Not completely ready to make a decision, she remained in Harlem for one more year, working as a nurse. But in 1944, the time came to make a move. Elinor Elizabeth Powell enlisted in the U.S. Army Nurse Corps to carry on her father’s legacy of service. Her acceptance letter, dated July 21, “by command of Major General Terry,” instructed her to report to Fort Huachuca to complete her basic training.

Nothing, however, prepared her for what awaited her in the Arizona desert.

2. Frederick

2.

Frederick

HE LIKED LEAVING THE BARRACKS WHEN IT WAS still pitch black outside. The desert heat was bearable and he could focus on his own thoughts instead of acting as the default translator for his comrades who couldn’t understand their American captors. Frederick Albert was in his own world as he made his way silently along the path to the mess hall every morning at four to prepare breakfast. If Florence, Arizona, had one redeeming quality, it was the peace that came from being in the middle of nowhere. Which is exactly where Frederick was: in an American camp for German prisoners of war in 1944, thousands of miles from home.

Although he had fond memories of watching his mother prepare brötchen, or bread rolls, it wasn’t so much the pleasure he derived from working in the kitchen that made his assigned job satisfying. Frederick relished the solitude and independence. He also loved the technical aspects of baking. Everything had to be precise and perfect, forcing him to concentrate. Time in the kitchen also meant he got to listen to U.S. Armed Forces Radio and something he had been denied by Hitler since the war started—jazz. He always hoped Louis Armstrong’s rendition of “Ain’t Misbehavin’” would play. It put him in a good mood, like he had something to look forward to when he actually didn’t. He was happy to be alive after being captured, but that’s where the joy ended. As the black sky turned navy blue, Frederick would put on his white apron and cook’s hat, turn up the volume on the radio, and take the bowl of yeast out of the refrigerator to start the bread.

Friedrich Karl Josef Albert couldn’t have been born at a more fragile time in modern German history. He arrived on August 20, 1925, with wispy blond hair and gray eyes—a perfect baby, in his mother’s opinion. He was the second child born to his parents, Karl and Margarete, who lived with their five-year-old daughter, Charlotte, in Oppeln, an eastern German city that had shuffled between German, Slavic, and Polish rule since the eighth century. Bordering the Oder River, Oppeln had strategic importance as a port and rail junction, but it was also known as a manufacturing center for cement, metals, and machinery—industries that would eventually make Karl Albert a very wealthy man.1