When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  “Someone’s got to answer for that,” Herbert said, “causing a wife to lose her mind. Sending the children to an orphanage. That’s not the America we live in.”

  “I’m not so sure, Herbert.” Theodore adjusted his collar. “But, let’s hope our cases will soon be heard and we can get on with our lives.” He straightened his back and looked to the other half of their island divided by tall wire fencing and protected by guards. “I’m going to head over there and watch what might turn into a pretty interesting show. Five thousand German P-O-Ws off Italy just docked. I heard the Nazis and anti-Nazi factions are already throwing fisticuffs. Might be free seats to a fight.”

  He’d heard German POWs were being shipped to the U.S. starting last year. A civil engineering camp near Hershey, Pennsylvania, was repurposed to hold two thousand prisoners. The farmer adjacent to Herbert’s property used them as hired help under military police guard, reporting they were never a problem and proved themselves to be enthusiastic workers. Ironic that the locals accepted captured German soldiers to work among them, at times even inviting them for dinner with their families, but then turned their backs on their German-American neighbors.

  “I’ll take you up on your offer,” Herbert said. “Military men fighting each other sounds intriguing. Mostly, I’m curious about what the enemy looks like, since I’m supposedly in cahoots with them.”

  “I’m in that same sinking boat.” The two fell into step, weaving around men walking the perimeter. Like tigers in a zoo, the detainees followed the fence line, back and forth, back and forth. “And we’ll have a better vantage point to spot your blimp.”

  “Absolutely. And I apologize.” Herbert rested his hand of the man’s back. “I never learned your full name.”

  “It’s Graf. Pastor Theodore Graf.”

  Wilhelm Falk

  Sparks POW Camp, New Hampshire - March 1944

  Another two weeks laced with guilt and anxiety, another hundred and fifty thousand souls lost, and Falk still had no opportunity to escape. Today, his group of thirty POWs finished clearing a path to the automatic weather station at the top of Mount Washington, a peak near Camp Sparks. They shoveled through banks of four meters of snow, trying not to get ripped from the side of the mountain by the gale force winds, to clear the way for the army vehicles to resupply fuel for the station.

  He and the others rested against the railings on the front steps of the massive weather station, sucking in the thin cold air. Spots floated in and out of his vision from overexertion. As his sight cleared, he took in the beautiful view. Tree-covered mountains, all blanketed with snow, stretched below in every direction. The pristine mountain scene reminded him of many parts of Germany.

  A guard next to him spoke. “Hold this.” He couldn’t have been more than twenty with a line of fuzz on his top lip. He handed his carbine rifle to Falk, and then pulled one hand from a glove to radio the army refueling trucks that the roads were now passable.

  Was this a test? He was holding a loaded weapon. A buzzing in his head sent his senses to high alert. He’d dreamed of a moment like this when he would have the upper hand, a chance to get away.

  The guard motioned for his gun, and Falk hesitated. Five guards were nearby and willing to kill him if need be. He handed the gun back. The young guard nodded to him then called out, “We’re done here, men. Load up, we’ve got a special treat for you.”

  Falk headed for the truck, still reeling with disbelief he was trusted with a loaded gun. This could work in his favor if he were left alone with this young guard.

  They returned to the vehicles and headed down the mountain, passing the refueling crew heading up. Forty minutes later, the trucks stopped at a log cabin-style building called the Casserole Café. Two guards went inside and returned with sack lunches. The POWs jumped down from the truck and accepted a sack. Falk found a place to lean on a split rail fence alongside the parking area. The storm was gone, and the sun was out. He dug through the bag and pulled out oven-warm bread with a thick piece of roast beef in between. A treat indeed.

  As he chewed, Falk overheard a tall POW ask another, “The guards seem like regular fellows. Think if I ran into those woods, they’d shoot me?”

  “You’d be dead before you reached the hedgerow,” Falk said. He’d contemplated the same thing just moments earlier but changed his mind. He did not need new distrust to sprout as he was on his way out.

  The POW who posed the question turned to Falk, an unpleasant look on his face. He had eyebrows that could say more with positioning than most men could utter with words.

  “Piss off!” he snapped.

  “You piss off,” Falk said. “We’ve got it good so don’t ruin it.” He moved two meters away and lifted his face toward the sun, absorbing the warmth. And was in no hurry to climb back into the damp interior of the canvas-covered truck. He breathed in the unmistakable scent of new growth, pushing up through the fungal layers of last year’s dead leaves, that floated on a breeze. Squirrels scurried between trees while somewhere up high, birds screeched opposing opinions before several took flight, pirouetting in the air. Their wings a whirr like the soft flapping of satin.

  All too soon their time in the sun ended, and they were loaded and on the road. Once again in the trucks, the hour-long ride back to camp was quiet. When they arrived, the camp seemed busier than usual as they parked. In the middle of roll call, word circulated that a new group of POWs had checked in. The 999th Afrika Brigade—a force Falk knew well. Hitler emptied the prisons to create a fighting unit he believed would be undefeatable. But the 999th proved to be unreliable and ofttimes unmanageable. This boatload of criminals was bound to cause major problems.

  Falk gathered his shaving kit and walked to the washroom. Claiming a sink at the end of a row. He stared at the haggard face in the mirror, his blond hair now a dull color. His comb collected more loose strands every day. At this rate, at war’s end, Ilse would be welcoming back a bald husband with sunken eyes. Constantly agonizing over what he hadn’t done to save Hiam was exhausting. And the guilt he felt a thousand times over for watching others suffer and not speaking up. The scales that balanced a righteous man against an evil one, tipped up and then down in his mind. He was a good husband, father, and company manager for Eastman Kodak, wasn’t he? And he felt no shame for causing the death of the doctor at Hadamar. That guy deserved a slow death and not the quick bullet that ended his life outside the facility. Falk lay awake too many nights—often with his heart galloping in his chest—exhausted from hours in the woods but unable to sleep. Sometimes from remorse, other times by pangs of regret circumstances hadn’t worked out differently. What started out as revenge for what he witnessed at Hadamar became a winding trail of gathering incriminatory documents to indict Hitler. His efforts, so far, seemed anemic as the Jewish exterminations continued.

  He pulled out the hair from his comb and flicked it in the trash.

  “Do I know you?” The soldier next to him stopped shaving, his face half lathered. “You look familiar.”

  Falk controlled his facial expression as he clearly recalled the day he threatened to kill this soldier. The man’s name was Heichel, and he had raped a young German girl forced to deliver bread to the house where a dozen officers and enlisted men billeted. With close-set eyes over a bulbous nose, he was ugly on the outside, too. A boxer who couldn’t keep his gloves up had a better face. Falk tucked his grooming items away and forced a little laugh.

  “After a while, we all look alike, my friend.”

  Heichel narrowed his eyes as if trying hard to remember.

  Falk turned to go, feeling the man’s stare as he departed.

  The rapist’s presence just ratcheted up his urgency to escape. It wouldn’t take Heichel long to remember Falk was the SS officer who had him imprisoned in the first place, before Hitler released him to the 999th.

  The evening’s final count complete, the me
n washed up and headed to supper. In the dining barracks, Heichel stood in a knot of the most devout Nazis who then—all at once—turned and looked Falk’s way. He felt it in his gut. They planned to attack him tonight. Dying here after coming this far would not happen. He had a new scheme, but whether he could pull it off or not remained to be seen.

  Dinner this night was traditional roasted pork, fried potatoes, and applesauce cake. Pork for dinner meant fatback lard sandwiches in the men’s lunches tomorrow, a favorite of the POWs and guards alike. Falk had difficulty eating, though, knowing he might be dead within the next few hours.

  He returned for another portion of potatoes and ate them while standing and set down his plate. He moved to the table with the coffeepots and cold-water dispensers. With a glance over his shoulder, he noticed the men and guards were all facedown over their meals, or busy talking. Except for beady-eyed Heichel, who glanced his way with a knowing sneer on his face. Falk leaned closer to the water dispenser and pulled a small bottle from his jacket pocket. Pretending to check the amount of water inside the container, he lifted the lid and poured the liquid from the bottle into the container. He then closed the lid and put away the bottle.

  A POW nudged him from behind. “You getting water or what?”

  Falk cleared his throat. “Think I’ll go with coffee, after all.”

  Then he moved over to fill a coffee mug as the man took his place at the water dispenser. There was no turning back now. He headed to his seat and engineered a convincing stumble. Scalding coffee splashed onto his bare neck and inside his shirt. He gasped, dropping his cup and shouted curses to draw the guards’ attention. Two approached him as he ripped away his shirt from the burned skin, gulping big breaths. His chest burned like hell and real tears welled in his eyes. The guards escorted him out of the mess hall to the camp hospital on the guards’ side of the compound.

  Dr. Birk Lauterbach sat outside the clinic, smoking in the darkness, the glowing tip of his cigarette the only giveaway he was there. Overhead, a few stars began to show, eternal lights that would remain long after he was dead, which Falk hoped he would not be within the next hour. The guards quickly explained what happened, and the doctor waved them inside.

  Falk followed Lauterbach down a brightly lit hallway.

  Once inside the exam room, Lauterbach pointed to his table. “Get your shirt off and let’s take a look.” He spoke to the guards. “Thanks, men. We’re okay here.” They left the room. Through the frosted glass window, Falk saw their silhouettes just outside door.

  Falk gingerly climbed onto the table and took off his coffee-stained shirt. The doctor opened metal drawers, pulled out a roll of bandaging wrap, small scissors, and white adhesive tape, and set them on the counter. He opened a cupboard and spoke in German with his back to Falk. “I know the coffee is just a notch above piss, but that doesn’t mean you should waste it.”

  He let out a pained laugh. “You figured out my plan to rid the camp of that foul liquid.”

  Lauterbach chuckled, still rummaging through the cupboards.

  Falk studied the room. He had memorized the layout of the hospital when he was on maintenance detail. His group painted the interior and exterior while his broken ribs healed. It was then, when he painted the exam room, he easily slipped the bottle of Syrup of Ipecac into his sock. Later, he hid it in his shaving kit, thinking he’d drink it to get a trip to the hospital as part of an earlier plan to escape. Now it tainted the mess hall’s water supply. His heart pounded as he waited for the medicine to kick in.

  While the doctor covered the burns with an amber salve, they talked about the soccer match the POWs played the night before. As long as they remained inside the barbed wire, the camp commander didn’t care how the men occupied themselves after their workday ended. With evening now holding on longer, the soccer matches were nightly events, the guards and camp staff wagering on the outcomes.

  Lauterbach finished bandaging his chest, and Falk reached for his clothes. Loud noises erupted in the foyer. The guards disappeared from outside the door and their footsteps slapped the floor as they headed to the front entrance.

  “Can I use the toilet before I head back?” Falk asked.

  Semi-distracted, Lauterbach waved Falk toward the toilets in an attached room as he rushed in the direction of the commotion.

  With the others out of sight, Falk hurried back to the exam room and opened Lauterbach’s personal closet. He grabbed a set of clothes, shoes, and a hat. Wearing another man’s clothes needed to work one more time. His hand hovered over the wallet, hesitating. The doctor always treated him well, more like a friend than a prisoner, and they developed a level of trust he appreciated.

  Hiam flashed through his mind. If he were to make one wrong right, it would be to retrieve his information from Pastor Graf and reach Washington, D.C. He grabbed the money from the wallet.

  Walking through the examination room, he snagged surgical gloves and a scalpel from a leather case. He ducked into the toilet, quickly changed into Lauterbach’s clothing and shoes, and slipped the money and scalpel into his pockets. Then he bunched his prisoner pants and shirt and shoved them into two trash cans, and closed the lids. He opened the door. Listening.

  Outside, men were shouting about being poisoned, and the sounds of vomiting came from every direction. He donned the hat and left the building through the back door. The lights from the guard towers had stopped roving and were focused on the area in front of the clinic, where POWs were sprawled on the ground, or on their hands and knees, heaving.

  A small stab of guilt struck. Good soldiers depended on each other. They trusted each other implicitly and upheld the duty to care and bring each other safely home. His water sabotage killed no one, but from the sound of things, the POWs were miserable.

  In the deep velvet of a moonless night, Falk saluted the lone guard at the main gate, a man clearly distracted by the turmoil. The guard returned the salute. “Goodnight, doctor.”

  Falk, in his practiced English accent, replied, “Goodnight,” and then simply walked out of the prison camp, the ease of it astounding him.

  Once in the staff parking area, he pulled on door handles until he found one open with keys hidden under the driver’s seat. He slid into a black Ford and quickly closed the door to douse the dome light. Fumbling in the darkness, his hands shook, but eventually he put the key into the ignition. When he turned it, nothing happened. Panic slowly swelled in his chest as he felt around the dash. At last, his fingers found the safety feature of the starter button. Once pressed, the car’s engine rumbled to life.

  Falk pulled away from the lot and pointed the car down the road, headlamps off. Tasting freedom brought a disorienting strangeness. Moments later, the camp out of sight, he turned on the lights, focusing his full attention on driving—and driving fast.

  How long before Lauterbach discovered his missing belongings? With so many sick men to attend to, it could be hours, unless someone searched the toilet area and found Falk’s clothing. Then they might soon be on his trail.

  From the map of the logging area, Falk knew Sparks POW Camp rested in the center of several hundred kilometers of heavily forested mountains shot through with several rivers. To the south, hundreds of lakes dotted the lower half of the state. He needed to wind through the lake region and head south by southwest to reach Pastor Graf’s town. If he pushed through the night, he might stay ahead of the law. The good news was German POWs were no longer viewed as dangerous fugitives by the locals since no escapee had ever harmed anyone. Stories in the papers claimed people even invited hungry escapees into their homes and served them a home-cooked meal before calling law enforcement.

  The dense forest pressed in from both sides. Its pitch-black walls blurred past the car as his headlight beams illuminated the dark macadam. He didn’t see or hear another car. When law enforcement was alerted, this would all change. They would search the main highway, l
eading to Sparks, and then fan out from there. Eventually, he’d ditch the car but not until he got as much distance out of it as he could.

  His sights were set on a mountainous lake area dotted with cabins. He hoped it was still too early for the residents to open them for the upcoming summer season. He leaned into the drive, eyes alert to any hint of light on the road in front or behind him.

  His escape seemed almost magical, charmed even. Although his breakout played in his head for weeks, it always seemed fraught with immediate danger. But this spur-of-the-moment planning paid off, and he hoped this next part would go as smoothly. He lightly touched the burns on his chest. A small inconvenience in the larger scheme of things.

  It would be a mistake, of course, to let down his guard. He stared at the curving road, mentally running through the days ahead, and wondering about the unknown hurdles he would surely encounter.

  Izaak Tauber

  Płaszów Concentration Camp - April 1944

  On the wide flat piece of ground called Roll Call Square, Izaak shivered next to Mama. Every morning for two months, the women and children in their barracks lined up here, so camp bosses could count them. Today, his barracks’ count was 158 people. They lived in one terrible room, eight to ten of them shoved onto the board bed with Mama and him. Yesterday, the count was 170 people, but some became ill and went away, while others died in their beds.

  Izaak leaned against Mama’s side. He was tired all the time. Instead of hauling rocks all day, why couldn’t the camp bosses use the workers to get more food? Anybody could see there wasn’t enough to go around. Every day, they had a piece of bread, a soup that tasted like water with garbage in it, and sometimes a small piece of cheese. His pants hardly stayed up, and his cloth belt wore out, so Mama found an old leather belt from a huge pile of clothes behind the hospital and poked it to make new holes. They never saw their suitcases again. He desperately wanted to retrieve Papa’s pipe and the drawing of his family. He prayed every day, and if God only answered one prayer for him, he wanted it to be that they’d see Papa soon.