Most adoptive couples looked at race, intelligence, character, and their perception of physical perfection. Most farmers were interested in docility and durability. The bottom line of my last physical, which John Schauls would have seen, read, Peter Razor is a sturdy very athletic 15 year old. At the time I was five feet six inches tall and weighed 130 pounds.
An institutional state ward for fifteen years, I would now be a farm-indentured state ward. The state would not be responsible any more for my room, board, or clothing. Now they would only pay for major medical expenses or burial costs.
Midwinter 1944 at the State Public School, Dr. Yager, child psychologist at the school, posed a very strange question to me, “Do you think you could call anyone Mother or Father?”
I mumbled, “I wouldn’t know what to do in a family.”
“It’s hard to find a family for an Indian boy, and we have no Indian families listed,” Dr. Yager continued. “And you’ve been here a long time.”
“How long?” I asked, without really caring.
“Fifteen years,” Dr. Yager replied.
For the first fourteen years of my life, I knew Dr. Yager only as the one who sat blandly behind a desk pointing at tests with assurances that no matter how I did on them, was all right. I worked the tests at another table while he remained at his desk. Dr. Yager loved climbing into the minds of children. It was more than his job, it was his life. Every child had to be somewhere in his text book or he became obsessed with exposing their peculiarity. He recorded that I was very quiet and, before the age of twelve, basically untestable. He might have suspected that cottage life was at least partially responsible for, what he wrote, my sullen and withdrawn demeanor, but probably knew little of my experiences with a few employees.
Weeks or a month after Dr. Yager’s strange questions about family life, I was interviewed by Mr. Doleman, a social worker under Superintendent Vevle.
“You told Dr. Yager that you would not feel comfortable in a regular family,” Mr. Doleman said.
“Well … I said maybe I didn’t know what it meant to be in a family.”
“Perhaps that was it,” Mr. Doleman said. “Do you think you would like to work on a farm?”
“The work might be all right,” I replied, then mumbled, “Heard it was dangerous. Being on a farm, I mean.” Shifting uneasily on my chair, I glanced at documents on the wall, which said collectively that Mr. Doleman was very wise, indeed. I knew he stared at me, into me, and, uneasy, I looked around at the floor.
After a long silence, Mr. Doleman spoke, sounding like a preacher, “Everyone has to work for a living.”
“A guy died on a farm last year, they said,” I persisted. “The farmer beat him up or something.” When stubborn, I pursed my mouth while staring at the floor near my shoes.
Mr. Doleman straightened in his chair. “You don’t know that for sure,” he said. He leaned back, slowly tapping his fingertips together in front of his face. “Unfortunate things might have happened in the past, but we watch things today.” He seemed mildly irked.
Who watched Kruger and Beaty or Monson? I wanted to ask, but instead I mumbled, “Do I have to go to a farm?”
“Please understand … if you’re not placed soon … well, you have to go somewhere.” Mr. Doleman spoke softly, but I heard his threat.
“Why couldn’t I go to relatives up north?” I asked. I squinted at the floor near my shoes. “If I can work for a farmer, I can work for relatives, can’t I … or myself?”
“You’re not old enough to be on your own,” Mr. Doleman insisted. “Can’t you see? If I remember correctly, you were quite run down and filthy when I picked you up in St. Paul. Miss Klein”—the C-16 assistant—“also mentioned how terrible you and Dale looked.”
Shrugging, I whispered almost to myself, “You made me come back.” Then louder, “The State School, I mean.”
Mr. Doleman pushed away from his desk. “We’ll talk again,” he said with a sigh of disappointment. “You may return to Cottage Sixteen.”
Called to the office in early July, I was ushered before Miss Borsch for the first time. She was young and vivacious, smiled nonstop, and her eyes were warm friendly things. Mr. Doleman had called up the big guns. Having no experience with girls or doting women, I’d be a pushover.
“Good morning, Peter. My, isn’t the weather simply grand?” Miss Borsch breathed. Her right arm was elevated toward the window, her upturned palm sagged off the wrist with two fingers languidly extended. I watched her hand and reeled from her brilliant smile.
“How have you been?” Her charm was in full gallop.
“All right, I guess,” I replied, trying to guess her next move.
“Did you enjoy the outing with Mr. and Mrs. Cory?” Miss Borsch asked.
“Corys? … Uh, yeah,” I replied. More pieces to the puzzle suddenly fell into place.
“Have you thought about what comes after the State School?” she murmured softly.
“Some. I’d rather go on my own or to relatives.”
“You became quite ill after your first, ah … trip last summer,” Miss Borsch said, appearing concerned. “It’s not in your file, but Mrs. Steele says your second trip was quite dangerous.” She was referring to the two times I had run away from the school.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Anyway,” she murmured, appearing sympathetic, “you can see why you can’t be on your own. Just yet.”
“Dunno,” I mumbled, but I knew where it all headed. “Couldn’t I go to high school in Owatonna?”
“I’d like to see you in a regular home, if possible,” Miss Borsch persisted.
“Older boys go to high school from here,” I insisted.
“Perhaps they want to do something else,” she replied. “Go into the army, for instance.”
“Can I do something else?” I groped. “Besides this farm thing, I mean. Somebody said indenture is slavery.”
“It’s no longer indenture,” Miss Borsch corrected. “It’s farm placement.” Her smile faded, but she retained composure. “And it’s certainly not slavery! I really think you’d like a farm. We’d see that you got a good family, and somebody would visit you to see how things were going.” Her smile could again melt steel.
“I don’t know.” Trapped, hating myself for letting her lead me on, I looked around at the floor. “If I went on a farm, would I go to high school?”
“Absolutely!” she said leaning across her desk toward me. “A farmer has to sign an agreement allowing you to attend school. It’s your choice after age sixteen, but the family can’t make you quit. And you are to be paid for summer work.”
“Oh? Besides food and clothes?”
“That’s right. We would leave the amount up to you and the family to decide.”
“What do guys get working for farmers?” I asked.
“It depends on age and experience,” Miss Borsch replied. “You might start at twenty-five dollars per month for summer work, but you’d work only for room and board while in school.”
“That’s