When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  Now instead of being sent directly to work with their crews, they remained standing after the count. The cold pinched at his face like a mean bully. Then some whispering started. The lady in charge of their barracks said she heard new people were coming to live in their camp, from a town called Kraków Ghetto. The new barracks was already full, so where would they all live?

  One by one, people in his group stopped talking. He ducked down to get a better view between the women in front of him. There, six men and two women were being shoved to an open area in front of them. Izaak couldn’t believe it. They were nuns and priests. The men wore black robes and stiff white collars at the front of their necks, and the women were in long, black dresses and big, white hats that sat on their heads like paper airplanes. They looked scared, and Izaak didn’t blame them. Behind the guards, Commandant Goeth stood, wearing his white hat, holding his rifle. Something bad was about to happen.

  The guards yelled, and the church men and women started undressing.

  His mama pulled him away and turned his head into her coat. “Think of our house and draw it in your head,” she whispered.

  She put her hands over his ears, and he was startled by how cold and rough they felt. Her hands used to be soft and warm, especially when she rubbed his back as he fell asleep.

  He brought up the image of their kitchen, full of light blue dishes and lots of food. That made his stomach hurt, so he changed his mind and focused on Papa’s study. The smell of sweet pipe tobacco, of worn books and new newspapers, and Papa’s hair tonic. Sometimes, the dark red curtains were pulled shut and the room turned into a warm cocoon with soft carpet and a comfy couch. Izaak often fell asleep there while Papa worked on his building plans.

  Mama’s hands finally warmed his ears, but still the sound of crying came through. He peeked sideways. The Catholics were walking back and forth, completely naked, pushed along by the whips and guns. They looked pale and skinny without their big layers of clothes. A mean woman guard now wore a white bird hat on her head and acted as if it were hers, smiling and moving it around like she was a famous movie star. Then, as she raised her whip, Izaak squeezed his eyes shut and returned to his invisible drawing.

  Shortly after, a whistle blew, loud enough to startle Izaak back to reality. Everyone was walking in a line past Commandant Goeth. He randomly stopped people, and through interpreters, asked questions. The Catholic people were nowhere in sight, but one of the white hats had rolled away and lay crumpled and dirty in the square like a dead bird. When Mama took his hand, hers shook.

  He studied her face. It was tight with the worried look she wore while they were on the terrible train.

  “What, Mama?” he whispered.

  In a low voice, she answered, “New people are arriving. They’re selecting who needs to leave camp to make room.”

  Izaak wanted to be picked. Papa was not here, and everything in this camp was wrong and cruel. The line moved closer. Goeth directed people in three directions: back to the work areas, to the train that went to Auschwitz, or to another train whose engine pointed in the opposite direction.

  He prayed for the Auschwitz train. Dahlia, Zev, and Aharon were already there, and because it was the Germans’ favorite place to send people, there was a good chance Papa was there as well.

  An old couple in front of Mama walked as if their knees were rusted, like his papa’s wheelbarrow after Izaak left it out in the rain. Goeth motioned them to the Auschwitz cars. He studied Izaak and his mama when their turn came. Then he spoke, and the man who spoke Dutch translated, “What percentage Jew are you?”

  Mama replied in a small voice, “I am not Jewish, and my son is Mischling.”

  Goeth turned his eyes to Izaak. He squeezed his eyebrows together with the same look older people use when they didn’t want young children around them. “How old is your son?”

  “He’s eight, but a hard worker.”

  The commandant made a snorting sound, like a horse.

  Izaak grew afraid that being a hard worker was not enough to get on the trains. He needed to do something quick. He pulled the folded sketch of his papa, his only possession, from his shirt pocket where he carried it all the time. It was frayed and smudged. He opened it, and as he held it up, he noticed the pencil lines were smeared. His papa grew blurrier every day.

  “I draw like this.”

  Goeth laughed at the translation and said something to a guard standing nearby. The guard leaned in to study the picture. His eyebrows rose like upside-down soup bowls, and he spoke to the commandant.

  Seconds passed. The cold seemed to make Mama’s whole body shake harder as they waited.

  Finally, Goeth pointed to the train cars, the one with the engine pointing the opposite way Izaak wanted to go. “Artists go to Terezín,” he said.

  Izaak’s weak legs moved faster than normal. Since they had nothing to collect from their barracks, he tugged Mama to the train. Artists go to Terezín. The mean commandant called him an artist. Would they ask him to draw portraits? He was getting better with those. Or maybe sketch pictures of people who were missing so they could be found? That would be hard to draw, with someone just telling him what a person looked like, but he would try. What mattered was they were leaving this horrible place.

  Mama stumbled and dropped to her knees.

  “Mama!”

  She stayed there with her eyes shut. His throat closed. What happened to her? They had to get out of here, but he wasn’t strong enough to help her stand. He shook her shoulder. It was small and bony, not soft like it used to be.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes, and even now when she was the most tired, she still saved a smile for him. “I’m okay, love.” Her voice was so soft he barely heard it.

  He tugged her arm, and she stood. He needed to keep her happy, to get her excited about leaving. “The soldier saw my picture. He said I was an artist!” Then he waved the drawing in front of her eyes again even though she’d seen it a thousand times.

  Mama nodded slowly as she steadied herself, one hand on his shoulder. “You are, sweet boy.”

  “We’re going to a new place.” Terezín didn’t sound fancy at all and no one had talked about it like they talked about Auschwitz. “It must be better than this place if artists live there.”

  They boarded the train, once again standing because there were no seats. He fitted himself against Mama’s side and wrapped his arms around her. This time when the guards closed the door, there weren’t as many people in their car, and they found space on the floor to sit. He closed his eyes and thought of what it would be like to be a real artist. The moon-shaped man from Westerbork encouraged him to show his picture to guards to get special treatment, but it hadn’t worked in all these months. He’d been angry with Abraham for giving him false hope. Maybe it hadn’t been the right time until now. He and Mama were finally going to a place that had to be better. And always on his mind, a place where someone might know where Papa was.

  Herbert Müller

  Ellis Island, New York Harbor - April 1944

  Staring through the barbed wire, Herbert huddled next to Otto, fending off a cold wind as they studied the ferry carrying Jutta and the children. Three months since his arrest, and he would finally hold his family close again. In eighteen years of marriage, he and Jutta were never apart for more than two days at a time, and those were when he went on annual hunting trips with the local sportsman lodge. When this was over, would he be accepted back into his community or still thought to be a criminal? And they might have to find a new church. It was hard to see the future through smeared hopes. All that mattered in the end was he had his family.

  He and Otto hurried inside the complex to the visitation area.

  And there they were, walking through the tunnel entryway. His smile faded when he noticed how tired they looked, even shell-shocked. Alfred’s scowl deepened when guards searched them and the
ir packages.

  What did Jutta need to tell him? He hoped she’d found a way to appease the FBI’s suspicions. Or perhaps she knew of other German-Americans who had already returned home.

  Moments later, as they entered the grand hallway, he nearly ran to them, his hip shooting with pain he simply ignored. Otto was close behind. Herbert wrapped them in his arms, an embrace that needed to make up for their time apart but barely began to soothe his lonely heart. Otto moved in for his hug. Jutta and the children would notice Otto’s decline, his stooped appearance, weaker voice.

  Jutta stepped back to show him a basket of baked goods. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she gave him that shy smile he fell for all those years ago.

  “These will put meat back on your bones, Herbert. You are so thin now.”

  He hadn’t told them about how overcrowded Ellis had become in the last month. Thanks to the FBI’s frenetic arrests along the East Coast, the camp doubled in size. Food portions were cut, and he had already punched two new holes in his belt.

  Herbert studied Alfred. How had his son grown taller in such a short time? Frieda twirled one of her braids, although they were shorter now, and she looked more grown up.

  Guards patrolled the busy room, listening to conversations. Herbert caught one eyeing Frieda and his eyes flared with rage. How dare they ogle his young daughter? He stepped to her and pulled her close, shooting a challenging look back at the man.

  “Creep,” Alfred whispered. He’d also seen the guard’s interest in Frieda. His face bunched with anger. He looked around and his gaze stalled on the barred windows. “This is a prison.”

  Herbert leaned closer and offered a reassuring but counterfeit smile. He didn’t need Alfred creating a scene. He reached for his son’s clenched fist and gently squeezed until he relaxed. The camp officials wouldn’t hesitate to arrest another potential enemy of the United States. “Let’s enjoy this time. We’ve missed you all so much.”

  Otto nodded and turned to Frieda. “You . . . more beautiful over time.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather.” She blushed before hugging him again.

  “Your studies good?” Otto asked Alfred.

  “School is . . . stressful.” Frustrated, he threw up his hands. “I’m not going to lie. Half of our friends won’t talk to us.”

  Herbert studied his children. Frieda kept her arms wrapped tightly around her body while Alfred rubbed his thighs with his fists.

  “Mary Parker passed around a note asking who thought I was a Nazi,” Frieda said, her voice barely audible. “Half the class signed it.” Her lips quivered.

  Herbert’s blood pounded in his ears. How dare others treat his American children this way! Was this what Jutta couldn’t put in writing? His chest tightened. Frieda and Alfred were good students, kind and thoughtful young adults. Even though Alfred was a hothead, he was generous to a fault.

  “Are the teachers aware of this?” Herbert bent closer.

  “Mrs. Nagle tore it up and lectured the class on acceptance,” Frieda said. “It’s better now, so don’t worry.” She spun a braid around her finger.

  “I’m sorry,” Herbert said, sadness weighing heavy on his heart. His German lineage had cursed his children, and one look at his father, revealed Otto cycled through the same conclusion.

  He turned to Alfred, eager to come up with a positive subject. “How’s the basketball team looking? Are we in for a championship year?”

  Alfred glanced at his mother, who ever so slightly shook her head, but Herbert caught the movement. “Okay. What aren’t you telling me?”

  She hesitated before speaking. “He was cut from the team. Some parents complained to Coach McCarthy. He told me he had no choice.” She offered a tentative smile. “He’ll try out next season . . . after you’re all home.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.” Alfred’s eyes flared with anger.

  Sports meant everything to him, and he was popular because he excelled in all of them. Had been popular.

  “I’m sorry, son.” Herbert scrubbed his hands over his face and then arranged it into what he trusted was an optimistic expression. It was then he noticed tiny wrinkles around Jutta’s eyes he’d never seen before. She must not be sleeping any better than he was. “How are you holding up, dear?”

  She took his hand and squeezed. “First, tell us what it is like here. We need to know you both are safe.”

  “We, are safe,” Otto nodded. “And getting, closer to, our review date.”

  “True,” Herbert added. “This place runs like a small community. A bit crowded but organized. The men and boys sleep in the Grand Hall you passed through, and the women and children are down another corridor in smaller rooms.”

  Jutta’s forehead wrinkled. “Families have been arrested? Children, too?” Her voice was higher than usual. Flustered.

  “Not arrested. Some choose to join their husbands and fathers if the appeal date drags on.”

  Jutta seemed to process that while Alfred asked, “Are you in danger?”

  “No. We’ve heard of some petty theft or stealing from the canteen, but nothing dangerous.”

  There was still an undercurrent of secrecy from his wife and children. “Okay, family. Fact Time. What is it you came here to tell me?”

  Jutta studied her hands before speaking. “Our bank account is frozen. But we’ll get jobs until it’s available again.”

  The floor seemed to shift under his feet. He shook away some momentary dizziness. Twelve thousand dollars and some change that he scrimped and saved for years to amass. “You’ve talked to Mr. Fassbinder at the bank? Remind him we supply wheat for his wife’s bakery,” he said. “I mean what’s he thinking? It affects him, too, if he tries to put us out of business.”

  “It’s the government, dear. Not Mr. Fassbinder.”

  Herbert was quiet for a moment. Otto’s face had paled. His father’s American dream, along with decades of hard work, was on the line. “There’s two hundred dollars hidden in the mill. In the drill bit box.”

  “Thank you,” Jutta whispered.

  “We’ll be all right, Father. I’m clearing snow,” Alfred said, “and hauling water for the Jenkins family.”

  Frieda nodded. “I’m tending the Abrams’ four children. We’re making enough for food and bills.”

  “And we’re working to get you back home, Herbert.” Jutta smoothed her skirt, a nervous habit he never pointed out because he thought it endearing. “Civil rights lawyers offered to help defend you, but they’re overwhelmed. There were ten thousand arrests . . . with more to come.”

  “Ten thousand?” Herbert let out a low whistle. Of course, the lawyers were busy. And what if this were just a way for lawyers to take advantage of people desperate for help? “Have you met these attorneys?”

  Alfred spoke. “They came to the house. Word spreads fast.”

  “Do you think we can trust them?”

  “They need four hundred dollars to get started,” Jutta said.

  No wonder the government froze their bank account. It limited his ability to obtain legal representation. The government was way ahead of him. He silently swore and straightened against all the disheartening news and then bent closer. “Contact any neighbors who are still speaking to us. See if they want to buy the tractor”—he turned to Alfred—“I’m sorry, son. That means you’ll be shoveling by hand.”

  “I can do that.” Alfred straightened his back, ready to prove himself.

  “Sell my accordion,” Otto said, “und Anni’s antique dolls. They have value.”

  Jutta shook her head. “No. Those things mean too much to you, Pops. And, Herbert . . . you’ll need the tractor when you get home. We’re earning the money. I’ve already talked to some of the business owners in town. They’ll pay me to clean their stores after-hours.”

  Herbert clenched his fists and pushed them toget
her. Jutta would not be reduced to scrubbing floors. At his sudden movement, the guards stepped closer. He took in a long breath to calm down.

  “You will do no such thing, Jutta. Sell these things as we’ve asked. They will mean nothing to us if we’re never to come home again.”

  Wilhelm Falk

  Green Mountains, Vermont - May 1944

  The southwestern Vermont forest Falk traveled through teemed with ancient oaks and towering pines. The living giants, with knotted arms, inspired a sense of awe. But most important, they provided good cover. The grasses and wild flowers in the sparse meadows were in full spring blush. Areas he avoided but enjoyed their scents from the edges of the woods.

  With the anonymity of driving a common black Ford on the main road, Falk traveled over three hundred kilometers his first night. Before dawn, he ditched it over a long embankment near Whitingham, Vermont, and then covered it with branches. Nearby, he swam almost one kilometer through the frigid Harriman Reservoir, knowing that tracking dogs would lose his scent at the water’s edge. He thanked the icy waters of the Baltic Sea of his youth for preparing him for the frigid swim. Not only in crossing the reservoir but also a half-dozen snowmelt rivers so far.

  Today, he left an unoccupied cabin in the lower hills. While there, he’d restocked his stolen rucksack with food and fresh clothing before heading for the higher peaks. According to a map he found two days earlier in another cabin, the Green Mountains were the last rugged stretch before he would reach the eastern border of New York.

  Lauterbach’s clothing had long since been shed and buried. Today, he wore a workman’s outfit—heavy boots and tan canvas coveralls. He wished he’d found clothing with green forest tones, but thieves couldn’t be choosy. In his pack, he stowed blue trousers and a matching shirt. Something to change into when closer to civilization.