When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  Gemmeker spoke to Abraham and laughed, but it was a mean sound.

  Abraham nodded and kept his eyes down as he spoke to the commandant. He looked even older than usual, the skin on his face drooping around the edges of his mouth. Abraham scowled and said to Izaak and Zev, “Commandant Gemmeker says you’re interested in working on the other side of the camp, along with the criminals.”

  Izaak shook his head. He knew it. He’d be a prisoner and Mama would never know what happened to him. The horrible smell in the battery room was still in his nose and the terrible noise from the other building muffled his hearing. He couldn’t work there. He shrank away from the commandant. And even though lying was on the list of bad things to do, he said, “We got lost after school.” His lips quivered. “We ran in the rain and didn’t see where we were going.”

  Abraham spoke to Commandant Gemmeker in his language and then listened to the reply.

  The moon-shaped man’s shoulders drooped even lower as he faced Izaak and Zev. “The commandant says since you are so eager to leave the camp, you and your families will be scheduled on tomorrow’s transport. I’m to add your names to the list.” A long sigh escaped him. He nodded to Gemmeker, who turned and left. Abraham gently nudged Izaak and Zev in the direction of the hundreds of long houses. “I need to find your parents and give them the news. Are your papas here, or just your mamas?”

  Both boys replied only their mamas.

  Izaak’s chest was beating in an excited way now. “But leaving sooner is good, right?”

  Abraham didn’t speak for a few moments. The only sound was mud squishing under their shoes. Izaak would need new clothes and shoes to travel. He hoped there was time to shop at the camp warehouse.

  “Of course,” Abraham said softly. “Good news.”

  Then Izaak got a bad feeling because Abraham’s face did that thing where adults say one thing but mean something else. His forehead wrinkled and his eyes looked sad, but he tried to smile. Papa looked like this once. Said they couldn’t go to the cinema anymore because all the movies were about war and not something Izaak should be watching. But Izaak’s old friends still went to the neighborhood cinema. Papa’s face looked like Abraham’s did now as if his mouth got a squirt of lemon juice at the end of those words.

  First, Abraham dropped off Zev at his mother’s job in the stocking repair shop. Izaak didn’t go inside, so he didn’t know if Dahlia was happy or sad about the news. Abraham returned and took Izaak’s hand. “Off to the hospital, to find your mama.”

  Abraham treated him and Mama extra nice because she’d delivered his son. Izaak asked the question stuck in his head since he first heard this. He imagined a rounded-back baby trying to sit up or walk. “Is your son okay? I mean, did he get . . . tall?”

  “He’s a big, healthy boy.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “He went to Israel with his mother four years ago.”

  Izaak walked slower, liking the feel of Abraham’s hand around his, warm and strong. He didn’t want to reach the hospital too fast. “She might be busy right now delivering babies.” He hoped Mama would be happy with the news about leaving and forgive him for breaking a camp rule.

  “We’ll check. There’s lots of people working with her so maybe she’ll be free.” Then he pointed to the shops and storefronts. “We’ve become a regular town. Tailors, furniture makers, and bookbinders. I wish you could stay, Izaak.” His voice was low, and he slowly shook his head.

  “How long have you lived here?” Izaak asked, wondering how Abraham got his important job.

  “Too long.” Abraham stopped, and because he was a bent-over man, he could look Izaak right in the eyes. He used a serious tone. “The next part of your trip will be hard. It’s a long way to where you are going.” He cleared his throat. “Do you know how to sing or play a musical instrument?”

  Izaak shook his head and laughed. “Mama said Papa and I sing the same . . . like sick mules.”

  Although this story usually made other people laugh, Abraham didn’t even chuckle. Instead, he moved close enough that Izaak saw the small holes in the skin on his nose and dirt pieces in his eyebrows.

  “What can you do? You need to be able to entertain adults.”

  Izaak remembered his new drawing and pulled it out of his pocket, unfolding it to show his grown-up friend. “I can draw people. That’s my papa up-close.”

  Abraham studied the drawing. A small smile spread across his face. “Okay, then. When you arrive at the next stop, no matter how hard it was to get there, show this drawing to a soldier. Agree to sketch the important people in camp.” He squeezed Izaak’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Do it as soon as you get there, Izaak. Do you understand?”

  “I will.” Izaak was nervous because Abraham’s voice trembled, but at the same time he was proud Abraham thought he was good enough to draw other people and make them happy. He smiled to himself, glad he chose to draw Papa today. And maybe it was a good decision for another reason. Maybe the men in the new place will recognize Papa from the drawing and take them right to him.

  Herbert Müller

  Reading, Pennsylvania - December 1943

  Gables and Johnson said little to Herbert and Otto on the drive, which was fine with him. The more miles distancing him from his family, the angrier he became. His father, a man still grieving the loss of his wife, was no enemy to this country. Devoted to the family, Otto was a man with a heart of gold, and Herbert couldn’t fathom why his elderly father was falsely accused of crimes. His mind hadn’t kept pace as these recent events rushed at him. How could it be German-Americans were suddenly considered enemies of the country, his country? Where was the We Welcome You to America spirit his father and mother were offered?

  He dug deep into his emotions searching for patience. Tomorrow, this would be over. The government would see he and Otto were no threat to America, but what would happen once he returned home? His family could face more retribution from the neighbors because of this unfounded hysteria.

  Thousands of Japanese-Americans were already in internment camps, with the reasoning that Japan bombed the United States. They’d made a direct hit on the country. But were the Japanese families any different from his? He didn’t believe so. They were a generation raised in America. Citizens with little in common with their country of origin and now labeled dangerous alien enemies.

  The FBI turned into the parking lot of a high school. He’d expected a jail or an office building but not this. They must be having a pre-Christmas, Arrest-a-German Festival if a school was all they had left as a holding pen.

  Pines loomed tall behind the rectangular two-story building. The deep shroud of snow gave it a Christmassy scene, except for the dozen black sedans parked side by side near the entrance.

  On the way to the double doors, Herbert held Otto’s arm as knee-high snow covered their shoes and pant legs. Inside, after stomping their feet to avoid slipping on the polished floor, the agents led them down a long hall, past classrooms with closed doors from where muffled voices could be heard.

  They walked, their shoes squeaking on the linoleum, and stopped in front of a room with “Janitor” stenciled across the glass window.

  Gables opened the door and gestured that Herbert and Otto should enter the small cluttered space.

  Were they kidding? “You must have another room for us,” Herbert said, his hands fisted at his side.

  “We’re working on it,” Gables said. “The National Guard was bringing cots.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged. “The storm, you know.”

  Wonderful. His comfortable bed, the warmth of Jutta’s leg against his. Tonight would be a long night without those. In addition, a hard cot would do nothing for his father’s achy bones.

  “In you go,” Johnson said. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

  Herbert glared at the men as he let O
tto enter the room first. He refused to dignify their actions with a response. When he had the opportunity to speak to a lawyer, which he hoped was tomorrow, he would argue the indignation of being held in a janitor’s closet. “When do we get our hearing?”

  “You’ll be interviewed in the morning,” Gables said as he closed the door.

  With the click of the lock, overwhelming doubt surfaced. He had rights as a citizen but concerns about getting this all behind him and returning home. And he was worried about his father. With Roosevelt’s order, labeling nonresident German immigrants as the enemy, Otto could be incarcerated until the war ended. A prospect he didn’t want to consider.

  “Things just get better and better, don’t they, Pops?” Herbert turned a slow circle in the room. Shelving to one side contained cleaning supplies, rolls of paper towels, and light bulbs. A floor polisher, brooms, mops, and ladders nearly filled the rest of the room. How could they be treated this way? They weren’t common criminals.

  “We will . . . get through zis, son.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “We have a chance, ühm, to prove . . . what we, are made of.”

  He found a clear space against the wall and helped Otto lower himself to the floor, and then sat next to him. Otto didn’t have to prove what he was made of. In World War I, he’d gone without food for days on the Western Front, had hidden under dead soldiers for protection, and returned home at war’s end to learn half his family and the town had died from influenza. The only test Herbert overcame was having a shorter leg. He had no clue what he was made of under extreme circumstances.

  The windowless room smelled like damp rags, bleach, and mildew. The overhead light bulb shone garishly in their small confines but turning if off and sitting in the dark wasn’t appealing. Cold from the cement wall soon crept into his back. The custodians must have set the temperature in the building just high enough, so the fuel oil wouldn’t freeze over the holiday break but low enough to be uncomfortable without activity to stay warm.

  “You warm enough, Pops?”

  Otto nodded and patted the hard floor. “I thought . . . a pillow, would be nice for, the ühm backside.”

  “We’ll write to management and complain about the accommodations.”

  Otto chuckled. But after a few moments, his face grew thoughtful. “Son . . . remember when . . . I took, zee, the custodian job . . . after we arrived?”

  “I do. Vaguely.” He must have been twelve and Karl fourteen, but he couldn’t pull up images of his father cleaning an insurance building. “You worked nights, right?”

  “Yup. The credit was, used up when we, roofed the house. The mill was running . . . but, we only had, a few customers. So I took the job, part-time.”

  “I don’t remember helping you.” His father worked twenty-hour days, between running the mill, building the house, and then taking a night shift.

  “You boys did enough, by helping me build, the house . . . every day after school. I made sure that you did your studies.” He breathed deeply. “This scent, the cleaning products, reminds me to work towards a goal . . . no matter what the cost.”

  “I haven’t told you enough, Pops. You’ve always been my hero.” He often worried he fell short of his father’s example. Otto worked hard yet found time to belong to the Elks Club, go on hunting trips, and play poker once a month. He worked and slept and worked harder. Life was easy for Herbert, thanks to his parents’ sacrifices. He wrapped his coat tighter and thought of his family. Jutta and the children would be frantic wondering where they were taken. He’d call them first chance in the morning.

  Voices in the hallway woke him. He’d dozed off. His watch showed 5:30 a.m. Six cold hours made him stiff as he tried to stand. Footsteps drew closer. “Might be the cavalry?” He pulled Otto to his feet as the door was unlocked.

  Johnson stood there in a fresh black suit. He was blurry-eyed but clean-shaven. He motioned them into the hallway.

  “We’ll give you a few minutes in the washroom before you are questioned.” Johnson motioned them down the hall to the school’s lavatory. After using the toilet, Herbert walked to the sink and faced his reflection. He might be hopeful inside but looked like hell and as if he aged five years. He followed Otto’s lead and splashed cold water on his face, sending a shiver through his already chilled body.

  They walked along the main hallway, where Gables waited. “I know you’re anxious to be interviewed, so you two are first up.”

  “Zank you,” Otto said.

  “We appreciate it,” Herbert added. At this rate they’d be home for the noon meal. He’d make light of their time in the janitor’s closet, they’d tsk and laugh, and life would get back to normal.

  Johnson spoke to Herbert. “You’re with me”—he pointed to the door stenciled Principal—“and your father will be across the hall.”

  He hadn’t come all this way to be separated from his father. “I’d like us to stay together, if possible.”

  “It’s not possible,” Gables said. He touched Otto’s elbow. “This way Mr. Müller.” And directed him across the hall.

  “I’m only here to support my father through this process,” Herbert said. “His understanding of English is not always good, and I’d like to help.” These were highly-charged times and he suspected they would press his father until he admitted some kind of infringement. Otto had once used extra gas coupons Herbert won in a poker game. Would that be a crime against the country? And why was Herbert being questioned? Not only was he a citizen but also volunteered to come last night. Anger rose inside. “I don’t like how you’re treating my father.” He shot an obstinate glance at Johnson. “Feel free to write that down.”

  “Noted. The process will go faster this way.” Johnson held the door as Herbert entered the principal’s office. He’d been out of school seventeen years, but it still felt like a walk of shame.

  The room was large with a desk to the left and a semicircle of chairs in front of it. A man in a tan suit stood behind one. A kerosene heater was positioned in an open area, fending off the cold. A woman sat at a desk in front of a typewriter, her eyes lowered, studying her hands in her lap as if they held an important message. Her unwillingness to make eye contact suggested she felt guilt for her involvement in such a farce. Or maybe, Herbert thought, he was reading it wrong, and she refused to meet the gaze of an enemy.

  Johnson directed Herbert to a seat, and the man in the tan suit took the chair across from him. He wore his dark hair in a classic style—short on the sides and back, long on top, slick with pomade—shiny under the spotlight focused in Herbert’s direction. Herbert raised his hand to shield his eyes. They burned from little sleep, and the room was already extra bright from the morning sun reflecting off the snowy white world outside.

  “This is Detective Thorne,” Johnson said, “a service officer with Immigration and Naturalization.”

  Perhaps this could work in their favor. What if this was a way to help Otto gain citizenship? As far as Herbert knew, Immigration and Naturalization investigated the background of those applying to immigrate, meaning they would find Otto crime-free during the twenty years he lived here. The positive twist renewed his plan to be out of here soon.

  “Mr. Müller,” Thorne said. His tone was stern and no-nonsense. “I expect our interview will take approximately twenty minutes. After that you’ll be offered food and coffee. Are you ready to begin?”

  Tension tightened his stomach. The unfamiliar feeling of being investigated as if he’d committed a crime destroyed his appetite. Thorne was too serious for what Herbert imagined the interview might entail. “Sure.”

  Thorne cleared his throat and spoke to the typist. “Are you ready, Lucille?”

  She nodded.

  Officer Thorne picked up a clipboard and pen. He asked Herbert to identify himself. Then said, “Tell us about your connections to Germany.”

  Unbelievable. It wa
s as if Johnson hadn’t explained he’d only come along to help his father. “Do you know I became a citizen in twenty-seven?”

  “I see that noted here”—Thorne tapped his pen on the clipboard—“I’d like to hear about who you are in touch with in Germany.”

  The guy was cold and doing a great job of maintaining a frozen meat stare.

  “I was born there and came here with my parents in 1920.”

  Thorne made a notation on his paper. “You are a member of an all-German club?”

  “Yes. It’s a social club. Like the Elks, the Masons or the Moose Lodge.”

  “What is the purpose of the club?”

  “We listen to music we were raised with, eat German food, discuss who in the community needs help. Everyone’s much too busy to plot the overthrow of the United States.”

  Johnson leaned closer, and his eyebrows drew together. “Cracks like that will put you in jail.”

  “There are over a million German-Americans in the U.S. If you plan to jail us all, you won’t return home before summer.”

  The room fell silent as they studied him.

  He needed to get a few things straight. After all, he had rights. “I should be allowed a phone call. I need to let my family know where I am.”

  Officer Thorne’s mouth did something, but it was in no way a smile. “We sent someone to your house this morning with that information.”

  How had Jutta and the children taken the news that he and Otto were held in a high school? Jutta would have been stoic for the children’s sake and hopefully they’d joked about it. Herbert always told them he was happy to leave high school behind because it was a painful experience for him, not academically but physically. The family had no car, and he and Karl, more often than not, ran the two miles to school because they’d slept in once again. His hip radiated pain all day at his desk, and then he had to run home.