When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  His heart raced as he tumbled onto the pile. Should he move or wait for the guard to tell him what to do? He swallowed a sob, afraid the guards would hurt Mama because of him.

  Then Mama was at the edge of the cases and reaching for him. Her face was white, and her eyes were wide like a wild horse’s. “Izaak.” Her hands shook as she pulled him to his feet. “Never talk back.” Her voice was broken, sounding like a cracked gramophone record.

  The guard was back and kicked at Mama and said words that sounded like cursing. “Please,” Mama said as she pushed him behind her. When the guard turned to yell at another prisoner, Mama scooped up the sets of clothes she’d been handed and prodded him to a changing area.

  Izaak moved stiffly, anticipating another attack from behind, but it didn’t come.

  Mama handed him a set of striped pants and a shirt, both dirty and smelly. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, wondering what this meant. Once he shed his clothes, he would have nothing left that was his. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of the oversized ragged shirt. As he was taking off his pants, he felt the folded drawing of Papa in his pocket. He had to keep this. He sneaked a peek at the guards, and when no one was looking, switched the drawing into his shirt pocket. A wash of pride surged through him as if he’d saved Papa from destruction. According to Abraham, if he showed the guards his ability to draw, he and Mama might get better treatment.

  He’d wait to do that. The guards here were yelling at everyone and he’d learned firsthand what could happen if he made a bad-tempered one angry.

  “Let me fix your clothes,” Mama said. She rolled up his pant legs, so they didn’t drag on the ground and tore a strip off the bottom of her ragged dress to use as a belt around his waist.

  Next, they were made to choose wooden shoes from a huge pile. Mama found the smallest pair for him, but even with his socks, they were too big. The guards yelled, “Schnell!” and poked their guns at people taking too long. His heart raced as one guard, with her hair braid wrapped like a snake on top her head, eyed Mama and began to move in her direction. “Hurry, Mama,” he whispered. She shoved her feet into some shoes and a tingle of relief ran through him as the guard turned her attention elsewhere.

  On his family’s windmill trip, they tried on comfortable wooden Dutch shoes. The shoemakers in Poland needed to take lessons from the cobblers in his country because the shoes on his feet felt terrible.

  The walk to the barracks seemed to take forever. He held up his pants and watched his feet because his clogs tried to slide off with each step. Suddenly, above the clomping of the wooden shoes on the frozen ground, a welcoming sound arose—birds chirping—and it sounded like a lot of them. Birds lived in trees. Maybe their barracks was near a forest, away from the crowded inner camp.

  “Do you hear the birds, Mama?”

  “It’s just workers, love.” She pointed to a road leading to a higher ridge. Hundreds of skinny people, in the same striped clothing, pushed squeaky wheelbarrows up and down the road.

  “What are they doing?”

  “I’m sure we will find out soon enough.”

  He hoped they could look for Papa right away. With twenty thousand people here, it might take a while, especially since Papa would live on the men’s side of camp. He patted his shirt pocket with the drawing and vowed to protect it no matter what. His chin trembled and his chest ached. He should have been more careful hiding Papa’s pipe, but how could he have known this camp was worse than Westerbork? He’d imagined a place where he and Mama worked in the fields, where the men built furniture and women made clothes. Płaszów was the opposite of the image he’d formed in his mind, and he held back tears of fear. But as prisoners, they were stuck here now. The one thing he could do was stick to his promise to Papa. He’d watch over Mama and try to be brave.

  Herbert Müller

  Ellis Island, New York Harbor - February 1944

  Herbert and Otto boarded a train bound for New York City with other German-Americans, mostly men, but some traveled with their families. Why wives and children were arrested, he could only guess. Was it a preposterous accusation from a school teacher? Had the mailman delivered a Red Ryder secret decoder device with club instructions? Just before boarding the train, he’d received a letter from Jutta, and it wasn’t great news. She wrote that many neighbors were treating them like criminals. Her women’s volunteer club, a club she, herself, started, told her she was no longer needed. Her letter included an article from the local newspaper with a story applauding the raids on German families. Herbert’s name was included on the list of men arrested for “deeds against the country.” Alfred, Jutta wrote, visited all the mill’s customers, trying to stave off losing business in the fall. But with ominous headlines fanning the flames of paranoia and hysteria, one by one, their customers begged off. It was clear Herbert would have to rebuild their clientele, and the sooner he returned home, the better. But with all that, he wouldn’t want his family with him now, heading to an internment camp.

  During the six hours of travel it took to reach the Essex Street Station in New York City, the train stopped twice. Once, to bring on more food and remove trash, and again, to pick up another hundred internees outside the city. En route, he and Otto walked the train aisle, meeting others with the same stories of being disgraced and unfairly arrested but many in worse situations.

  “My wife is ill and cannot drive,” a gaunt man from Hershey said. “Our son is making his way to our home from Colorado, but with the gas rationing, it will take days for him to reach her.”

  Someone had shot another man’s draft horses for spite. “I will be hand-plowing if I cannot afford at least one new horse.” The man looked as though he couldn’t heft a bale of hay, let alone manage to turn a field harnessed to a plow.

  Settled into the comfortable coach accommodations, Herbert flipped the pages on a book he wasn’t really reading while Otto dozed. Two meals were offered, with the drink cart coming by every two hours, but Herbert’s stomach twisted in knots because he feared for his family. Jutta tried to put a positive spin in her letter saying, even with the negative things happening to the family, they were watching out for each other and not worried. But he wasn’t so sure they wouldn’t be harmed. He and Otto needed to speed up the process as soon as they reached Ellis Island, if there were such a thing as making the wheels of government turn faster.

  Leaving Jutta and the children unprotected was never his intention. What he assumed would be a long weekend just surpassed two weeks. He rode the ups and downs of anger and disbelief, but the inability to do anything to change their situation, was the most frustrating of all.

  From Essex Street Station, surrounded by armed military personnel, Herbert, Otto, and the other detainees walked a short distance to the Ellis Island Ferry at Battery Park. It was a cold, dreary day, and several pedestrians stopped to watch. Who wouldn’t be interested in a group of average-looking men and a few women and children escorted to the docks? The bleak frozen sky felt like a layer of lead overhead, a solid coffin encasing Herbert in heavy doubt about what it meant to be an American.

  Once on the ferry, they churned through choppy swells to Ellis Island. Hundreds of men came into view, standing behind a fenced compound on the island, their faces showing no emotion. Herbert hoped to never know what it was like to watch the arrival of the next round of arrested Americans.

  He and his father exited the ferry and trooped through a long tunnel on the north side of the island, arriving in an open-barracks hall with a sign reading Baggage and Dormitory Area. The room ran five hundred feet deep and fifty feet across. Twelve square brick pillars, evenly spaced near the center of the room, supported the tall ceiling. Large windows were set twelve feet apart with metal radiators below each. The walls were white-tiled from floor to chest height and the upper walls were painted green. He and Otto would bunk in the open dormitory area, while women and children were housed somew
here else on the property.

  Two guards gave Herbert’s group the grand tour. A communal bath area was just outside the dormitory. Dozens of sinks lined three walls, and the ten open bathtubs separated by brick partitions, were along another wall, set up so guards could see all the detainees from any spot in the room. So much for privacy. Except for the baths, the room, and even the locker room, were reminders of his high school days. But instead of men with whistles, these men carried guns.

  A guard issued Herbert and Otto pairs of United States Army brogans, khaki socks, one tan shirt, a pair of pants, two sets of underwear, and a red plaid jacket, and were told to change.

  The scent of starch and laundry products came off the clothes. “They are clean. It could be worse,” Otto said. “Not necessary . . . to remove, the clothes from, the dead.”

  Otto hadn’t told many people of his time in the trenches in WWI, but over the years, he shared enough with Herbert to describe the hell it was. Often the men’s uniforms were so soiled from days of remaining dug in, or from crawling through ditches pooled with blood, feces, and urine. They abided by the agreement that if a soldier died, his uniform went to other brothers-in-arms who needed it more.

  After Herbert and his father put their civilian garments in a bag and dressed in the required prison garb, the next task was to find a bed in the dormitory. Bunk beds, in sets of three, were suspended from the ceiling by chains and lined two walls. The individual beds near the radiators were already claimed. The huge room must be a beast to keep warm. They found two beds next to each other in the center aisle and unrolled the thin mattresses over the bed springs. Then he tucked his civilian clothes under the bed and helped his father. “Better than a shoe factory, I guess,” he said. The cots in the factory were old and sagged in the center, leaving limited choices for a place to sleep. Otto hadn’t complained, but each morning he struggled to stand erect, a sight that weighed heavy on Herbert. His own hip throbbed with pain until he got up and started moving. He could only imagine what his father felt. Otto should be home in his own bed and not subjected to these discomforts.

  Moments later, a whistle sounded, and a guard yelled out, “You are ordered to stand.”

  A military man entered the room and hundreds of feet shuffled on the wooden floor as everyone stood. “I am Admiral Cahoon, in charge of this detention center.” Cahoon wore his uniform with authority. His jawline was set hard, and his smooth chin hinted he enjoyed the luxury of shaving more than once a day.

  “Although you will be housed and fed per military standards,” he continued, “you will also receive three dollars a month in government scrip to purchase additional items from the store and canteen.”

  A month? Herbert would be tearing into someone if they were here more than a week.

  “If you choose to perform maintenance jobs around the island, you will receive an additional ten cents an hour. When the national anthem plays, all internees will uncover their heads and stand at attention and face the music or the colors. If seated, upon the approach of an officer, you will rise, face toward him, and stand at attention until the officer orders otherwise.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d never gotten the chance to go through boot camp and follow a rigid military schedule, but here he was, following orders as a prisoner, not a soldier.

  The admiral walked along the rows of beds, hands clasped behind him. “Some of you will be here a short period of time.”

  Herbert slid his foot over to tap Otto’s. He met his father’s gaze with one he hoped conveyed this would be their story. Otto nodded.

  “Others may stay longer until they are cleared of their crimes. But all of you will adhere to the schedule established to maintain order on this island because we have six hundred new detainees moving through here each month. If you are romancing the idea of escape, two have tried and two have died, one by drowning and the other was cut in half by a boat propeller. That is a letter I do not want to write to your family. So, keep your noses clean, and your time in this transition camp will work out fine.” He returned the guards’ salutes as he left the room.

  “Moving through here?” he said to Otto. “They act like we’re in for the long haul.”

  “I do not, expect a fast review”—Otto shoved his hands in his pockets—“Delay seems, to be the plan to, ühm . . . wear us down.”

  They’d been told nothing of this possibility. Herbert’s understanding was they would go home from here when their cases were settled, and not use this place as a jumping-off point to another unknown destination. And a transition camp? Different than the internment facility it was billed as. Anger welled up and broke through his usual ability to tamp it down. They were putting American citizens in prison camps as if the United States had an active war raging on its own soil. He couldn’t remember a time when he felt so uncertain about what he should do to put their lives back together. This transpired so fast, and he was caught off-guard.

  He’d fight to hang on to their dignity, recover his freedom, and return home if only he knew where to direct his fists. The false accusations came from neighbors, the FBI, and the Immigration Department. And they all passed the buck right to the top. Sounded as if he needed to punch Roosevelt in the nose to get someone to listen.

  On the way back to the dormitory, he stopped his father in front of the small store. “Time to get busy and make something happen.” He grabbed a pack of writing paper and a pen, buying them on credit not believing he’d be there long enough to earn enough to pay it back. He’d wire it to them when he returned home.

  He wrote to Jutta, requesting she ask Rupert Jackowsky, their Polish neighbor who vouched for him, to help out on their property until they returned home. He wrote to D. Emmert Brumbaugh, a Republican state representative Otto knew quite well, and again to the Department of Justice, explaining the family’s patriotism. His hand cramped around the pen as he forced his pent-up frustration onto the paper. The board of inquiry had nothing to accuse them of except they were born in Germany. He hoped the government would come to their senses and realize the blunder they’d made.

  The evening meal started with a clanging bell, seemingly loud enough to be heard across the harbor. They ate in shifts in the Great Hall. Otto followed Herbert’s lead and grabbed a metal tray and pushed it along the cafeteria line, collecting scoops of food until, at the end, they were handed a spoon and napkin.

  “No forks?” Herbert asked the attendant.

  “No.” The attendant barely raised his eyes, but made a shooing motion for him to move along.

  “So we can’t murder each other,” the man in front of Herbert said with a slight German accent, and tapped his tray with the spoon. He sported a short salt and pepper beard and combed-back hair to match. His face was kind and open, and he seemed content, lacking the bewildered look others had. He must have been a recent arrival.

  Herbert studied the spoon, handle end up, thinking they might be surprised what an angry man could do. He thought of Alfred. Jutta wrote that their son struggled each day to restrain his frustration, and he had every reason to be angry. Martha refused to see him socially, and at basketball practice, bystanders harassed him with taunts. His teammates still rallied around him, but that alone couldn’t mend his fifteen-year-old broken heart.

  The man pointed Herbert and Otto to a table, and Otto found a seat next to Herbert. The clattering of hundreds of spoons, scraping against plates, made it nearly impossible to hear even though they all sat shoulder to shoulder. “Where did they bring you in from?” he asked the man.

  “Near Albany. You?”

  “Germantown, outside Philadelphia.”

  They chewed in silence as servicemen set pitchers of water on the table. Overhead, large American flags hung from poles along the balcony where guards stood, watching the room. Herbert poured water into his tin cup. “You just get here?”

  “No.” The old guy chuckled, a
melodic sound coming from his throat. “Been here about six months.”

  Herbert dropped his spoon. “Six months, and no hearing?”

  The man pointed his utensil to the ceiling and walls. “Here’s what they didn’t tell you, friend. This place satisfies the need to make Americans feel safe. The processing is barely moving along.” He sipped his coffee. “I’ve only seen men leave in two ways. Because of sickness . . . or death.”

  Herbert’s throat tightened at the possibility they could be stuck here until next summer. They could lose everything if he and Otto were gone that long.

  “How has your family managed?” Herbert wiped his mouth on the paper napkin.

  “Oh, I’m not married”—the man reached out his hand—“People call me Pastor Theodore.”

  “Herbert and Otto Müller.” Being a pastor explained the man’s calmness. He had no family business to lose. “We’ve left a busy gristmill and family behind. To hear we could be here longer than a week makes me pretty angry.”

  The pastor nodded. “I hear it all day. Hey. You should attend my sermons. I focus on staving off fear and staying strong. You’re welcome to attend. Besides, being busy and filling in a few empty hours helps with the slow crawl of time.”

  “Thank you.” Herbert pushed away his tray. He had nothing against attending a church service, but at the end of that Sunday, unless he and his father got a chance to appeal, they were no closer to going home. “I’m glad you’ve found a way to stay upbeat. I don’t mean to be rude but getting back to my family is everything to me and my father.”

  “I completely understand. Unfortunately, your story mirrors most of the others here.” The pastor stood and dropped his hand onto Herbert’s shoulder. “I can only offer this . . . giving to others gets you outside of yourself and distracts you from your problems.” He smiled. “I hope to see you Sunday.”

  Herbert believed in what the pastor was saying—the Müller family volunteered and reached out to many families in need—but the upbeat message irritated him. He and his father were wronged and separated from the people they loved. It was one thing to reach out to others when he had so much to give, but here, imprisoned with little recourse, Herbert was empty. Although it was probably spiritually wrong to think this way, he wanted to be on the receiving end this time and get the news they were free to go home.