When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  Izaak Tauber

  Aboard a train, Across Europe - January 1944

  Izaak bounced up and down as he waited by the train tracks. They were finally leaving Westerbork. It was about time. Since he’d been caught yesterday on the wrong side of camp by Commandant Gemmeker time dragged by. He was tired of the crowded barracks and terrible food. They crawled down from their bunk bed early in the morning while it was dark. He made sure he tucked the drawing of Papa in his pants pocket. The other drawing of the windmill was in his small suitcase along with Papa’s pipe. Although Mama said she was not angry he went exploring on the wrong side of camp, she became quiet after Abraham told her they were on the next transport. In fact, she said little all last night, and this morning looked as if she could sleep more.

  They were at the toilets for one last time when a terrible thing happened. An oma had hanged herself by a belt hooked to the ceiling and swung there by the open pit. Her face was a weird color of blue and purple, colors he once loved but now were horrifying. Mama made him leave the toilets immediately, but not before people said the oma did this because she didn’t want to go on the train.

  What did she know that he and Mama weren’t told?

  He worried when he saw the large amount of people funneling to the tracks. Hopefully, he and Mama would get a seat. He got that jumpy stomach feeling, like when it was hard to know what might happen next. Finally, the train came into view. It looked like a long, scabby snake, cutting the camp in two, each end disappearing outside the fences.

  Commandant Gemmeker stood on the platform, holding his little dog. His police friends in green uniforms were lined up at each train door. Abraham was also there and Izaak waved to him, but he didn’t notice. He was busy talking to people, answering lots of questions.

  Many passengers carried bread bags hanging from their shoulders, or a rolled blanket tied to their backs with a piece of rope. Some were skinny, wore dirty clothes, and didn’t have suitcases. Where had they come from?

  The mean barking dogs appeared, their thick black and grey fur bristling, leashed by soldiers carrying guns. A bus pulled to a stop alongside the big front gate. As soon as the doors opened, the soldiers yanked off the people, tugging jewelry from women and taking watches from the men’s wrists.

  Izaak clung to his mama’s coat, his head pounding. Why were the police suddenly so mean? Guards rolled open the train’s big doors. The bad sound of metal scraping on metal was loud for a second, but then protests from the first passengers to board were even louder, yelling there was no more room. He and Mama were pushed to an open door. It was black and dark inside like a monster’s mouth, and the coach had no windows. It was a train car for cows. Guards threw bigger suitcases off the platform and yelled at the owners to get on the train without them. Izaak kept his suitcase close to him. A few steps before it was his and Mama’s turn to climb into the open doorway, Abraham pulled them aside.

  “This way,” the moon-shaped man said. “You’re on another car.”

  “Will we still be going to Poland?” Mama asked.

  “Yes. But trust me, as my wife relied on you with her difficult birth. I hear these front cars will go on to a better place. Especially with a young boy in tow.” As he pushed them along, he kept turning his head back and forth, looking as if he were doing something wrong and didn’t want to get caught.

  “Thank you for helping us,” Mama said.

  “May you travel in God’s hands,” Abraham said as he pointed to the front train car. Like the others, it had one small window. “When you get inside, move to the window or find a crack or an opening to stand near.”

  Izaak and his mama climbed into the car and moved to the back wall. The tiny window was so high on the wall, he would never be able to see out of it. His heart pounded as everyone squeezed in tighter and tighter. He now understood why people yelled about there being no more room.

  Mama whispered, “Hold on to me, love.” When they were packed against each other, the single door rolled shut. Instantly, people cried and shouted to be let off. Izaak wanted out, too. The air would run out. They would all die. His breath was hitching, and in the next moment, he was crying. Ashamed he wasn’t braver, he was glad no one could see him in the dimness.

  His mama stacked his smaller suitcase on top of her larger one and then picked him up and set him on top. She stood next to him, her arm around his shoulder. Most people had no place to sit.

  The train made a growling noise and shook before it started to move. People fell against each other, and a man smashed Izaak against the wooden wall at his back.

  “Sorry,” the man said as he stood straight again.

  They rode on for what seemed like forever. A man checked his pocket watch the guards hadn’t discovered. In the little light pushing in from the window, the man announced, “Four hours.”

  Izaak tugged his mama’s sleeve. “I have to go to the toilet.”

  The toilet was a bucket in one corner. He and Mama excused their way to that area, and people turned their backs for privacy, but it didn’t matter much. The sounds and smells couldn’t be kept private.

  The train kept going and going. The cars jerked and jolted all the time and it was freezing inside. Izaak fell asleep, woke up, and then back to sleep. When someone spotted a town outside the window and the train slowed, passengers yelled, but the train didn’t stop.

  Mama lifted him so she could sit on the suitcases and then pulled him onto her lap. She fell asleep with her head banging against the wall.

  “Eleven hours,” someone announced.

  Why wouldn’t the train stop? Surely, they’d passed many towns with stations where they could have taken a break. Didn’t the engineer need to rest? The mood in the train scared him. The longer they rode, the more often prayers for salvation were muttered—prayers for God to welcome them home. Were they all going to die? He asked Mama and she whispered they needed to stay strong, and they weren’t going to die.

  And then a woman screamed about her baby. A doctor moved in to help but shook his head. The baby was dead. Men prayed the Mourner’s Kaddish as Izaak squeezed his eyes closed. The prayer would be worthless if he even peeked a tiny bit, a practice Papa taught him in synagogue.

  “We will all get turns at the window,” the doctor called out. “A chance at fresh air.”

  “We paid good money for our relocation,” a man said. “This is not the way to treat paying passengers.”

  As they talked of letter-writing and sending formal complaints, Izaak swayed against his mama, but the train rattled on. It would run off the end of the world if they didn’t stop soon.

  Izaak continued to drift in and out of sleep.

  Men announced the amount of time they were stuck inside, but it was said in days now—two, then three.

  More people died, and the bodies were stacked in one corner.

  “It’s our turn, love,” Izaak’s mama said.

  At first, he didn’t understand what she was talking about. Was it their turn to go to heaven? He felt like that might happen. She tugged him to the window. Someone piled suitcases there, belonging to the people who weren’t going to need them anymore. He climbed up and Mama stood close behind him, so both their faces caught the clean air through the tiny opening. In the daylight outside, the countryside flashed by with forests and snowy meadows. Small groups of pretty houses came and went. People drove cars. A boy walked a dog.

  “It’s like a movie, Mama.” It was too unreal that outside their dark, horrible train, there were nice places with people doing things he once enjoyed.

  “Breathe deeply,” Mama said, “while you can.”

  All too soon, the doctor announced their time was up, and they returned to their spot.

  “Do we have food?” Izaak’s stomach hurt as if a tiger were scratching his insides.

  She pulled him close. “Sorry, love. Try to sleep.”r />
  That was the easiest thing to do. He closed his eyes and remembered learning to ride his bike, his papa’s smiling face, the way Papa laughed extra loud when Izaak did something funny. When they found each other, he would make Papa laugh again. And he would never complain when it was bath time. With those thoughts, he drifted off to the rumble and sway of the train.

  It was night again when the train stopped. Izaak sounded out the word Będzin on the sign on the station wall. When the door rolled open, the German soldiers in their long grey coats yelled for the dead to be taken off. Mama looked scared, and although Izaak was, too, he wanted to be out of this car more than anything. He squeezed Mama’s hand three times for I love you, and she squeezed back. He didn’t trust that the doors wouldn’t be rolled shut again. His heart pounded until he and Mama were allowed to exit.

  When Izaak finally climbed down, his body swayed like tall grass in the wind, and Mama grabbed his arm and held him up. “Sorry, Mama,” he mumbled. He wanted to be strong, but something was not right. His legs wobbled as if he were a boy made of pudding.

  “Never apologize, Izaak. You’re my brave boy, remember?” She put his suitcase on the ground in front of him. “I will hold you up if you can carry your case.”

  They shambled to a gate where soldiers in dark uniforms studied their papers. One soldier pointed them to another platform several tracks over.

  He and Mama didn’t talk as they shuffled in that direction, following the shoes and boots in front of them. Someone said something about food and Izaak’s head snapped up. Just ahead of them was a table with buckets of water and stacks of bread and cheese. Everyone, including him and Mama, pushed forward, and forgetting their manners, grabbed handfuls of food. They drank from the ladles that hung off the sides of the buckets. Mama gave him two chunks of bread and then stuffed more into her pockets before she ate. “Just in case,” she whispered.

  Izaak was never allowed to grab food, or stuff it in his mouth, and his mama would never do that either. He sent a prayer to God, explaining that because they were so hungry to excuse their bad manners.

  The terrible train that brought them here waited on the tracks, the engines still rumbling. Only the first six car doors were open. The other cars, lit by overhead lights in the station area, disappeared into the darkness, their doors closed. Ghostly-looking arms waved from the tiny windows while the guards stood below, ignoring the muffled calls.

  “Oh, no! Not everyone is off,” Izaak said. “We need to tell someone.” He couldn’t imagine how panicked the people must be waiting for the doors to open.

  His mama cleared her throat and didn’t answer right away. “We’re not all going to the same places.” She took his hand and pulled him to the platform where their group was told to go. They were directed to line up outside the toilets, not bothering with whether it was a boy’s or girl’s room. Buckets of water with soap waited on a bench with towels stained by people who already used them. The water was cold as Mama scrubbed his face, hands, and arms, but it felt good after all those days on the filthy train.

  As they walked to the waiting train, he stalled in his tracks. He sensed he would die if he climbed aboard. The food in his stomach was acting up, and he swallowed hard to keep it down. “I don’t want to go. Can we just sneak away and live here?”

  “We’re almost to the work camp, Izaak. Będzin is in Poland, and I overheard we are only a few hours away.”

  Hours? “I can’t stand up that long. My body can’t be as brave as I want it to be.” His chin trembled. He was letting Papa down.

  “Look. It’s a passenger train.” Mama pointed. “We will have seats.”

  They could sit? He hadn’t noticed anything except the huge grime-covered wheels he knew could turn forever even as people right above them begged to get off. Suddenly, the long trip that almost killed them seemed worth it. Papa might be in the work camp, just a few more hours away.

  Herbert Müller

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - January 1944

  Herbert and his father spent eleven frustrating nights in a Buster Brown shoe factory before they were finally granted their examination by the civilian hearing board in Philadelphia. His anger boiled just below the surface as the hours ticked by and no appointment was given. He and Otto missed Christmas and New Year’s with his family, an overwhelming disappointment. They did allow a call on Christmas, and although Jutta said they were fine, her weary tone betrayed her fatigue. The children sounded falsely chipper, so he assumed they’d all made a pact not to share negative thoughts with him or Otto. He asked for Fact Time, but they only said, “I love you” and “I miss you.” He tried to assure them this would soon be over, but he had his own moments of profound doubts the government was willing to move their cases along.

  He had trouble sleeping, believing he’d been so wrong about his rights as a citizen. He worried about the mill and how his family managed the chores he usually handled, like shoveling coal into the cellar to feed the boiler. Alfred could do it, but it was a two-man job. Winter was a slow time for grinding, but he and Otto used those months to clean and fix the crushers, gearing up for the next harvest.

  Gables and Johnson drove them to the courthouse in Philadelphia but weren’t part of the questioning. He and his father were allowed to sit at the same table, facing four men on a raised platform. The panel must have been chosen because of their expertise in the areas of harassment, intimidation, and hostile questioning. During the hour, three witnesses came to vouch for them. A Jewish neighbor, a Polish man who ground his corn at their mill, and a storekeeper where Herbert’s family bought dry goods. They each cited the Müllers’ integrity and their devotion to the U.S., and each witness reported they never saw anything to suggest loyalty to Germany or Hitler.

  Herbert nodded and smiled as their neighbors spoke, his mood lifting for the first time since their arrest. His moments of doubt gave birth to new certainties. This absurd situation was almost over.

  Then the board of inquiry spent another hour posing questions mixed with insults, hoping to wear down Herbert and Otto’s resolve.

  “If the country were invaded by the Germans, would you be willing to defend it?”

  “Yes, if the military would have me,” Herbert said.

  A question for both of them. “Do you participate in the Lend-Lease Act?”

  “Yes,” Herbert answered. “The government paid us to send two tons of feed grain for England in the past year.” He smiled. “Would they pay German spies to do this?”

  A man with heavy eyebrows said, “That doesn’t clear you of suspicion.”

  “It should.”

  “It doesn’t”—the man shuffled more papers—“Do you ever send money to Germany?”

  “We do not,” Otto answered.

  One agent reached into his leather attaché case and pulled out a 10 x 12 glossy photo. A guard walked it to the polished wooden desk and slid it in front of Herbert. It was Alfred when he was about twelve.

  “Is this your son, celebrating German-American day?”

  The U.S. and German flags were both evident in the picture. “Yes. It’s a popular event in many cities.” Where had they found a photo of Alfred? This panel needed to leave his family out of it.

  “Did he sing in the Kinderkor conducted by Kappelhoff?”

  “Of course, he did.” Herbert sighed, furious with these innuendos that everyday life was somehow a sign of treason. “Doris Day is Kappelhoff’s daughter, and she sang in the Kor. Perhaps you will need to arrest America’s sweetheart.”

  The agent’s eyes flared. Silence enveloped the room. Then, “Did your son indoctrinate fellow students at his high school?”

  “No.” Alarms sounded in his head. Were they thinking of arresting Alfred?

  “Were you in the Hitlerjugend?”

  “Yes. It was a German Boy Scout troop back then.” Herbert shifted in his hard
chair. They seemed more focused on him, which he didn’t mind, but it begged the question as to what they suspected Otto of doing.

  They scribbled in their notebooks, and the questioning continued.

  After the hearing, they were told to wait in a small room off the court for the board’s decision. As hours ticked by, he became resentful. This seemed like a game to the government officials, a drawn-out process. Like a cat batting around mice, pulling them back then lifting a paw and giving them a little hope. He and Otto should be on their way home. The facts were so clear, witnesses vouched for them, and the government found no illegal activities.

  The lead interviewer, a man with a broad neck and beefy hands, Officer Weber—ironically with a German surname—entered the room with two military police escorts. Herbert’s hands began to sweat. Why the police presence? He and Otto stood to hear the verdict.

  “The Alien Enemy Control Unit of the Department of Justice finds you, Herbert and Otto Müller to be a danger to the safety of Americans during wartime.”

  Otto swayed next to him, and Herbert grabbed his arm and helped him sit down. He wasn’t doing so well himself. His legs shook as a feeling of disbelief washed over him, like a wave of instantaneous grief at the loss of his freedom.

  “You are both remanded to the internment facility on Ellis Island until further examination of your cases,” the interviewer added.

  Their witnesses might as well have gone to watch an Athletics baseball game while in Philadelphia, instead of coming to the hearing. Herbert bit his tongue so he wouldn’t swear, believing the review board had made up their minds before the interviews started. That all words of support from his neighbors meant nothing.

  “Then we’ll just appeal.” Herbert needed time to get things in order at the mill, to make plans for when he would be gone. “Who is higher up than you to hear our request?”