Especially if it makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“How could anyone be comfortable with this situation?” another woman remarked. “I’m so happy you’re speaking out, Lizzie.”
“We don’t have to welcome them,” I said flatly, meeting the gaze of each of the women as my confidence grew. “We can take a stand. I mean, for God’s sakes, someone has to.”
“Excuse me,” a voice said. I glanced toward the voice and saw that the woman Avril was speaking with had joined us. “Yes, many Germans made terrible mistakes in a time of immense pressure, but it would be unfair of you to paint all of us with that same brush. There are plenty of bad Americans, just as there are bad Germans. You should not assume we are Nazis, and you should not assume we are guilty. Some of us didn’t even know what was happening.”
She spoke in clear, fluid English—but her accent was unmistakable, as was the look of defensiveness in her eyes. A burst of adrenaline shot through my body.
“Do you really expect us to believe you Germans had no idea what was happening in your own country?” I asked in disbelief, then glanced around the crowd of women listening to us. Some nodded to encourage me as I scoffed, “If the American government decided to commit genocide, I would do something.”
“And tell me, madam, what do you do when you go to a restaurant and there is a sign in the window that says Whites Only?” the woman demanded, jabbing her finger toward me aggressively. “Do you ‘do something’？ Perhaps you should look into your own backyard before you make sweeping judgments about things you do not understand.” Her tone was dismissive and haughty, and all of the American rocket program wives were staring at us. My embarrassment and temper flared.
“I hate that Huntsville is segregated, but you’ll never convince me it’s the same as what you people did. I’ve heard the news and I’ve read the papers. I know the kinds of things the Nuremberg trials have uncovered.” Her lips thinned, but that she had no immediate retort only reassured me I was right to take a stand. “Can you honestly tell me you had no idea about the camps? No idea about the terrible things being done in the name of your country—things being done in your name?”
I expected her to deny it. Instead, her eyebrows knit, and her gaze dipped as the silence began to stretch. I felt no triumph at the raspberry flush that stole up her cheeks, only a horrified sense of disgust.