Free When We Meet Again by Kristin Harmel Page A

care. For soldiers who had come from an economically depressed Germany, this was, in some cases, the most comfortably they’d ever lived.
    There were a handful of escape attempts and complaints from locals angry about having the enemy in their backyards, but most of the experiences I read about seemed positive. As many as five thousand Germans had enjoyed their lives in America so much that they decided to immigrate to the United States after the war. Yet two generations on, none of this was common knowledge. How could I have never known there were German prisoners here, when they’d clearly been such a vital part of the wartime economy?
    My phone rang, and I sighed and snapped my laptop shut. My father’s name came up on the caller ID, and I hesitated before answering.
    “Hi, Emily. I’m calling to see if you managed to get in touch with Jeremiah Beltrain.” His tone was all business, which made me feel surprisingly sad. There was a part of me—a foolish part, admittedly—that was hoping for more. Hadn’t my father been trying to make amends for years? Hadn’t I finally let him in the door a little bit? Perhaps his brusqueness should have been a relief—after all, I was the one determined to put up walls. Instead, I felt let down.
    “Actually, I made a trip down to Belle Creek, where Grandma Margaret grew up, earlier today.”
    “Belle Creek? But that’s hours away, isn’t it?”
    “Jeremiah said he wanted to meet in person, and I didn’t see any reason not to. Anyhow, he had some answers for us.” I took a deep breath. “From what he told me, it appears that your father might have been a German prisoner of war.”
    “You’re saying my father was a Nazi?” He sounded horrified.
    “No,” I said quickly. “Or—I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t think that’s a conclusion we can draw. According to what I’ve read so far, and what Jeremiah said, the majority of the enlisted men who were captured and brought to the States didn’t identify with the Nazi Party. Most were just young men who had no choice but to fight for their country.”
    “But . . . I don’t understand.” His voice sounded hollow. “What were Germans doing over here during the war?”
    I quickly recounted what Jeremiah had said, then I explained what I’d just learned about the prevalence of German POWs in the United States.
    “You’re telling me that there were four hundred thousand POWs here?” he interrupted.
    “It was news to me too.”
    My father was silent for a moment. “So what on earth happened? How did my mother wind up getting involved with a German prisoner? Who was he?”
    “His name was Peter Dahler. It sounds like they were in love. Jeremiah said that both he and Grandma Margaret thought that Peter was a good man.”
    My father choked on a laugh. “A good man? Good men don’t wind up in prison camps, seducing local girls.”
    “I don’t think it was like that.” I didn’t know why I was defending Peter Dahler; he obviously hadn’t turned out to be such a great guy in the end. But something about the painting and the note that had come with it made me believe there was more to the story.
    “So Jeremiah is positive that this Peter fellow is my father?” His voice cracked on the last word, and I realized for the first time how much this was bothering him. “How could he—?” My father trailed off in midsentence, and I closed my eyes, knowing exactly what he was going to say. How could he vanish like that? He cleared his throat, obviously aware of his near-stumble, and tried again. “So now what? Mystery solved?”
    “Not at all. If Peter Dahler left your mother and never looked back, what explanation is there for the painting? I have the feeling we’ve only scratched the tip of the iceberg here.”
    “Maybe that’s far enough,” my father said softly. “Maybe there’s a reason your grandmother didn’t want us poking into this.”
    “Actually, I think she’d want us to know the