When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  “Has anything happened since yesterday?” Gables asked. He pulled a notepad and pen out of his suit coat.

  “No. We will get the window fixed today. But someone needs to put a stop to this trouble we’ve had. I’m worried that by alerting you, the people who did this will become angrier.” He pointed to the rock on the floor beside Alfred’s feet. “Hand that this way, son.”

  Alfred hefted the rock and walked the few steps to the table. Gables reached for it and moved it up and down in his hands as if weighing it. “That’s a strong message.” He handed it back to Alfred, who returned it to the floor with a thump. “Any idea who did this?”

  Herbert didn’t want to name names. Couldn’t the FBI just spread the word that these acts were criminal?

  “The sheriff’s nephew, Glen Mason,” Alfred said. “His brother steals food in school, according to Frieda.”

  “Their father was Ben Mason.” Herbert slowly turned his coffee cup. “Killed a while back in Italy.”

  The agents looked at each other, but Herbert couldn’t read their expressions. Did they already know about the Mason boys?

  Johnson cleared his throat. “When you called yesterday, we checked to see if there were any other local complaints, and we found some.”

  “These same boys have been after other families?” Herbert turned to his father and raised his eyebrows. Otto was quieter than usual. Was he showing respect for men of authority, or was he afraid to speak with his heavy accent and choppy English?

  “Not exactly.” Gables flipped through his notes. “A neighbor reported your family a few weeks back for crimes against the United States. We believe that rumor circulated, which, no doubt, is what prompted the boys to pay you a visit.”

  “Crimes?” He threw his hands up in a what-gives gesture. If neighbors were talking behind their backs, his family could be in more trouble than he believed. “Who reported us?”

  Alfred scrambled to his feet behind the agents. He loomed in the doorway leading to the parlor, his arms crossed, his eyes boiling with anger. Johnson turned to the sound and his gaze lingered too long on the boy, causing Herbert to feel uncomfortable.

  Herbert sent Alfred a stern look. “Calm down.”

  Alfred dropped onto the loveseat.

  “We’re not at liberty to say who it was.” Gables sat up straighter. “But we do have some questions.”

  Herbert hoped this would be short. He had repairs to complete in the mill and wanted to ride into town with Jutta, in case anyone tried to bother her. He often didn’t help her with the Christmas shopping, but now they should do this together.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” Jutta stood and motioned Frieda and Alfred to their rooms. “Grab your school things.” Then she spoke to the agents. “The children’s bus will be here soon.”

  As the children left, Jutta handed each a sack lunch. Alfred yanked the door closed behind him hard enough to rattle the dishes in the hutch. Jutta offered a quick smile and reached to refill the coffee cups, but the agents waved it away.

  “We’ll get right to the government’s concerns.” Gables flipped the pages in the notebook.

  The government’s concerns? Herbert’s anxiety level suddenly sparked, sending what felt like an electric shock through him. If the FBI sided with the false claims made by neighbors, clearing their name might take longer than expected. Otto held a spoon between both hands, flexing the normally unbendable utensil. Jutta cleared her throat and arched her eyebrows as she met Herbert’s gaze.

  “Now the government has concerns?” Herbert forced a short laugh. “I assume you mean concern for our safety.”

  “What is it you do here?” Johnson asked, ignoring Herbert’s remark. “A neighbor said the mill business is a ruse to help fund Germany.”

  Herbert’s body stiffened. He’d once suffered from the same temper as Alfred, but now restrained the quick anger and searched the two men’s faces. He evened his tone and spoke carefully. “We run a mill business, grinding corn and wheat for roughly fifty customers.” He swept a hand to indicate the rows and rows of cornfields the men must have passed on their way to his house. “I’m sure you noticed we sit in the middle of nothing but farms.”

  “We have orchards and sell apples and peaches to the stores in Tulpehocken,” Jutta added. She unfolded a cloth napkin she’d pressed into a small square.

  “We make money, to pay the bills. No money left . . . to send away,” Otto said.

  “Let’s see.” Gables scanned the page. Herbert looked at Johnson who seemed content to listen. “That is correct. You’ve not made any large withdrawals from your bank account.”

  What in the world? They checked with his bank? Gerry Hardin, the bank manager, was in Herbert’s poker group. Would he now suspect him of crimes? Herbert scratched his hairline above his ear and found perspiration there. He’d expected help from these men not scrutiny. “Why are we under investigation? Someone attacked us. That’s what we asked you to look into, not our finances.”

  “Let me continue,” Gables said. “We also heard complaints that you’ve communicated through a shortwave radio to others who support Nazi idealism, you possess propaganda material, and you pass German messages along secret networks within your German community.” He flipped the pad closed. “You can see our concern.”

  Secret networks within our German community? Were they mad? Their Lutheran Church was packed with Germans, and they attended sporadic folk festivals. But exactly as the other families spread out along the farming valley, everyone was so busy with their daily work, no one had enough time or energy to engage in secret meetings. He hoped the shock on his face was clear enough but for good measure, he shook his head. “We do none of those things. My children were born in America, Jutta and I are citizens, and although my father most often speaks German, he certainly is not conducting secret meetings. Your information is wrong.”

  Johnson turned to the elderly man. “Otto Müller. You immigrated here in 1920, but never became a citizen. You still have relatives near Frankfurt. How often are you in contact with them?”

  Otto puffed out his chest. “I arrive 1920. My wife and I, work day to night, and rebuild the mill. We build the house . . . we have two boys to grow. Since the war, I am in no contact to Cherman family.” He drew in a long breath. That was more English than Herbert ever heard his father speak.

  “Pops always said he never found the time to gain citizenship,” Herbert interjected. “After time passed, it didn’t seem to matter. He’s paid taxes and is dedicated to the United States.”

  “Citizenship doesn’t matter?” Gable’s voice held an edge of disdain.

  “I mean after being here twenty plus years, he feels totally immersed in our American ideals.”

  “Hunh,” Johnson said. “Do you take a German newspaper?”

  “Yes,” Otto said.

  “A German club outside of Lancaster prints it,” Jutta said. She tapped a knuckle against her low lip. “It doesn’t come from Europe.”

  “Do you own a radio?” Gables scribbled on his pad.

  “Yes. But it’s simply a radio, unable to transmit anything,” Herbert said. This line of questioning was going in the wrong direction, but he sensed that if he argued more, the FBI might think they were hiding something. “Glad to clear this up. I can see how people might get nervous during wartime. But we’ve fit into this community without problems all these years. It seems like you can take care of these rumors with a few well-placed phone calls.”

  “We will do that,” Johnson said. The agents stood and shook hands all around. “Ma’am”—he nodded to Jutta—“thank you for the coffee.”

  “Our pleasure.” Jutta smiled and stepped aside, allowing the men room to button their coats and walk to the door.

  “You folks have a nice day,” Gables called as he passed the stoop.

  The tires sounded loud on the road
’s surface as the car drove away. Herbert turned to face his wife and father. “I think that went well.” He pulled Jutta into an embrace. “Crazy though how these rumors have spiraled out of control.”

  “My Anni and I . . . should . . . have become citizens.” Otto rubbed his neck. “However. I think today, not der time to apply.” His smile showed the sarcasm in his statement.

  “Yes, Pops, I’d hold off on that.” He leaned sideways, stretching his hip. “Let’s fix that arm on the grinding wheel and then, Jutta, you and I can head into town.”

  He pulled on a knit hat and his coat. He hadn’t wanted Jutta or his father to worry, but wondered if his family was truly cleared of suspicion. In a panic, the government rounded up thousands of Japanese-Americans after Pearl Harbor. He knew of two German men from their Lutheran Church who were questioned by the FBI and sent to jail. Herbert just assumed they were doing something wrong. But what if they were doing nothing more than living their lives when someone made up a false story? He wished he knew which neighbor was afraid of his family. He’d make a point to visit and assure them nothing illegal was going on at his mill. Unless grinding corn for the troops was suddenly anti-American.

  He stepped outside and waited for Otto, and scanned his family’s land. His father accomplished so much after coming to America. Otto arrived with one hundred dollars, a few meager possessions, and a dream to create a safe place for Anni and him to raise their sons.

  Wood smoke drifted through the apple orchard, a blue haze floating through the dry rattling leaves as they still clung to the branches. It was almost too cold to hang the washing outdoors, but Jutta would do it anyway. She remarked she loved the scent of a crisp winter day on the sheets, even if scented with a hint of smoke. The late fall landscape had taken on solemn, austere hues, but there were still brilliant flashes of color by the house. Orange chrysanthemums held their blooms against the cold nights, and purple ornamental cabbage leaves sprawled at the edge of the garden.

  Otto exited the house, looking small in his flannel coat and wool hat.

  Reflecting on their family’s history and all that it represented—the American dream, hard work, a productive occupation—a lump formed in his throat. They stood to lose so much if the war circled any closer to them.

  Wilhelm Falk

  Aboard the Algonquin - December 1943

  Falk boarded the Algonquin soon after sunset, crossing a wobbly gangway, Stern’s backpack slung over his shoulder. Before he stepped onto the main deck, the guards asked him to empty his pants pockets as they checked for mirrors, spoons, or anything else that could be used to signal an airplane. His cyanide pill remained in his shirt. A redheaded guard removed a button from his uniform and pocketed it—the Allies loved their souvenirs. He then nodded at Falk as if to say, See? You’ve lost your fight. Falk hoped that wasn’t true since his fight was different than that of the other soldiers.

  Two young privates, Eduard from Munich and Christoph from outside Berlin, pressed closer to Falk. If his sons were five years older, they would be these boys’ ages, fourteen and sixteen respectively. Eduard’s grandfather insisted he join the Wehrmacht by lying about his age to bring in more money for the family. The boy had sapphire eyes and large ears he needed to grow into. Christoph was brought up in the mandatory Hitler’s Youth Program, and when he showed good marksman’s skills during paramilitary training, they waived the age requirement and enlisted him. Burn scars from a childhood accident covered half his forehead, and his hairline receded on that side.

  The ship’s captain was French, and the crew American. The German noncommissioned officers were still in charge of keeping the POWs in line while answering to the Allied officers. POWs stood at attention, a ragtag mass of haggard men and boys, unshaven and smelly. In contrast, a well-groomed U.S. naval officer dressed in a double-breasted blue uniform, with three gold stripes on his cuffs, stood one level up on the bridge to address them. Graying sideburns poked from under his hat, his face narrow, hawkish, with thin lips.

  “You are under the control of the United States Navy. We honor the Geneva Convention of 1929, so you will be treated humanely and protected under international law.” Unlike his Wehrmacht.

  The officer called out their onboard instructions, consisting of the rules they would follow while at sea: no spitting on the deck, no fighting, and if they died, they’d be buried at sea. He ended with a quick review of their daily schedule.

  “You hear that, buddy?” The soldier beside Falk nudged him. Red flea bites covered the man’s face and hands. The soldier growled, “Two meals a day. Shit. We should mutiny.”

  Falk took a step away. “I’ll take all the food they offer. You heard them say they didn’t expect this many of us.”

  “They’re lying. We’re probably the first group anyone rounded up.” He scratched at his neck, tearing off scabs. “Everything I hear, we’re winning on every front.”

  The guy was delusional, or deaf to the truth. All reports stated Germany was doing nothing but losing battle after battle.

  “Yet here we are,” Falk said. When a whistle blew, he turned away from the soldier and motioned to the young POWs. “Stay with me,” he said before heading to the open hatch above the forward hold. The boy soldiers remained on his heels. A sailor handed him a putty-colored blanket and an orange life jacket, and pointed to the iron ladder, descending into the bowels of the ship. His footsteps on the metal ladder echoed off the interior walls, a hollow reverberation that moved through Falk’s chest, and for the first time, he truly felt like a prisoner.

  The lower compartment had poor lighting, but he made his way to a wall, backed against it, and slid down. Eduard and Christoph followed suit next to him. The hold filled with hundreds of men and soon there was no space. Then he waited. They were allowed to smoke, but in the confined space, only tempers flared, and few men lit up. He ignored the men around him and dozed. Soon, the ship rumbled to life and slowly began to move. The drumming of the powerful engines ramped up higher and became deafening, and he felt the vibrations rattle his back teeth. Maybe they would arrive safely in the United States, but at this rate, surely he would be deaf and on a soft-food diet.

  They were told ten Liberty ships moved with them in close formation, flanked by dozens of destroyers, an aircraft carrier, and two frigates. The Liberty ship was nothing more than a freight hauler, defenseless if attacked. He learned that, when the United States entered the war in 1941, the British government asked for help to house German prisoners. The United States agreed, although it was not prepared. The big freighters were the only option to transport the overwhelming number of POWs.

  The dark hold of the ship was nearly airless and soon awash with the sour stench of seasickness. The hastily assembled toilet overflowed, fouling each breath. Falk’s thought always turned to the Jewish families—forced onto airless transports—who spent their last days with their families in worse conditions than this. He always thought of Ilse and the boys when he pictured those hapless victims. What if the tables had been turned? He and his family labeled and then rounded up due to propaganda and fear? Ripped from all they knew, starved, denigrated, and in the end, slated for death anyway?

  Suddenly, the hatch opened. “Put on your life jackets. We’ve spotted U-boats.” The hatch slammed shut and the POWs, with barely any room to move, scrambled into their vests.

  Someone growled, “I don’t want to die in the guts of this ship.”

  “I don’t either,” Eduard added. Christoph sounded like he was praying. These soldiers were merely children and had no idea what they were fighting for.

  “We’re fine,” Falk said. He patted each boy on the leg.

  “Hope so,” Eduard replied. “Promised my mother I’d be back for her specialty goulash soon enough.”

  “You’ll keep that promise,” Falk said. But, as sentries’ footsteps ran back and forth on the deck overhead, he wasn’t so sure his wor
ds were true. Without warning, a nearby explosion and its shock waves reverberated through the metal hull, jarring his spine.

  “Do our U-boat guys even know we’re on this ship?” Christoph asked.

  That was a good question. Falk imagined lying dead at the bottom of the ocean, and Ilse and his sons would never know what he tried to do. Eventually, they would hear he was shot in Italy, his face blown away. He would never reappear after the war to explain to her all the secrets he kept and how hard he worked under dangerous conditions to document the horrors. “We’ve got loads of protection out there. The Brits have been ahead of us in air patrol.”

  “You must rank higher than us,” Eduard said. “We never learned stuff like that.”

  “I was in strategic planning.” This was a lie. Falk never planned the war’s direction but had designed his life to go in a new one. From what he saw in the troops within the last year, terror began to replace commitment as a means to keep men fighting on. If you don’t win, your wives will be raped, your children butchered.

  The ship rose and fell in the huge swells, and Falk drifted in and out of sleep. The captain said they’d be at sea three weeks, but the foul conditions could easily kill them well before they reached New York.

  He and Ilse had spoken many times of sailing to New York or Boston on the TS Bremen, a German express liner, sleek and luxurious. They should have taken that trip. They thought they had time, but then Ilse became pregnant with Dietrich. How had eleven years gone by so quickly? He pictured the war ending, perhaps by summer. He’d hold his family tight, admire his sons’ heights, kiss Ilse’s soft lips. That is, if he were still alive.

  Falk wished the Action Group Zossen and its dozens of generals had accomplished their coup to replace Hitler. But when the war escalated, they had no choice except to focus on the mechanics of fighting a war and drop their secret plans to kill the tyrant.