by Karla M Jay
Thorne read from a form on the clipboard. “Case number nine thousand four hundred and thirty-six. Herbert Müller, born 1909 in Stuttgart, Germany, to Otto and Anni Müller. Arrived 1920, with a brother, Karl, who currently fights in the Pacific. Anni is deceased. Herbert’s wife, Jutta Weber, born in Schwerin, Germany, 1911. Parents deceased. Herbert and Jutta have living aunts and uncles in Germany and numerous cousins. Together, they accepted U.S. citizenship in 1927 and have two children who are citizens.”
Thorne turned his gaze to Herbert. “Is that all correct?”
“Yes. Now that it’s on record that we are citizens, I guess we’re done here?” Taunting the man was wrong—he knew that. This was the kind of behavior he chastised Alfred for doing. But this questioning? It was all too surreal, and sarcastic remarks filled his head until he couldn’t contain them all.
Thorne flipped the pages on the clipboard and pulled out a pen. “Your father was arrested for being an enemy alien. You decided to accompany him. Why?”
“Because we are innocent of any crime, and he shouldn’t be here alone trying to explain that.”
“When we are done this morning, you will be free to return home. For now. But, if you choose to be with him, we will have to arrest you.” Thorne adjusted the front of his suitcoat. “I want to make that clear.”
“Surely, he’ll be freed once you’ve interrogated him.” What kind of baloney had a neighbor fed the FBI to have them hold his father?
“Not just yet. He’ll have a hearing before the Department of Justice. At that time, he may invite three witnesses to testify on his behalf. And yours if you are still here.”
Lucille clacked away at the typewriter.
Herbert bit down on his tongue to keep himself from screaming. His only crime was his German heritage. He had no choice but to stay calm and made a show of nodding slowly. “Of course, sir. I’ll make those phone calls now.”
“The hearing isn’t scheduled yet.” Johnson adjusted the front crease of his pressed pants. “We have preliminary questions today.”
His foggy brain tried to process the idea they intended to hold his father longer than just a day. He accepted he’d be arrested because there was no way he’d leave his father here, alone. “Then I will be staying, too.” Jutta would understand his decision, and the minute he visited with a lawyer, he’d shared a few choice words about the State Department.
“In that case, I have a different set of questions for you,” Thorne said, switching out papers on the clipboard. “How often do you associate with other German families?”
“Our Lutheran Church is ninety percent German.”
Johnson spoke, annoyance riding high in his voice. “He didn’t ask for a percentage.”
“Weekly.” Herbert kept his tone flat and dispassionate, but wondered at Johnson’s sudden surliness. Must have missed his morning coffee.
“What is your attitude about your relatives in Germany?”
Herbert lifted his hands, and his coat sleeves slipped to his elbows. “I barely remember any of them, but to tell you the truth, I feel sorry for them. They could be here enjoying America’s freedoms, like I am.”
Thorne scowled, and Lucille’s hands froze over the keys.
“You need to consider if wisecracking is such a good idea,” Johnson said.
“I’m sure it’s a terrible idea.” Herbert rubbed his sore hip with his palm. “But I do feel sorry for all the people in Europe. I can’t imagine a war raging in my backyard while I try to keep my family safe, the food deprivations. It must be awful.”
“Is anyone in your family in contact with relatives in Germany?”
“No. My father and mother exchanged Christmas cards with a cousin before the war but nothing since.” During mealtimes, his father often prayed for their relatives’ safety. Otto had seen a war up-close, watched as people were slowly wrung out with fear, starvation, loss. With no word from Germany, he feared the worst.
“Do you speak German?”
“Yes, but I’m rusty. I arrived here at age eleven and was encouraged to learn English. My parents picked up on it fast, so we all spoke both languages at home, and English in the community.”
“Why aren’t you enlisted in the armed forces like your brother?”
“We drove to Philadelphia the day after the Japs struck Pearl Harbor. I have one short leg from birth. The military refused me.”
Johnson leaned forward. “Do you have the paperwork proving you are unfit to serve?”
Heat flamed his cheeks. Herbert was on his feet before he knew he meant to stand. He would have gladly served.
The men jumped up, too, and Johnson pulled his firearm and pointed it at Herbert. “Sit down!”
His heart beat fast. Having a gun barrel pointed his way sent a ripple of shock through him. Still he had to make his point. “This is harassment!” Herbert pounded his fists on Lucille’s desk. “I’ll answer questions, but I will not be vilified. My family purchases war savings stamps through our children’s school. Alfred belongs to the High School Victory Corps, preparing him to join the army when needed. We’ve collected over three tons of scrap paper for the war effort, single-handedly filling the truck several times a month and driving to the collection center when we have enough gas coupons.” He slowly sat and took a long breath, but his heart hammered out a war cry in his chest. “You’ve accused the wrong family.”
The other men were silent, and three sets of eyes studied him. Lucille reviewed her hands once again. The ticking of a clock on the wall near the American flag resounded in the quiet, seeming to move Herbert toward events he didn’t understand. Sure, he’d be allowed to call in his neighbors to vouch for him, but at the moment, the questioning was not going in his favor. “I’d like to speak to a supervisor.”
“President Roosevelt is my supervisor,” Thorne said.
“Do you know this all started when we were assaulted by young men in the area?” Herbert fought to keep irritation out of his voice. He couldn’t believe he was being treated like this. The room suddenly seemed smaller. Was it possible he had such little input in what the government planned to do? “You heard about that incident, right?”
Thorne cleared his throat. “Yes. Your son fired a shotgun to scare them away.”
“I fired the gun.” He shot Johnson a look. “You know the details of that night.”
Johnson shrugged.
“Your son is how old?” Thorne pressed.
“Fifteen.” Why the sudden change in questioning? Were they trying to make him drop his guard and trap him?
“What does he enjoy doing?”
“He plays basketball and is a whiz in mathematics. He’d like to be an accountant.”
“The Victory Corps offers specialized training. Has he chosen a trade to study?”
“Radio code and mechanics.” Herbert immediately regretted his answer. Clearly those skills could be interpreted as enemy activities. Why hadn’t he simply said espionage? “But since you now have our radio, he’ll have to find another trade.”
Thorne looked thoughtful and then offered a tight smile. “Yes.” He flipped through more papers on the clipboard and glanced at his watch. “We’re done here. You’ll be moved with your father to a converted shoe factory, where you will await your hearing. You may notify your family by post.”
A shoe factory! This investigation was muddled at best. The FBI might as well be playing basketball with a tire. He shook his head. Perhaps he could request a bed for him and Otto on cow hides instead of sleeping on an assembly line.
The other men rose and Herbert stood. “I’d like to see my father, please.” His throat was tight realizing Otto, as a noncitizen, may have gone through a tougher grilling.
He waited only five minutes before Otto joined him. “You okay, Pops?”
“Just tired.” He looked small in his coat, and his s
houlders sagged. “You probably know, that I am not, going home today.”
“They told me”—he squeezed his father’s arm—“I asked to stay with you, so they were kind enough to arrest me.”
Otto vehemently shook his head. “No, son, go to Jutta, the family needs you there . . . to keep the place going.”
“I won’t argue. We’re a team.”
“The car is waiting,” Gables said, buttoning his coat.
Otto shook his head but accepted Herbert’s arm as they left the building. The air outside was crisp and refreshing with a mocking taste of freedom.
Johnson stood beside the open rear car door waiting for them, trying to light a cigarette. The match flared, but caught a strong wind and snuffed out. He turned his back to the gusts and bowed, protecting the flame.
Herbert eased Otto into the back seat and dropped in next to him. What a difference twelve hours made. He swallowed a lump of bitterness that threatened to choke him. When he’d arrived, he knew this was all a misunderstanding, and although coming here was annoying, he and his father would be heading home today. That hope was now dashed, splintered like a fragile family heirloom against a fireplace. America’s freedoms were no longer his. The betrayal settled heavy around him.
Soon, they were on the move to the shoe factory. Why didn’t the FBI call it what it was—a jail? He and his father would be jailed for an indefinite time. The thought cycled through his mind, but he couldn’t get it to make sense. He closed his eyes against the brightness off the snow and planned what he needed to do. He was close to the deacons in his church. They’d watch over his family and help out if needed. A homecoming before Christmas would make that day extra special. But with only a mere five days between now and then, he needed to start writing letters the second his feet hit the factory floor.
He turned his head to the side and peeked at his father. Otto appeared to be asleep. Herbert was thankful his mother was not alive to see how their much-loved country was turning on her husband and its own citizens.
Wilhelm Falk
New York Harbor - January 4, 1944
The thunder-grey skies were spitting early morning snow as the Liberty ship sailed into New York Harbor. Falk stood on a protected portion of the deck with other able-bodied prisoners from sickbay. During the last three days at sea, he searched for Christoph in the hospital rooms, but the boy must be in the critical care section, an area he couldn’t enter. He asked an orderly about Christoph and was told it was none of his business. He tossed and turned most of last night, worried about the young soldier’s condition and what happened.
The deck below him swarmed with hundreds of POWs also watching the New York City skyline glide into view. It was magnificent. The faces of the men around Falk changed from astonishment to dismay as the grand city rose tall, proud, and unharmed. They were just now realizing their leaders obviously lied. German air raids had not leveled the city. Footage of smoldering buildings shown to the Wehrmacht claimed to be what was left of New York City. Tens of thousands were reported killed here by nonstop Luftwaffe bombings.
Yet life appeared perfectly normal as motorcars and taxis drove along the roadways, and lights shone through the gloom. Himmler filmed bombed-out cities in Germany to make the propaganda films to bolster the slumping morale of the men on the front lines. Like everyone else in Germany, Falk lived under blackout orders since 1939. And although he expected to be impressed by a fully functioning New York, this twinkling city presented a scene right out of fairytales.
A foot soldier next to Falk coughed and spit on the deck. “This is all staged.” He flicked his chin to the Statue of Liberty which grew larger by the minute. “We leveled the big bitch. They must have really scrambled to build a fake.”
Falk crossed his arms and shrugged. “Looks real to me.”
Other men spoke up. “I thought we bombed the hell out of this city.”
“Maybe this isn’t really New York.”
“They didn’t build a fake New York for us, you idiot.”
The skyscrapers, with their lit windows, shone brightly in the overcast dawn, giving Falk fresh hope that this part of the world remained strong enough to defeat Germany.
As the ship glided past the towering statue, pale streaks of sunlight broke through the rolls of steely cotton above, illuminating the symbol of freedom for Americans.
While the other Liberty ships slipped into their assigned docks, the Algonquin came to port at one of the many huge concrete piers. Falk breathed deeply, taking in a strange mixture of saltwater, engine oil, rotting fish, and wet swollen wood. Overhead, seagulls circled, beating the salty air with their wings, their undulating screeches announcing the POWs’ arrival.
Falk took his sons fishing many times to local lakes and rivers, but it hadn’t been enough. Hans and Dietrich would hold only a sprinkling of memories of father-son trips if he never returned. When the war was over, he vowed to make sure his children appreciated everything life offered. If he accomplished his plan in America, he wanted his family to live outside Germany. He faced the facts. Once he turned on his country, he would remain a hunted man. Besides, once the war ended, what place would Germany hold in the world, with its largest cities reduced to piles of stone and debris? Germany might have to rebuild its glorious past from memory and faded photos.
The ship sprang to life, bells sounded, and calls went out for all hands on deck. The boatswain on the upper deck piped signals, sending groups of men to the ferries.
Two guards and a translator approached his group. “In about forty minutes you will be shuttled ashore. We suggest you return to sickbay and rest.”
This was great news. Falk needed to avoid the main group of soldiers on the off chance he might meet up with Hartmann and Zeigler. Had Zeigler and Hartmann warned others about him? If they talked up his deception and passed it along, other POWs might be on the lookout for him. He didn’t know how many prison camps there were, but he’d be surprised if he ran into these POWs again.
He followed the prisoners to sickbay. Many were on crutches, others in bloodied bandages, a few without visible wounds—shuffling, eyes vacant. I get it comrade, he wanted to say. It’s all too much. The roar and rumble of the engines under his feet ceased, and the ship fell into an eerie quiet. For seventeen days, the steady vibration drowned out the ship’s day-to-day noises. Now, conversation seemed especially loud. A phone ringing somewhere in the ship sounded close, and metal cables and hooks clanged loudly against the vessel’s iron hull.
Thirty minutes later, the guards escorted the patients from sickbay to the lower decks down a series of stairs. In the jostling, Falk held his ribs close, but each downward step sent white-hot pain through his side.
Falk looked for Eduard. He and Christoph reminded him so much of his younger sons that he missed having them at his side. He couldn’t help thinking how the young men’s lives were just beginning and how he cared deeply that they make it home one day. He needed to know Christoph was fine. After failing to find Eduard in the crowd, he boarded a large ferry. The transport churned its way across the harbor as an icy wind blew off the water.
Once on land, the naval officer on their ferry made a show of transferring power to the Commanding General of the Port of Embarkation. The general stood tall on a raised platform, chest loaded with military hardware.
“You will be walking to Camp Shanks, four miles north of here,” he said in passable German. “There you will remain until your transfer papers are processed, and you are assigned to a permanent work camp.”
He was placed in a group of fifty and told to wait along the wharf. Again, each POW was questioned about where he was captured, his unit, and age. And there was a new question. “Do you possess any useful information you would like to exchange for special treatment?”
Falk hesitated. Part of him wanted to speak up, to say he possessed important information, shocking perhaps. But
he remained silent. Until he did something right in this war, he was just another unworthy soldier, a guilty observer with a cyanide pill in his pocket if he didn’t achieve his goals.
The man asked him again, this time louder.
“I have nothing to share.”
The man motioned him to a waiting area encircled with barbed wire. For millions of people—dissidents, religious opponents, and entire ethnic populations—their last heavenward view was through twisted wire. His chest tightened, and he forced away images of the boy with the strings, of shuffling skeletons in striped clothing, of nauseating smoke and ash.
His group was given the go-ahead. They marched through New York City on designated streets, temporarily roped off from civilians. One of the guards, walking beside Falk’s group, said in German, “Amazing, isn’t it? Bet you don’t have buildings like this in Germany.”
“Even a chicken coop in Germany is bigger,” said a man behind Falk.
The guard snorted. “Then, welcome to your new life at the bottom of the pecking order.”
Falk rubbed under his nose to hide his smile. How long would it take the POWs to accept they were not the world’s elite fighting corps they’d been led to believe? It was a long hard fall from the top and with no easy landing. He ignored the muttering of the men and studied the streets. No people were on the sidewalks the POWs were assigned to follow, but plenty of curtains were pulled aside as they passed through this predetermined area.
Every detail of normalcy jumped out at him. The intricate pattern of intact cast-iron fire escapes created shadows across a bakery window. Colorful pieces of laundry hung from lines stretched between balconies. Everywhere were electric signs, promoting carpenters, printers, Italian moving companies. On the cross streets, well away from the POW parade, food vendors’ carts were parked with long lines of people snaking away from each one. Even at this distance, the scent of sausage and other roasted meats tore at his stomach. A person could know a city by studying its streets, and what Falk now knew was that New York City and possibly the rest of America, was largely unaffected by the war destroying his beloved Europe—physically and morally.
