Seventy years ago, it had housed one of Florida’s two main POW encampments, and it would have been the administrative center for Camp Belle Creek. My grandfather would have made a stop there—possibly for a few months—before being sent farther south to work in the sugarcane fields. I’d made a midafternoon appointment with Geoff Brock, the man who ran the base’s small museum. They had a small exhibit on the POW experience and he’d said he might be able to fill in a few blanks for me, but that he didn’t have access to prisoner records. “It may not be worth the drive,” he’d added. “No, it’ll be worth it,” I’d said firmly. “I want to understand everything I can about what it was like to be a German POW during World War II.” I had two hours in the car to think about things, and as I drove, I kept mentally replaying my conversation with my father. I knew he was making an effort. I knew I was supposed to forgive him. And if I couldn’t find it in my heart to forgive, if not forget, the things he had done to me, how could I ever expect it of Nick?
