When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  She was silent for a moment then spoke. “Of course, darling. We’ll go. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Me, too.” He relaxed, but a worry tugged at him. “And don’t believe everything you read.” He spoke those words louder than intended.

  Tears welled in her eyes as if she understood what he meant her to know. Had she? Right away, he regretted the firmness in his tone. Her voice trembled. “What is going on, Wilhelm?”

  He slowly shook his head, fighting the words on his lips and the tremble in his chest. Should he tell her everything? The ghastly secrets kept behind barbed wire, the camps with so many unspeakable crimes? Forcing himself not to look away, he’d memorized every last detail in order to report them later. He had protected her from the horrors he’d seen, and she seemed content to have him home every two months, more when he was in the area. Their marriage was built on honesty, but the danger of her slipping and telling a friend what he’d learned about the extermination program would put her in immediate danger, and she’d be questioned. It was better that she never learned any details concerning his plans. “There’s something I have to do. People may question my loyalty for a short time . . . until the truth comes out. You are an intelligent woman . . . please recognize the truth when you hear it.”

  Doves wheeled from Avellino’s cathedral roof, startling him back to the present. He didn’t want to leave the images of his family behind just yet, but the babble of voices reached him—townspeople returning from safe havens to assess their new reality. That prompted him to get moving. Getting hacked to death by angry citizens wasn’t his plan. He needed to find the ragtag Wehrmacht 10th Army and surrender with them. He stuck to the alleys and small streets and headed toward the final battles at the edge of the city in order to slip into Klaus Stern’s unit.

  Becoming a POW and getting to the United States was his last hope to tell the world about the death camps.

  He’d used his position as an SS inspection officer to travel and mail letters—while in each new city—to European clergy and Danish and Swiss political resistance groups, notifying them about the hidden truths of the “work camps.” He prayed someone would rise up and stop Hitler’s “acts of cleansing.”

  No one had.

  His plan to surrender with the Wehrmacht soldiers could leave him in a hopeless situation with no option for escape. But with evil at his back and the possibility of disaster dead ahead, he chose the future.

  Izaak Tauber

  Amsterdam, Netherlands - November 11, 1943

  “Almost,” Izaak whispered, drawing the word out as he swiveled his hips slightly to the right, then to the left and back to the right again. The challenge? Line up the nail dangling from the string pinned to the back of his trousers with the opening of the empty milk bottle. This would be the moment his friends cheered him on if he still had friends. His leather-soled shoes made scraping sounds on the cement patio as he quickly shifted his feet. And his breath puffed out in the cold evening air, forming little see-through clouds that hung in front of his mouth for a second before dashing off to the sidelines. You’ve got this.

  “Come on, Izaak!” Mama loud-whispered this, standing close to him, so she didn’t have to yell since yelling was against the hiding rules. “Ten seconds!” she counted down from the timepiece Papa left behind.

  Izaak was the Spijkerpoepen champ in his old neighborhood, beating Guus van Groot’s record by two seconds. He hadn’t played the game in over a month since his eighth birthday party, but needed to practice if he were to stay at the top, right?

  “Five seconds!”

  The happy tone in Mama’s voice reminded him he needed to try to make her laugh more often. Papa’s favorite saying ran through his head: A man’s true wealth is the good he does in this world. Although Izaak repeated this motto three times a day during prayer, he knew he was on the poorer side of wealth because he hadn’t cheered up anyone in weeks, including himself. Being funny was hard when every day was a new worry and another day without Papa.

  With a clink, the spike hit the edge of the bottle balanced on the ground. Izaak’s neck started to ache as he twisted around to try to angle the dangling nail into the right position. “Come on,” he growled as he watched the nail turn and spin and then center above the bottle’s opening. “Time?”

  “Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one . . .”

  Izaak dropped his hips a few centimeters and ding! The spike dropped in.

  “Forty-two seconds!” Mama stuck the watch in her outer coat pocket and clapped. “You did it, darling.”

  Izaak slumped onto the cold cement as a surge of warm pride filled him. Although Mama was a nice audience, he couldn’t wait to tell Guus about his new time. He picked up the milk bottle, pulled out the string and nail, and felt his smile disappear. The empty container reminded him of how he felt inside. He swallowed hard and fought his jittery chin as he tried not to cry, his throat aching from the effort.

  The Germans had taken everyone away.

  In his school journal, he wrote down the dates of every sad happening, although he wasn’t allowed to go to school now. He wanted to be like Papa, who kept a daily agenda, saying “a full day meant a happy life.” Izaak’s dates started a year earlier when the Germans came for the Jewish families, who earlier that year were forced to wear a yellow star. That frightening night was filled with gunshots and screaming, and the neighbors who tried to hide were killed. More people than he could count were forced on board the Number 8 streetcar. As the train came and left throughout the night, he heard the screech of brakes and then the rattle of wheels—over and over again, coming and going. He nestled between his parents in their bed, worrying his family would be next. After all, Papa was Jewish. Izaak became so upset to the point his stomach hurt until he threw up. And, although Papa said they were safe, Mama cried, and his papa’s jaw tightened as he offered a prayer for protection.

  The kidnapping of the Jews left their neighborhood hollowed-out. The favorite bakeries and stores the Jewish families owned were closed. The only Jewish families left behind had a mama or papa from another religion, like his parents. Mama was raised Catholic, making Izaak half and half, a Mischling. It was all confusing to him, but he knew the Germans wanted to own all of Europe, and they were picky about who lived near them. Now that the Germans lived in the Netherlands, they wanted the Jews out.

  The next date in his journal was three months ago, August 18. Instead of just asking for help from the papas left at home, the Germans blocked off their neighborhood that evening as the sun was setting. The soldiers yelled through loudspeakers that all the men needed to line up in the streets. His family was eating dinner at the time. Mama dropped a serving spoon on a plate. The clattering sounded extra loud in the sudden silence. Had he heard correctly? Izaak’s heart pounded because when people were ordered to line up, they were usually shot. Weeks earlier, on the way back from his art lesson, he and Papa turned the corner into Munt Square where a group of twelve people stood against the old town wall, crying and holding each other. As the soldiers raised their guns, Papa yanked him backward. When the gunfire rang out, the roar from the blasts bounced off the buildings and pounded into his ears. He and Papa ran as others ducked into houses not wanting to be seen. Later, Papa learned the two families were accused of stealing food coupons. This seemed so unfair since everyone was starving. Papa said, “We believe things will remain the same in wartime, but we shouldn’t count on fairness to be one of them.”

  That August evening, with the windows open, the abrupt announcement came again, the fresh summer breeze rustling through the elm trees ruined by the words. Papa and Mama slowly stood and looked at each other without saying a word, which made the moment scarier. Izaak’s throat tightened and his heart pounded in his ears. Had the Germans learned Papa was only pretending to be Catholic? And why did all the men need to line up? Maybe this was just a document check. The Germans loved thei
r paperwork. Izaak might be getting upset for no reason. They would return to eating the boiled potatoes, and Papa would say the soldiers were drunk and acting mean as they liked to do.

  He believed his hopeful story until he noticed Mama’s hands. They shook when she reached for Papa. Papa pulled Mama and him into his arms, and they stayed that way while Izaak prayed the Germans would take away the other men and move on. Please, God. Please, God, not Papa.

  But God lived far away, and Izaak’s prayer hadn’t reached Him in time because someone pounded on their front door and then banged their door knocker over and over again. The soldiers weren’t leaving.

  “I’ll go see what they want,” Papa said, his voice deeper than usual. He kissed Izaak and then Mama. “I love you both, and I’ll see you soon.”

  Izaak’s legs wouldn’t stop trembling as he watched through the window, the lace curtains pulled back. Papa stopped outside their front door and touched the praying hands door knocker he’d bought at a church sale in Haarlem. Mama made fun of the hand’s size, and Papa declared they must be the hands of God. He made a ritual of touching them each time he came home or left, saying they brought him luck, and Izaak hoped that was true now more than ever. Papa climbed into the open back of a military vehicle with dozens of other men. A soldier yelled, and the truck jerked to life and sped off.

  The Germans were getting away with doing horrible things, and Izaak had no idea when it would stop. His stomach hurt most days because he wondered if Mama would be next. What would he do without her? He could never have believed Papa would be gone this long. As an engineer, Papa used to be gone overnight when he traveled far away for a project, but never away for months like now.

  Izaak was sure the Germans chose Papa because he would do a good job building whatever they needed. It was hard to know when he’d be home.

  When an SS officer showed up a week after Papa left and announced he would be staying at their house, Mama’s eyes got huge like a trapped rabbit. She showed the officer to the guest room above Izaak’s bedroom and hurried back to the kitchen and slumped against the wall, her face white.

  “Who is he, Mama?”

  “I don’t know.” Mama started to put together dinner but tugged on her apron and seemed to forget what she was doing from minute to minute.

  Why was she so nervous? “Should we be afraid?” Izaak whispered, although the man was still upstairs.

  “No, not afraid. But we shouldn’t tell the soldier anything about our family, Izaak. We have no choice but to host him, but we should stay out of his way.” Which turned out to be easy. Izaak had seen many SS men shoot people for no reason, but this man was different. He seemed lost in his thoughts and spent most of his time in his room. Izaak lay in his bed and listened to the footsteps above him as the officer paced the floor with his boots on, often for hours. When the man wasn’t yelling out in the middle of the night, he often talked to himself. Izaak wished he understood German then he’d know what the man was saying. And one morning, without them knowing, the man was up and gone. He left a thank-you note written in Dutch, thanking Mama for her kindness the past week. He also left a small bag of ginger candy. “For your proper son.”

  Izaak shared the extra-special treat with his friends but kept most of it for Papa’s return. Each night after dinner when Papa enjoyed his pipe, he’d ask Izaak to talk about his day. Papa always moved a hard piece of candy side to side with his tongue. The soft clinking on his teeth was a sound he missed. A sound he never thought he’d noticed before, but now it was high on the list of all the little things he wanted back.

  A cold wind blew across the patio, and Izaak shivered. Mainly because he was chilly, but also because this is where he had to remember why he no longer saw Guus. The third date in Izaak’s logbook, October 8, was just a month ago. The last image he had of Guus flashed in his head—a memory he tried to forget. Why did some part of his brain always hold on to sad thoughts? That day, he and Guus were horse-riding broom handles along the Herengracht Canal because all their bicycles were taken away by the Germans. Cort, the scissors’ sharpener, sat in their kitchen and explained the Germans needed to steal the rubber from the tires because there wasn’t any left to buy. Rabbi Feinstein taught that stealing was a sin no matter the reason or season. Apparently, the Germans had never heard of God’s rules even though Papa said everyone shared the same God.

  A military truck had stopped in front of Guus’s large house, three doors down from Izaak’s, and German soldiers poured out of it. While one soldier battered open Guus’s front door with his rifle butt, another grabbed Guus from his broom handle just two meters away from Izaak and threw the stick in the canal.

  “Leave me alone!” Guus had yelled as the German pulled him to the truck.

  Izaak panicked and could hardly breathe. His short quick gasps sounded like a baby bird that fell out of its nest.

  Guus’s mother and three-year-old sister, Olivia, rushed onto their front steps, his mama’s face as white as Witte Wieven. A ghost from a fable that told children to stay out of caves where the white witch lived.

  And then the part that was worse than a scary witch story because it was really happening: The soldier picked up Guus by the arm and foot—Guus’s eyes wide like a wild horse’s—and threw him into the back of the truck like a trash bag.

  Guus’s mama screamed as the men grabbed Olivia and tossed her in the same way. Another soldier poked Mrs. Van Groot in the back with his gun barrel to force her inside the truck. Izaak ran home, his pants soaked in the front where he’d wet himself.

  He squirmed, now remembering how ashamed he’d been.

  “Izaak.” Mama rubbed his back. He shook his head and once again was back on the patio, a Spijkerpoepen champ no longer lost in the bad thoughts. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded and tucked his arms around his body, suddenly freezing. Then he smiled and studied Mama’s expression. Even after all they’d been through, she was still pretty with her reddish-brown hair in contrast to Papa’s dark curly hair. Paprika en Peper. Nicknames given to them by one of Mama’s nurse friends. Izaak loved to draw although he was just learning. When he drew Mama’s face, he always started with a heart shape. If she were deep in thought, he sketched her mouth with a smile on it because her thinking expression always looked happy. He added the deep dimple to her right cheek, the one Papa kissed first, but often teased he thought he might get lost inside. Mama always play-slapped him and giggled. Izaak missed hearing that sound, her laugh, like tiny bells jingling together. And he sure wasn’t cheering her up at the moment. Her mouth was set in a straight line. It was her trying-to-be-happy face.

  “I was just thinking”—he swallowed hard—“about Guus.”

  She stroked his smooth head, his Jewish curls sheared off to trick the Germans. “I know, love.”

  He secretly spied on the Van Groot house later that terrible afternoon Guus’s family was taken, but it sat empty. The windows remained dark rectangles even as evening fell. Surely, they would be brought back when they discovered the mistake. With Guus’s papa away, his mama had taken in sewing from neighbors, and German officers sometimes dropped off their mending. The Germans liked a hard worker, and Mrs. Van Groot was that and more.

  A week before they were thrown in the truck, Izaak had come looking for Guus to play marbles early one morning and found Guus’s mama hurriedly packing stacks of fliers into a laundry basket. He’d startled her so much she clasped her hand over her chest and forgot how to talk for a moment. When she did, her voice shook. “Let’s not tell anyone about this, Izaak.” And he hadn’t, although he didn’t know why saying she had them would make her afraid. With all the radios gone, she must need them to let people know about her sewing skills. Although he never saw her hand out the pieces of paper.

  “And I’m sad because I’m forgetting how Papa looks.” He swallowed hard and blinked back tears as his mama rubbed his arm through his th
in coat. The trash-filled area around the patio blurred, and he swiped at his eyes. They were told not to clean up the garbage or remove the broken birdhouse and rusted mower. It had to look as though nobody lived there if anyone searched the area. The problem was the terrible smell seeped into their rooms, a stinky mixture of spoiled meat and rotting vegetables that stuck in his nose and made his food taste worse than it already did.

  And the last date in his journal? Twenty-nine nights ago—the night after Guus was thrown into the truck—Dr. Willem Schermerhorn visited them for the first time, telling them they had to leave their house immediately. That the Germans read through tax records and found Papa’s donations to their local synagogue. Izaak and Mama scurried about while Dr. Schermerhorn urged them to go faster. While Mama packed jewelry and money, a few clothes and a photograph book, Izaak grabbed his drawing pad and pencils from the deep windowsill. This was his favorite drawing spot, a place where he could sit and create pictures. Sometimes drawing the fish peddlers along the water, or the boats on the canal. Sometimes, he drew so much he felt like he was in the pictures, hearing the shush of the water along the bottom of the boats and the captain barking orders.

  One last thing he grabbed was Papa’s pipe from the little table by Papa’s favorite chair, knowing he would want it again. Unsure what was happening, or when he would return home, Izaak wanted to touch the praying hands on the front door one more time for good luck. But Dr. Schermerhorn rushed them out the back. “No one can know you left.”

  While hurrying, Izaak forgot to grab his journal, but the dates, along with the horrible images, he remembered.

  Now Izaak and Mama lived in these two rooms in the back of an unused apartment building, waiting to get papers to leave the Netherlands. They were “onderduikers,” or “under divers,” Dr. Schermerhorn explained. They were hiding like other Jewish people, or in their case, half-Jewish people. He didn’t know why everyone would let this happen, but it seemed the Germans answered to no one.