by Karla M Jay
Johnson stepped forward and pointed to the telephone. “Miss. Call your father and have him come get you.”
Alfred reached for Martha’s hand. “You don’t need to leave.”
Herbert saw red flare in his son’s neck and cheeks, and needed to rein in his temper. “It’s okay, Martha. We have a small family matter to discuss.” He turned to Alfred. “We’ll have her over tomorrow, all right, son?”
Martha slowly stood and walked to the phone, lifted the mouthpiece from the hook, and dialed.
The agents declined offers of drink or food. They stood beside the china closet, a backdrop of a multicolored history full of Jutta’s heirlooms and family collectibles. Vibrant against the agents’ drab coats.
Soon, tires crunched on the deepening snow.
“I’m walking her out,” Alfred said.
He stood and extended his hand to Martha who quietly said to Jutta, “Thank you for having me.”
A moment later, he returned, a sour look on his face, and dropped into his chair. “Great. Her father is now suspicious of us—of me.”
Frieda was seated but the adults remained standing. If the FBI had something to say, Herbert would hear it facing the men eye to eye.
“That’s probably true.” Johnson tapped the papers on the table and turned to his father. “Otto Müller, you are accused of being an enemy alien. You are under arrest.”
Jutta gasped and her hands flew to her throat. Herbert thought his heart might have stopped. The ringing in his ears momentarily overcame the thudding of his heartbeat. “My father”—Herbert turned to Otto who looked smaller than usual, shrunken—“is no threat to anyone.” Herbert waved his hands back and forth in front of him as if clearing away the situation. “What gives you the right?”
“President Roosevelt gives us the right under Executive Order Nine Zero Six Six.” Gables crossed his arms. “This is best done peacefully, Mr. Müller. You should get your coat.”
Herbert’s face flushed with anger. The injustice of it all hit like a blow to his core. His parents came to America with so little and worked hard to make an abandoned gristmill operate again. He thought back to those evenings when they first arrived and how, for months, he and Karl worked alongside their father, building the house while the family slept in a tent. And now their patriotism was being questioned? Herbert crossed to stand beside his father, the worn flooring crackling under his footsteps.
“Is zere discussion, for zis?” Otto said, his accent thicker than usual.
“Yes.” This seemed like a reasonable request to Herbert. “Could we meet with someone from the State Department first?” Who took someone away on a Friday evening in a blizzard? He swiped his hand through his hair. “What’s the hurry?”
The agents’ faces didn’t change. Herbert might as well explain the process of grinding wheat for all the emotion they showed. Fear encircled him because he had no idea how to stop them from taking his father.
Gables pointed to the table. “No discussion but you will remain here while we go through the house. Our search won’t take long.”
Herbert stepped back and held up his hands. “This has gone far enough.” A vein throbbed in his forehead. “I will say it again, slowly.” He enunciated each of the next words. “We . . . are . . . Americans. We . . . have no loyalty . . . to Germany.”
Johnson nodded. “Your father will get his chance to explain in front of the Immigration and Naturalization Service board.”
A hot coal burned in Herbert’s gut. They’d deliberately arrived on a Friday evening, so Otto could not get legal counsel. The stern looks on the men’s faces told him nothing would change their minds tonight. His family huddled on one side of the kitchen table, their faces blanched, full of fear. The agents disappeared into the back rooms. They’d find nothing out of the ordinary. Modest furniture, a Philco radio, knickknacks, like a Hummel holding flowers. Would that make them an enemy of the state?
He signaled they should hold hands. “Let us pray.” He didn’t wait for Otto to offer the words. “Lord, may we be slow to anger and filled with patience. May we be ready to forgive ourselves and others. Not just this once, but as many times as it takes. And may Grandpa Otto be protected in these unsure times. Amen.”
The prayer didn’t alleviate any of his fears. His father was up there in years, and with high blood pressure and arthritis, jail was no place for him. He’d given the family a medical scare after Anni died. A dehydration problem that caused him to pass out, at the time appearing to be a heart attack.
Minutes later, Gables returned carrying their radio while Johnson lugged a typewriter.
Herbert stood and held out his hand, a halting gesture. He’d explained the radio was not two-way, but they were taking it anyway. It seemed like a spiteful move. And why the typewriter? Did the Feds think they were typing out secret messages to Hitler? He pointed to the machine. “Our children need that for their school studies.”
“They must own paper and pencils,” Johnson said, moving out of Herbert’s way. He lifted his chin to Otto. “We’ll come back for you.”
Tears flowed down Jutta’s cheeks, and she wiped them away as Herbert laid his hand on her back.
“Who do we appeal to?”—Herbert followed behind Johnson—“No one should be out on a night like this, especially my father.”
Gables balanced the radio on the couch back as he reached for the door. “Your father will get his say when his case is heard.” His mouth was set in a tight line as if he tried to contain his irritation.
Johnson leveled a flinty stare at Herbert. “You could keep defying us and find yourself in the same boat . . . same cell, I mean.”
Thoughts circulated fruitlessly through Herbert’s mind. Otto had done nothing wrong, except he stayed too busy and forgot to become a legal citizen. Sweat dampened his flannel shirt. He couldn’t let his father go to jail, especially over a weekend. He pictured Otto alone, accused, unable to defend himself against shrewd questioning. If he went along, he could represent his father and get them both back home before Christmas Eve. His father’s arrest was a mistake, and the government needed to hear as much. Jutta and the children could rely on church friends to watch over them while he was away.
“These ideas are crazy. I’ll go along with my father.”
“Are you calling President Roosevelt crazy?” Gables added an unsympathetic laugh.
“Yes,” Alfred said, his voice agitated. His hands were fists again and red splotches broke across his cheeks. Jutta and Frieda held each other, their eyes wide.
“Son. No.” Herbert shot Alfred the look he always gave the stubborn boy. Despite being taught not to talk back to his elders, Alfred was always too quick with his tongue. Alfred caught the look and at least appeared to be a little ashamed as he folded his arms and leaned against the doorway to the kitchen.
Then Herbert turned to Gables. “I respect the president, but the people interpreting his orders I’m not so sure of.” That might piss them off, but he didn’t care. The government hadn’t come for Otto two years earlier when he’d registered with them. Now, they were checking names off an old list to try to find people they suspected of being enemy aliens. Trying to keep their jobs by fulfilling an arrest quota, perhaps.
Johnson and Gables exchanged looks. They said nothing, but their rigid stances said they were unhappy with him, and he was going to get his wish to accompany his father.
He wrapped Jutta and Frieda in a hug and met Alfred’s gaze.
“Fact Time. I can’t let Pops go alone. Alfred, you’ll be safe here, so I’d recommend not flashing the gun around. We should be back Monday, as soon as we get in front of a magistrate, or whoever hears these cases.”
“Oh, dear.” Jutta tapped a knuckle to her lips and shook her head. “Herbert?”
His name on her lips asked so much. How could this be happening?
“
We’ll sort this out.” He reached for Jutta’s hand and clasped it between his. It felt like a trembling bird. He needed to remain calm, to appear logical and level-headed.
Gables fumbled under his coat and pulled out two sets of handcuffs. “Will we need these?”
Herbert stiffened. This was getting real. Otto beat him to an answer. “No.” Otto appeared haggard but resolved, his fighting spirit surfacing. He turned to Herbert and in German said, “Sohn, bleib bei der Familie. Ich werde in Ordnung sein.” Son, stay with the family, I’ll be fine.
“Pops, I’m going, too.” He pointed to the handcuffs. “See? They’re counting on me.” He walked to the closet and grabbed their coats and helped his father into his. With one last look at his huddled family, he said, “I love you. And kids . . . go with your mother when it’s our shift in the watchtower.”
Gables hefted the radio once again and cleared his throat. “No need. Your family no longer has the right to be there.”
Anger boiled inside Herbert. That hadn’t taken long. His family was already labeled as untrustworthy. They did more volunteering in this community than any other family. And not because they wanted accolades. They believed it was their responsibility as citizens to pull together.
Johnson nodded to the front door. “It’s time.”
Herbert crossed the floor, the tick of the grandfather clock sounding louder than usual. The pendulum swung side to side, ticking away the seconds that brought him closer to leaving his family. He opened the door and a blast of frigid air buffeted him. While holding his father’s elbow, Herbert followed Gables out as they descended the snow-covered steps and crossed to the car. Johnson was last to exit, still carrying the typewriter.
Gables opened the rear door to the sedan. Herbert dropped into the seat and scooted over to make room for Otto, and then quickly brushed the snow from the seat that followed him inside. Once Otto was settled, Gables leaned in out of the storm. “Settle in. We have a long drive.”
Panic seized Herbert. He’d never been in custody before and the confines of the back seat seemed to close in on him. Insecurity nailed him in place because he wasn’t completely convinced the government would treat him and his father fairly. The sudden shock of being hauled away like criminals, while temporarily forfeiting their freedom, silently ripped at his insides. If this turned into more than a few days away, what would happen to his family?
Johnson slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the wipers, which stalled for a few minutes, fighting the heavy snow accumulated there before gaining a regular momentum. Beyond the veil of thick flurries, the house glowed like a precious ember. He envisioned his family huddled inside, with Jutta crying, her emotions always so close to the edge. They’d be holding hands, trying to comfort each other. He swallowed a lump. Fear of the unknown moved in, and even in the cold, his hands felt sweaty. He’d never contemplated their safety before, the surety made up of everyday routines, his family’s predictability, and the well-worn patterns which kept them together. Now, he wasn’t sure what awaited Otto and him over the next few days.
The car passed the gristmill that loomed like a motionless apparition in the storm. He loved that building. Found comfort in its interior, with its combined scent of dried grains, the fresh grease on the wheels, and the burlaps sacks. Otto seemed to watch the building slip by. Was he remembering the long days of grinding seeds, the pleasure of changing unyielding grain into a useable food, feeding the troops, using the profits to buy more war bonds? Where had they gone wrong? The gristmill disappeared, and the countryside dissolved. Huge flakes hit the windshield, and the wipers barely cleaned a swath before the glass was covered again.
“Where are we heading?” Herbert leaned forward, his voice calm and measured, although still angry. He didn’t like the feeling of being powerless, a victim with no immediate recourse.
“Into Reading tonight,” Gables said, half turning in his seat. “From there you’ll go to wherever we have room, not necessarily a camp.”
A camp? What were they talking about?
“We’ve filled most of those with the Japanese.” Johnson wiped his coat sleeve on the fogged side window, which squeaked as he cleared an oval shape.
“My understanding is we’re going to be interviewed to clear this up.” Herbert turned to his father. Otto’s face looked pale, but his eyes were alert. Otto had served as a German guard in WWI at the POW camp in Merseburg, Germany. When he’d talk about it at all, he told frightening tales of beatings, forced labor, and the near-starvation of twenty thousand mixed- ethnicity soldiers. His father probably pictured himself in that devastating scenario when he heard the word “camp.”
Herbert patted his father’s leg and leaned closer to whisper, “Not gonna happen, Pops.”
Otto offered a quick nod and a smile.
“You understand correctly,” Gables said. He adjusted the heater vent in the deluxe sedan. “When you’ve cleared your names, you go home.”
Herbert settled back against his seat. He should have been paying better attention to the anti-German fears. His unmarried brother, Karl, served in the Pacific theatre, flying with the Army Air Force there. He and Karl were better friends than brothers, having each other’s backs during their younger years after arriving in the United States speaking no English. The family was fully vested in the news coming out of the Pacific. And although newsreels showed the American and British armies pushing the Germans northward from Italy’s boot, Herbert couldn’t explain what was happening in Germany and the surrounding countries. He would say as much when questioned. While he had sympathy for those suffering in Europe due to the war, he was ashamed his birth country had perpetrated the war in the first place.
The car crawled along the empty back road, cutting a path down the center to avoid a spin into the ditch. Herbert rubbed his numb fingers together. The car was heating up, but his hands seemed to have no warmth. He rested his head against the seatback, picturing his cozy home, the kids, and Jutta cleaning up the kitchen. They might fall asleep in his and Jutta’s bed which they often did when he was away on hunting trips. Emotion filled him and tears pricked his eyes. His family was his past and his future, and although he tried to be a reasonable man, if it came to it, he’d fight like a caged tiger to keep them safe.
Wilhelm Falk
Aboard the Algonquin, Atlantic Ocean - January 2, 1944
Falk pulled his jacket shut against the cold. The anemic winter sun did nothing to stave off the freezing temperature on deck even though it was late afternoon. It reached him in long stripes of lukewarm yellow beams, broken apart by stagnant clouds, which floated high above the ship. He tucked his meal card into his identification pack before sliding it back inside his coat. His card was punched each morning at nine and then again at three. The meals were small and often consisted of beans, but beans were better than nothing. At times, when the crew handed out front-line rations, he sucked on the bouillon cubes, didn’t question the meat paste, and devoured the cookies. Yesterday, his rations contained two surprises—a bar of soap and small roll of toilet paper.
This was their fourteenth day at sea, zigzagging across the ocean. The aircraft carrier in their flotilla was conspicuously missing since the day of the U-boat scare. They never learned what happened. A week ago, an alarm sounded when a Luftwaffe plane buzzed the convoy. But it was quickly blown in half, the pieces corkscrewing into the sea. Beyond that, the crossing was quiet.
Now, Falk watched silvery sparkles of flying fish against the wide, rolling, green sea. In every direction, the icy water moved and churned with whitecaps showing their indifference to man and his ships. He rocked his head from side to side, stretching to loosen his tight neck muscles. Sleeping on the metal floor in the hull was doing a number on his back and neck. One more week. An army-issued cot in an American prison camp sounded like a luxury. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time these past days, or even weeks, and hi
s fuzzy mind struggled to hold fast to the details as he replayed the next step of his plan. He patted his shirt pocket and fingered the cyanide pill. There would always be this option if he failed to reach the American officials. His death in Italy would be the final story told about him if unable to complete his goal. And millions more would die until the war ended.
Ilse and the boys most likely celebrated the traditions of Silvester two evenings ago in Eindhoven with her sister’s family. Surely, the Germans in the Netherlands were allowed their New Year’s Eve traditions with noisemakers, midnight soup, and walking from neighbor to neighbor’s house. The children accepting sweets and the adults a shot of Schnapps. All to the rhythm of the Rummelpott drum. He was incomplete without his wife in his arms, his boys hugging his waist. Remembering them was so easy because he did it every moment of the day but missing them was the heartache that never went away.
A leisure area was roped off on deck. Sentries in crisp uniforms with machine guns patrolled it to keep the POWs well away from the control room and inner workings of the vessel. When he and the POWs were up top, guards seemed to be everywhere, and most proved to be friendly.
The German noncommissioned officers enforced discipline among their own. German soldiers were expected to salute their superiors and follow a chain of command. Just the day before, Falk was called out for not immediately saluting an officer. Lost in thought, he forgot he no longer outranked the men around him.
He’d hoped the Nazi ideology would have calmed down once they were all captive, but even joking about the Reich on board proved to be dangerous. One Nazi, with a scar dividing his right cheek nearly in half, put another POW in sickbay the night before for telling a joke. Falk hid his laughter and avoided repercussions, but the jokester’s face wouldn’t be recognizable to his family after the rearranging it sustained.
Falk circled the deck again as the sun sank lower, laying broken beams of light across the water’s undulating surface. Men were lined up at the enclosed on-deck shower that pumped seawater. He washed earlier, but his clothes remained dirty. He envied the American guards in their crisp coats, caps, and shiny boots.
