When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  He reviewed his plan. After Pastor Graf received Falk’s package, he wrote asking what he should do with the information. Should he take it to the authorities? In his original communication, Falk requested that the pastor not do anything with the contents of the package, but apparently his friend viewed enough of the documents and photographs to be alarmed and want to help. Now, with no way to reach Graf, Falk hoped the pastor did nothing more until he arrived.

  Eduard shifted next to him. “Ass’s gone numb.”

  “Stand for a while.” Falk squeezed closer to Christoph to make room and then grabbed the boy’s arm and pushed him upward. His guilt resurfaced. Jewish boys Eduard’s age weren’t immediately euthanized upon arriving at the extermination camps, but younger children like the boy with the strings, needed to have a purpose not to be immediately sent to the gas chambers. The echoes of wails from the little ones, torn from their parents at the station, ricocheted in the recesses of his mind. The horrors they suffered as their lives ended, completely unsheltered and defenseless and small. If his plan didn’t work, and he chose his cyanide pill as a way out, he believed their cries would be the last sounds he heard.

  Footsteps sounded above. The hatch was thrown open and groans of relief rose from the masses. It seemed to take forever, but once he climbed on deck, Falk breathed in the crisp night air as if he were a drowning man who finally pulled himself back to the water’s surface. He turned to the young soldiers. “Has anything ever smelled this good?”

  Christoph shook his head. “Never.”

  Above them the sky was black, shot through with stars. The other ships, nearly invisible in blackout conditions, flanked them like silent grey ghosts. The shush and splash of water, parted by the giant hulls, rolled across the dark surface.

  “Fill your lungs, soldiers,” a German noncommissioned officer yelled. “We’ll be back below before sunrise.”

  Falk guided Christoph and Eduard to a long table with water kegs and cups. “Drink up. That foul liquid below can’t be good for us.”

  Eduard drank deeply and then spoke. “Do you have children, Klaus?”

  Falk looked around to see who the boy was talking to before he remembered he was Klaus. He quickly rattled off what he knew of Stern’s information. “Just a wife.” He added the lie, “But we’d like a family.”

  “You’ll make a good father,” Christoph said.

  A small jolt raced through his chest. He wanted these boys out of danger, to be sent home now. But sent home to what? Would Germany ever be made right again, or was it too broken to be made whole?

  “Thank you. Hopefully, my future children will grow up to be like you.”

  The smile on his face felt genuine. He was a good father or had been until 1942. His job as CEO of the film division of Eastman Kodak Stuttgart allowed him to be home many nights with Ilse and the boys. Then, he met the generals in the Hitler resistance, and they secured him the SS position, and in return, he thought he’d be helping them out, plotting to kill Hitler and ending the war.

  He signaled the young soldiers to follow him. “Let’s stretch our legs.” They were all given an ample supply of cigarettes, and Falk lit one. The boys didn’t follow suit. “You’re smart. Use your smokes to trade for food when we get to camp.” He inhaled and then exhaled slowly, the smoke ripped away by the breeze that rolled across the massive deck. “I’m not your commander, but here’s my fatherly advice . . . be sure you write to your families from America. They’ll be glad to know you’re safe.”

  Eduard started to speak and then stopped. Finally, he asked, “Just exactly where will we be?”

  Falk turned to the boy. “I don’t know, but wherever it is . . . no one will be shooting at us.”

  Izaak Tauber

  Amsterdam, Netherlands - December 1943

  Izaak watched the German soldiers cross the cobblestone parking area before arriving at their van. Their image swayed for a second. He was so tired he’d fall asleep anywhere and hoped their train wasn’t leaving right away. Centraal Station had food shops, and Mama still had money from Dr. Schermerhorn.

  Mama squeezed his hand. “You’re my brave boy, Izaak.”

  “I’m trying, Mama.”

  The guards separated Mama and Izaak from Dahlia and her sons. While two soldiers reviewed their papers, Izaak studied the men. A clean scent came from their uniforms as if recently laundered. He remembered his papa smelling this way after Mama brought in the laundry, all stiff and stand-uppy from drying on the line. The soldiers wore important buttons and medals on their coats and the shiniest boots. He bent over to see if his face would reflect back from the black boots, but Mama pulled him away and scowled at him.

  The soldier smiled at him and then at his mama. “You made the right decision by volunteering.” He flapped the note the policemen in Alkmaar gave Mama and handed back their important papers. “Did you receive a postcard from your family to join them?”

  “No.” Mama put the documents away in her brown shoulder purse and snapped the fold-over flap. “We’ve been unable to receive mail.”

  Izaak wondered if their mailbox was overflowing. They’d been away from home so long. All Mama’s beautiful houseplants would be dead, and the turtle doves he fed in the winter must be staring through their kitchen window wondering what happened.

  “True. Postmen can’t be bothered to try to hunt you down.”

  Mama cleared her throat. “How will we know which train to take with so many options?”

  The other soldier, with a skinny mustache and tiny eyes, answered. “You have one option.” He pointed to the empty tracks. “It comes in there and goes to Westerbork Transit Camp. Platform eleven. From there the trains travel to the relocation towns. Show your papers, and you will get on the correct train.” He motioned his chin in the direction of the busy platform. “You may purchase your tickets there. There’s food on a cart outside, but you’re not to enter the building. The train leaves in one hour.”

  The soldiers followed them as they got in line to pay for their tickets.

  “One adult and one child to . . . to Westerbork.”

  Izaak studied the man in the ticket window. He wore a smart blue cap and blue uniform with a high collar. He also had a mustache that covered his upper lip. Izaak couldn’t see what his mouth was doing, but his eyes looked as though he was smiling.

  “One way or round trip?”

  His mama’s voice sounded funny when she said, “One way, sir.” Mama slid money through the tiny window, and moments later, the man pushed the tickets to her. She tucked them into her coat pocket, took Izaak’s hand, and followed the soldiers to a platform at the back of a long building.

  “Wait here.” One of the soldiers pointed to a crowd amassing near an empty railway line.

  Izaak stood on tiptoe. Where were the food carts? He hoped the soldier wasn’t lying. He was so hungry he’d eat beets right now, and he hated that vegetable.

  Across the street, a big building was missing its top, and fast birds swooped and dived in and out of the metal arch that once held up the roof.

  Mama had on her I-have-a-lot-to-think-about face as she looked around. She squeezed his hand and pulled him in a new direction. He liked the warmth of her gloves against his skin.

  “This way.” She’d spotted the food. Finally. They waited in a short line until they reached the wooden cart, but there wasn’t much to choose from—brown bread, wilted carrots, and cheese. “We’d like some of each, please.” The man didn’t look at Mama and Izaak as he packed everything together in a brown bag. He set it on the cart and tapped on it.

  “Leave two Reichsmarks there.” The man stepped back and waited for Mama to count out the money.

  They carried the sack to the corner of the platform and sat on a bench. Izaak bit into the hard bread and tore off a piece of cheese with his fingers before popping it in his mouth. His stomach gro
wled, waiting impatiently for the food while he chewed.

  There were more people on the platform than Izaak owned in marbles, and he owned two hundred. At least he had that many before he buried the sack behind the carriage house at home. He’d dig them up someday when they all returned.

  Some minutes passed, and Mama rolled the top down on the bag. “We’ll save the rest for later.”

  More and more people came to their platform. A woman, with hair going everywhere, walked by hand in hand with a small boy while lugging a large suitcase with the other. “Are we in the right place?” she asked Mama.

  Izaak stared at the woman’s very big stomach and imagined the baby inside. He knew all about babies. Mama helped get them out into the world from a secret opening before the mama’s stomach popped open.

  Mama read the information on the woman’s tickets. “You’re here. The train for Westerbork.”

  Just then, people started yelling from an open plaza behind them.

  Izaak stood to see. A man was in a fight with the soldiers. His wife and children stood behind him. He was yelling they’d changed their minds about leaving and were going home.

  The soldiers pointed their long guns at the man, forming a circle around him and his family. They would be killed if they didn’t quiet down!

  Mama grabbed his hand and pulled him into the crowd of people in long coats, all bumping against each other, and he could no longer see the plaza. Not long after, he heard five quick gunshots and felt sick to his stomach.

  “Mama. Were those people . . .” He didn’t finish the question because the terrified look on her face told him the answer. The family was dead.

  A loud steam whistle blew, and a long black train pulled into the station. People swarmed forward when the doors opened. He moved up against Mama, his face pressed into her coat, their bodies touching. What if the train got too crowded before they boarded? How would they ever reach the work camp to try to find Papa? His heart beat faster as a scared feeling started in his legs, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to climb the steps. He closed his eyes and swayed in the crowd, slowly pushing toward the doors, breathing in Mama’s familiar scent and letting her guide him.

  Once there, he clambered up the metal stairs until he was inside the carriage, chose the first open bench, and slid across next to the window. Mama didn’t sit right away but looked around, stretching her long birdlike neck as if trying to find someone—perhaps Dahlia. Finally, she put Izaak’s suitcase on the floor beneath his feet before sitting beside him. “There you go, dear. Now your legs won’t dangle for the whole ride.”

  Before long, the train sounded its whistle again and soon picked up speed. The world flew by the window. Rolling meadows, fields with tan stubble and piles of rocks, and whole villages with people doing normal things. The telephone wires along the tracks swooped up and down, hooked to the wooden poles along the way. The opa and oma in the seats across from him shared a cigarette, pointing to sights out the window and talking quietly. The opa brushed away ash where it fell on his pants.

  The train sped into a tunnel, and Izaak snuggled closer to Mama as the world went black. Was this how dead people saw everything—black and dark and scary? When the train burst from the darkness, a row of trees lining the train tracks made the sun blink fast against his face, and he closed his eyes.

  The wheels squealed, and Izaak startled awake. For a moment, he forgot they were on a train. It slowed as it pulled into the station, stopping next to the platform with a sign hung above long benches. Westerbork. Wherever that was. He tugged Mama’s coat sleeve. “Is this the work camp?”

  “I believe so, love. But we’re still in the Netherlands.”

  “And Papa might be here.”

  She smiled down at him, but her eyes looked sad. “Dr. Schermerhorn said your father is much farther away. In Poland.”

  His shoulder slumped and he ducked his head. He didn’t want to cry, but no one had mentioned “farther away” before this. With all the bombings, the Netherlands needed help rebuilding, so why would they send Papa to another country? It wasn’t fair.

  Mama lifted his chin and wiped tears from his face. “You’re my courageous boy, Izaak. I know this is hard. I’m not promising anything, but maybe we can figure out how to transfer to Poland.”

  “Okay.” He needed to remember his promise to watch over her and keep her happy like Papa always did.

  Izaak and his mama carried their suitcases down the steps, bumping into people who juggled rolled blankets, shoulder packs, and small children. Everyone was nicely dressed, the men in suits and hats, and women in warm dresses with fancy scarves around their hair, or a hat with feathers or fruit. Mama’s nice clothes were all in Amsterdam, but she was the prettiest anyway.

  They walked through an open gate to a fenced-in area, and he stayed close to her side, trying not to let the suitcase bump the ground. He rose to his toes hoping to spot the houses they could live in.

  “Oh, dear,” Mama said as she peered ahead. A group of soldiers was dividing the group. Men and boys in one line, and women and girls in the other. “Izaak, I have to tell a lie so don’t correct me.”

  Once there, Mama showed their identification papers.

  Izaak’s chest thumped hard inside his coat. He had no idea what Mama would say, but he sure didn’t want to be separated from her. When a soldier pointed him to the men’s line, he thought he’d never breathe again.

  “My son is barely six”—Mama held his hand tighter—“Could we please stay together?”

  The guard moved closer to Mama, his face red and bunched together. “What is your destination?”

  “This camp.” Izaak heard the nervousness in her voice. “But if possible, we’d like to go to Poland. If we could just wait for the train together.”

  The soldier flicked his chin and his mouth twisted into a crooked line. “You are asking to go to Poland? Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and pointed to the women’s line. “Take him with you. That special train leaves in five days.”

  Mama had done it. They were together, and in less than a week, they’d head to Poland to find Papa. He needed to keep track of all that had happened, so he could tell Papa when they saw him again. He spotted Zev and Aharon in the men’s line. For once he was glad he was young. He silently repeated Papa’s other saying: “We believe things will remain the same in wartime, but we shouldn’t count on fairness to be one of them.”

  The train that brought them to camp backed away and left. While Izaak and Mama stood in line for registration, he felt some hope for the first time in a long time—maybe he could count on fairness again.

  Herbert Müller

  Tulpehocken, Pennsylvania - December 1943

  Christmas hovered in the air, a mere week away. The FBI visit from the previous month was tucked at the back of Herbert’s mind. The festive mood of the holiday season overcoming those few frightening moments. If the neighbors were wary, he hadn’t noticed and was relieved no one had pitched any more rocks. The angry young men probably received a stiff warning about vandalism and heard the legal consequences of misguided hate.

  Tonight, his family gathered around the advent wreath and lit the third white candle. The final candle would wait seven more days and be lit on Christmas Day while the holiday goose cooked. This evening, the scent of warm spices seized the kitchen as Frieda and Jutta baked stollen, ginger cookies, and marzipan chocolates in preparation for the holiday meal.

  The lights in the dining room cast a warm, sheltered feeling as a snowstorm raged outside. The family sipped hot glühwein and ate roasted chestnuts.

  “Play another, Pachelbel Hymn, bitte,” Otto asked Jutta who sat at the piano.

  Herbert sighed. If only Mother had lived longer. Christmas was her favorite holiday, and she’d be there beside Jutta on the piano bench.

  Earli
er in the evening, Alfred’s girlfriend, Martha, a shy classmate with an eager smile and a face full of light freckles, arrived. Herbert suppressed a grin. His son and Martha sat side by side on the pale green high-backed sofa, holding the hymnal between them. An inch of space separated them from immodesty. Martha, the oldest daughter of an Irish farmer two miles away, was blessed with a lovely soprano voice. An added plus to Herbert’s full-voiced, if sometimes off-key, family.

  A loud banging on the front door startled them. Herbert shot a glance in that direction but could see no one beyond the curtains. Someone must be lost because who else would come out on such a wintry night? Jutta stopped playing, her hands frozen over the keys, as Herbert walked past and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s fine.”

  He unlocked the door, revealing agents Gables and Johnson on the stoop. Snow covered their hats and coats, a curtain of white falling behind them.

  The sobering looks on the agents’ faces caused Herbert to worry. Had someone made new accusations against his family? Or had another family been attacked?

  Jutta stepped to Herbert’s side. At four foot ten inches, she straightened her back, a move he knew she reverted to whenever she was nervous. “Won’t you enjoy a warm mug of glühwein with us? It will chase away the chill.”

  The FBI agents stepped inside and removed their hats, snow falling to the woven rag rug at their feet. Johnson unbuttoned his long coat. The scent of damp worsted material filled the room as he reached into his inside pocket and removed a sheaf of papers. “Please, everyone, take a seat.”

  Herbert stepped closer to Johnson and whispered near his ear. “We have company this evening. A neighbor’s daughter is visiting. Could you just speak to me about whatever you have there?”

  “You, your wife, and father need to take a chair, Mr. Müller,” Johnson said.

  Gables looked at Martha. “What is your last name?”

  Martha remained silent, unsure of the situation.

  Herbert said, “This young lady’s father is Sean O’Leary, a dairy farmer on Stettler Road.”