When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  The taller man mocked Otto, using a fake sing-songy German accent. “Vee are citizenz, not goddamn Krauts.” Then he sprang faster than Herbert could anticipate and shoved Otto with both hands.

  “No!” Herbert lunged for his father and caught his arm, but Otto went down hard on one knee. He stepped in front of Otto hoping to shield him from further attack. “Knock it off!” he said as he helped Otto stand.

  Clouds obscured the moon, and the temperature seemed to drop in the sudden darkness and destroy the illusion the moonbeam had offered warmth. The stench of cheap alcohol wafted off the men. With anger and booze fueling them, his thought to attempt reasoning with them disappeared. When the men spread out, his heart pounded faster. Other German immigrants who reported recent harassment, noted property damage, such as a broken window or hay bales set on fire, but no one was assaulted. These two seemed to have a different agenda.

  Trying to keep both aggressors in sight with his father behind him, he backed him closer to the house. Otto limped, favoring the knee he just injured. How dare they attack an elderly person! A vein throbbed at Herbert’s temple and his chest tightened with fear that the men weren’t finished. “I’ll call the sheriff if you don’t leave.” He forced calmness into his voice, but his words still rang with a tinge of panic.

  The shorter one spoke. “You’ll pay for being a German spy. Radioing messages, getting our fathers killed.” The young men moved, and when the moonlight lit their faces, Herbert recognized them. A local pest and his sidekick, their eyes always hard with suspicion while they smoked outside the local five and dime store.

  “You’re trespassing, boys.” Herbert’s panic subsided. A couple drunk high school boys seemed less menacing. “It’s time you left.”

  Harsh laughter came from the man-boy to his right. “Can’t rightly dial a phone with broken arms.”

  Break his arms? Perhaps he’d misjudged how far they would go. He continued to nudge his father to the house and whispered, “Pop. Get inside and lock the door . . . and call the sheriff.”

  The two man-boys moved closer to them as the back door flew open, smacking the side of the house with a hollow thunk. His fifteen-year-old son, Alfred, stood backlit in the doorway with a rifle pointed at the attackers. Although his body had started to fill out his five-foot-nine frame, he still came across as wiry and too thin. “Get off our property!”

  Herbert raised a cautionary hand to stop his son. Alfred had a lightning-fast temper, and confrontation was the perfect spark to set it off. He played nearly every high school sport, the best solution to helping him burn off his anger and remain an even-keeled kid. That is, until someone challenged him. Bringing a gun into this fight just made the situation worse.

  “It’s all right, son.”

  Alfred descended the steps, the cold wood protesting against his weight. “I said, leave.” His voice rumbled.

  The attackers turned their attention to Alfred. “You don’t have it in you, Hitler Junior,” the tall one said.

  Oh, no! That kind of taunt would be hard for Alfred to overlook.

  Ignoring the pain in his hip and side where there may have been a bruised rib, Herbert charged forward and swept the rifle out of Alfred’s hands, set the stock on his shoulder, and aimed the barrel skyward with the swift, smooth actions of a seasoned hunter. He pulled the trigger, letting the rifle’s blast freeze the anger-fueled scene before him. The attackers’ eyes turned in his direction, and in the moonlight, he noticed the fear plastered on the cowards’ faces.

  Before they turned and ran, the short youth stopped long enough to yell over his shoulder, “The sheriff will hear about how you tried to shoot us.”

  Herbert snorted. As if the sheriff would ever believe that.

  Moments later, an engine roared to life alongside the road. A truck pulled away, its headlights laying down yellow beams back toward Tulpehocken.

  Herbert shouldered the rifle and turned to his father and son. “Never expected anything like that.”

  “We are called, Nazis now?” Otto let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “We have loyalty.”

  “A couple of drunk rabble-rousers is all.” Herbert hoped that was true. Would others assume their German heritage meant they were in cahoots with Germany? He squeezed his father’s arm. “Is your knee okay?”

  “Ühm . . . only a bit zore.” Otto rubbed his leg.

  “They hurt you?” Alfred leaned closer to his grandfather, his face a mask of anger. “I’m going to kill them!”

  “Kill who?” Jutta appeared on the stoop, hands wringing her apron. “What was that gunshot all about?” Her usual sweet voice wavered with worry. She was a small woman but made of the grit all farm wives had. Her hands were slight but calloused and always ready to pull her husband and children in for a warm embrace.

  “No one’s killing anybody, dear.” He motioned Alfred and Otto to lead the way inside the house. He kissed Jutta on the cheek when he reached her. “A couple boys showed up shouting nonsense, but they’re gone now.” He needed to keep his family calm even though what just happened seemed preposterous. This was his family’s community for over two decades. He thought back to three years earlier when the war broke out. Sure, the Alien Registration Act of 1940 required all German-born resident aliens, who still had German citizenship, to register with the federal government. His father and mother had complied along with forty percent of their county. So why now? Herbert and his family got along with everyone. Or so he thought.

  The scent of pot roast and potatoes welcomed him inside the warm kitchen. This was his favorite room in the house. The deep enamel cast iron sink, with a side porcelain drainboard, was usually full of fresh vegetables. And he pictured the days Jutta used it as a bathtub when the children were babies. He remembered how he and his brother pounded in every nail along the white paneling on the walls when they helped build the house twenty years earlier. The stove and new electric icebox were avocado-colored, adding accent to the white background.

  All eyes were on him, apparently waiting to hear what he would say. “A bit of a scuffle can’t get in the way of a supper that smells this good.” He pointed to the kitchen table where five places were set. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Herbert spotted Frieda cowering beside the china cabinet, her eyes stretched to their widest, extra dark against her fair complexion. She wore her long light-brown hair in pigtails. One arm was wrapped tightly around her side in a protective hug while, with the other hand, she twisted a braid around her finger, releasing it and turning again. The fear on her face made her look much younger than her thirteen years.

  “Father?” Her voice trembled.

  “We’re fine, honey.” He crossed the room and pulled her into an embrace. Her body trembled, and his throat tightened with emotion.

  His little girl. Perhaps a bit naïve, she saw only the best in every situation, a miniature blueprint of her mother. She was a people-pleaser and often spent hours making a gift for anyone she thought might need cheering up. Ugliness and hate were emotions she hadn’t been exposed to.

  He walked her to the kitchen table and pulled out her chair. “Let’s all sit.”

  Alfred remained standing, stiff with hostility, his fists opening and closing. “They beat up Grandfather.” His face contorted and red splotches covered his neck. “They should be arrested.”

  “I was pushed down.” Otto pulled out Jutta’s chair, the wooden legs scraping on the black and white linoleum floor. After she took her seat, he sat in the one next to hers. “I am fine, Alfred.”

  Herbert walked over to his father and squeezed his shoulders. He was proud of Otto, never backing down when the attackers could have seriously injured him. “He’ll need an ice bag and some arnica ointment on his knee”—he limped to his seat—“I’m going to need a helping of those, too, I think.”

  “You’re hurt?” Jutta’s eyes widened, sear
ching his face. She tugged her left earlobe, a nervous habit he adored.

  “My ribs. They might be sore for a day or two, but I’m in one piece.” Herbert needed to stay positive, although he still bristled inside. He was still processing the series of events, ashamed he hadn’t been more alert. And he felt guilty. He’d heard of neighbors being mistreated for their German heritage, but he hadn’t asked about them. Fall was their busy time of year, and if he thought of them at all, he rationalized that perhaps the neighbors were doing something wrong. Now that his family was threatened, he wished he’d paid closer attention.

  Herbert met Alfred’s steady gaze. The boy wanted revenge, but Herbert wouldn’t allow that. “Son. That was quick thinking with the rifle. It did the trick.” He could only imagine what would have happened if Alfred had found a more serious situation outside. He’d like to think his son wouldn’t shoot anyone, but he wasn’t entirely sure. “Let’s eat.”

  When everyone settled at the table, Herbert nodded to Otto. His father offered the prayers at mealtimes in his native tongue. Probably to hold to tradition, but some of it was to goad the children into learning German. As usual, Otto blessed the food, thanked God for all they had and asked for their health and safety. Then he added, “May these, foolhardy boys, be ashamed in the morning. Amen.”

  “Amen, Pops.” Herbert studied the children, who were peeking at each other and their faces said they had no clue. Maybe he had done them a disservice not to insist the children learn German. He should have explained that language was a family treasure, much more meaningful than the heirlooms, family recipes, or old photos. And a bond perhaps to keep them united. It was never too late. He translated for the children.

  “They won’t feel ashamed.” Alfred had his elbows on the table and his hands flat on the surface. It appeared as though he tried to pin his anger in place.

  “Again, we’ll discuss this after dinner, everyone.” Herbert reached for the warm bread. “Let’s not ruin this delicious meal.”

  They passed the plates and ate. Jutta reminded Frieda she’d need help finishing a baby quilt for their church donation corner. Herbert turned Alfred’s attention to the weekend basketball game and their chances of beating the Lebanon Cedars. Although his son was the youngest on the Tulpehocken High School team, he was one of their top scorers.

  “They won’t know what hit them.” Alfred made a fist and palmed it with his other hand.

  Herbert drew in a long breath. He wished his son had mimed taking a basketball shot, but that wasn’t how Alfred’s mind worked. For him, every challenge was a battleground.

  Jutta and Frieda cleared the table and returned with the Sweet Hubbard Squash Custard Pie made with his mother’s recipe. When everyone had their serving, he cleared his throat. “Okay. Let’s do this. It’s Fact Time.” This was a practice he and Jutta created when the children were younger. If a tough topic needed to be discussed, such as who broke the barn window or spilled honey on the couch, there would be no punishment for any fact or confession shared during Fact Time. All true statements were allowed. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Calling the sheriff will do no good.” Alfred’s words sounded more like a growl. “The short one is his nephew.”

  “Ben’s son?” Jutta’s round eyes stretched extra-wide. Her eyebrows all but disappeared into her hairline.

  Herbert now understood why the boys hadn’t seemed frightened by his threat to call the sheriff.

  Alfred nodded. “Glen Mason.”

  Color returned to Frieda’s face. She swept her pigtails behind her shoulders. “My fact: His brother, Wallace, is in my class and last week the teacher caught him stealing lunch sacks out of our desks.” Her eyes became thoughtful. “He must need food.”

  Everyone knew about Ben Mason. His wife and seven children barely survived in a shack off Wilson Lane, no more than two miles from the Müller home. Jutta’s women’s group took meals there twice a week ever since Ben died fighting in Italy a month ago.

  “The boys say, we killed zeir fathers,” Otto said. “Now . . . it makes sense.”

  Herbert nodded. Those boys were hurting, for sure. Who could they lash out at if not the locals who shared the enemy’s heritage? “My fact is this: We will lock our doors at night.”

  Seriousness showed in Jutta’s eyes, and Herbert tried to remember a time she ever appeared more worried. He added, “Just until this gets sorted out.”

  “I will make an extra sandwich for Frieda to take to Wallace,” Jutta said.

  “I’ll get there early, and leave it in his desk, so he’s not embarrassed.” Frieda gave her pigtail a spin. Her kind-heartedness warmed Herbert.

  “We’ll try to be understanding,” Herbert said. “Those boys can’t see past their anger right now.” He hoped he’d scared the young men enough to keep them away. Often, he was gone once or twice a week, taking orders from farmers or picking up supplies. If anyone watched his property, they’d know when his family was vulnerable. He pushed away the fear that harm would come to Jutta, his father, or the children.

  “I’ll meet with Pastor Huber in the morning. We need to warn other families that they might be targeted, and we should all come up with a plan.” His family looked calmer, obviously trusting his words that this scare would be taken care of. If only he believed it. Something about how self-assured the boys seemed worried him.

  “How about a game before bed?” Jutta collected the plates and set them in the sink.

  “Let’s play Dig,” Frieda said. She had tied her pigtails together under her chin and was flipping the two hanging braids in the air, first with one hand and then the other.

  “Is that supposed to be a beard?” Alfred squinted at his sister.

  “Yes, it is”—she chuckled—“like you might have . . . someday.”

  Herbert smiled. His children were good friends and watched out for each other even with all the teasing. “Everyone else up for a game?”

  After unanimous nods, Frieda retrieved the gameboard from the bookshelf. As she handed out the tiny hammers with their sticky ends and spread the tiles around, Herbert was surprised his father remained at the table. Not one to enjoy games in general, Dig was a word game and difficult for Otto to play in English.

  “Not going to listen to the radio, Pop?”

  “Tonight . . . no, staying here, is better.” His deep devotion to the family, even though he didn’t share the same hobbies, filled Herbert with peace. Otto’s example was the blueprint he tried to follow as he raised his children. He sometimes worried when he worked too much that he wasn’t measuring up to his father.

  As Jutta shuffled the category cards, Herbert relaxed in his chair listening to the happy banter from the people he cherished most. He prayed he would always have the strength to fight anything that threatened his family.

  Wilhelm Falk

  Lake Laceno area, Italy - November 1943

  Falk lowered himself next to a large rock and watched thousands of other soldiers fall like bags of sand into any open space along the shore of Lake Laceno. The surface of the water sparkled with sunlight, and the scent of wet weeds and water-soaked wood floated around them, while birds screeched overhead. The smells and sounds reminded him of fishing outside Düsseldorf with his boys. Barely old enough to hold fishing poles, Hans and Dietrich caught their first fish, declaring that day the best one ever. He promised them more but realized he’d failed miserably with that pledge. As they grew, he put in long hours managing Eastman Kodak Stuttgart, and then the war began and completely ripped him away.

  A canteen with fresh water circulated. He accepted and drank deeply. They’d been walking for four hours, the day unusually warm for this late in the year. The British and American military hustled them along while the weather held. Spots floated in front of his eyes. He existed on meager rations twice a day, and his stomach growled. He’d had little sleep for three n
ights, and as he rubbed his eyes, he might as well have had a handful of sand thrown in them.

  Falk, and what remained of Germany’s 10th Division, crossed the perilous Monte Massico ridgeline the day before. Vineyards and olive groves terraced the steep side of the mountain, while the lower foothills were flecked with villages of tightly crowded stone houses, draped down the slopes. Now on the western side of the mountains, he was thankful for the wide valley and flat farmland in front of them as they marched to Naples, their final destination.

  The first night after he surrendered, Falk stood along the inner perimeter of the filthy barbed-wire compound they were herded into. The wires. The guards in their brown uniforms. And the overcrowded area reminded him of the death camps spreading like leprosy across Europe’s landmass. He blinked back the images of the sight and smell of dead and dying Jews and political dissenters. Then he turned his attention to the small group of infantrymen whispering to his left.

  “We’re probably going to be lined up and shot before the end of the day.” The speaker was a wiry young man, thin-faced with eyes always darting about. If he’d been in Falk’s division, he would have kept him running all day and all night until he stopped looking like a nervous girl.

  “Don’t be a fool.” This man was broader and darker. He flicked a cigarette away. “Why would they line us up?”

  “Because we did it to them,” the shortest man in the group muttered.

  Falk respected the civility with which the British and Americans were treating them. He knew firsthand military officers had killed Allied POWs because they were a bother to transport and feed.

  He surveyed the lakeside, jam-packed with Hitler’s Defense Force, confident he’d remain anonymous in the dirty mass of soldiers. Step one of his plan was nearly complete. Get captured. Done. Step two was totally out of his hands. Survive the ocean crossing to America without getting blown out of the water by one of his own military’s U-boats. Step three was the vaguest part of his plan. Somehow talk his way out of a prison camp or wherever he was held and retrieve the documents he’d sent to his friend for safekeeping. Get an audience with someone who could stop Hitler—if even plausible. And step four? Was that where he returned to Ilse and the children guilt-free? That was his hope, but he doubted atonement would erase much guilt in the long run. In due time, he prayed he’d have peace knowing at least he’d tried.