When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  He bit down hard on his bottom lip. What if he wet himself again? He was horrified the first time it happened because eight-year-olds didn’t do that.

  “Be quick about it and pee over there.” Mama pointed to a small area sided by three towering walls.

  He hurriedly relieved himself, and while buttoning his pants, saw movement in a lower window. He hurried next to Mama. “Someone is inside.”

  Mama’s face bunched together in her thinking-about-it look. She rubbed his neck as she studied the back door. “Let’s see if someone can give us directions to the train station.”

  This was their real destination.

  Mama tapped on the massive wooden door and they waited. Maybe the priest was hurrying about to get dressed since it was barely morning. He and Mama had eaten the last of the food Dr. Schermerhorn gave them before the farmer found them on his doorstep. Perhaps the priest had extra food.

  The door opened a fraction of a meter. A man peered out. His black hair swept back from his forehead, and his eyes darted back and forth from Izaak to Mama. “May I help you?”

  “We need directions to the train depot”—Mama smiled—“and perhaps a drink of water, if you could.”

  Izaak wanted to add how hungry they were but knew not to speak.

  The priest opened the door wider, but didn’t move back to allow them inside. He wore a long black coat with buttons from his neck to the floor. His white collar and cuffs looked yellowed, and the toes of his brown shoes were scuffed. He leaned forward and whispered, “This is not a good time.” Then he stood taller and said in a louder voice, “Turn right on the street and take the next left. The train station is a half kilometer down.” He had a stern expression.

  “Yes . . . we will do that . . . and thank you, Father.” Mama talked fast and reached for Izaak’s hand as she took a step backward. She pulled him away, but he looked back one last time. He’d never known a priest not to be helpful. The man had stepped inside, but the door was still open as he spoke to someone. Izaak could see past his robes to a table set with food. His heart beat fast, and his ears started to ring when he spotted the field-grey coat with a black collar over the back of a chair. An SS officer was inside!

  Now he tugged Mama along. They needed to get to the trains and fast. When they reached the street, he said, “Mama, there’s a German officer in there.”

  “Oh”—she glanced at the church—“I guess I assumed as much from the priest’s reaction. But we can’t look panicked. We’re just two people heading for the depot.”

  “Two Catholic people.” Izaak tried to walk with easy, unhurried steps, but his movements felt strange. He’d become used to a quick pace, hurrying from one danger and away from another.

  The town was waking up. One man walked a tiny dog, and another pushed a pipe organ to a street corner where it looked like he would set up. Izaak wished they could wait to watch the man dance and rattle his tin of coins in time to the music. He wanted to do normal things like that.

  He breathed easier when the train station came into view. Once there, Mama would buy their tickets to Amsterdam. He replayed all that had happened since they’d left the back of the house the night before. It seemed like a week had passed since they climbed into the back of Mr. Fritz’s truck, but it hadn’t even been a full day.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” a man spoke, directly behind them.

  Mama stopped walking and turned. Two policemen stood there. Her hand tightened around Izaak’s, and she pulled him closer. “Yes?”

  “We need to see your identification,” the taller officer said.

  Izaak was proud to see that Mama’s hand didn’t shake as she set down her suitcase before handing over the papers. Just two Catholics catching a train, he repeated in his mind.

  The men passed the pages back and forth and then handed them to her when the tall policeman rested his hands on his gun belt. Its leather crackled under the strain of the weight his heavy arms. Izaak didn’t like the way the man stared at him.

  “Where are you heading?”

  The shorter policeman had a flabby rooster neck and tiny ears. When he smiled it looked wrong, like the mouth of the Big Bad Wolf in his storybook. That same wolf who turned out to be a big, bad liar.

  “We are returning to Amsterdam.” She dropped her hand to Izaak’s back and rubbed it.

  “Are you Jewish?” the taller man asked.

  “You know as well as I do there are no Jewish people left in Amsterdam.” Mama grabbed her luggage and smiled. “We really need to be going.”

  The taller policeman’s eyes changed from friendly to angry. “Unless they have been in hiding.”

  This was bad. The men didn’t believe their made-up story. Izaak’s chin quivered and he willed himself not to cry.

  “We found a dead man out in the countryside this morning, a known Jew smuggler.” The short policeman cupped his hands and blew into them. “We asked ourselves, Where is his cargo?”

  Mama said nothing as she held the man’s gaze.

  “Where are you returning from?” The tall officer crossed his arms over his chest.

  “From Hoorn,” Mama said and scratched her nose. “We were only there one evening.”

  Izaak tried to smile as the tall officer turned his gaze his way, but his lips wouldn’t stop twitching. He put his hands behind his back and pinched the skin between his thumb and finger to fight off his fear.

  “And you arrived here by bus?” The tall man tilted his chin upwards.

  “We did.” Mama made a quick sniffing sound.

  “Ah, there’s the problem. There is no bus from Hoorn.” The tall officer lowered his voice and spoke slowly. “Here’s how we handle these . . . misunderstandings. We can shoot you both right here, right now, or . . .”—he drew the word out, and his voice rose higher—“you will volunteer to be transported to a work camp.”

  Mama’s face turned white, and her lips trembled.

  The short policeman unclipped his gun. “You need to decide.”

  Izaak’s breath stuck in his throat. He buried his face in Mama’s chest. His insides hurt because he didn’t know how to protect her.

  “We volunteer,” Mama said above his head. Her shoulders sagged.

  Izaak let out a long breath. They wouldn’t be killed. And maybe this camp wouldn’t be a terrible place. He and Mama had been hungry and tired for weeks. And hadn’t Mr. Fritz told him Papa was at a work camp? Maybe they’d be taken to the same one.

  How could it be that while they waited in an alley with the two policemen, life went on around them? It seemed wrong. A woman pinned clothes to a line strung between the buildings. Breakfast smells followed men out of their homes. Children skipped alongside their mothers heading to the center of the city. And he could tell people tried hard not to look their way.

  A police van arrived. Once the back doors were opened, the tall policeman boosted Izaak inside and helped Mama. “Here.” Then he handed them their suitcases.

  The doors closed, and after a sharp rap on the metal side, the van drove off. Izaak scrambled onto a bench across from a lady with two boys. Both looked older than him. They tossed a small wooden ball back and forth between them. The van jerked and chugged forward, causing the younger boy to drop the ball. It rolled under the seat and hit Izaak’s foot. He returned it to the boys.

  Mama sat next to him and spoke to the woman. “Have you volunteered, as well?”

  “If that’s what we must call it.” She smiled. “I’m Dahlia. These are my sons, Zev and Aharon.”

  Mama rubbed Izaak’s head. “I’m Rachel, and this is Izaak.”

  The brothers studied Izaak before Aharon asked, “You want to play?”

  He nodded, eager to do anything to forget they were prisoners.

  “Where is your star?” Zev asked. He pointed to Izaak’s unadorned coat. Zev’s star was sewn to
his brown jacket with the word JOOD in black lettering.

  “We never got one because we went into hiding.” Izaak unbuttoned his coat because he was suddenly hot in his many layers of clothes.

  “We hid, too. In the brick factory oven,” Zev said. He grabbed the ball from his brother and tossed it into the air with one hand and caught it with the other.

  “From the bombs,” Aharon said.

  Izaak pictured his house and Mama bringing warm bread out of the oven. He wasn’t sure he would fit inside any oven, and these boys were much bigger than he was. “How did you both crowd in there?”

  Zev grabbed the ball from his brother and tossed it to Izaak. “The ovens are huge rooms that make thousands of bricks at a time. Hundreds of us were in there.”

  Izaak laughed. “Oh. I was imagining a big kitchen oven with large knobs on the front with a door that snapped upward and closed.”

  Zev laughed. “Like a monster’s huge oven to cook people.”

  He pictured how that story would go and quickly brushed away those terrible thoughts.

  The van wove through the streets and pitched them from side to side. Mama braced herself against the wall as she talked to Dahlia. “Where were you found?”

  “We’re from Haarlem. We’d been in a friend’s basement, but I snuck back to our house to check the mail. I found a postcard from my sister who was taken away a few months ago. She’s working on a farm in the east and said there was room for us there, as well. We packed and checked into the police station. I have to admit they’ve been accommodating so far.”

  Mama loosened the scarf she called Chanel from around her neck. She looked relaxed for the first time in a long while. She lowered her voice, but he clearly heard her. “What do you make of the rumors, that some circumstances for us are worse in Eastern Europe than just being deprived of freedoms?”

  Izaak had overheard Papa and Mama whispering about this very same thing. That some place far away, the Germans were doing worse things than killing people. The confusing part is what could be worse than that?

  “I think they’re made-up stories.” Dahlia tucked her short brown hair behind her ears and sighed. The dark circles under her eyes showed she didn’t sleep very much.

  “I hope so.” Mama straightened her coat. “Two months ago, BBC reports claimed the Allies were winning back occupied countries. It seems the war is nearly over.”

  Izaak caught the ball and tossed it back to Zev. He was glad they were in a silent game of catch because this was important stuff the adults were sharing. As soon as the war ended, Papa would come home, he would go back to school, and they could return to happily being Jewish.

  “Then all we have to do is wait it out,” Dahlia said, “on this German work farm.”

  Tall apartment buildings flew by the one side window, creating multicolored flashes behind the leafless trees. Izaak wished they’d been invited to a farm.

  “We are remanded to a work camp.” Mama’s mouth tightened. “Last I learned, my husband was sent to one.”

  Papa would be assigned to the construction team in his camp. Maybe he was in charge of making sure everyone had a house when they arrived. Perhaps he even built the house they would live in. That would be amazing.

  Dahlia looked at Izaak and cut her eyes quickly back to Mama. Her mouth soured like she’d sucked on a lemon. “I have heard things about the work camps . . . about what the Germans expect.”

  “Work, I suppose,” Mama said and laughed a little.

  “That and the ability to demonstrate a talent . . . especially for a younger child to not be”—she glanced at Izaak again—“um, you understand, to not be worked too hard.”

  He didn’t like Dahlia’s look. It was like the time his mama found a hurt bird on the ground and said it would die.

  “Where did you hear this?” Mama had her hands in her lap, clenched tight.

  “An SS officer bragged to our protestant neighbor, who then told us.”

  “Before we were identified as Mischling, we had an officer in our home,” Mama said. “I’m not sure I believe all he was muttering. He didn’t seem very stable.”

  Izaak pictured the man. He’d looked uncomfortable, like his dark greyish uniform didn’t fit him right. And he always talked to himself as he paced the room above Izaak’s bedroom. His name was Falk, which meant “falcon” in German. Izaak remembered the soldier seemed more like a broken bird than a strong falcon when he stayed with them.

  “I’m curious.” Mama crossed her arms like she was freezing. “What age did they say was considered young?”

  “Under twelve.”

  “Oh.” Mama rubbed Izaak’s back, and he saw worry lines on her forehead.

  But he wasn’t worried. He’d been told he was talented for his age. Maybe by drawing well, the camp leaders would treat him as if he were older than eight.

  Their van pulled into Amsterdam’s Centraal train station. The building could have been a palace, red and tan with gold in places and tall pointy tops like on the castles in Izaak’s storybooks.

  Izaak pressed his face against the van window and studied the shining trains with big wheels and massive engines. Which one would take them to their new house? This day had turned out to be half bad and half good. Poor Mr. Fritz was killed because he’d helped them and Izaak felt terrible about that. However, he and Mama were here, not dead but instead heading to a camp where his papa might very well be.

  Herbert Müller

  Tulpehocken, Pennsylvania - December 1943

  At the sound of glass breaking, Herbert sprang from his bed. The clock showed 4:30 a.m. His heart hammered with fear that an intruder was in the house. He grabbed his rifle from the gun rack in the hallway, the linoleum cold and crackling under his feet as he headed into the living room.

  Alfred stumbled from his room. “Dad? What is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” Herbert scanned the living room. One panel of the sheer curtains fluttered inward. The window behind it had a jagged opening like a giant mouth with razor-sharp teeth. Now that they kept their doors locked, he knew no one had come inside. As he flipped on the light, he noticed a grapefruit-sized white rock lay on the braided rug in the center of the room. Shards of glass created a gleaming trail from the floor. He set his gun against the wall and crossed the floor to pick up the rock.

  “Nazis go home,” he read. The letters were carefully painted in black. On the other side was a swastika.

  Only a week had passed since the last incident. Apparently, the attack in the yard wasn’t the end of the harassment. “Looks like they mean business, son.”

  “Let me go after them.” Alfred’s fist clenched and unclenched at his side. “They’ll be the only car on the road right now.”

  “And what will you do?” His son, although quick-tempered, was no fighter. If Alfred caught up to them, they’d have to visit him in a hospital.

  “I’d beat the tar out of them.” His voice was a whispered growl. “Dad. We can’t let these punks get away with this!”

  He dropped his hand on Alfred’s shoulder and squeezed. “No, we can’t, but we’ll take care of it the correct way. I’ll call the FBI as soon as the sun comes up.” He lifted his chin regarding the broken window. A brisk stream of autumn air circled the room. “Get some shoes on, and we’ll cover that up.”

  He regretted waking the family, but nails didn’t go through wood without hammering. The boards would have to do until he could get to town for glass. He quickly explained what happened and reassured them he’d keep watch until morning. Alfred and Frieda shuffled back to bed, and Jutta remained by his side. Otto pushed his fingers through his hair, his rumpled bedclothes hanging loose on his thin frame.

  “We need . . . to have more care, son. Remember what Andel said. Twenty-five years ago, Cherman-Americans were killed. We know history, is repeated.”

  “You
may be right.” Herbert sighed and reached out to touch Jutta on the cheek. “Everyone try to get some sleep. I’m just going to stay up a bit longer.”

  Otto disappeared down the unlit hallway while Jutta reached for the colorful ripple-pattern afghan folded over the back of the chair. “I’ll stay up with you.”

  “Are you sure, honey?”

  “I can’t leave you alone.” She pulled him to the love seat, and once they were settled, draped the warm throw over them and snuggled closer.

  Herbert’s mind spun with all that was happening. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. What his father said was true. People were afraid, and as German-Americans, he and his family were the objects of that fear. But he worried more about his father. Otto had not become a citizen after immigrating. What would this mean for Otto if more people became fearful?

  The next day, through the kitchen window, Herbert spotted the arrival of a black car as the family was finishing breakfast. It slid silently into the yard and parked under the line of bare maple trees. He threw the last splash of his coffee in the sink and waited for the two men in suits to knock on his door before opening it. As they entered, the crisp winter day pushed clean air and aftershave into his kitchen. “Good morning, men. Thank you for coming.”

  The badges and FBI IDs came out. The heavyset man with a jowly neck was Johnson, and the tall one with a beak-like nose was Gables.

  “Jutta. Could we get the men some coffee?” He motioned to the table. “Children. Let’s make some room, please.”

  Frieda and Alfred stood and cleared away their plates. They moved to the green loveseat next to the grandfather clock where Herbert and Jutta spent most of the night.

  Each agent’s hair was close-cropped, and they wore neatly-pressed suits from expensive material Herbert knew he could never afford.

  After they were all seated, and Herbert made the introductions, the men accepted their coffee and stirred in cream. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “I’m not sure what you need to know in these types of harassment cases.”