When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  “Herbert”—Graf stuck out his hand and smiled—“breathe deeply. Don’t you just love how it smells after the rain?”

  “I do.” He returned Graf’s smile. It would be nice to have a single grain of the pastor’s ability to remain content while his future was being negotiated. “Any news of the world?”

  “Hitler’s still alive.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” It might be evil to wish someone dead, but the dictator’s war had reached Herbert’s living room, making it personal.

  “But the Allies have won back most of Italy.” Graf’s eyes crinkled at the edges. The man looked like a Coca-Cola Santa Claus, with a hint of pink in his cheeks.

  “So we hang on, waiting?”

  Graf nodded. “A ferry left this morning with a large group of older men and women, who volunteered to repatriate to Germany. Sounded like they’d never become citizens. The commander announced it’s an option for all of us.”

  “I’ll stay. My family is pretty Americanized.” Besides, where would they go in Germany? Their connections to relatives barely existed these last years.

  “I imagine Germany is no place to be right now.”

  Later, he sat on a bench outside the infirmary. His father experienced a dizzy spell and asked to see a doctor. Otto appeared despondent these last few days, and Herbert blamed it on the ongoing melancholy over their stagnant situation. Daily, if not hourly, Herbert fought off the gloom of despair as he tried to keep his thoughts positive. Otto shouldered the unwarranted blame for what happened to them, for why they were here in the first place. Herbert pointed his daggers of blame to the justice department.

  The doctor waved him into the examination room, and although the specialist’s face was a mask of seriousness, Herbert wasn’t ready for the medical diagnosis. “Your father had a slight heart attack.”

  Shock ripped through him as he processed the words. Otto needed to be transported to a real hospital. “When can he be transferred?” His lips were going numb as the blood drained from them.

  “He’ll be treated here, of course”—the doctor fiddled with his stethoscope—“We have good medical care.”

  “I have the medication, son.” Otto sat on the examination table in his shorts and undershirt. He appeared weak and shrunken. His legs dangled over the side of the table, like thin white sticks, fragile, breakable.

  Herbert moved to his side, his stomach jittery, worry blurring his thoughts. He reached for the bottle in Otto’s hand and squinted to read the words. “What did they give you?” They knew nothing about his father’s medical history.

  “Nitroglycerin pills,” the doctor said, “and we will monitor him overnight.”

  “My father needs to be home and done with all of these worries.” Their situation came into sharp focus. It was bad enough they were prisoners for no good cause, but a critical health problem changed everything. The government’s game of holding them as enemy suspects needed to end now.

  “Surely he qualifies to be freed to seek proper care.”

  “Our care is no different than at any other civilian hospital.” The doctor’s nostrils flared, and his eyes closed to slits.

  The taste in Herbert’s mouth was sour. Arguing with one of the island’s keeper of the keys would get him nowhere. He needed to get outside help. Then he turned his back to the doctor.

  “Pops, I’ll bring your shaving kit and bed clothes. And our playing cards. I plan on spending the night in your room.”

  He passed the doctor on the way out of the room.

  “And no one is going to stop me.”

  His father slept through the night, but Herbert didn’t fare as well. The folding wooden chair the hospital staff provided was impossible to do more than nod off in. Besides, every change in Otto’s breathing threw Herbert into a raging panic. Had his father always snored and then suddenly stopped breathing, and after several long moments, breathe again?

  Daylight brightened the window. He left Otto sitting in bed, eating a light breakfast of oatmeal and fruit Herbert had brought him and followed an MP through the corridors of the business building. He’d requested a meeting with Admiral Cahoon, and was shocked when a message arrived in Otto’s room, saying Cahoon would receive him. Now he was getting somewhere. The doctor must have spoken to the upper Coast Guard brass about Otto’s health.

  “Wait here,” the escort said, indicating the carpeted waiting area with three green leather upholstered chairs.

  He sank into one, the padding nothing short of luxurious compared to the wooden slats he’d sat on all night. He rubbed his aching hip, the joint always a gauge of how rested he was, or as of late, how tired.

  An interior door with a frosted-glass pane opened and the escort waited there. “The admiral will see you now.” He motioned for Herbert to enter.

  Herbert tried not to limp as he crossed the room, but today it took a few steps to get his joints functioning. The interior of the room was decorated with solid pieces of furniture, from large bookcases to a sizeable desk. A realistic oil portrait of President Roosevelt hung on the wall behind the desk, and the American flag was on a brass stand in the corner. A splash of patriotism in the confines of a yellow cinderblock room.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir.” Herbert remained standing.

  The admiral’s dark hair was buzzed short, and his jowls spilled over the collar of his white shirt under his blue bedecked uniform. His face was neutral, a practiced look if Herbert had ever seen one. “Have a seat.”

  Herbert sat and waited as he studied the desktop. Besides the black phone on one corner, there was one other ornamental piece. A model of a Coast Guard cutter atop a goldtone pole on a wooden base. The inscription on the side of the base read, United States Lighthouse Service, 1790 to 1914.

  Cahoon answered the question Herbert was about to ask. “The Lighthouse Service became the Coast Guard in 1915.”

  “I didn’t know that.” But he wasn’t here for a history lesson. “If you don’t mind, sir. I’d like to talk about my father. I’m sure you’ve heard he had a heart attack yesterday.”

  “I did”—he shifted his lower jaw side to side—“I was informed he is doing well.”

  “For the time being. He is frail, an old man.” Herbert’s throat tightened, and he quickly cleared it. “We plead with you to let us return home. When we are called for a rehearing, you know where to find us.” His rehearsed words sounded like a sane request. Cahoon must understand that although he and Otto were scooped up in the enemy-alien net, not everyone in custody was guilty.

  When Cahoon smiled, it was nothing more than a tight red line where his mouth had been. He planted his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, studying Herbert over them.

  Herbert wasn’t going to beg any further. He’d stated his request, and he’d outwait the man’s reply.

  “The Duke of Wellington said, ‘The whole art of war consists of guessing at what is on the other side of the hill.’” He dropped his hands to the desk. “He defeated Napoleon.”

  He didn’t care if the duke defeated the Devil. “If this in any way relates to my family, sir, what do you see on the other side of the hill for us?”

  Cahoon smiled wider this time, reducing his eyes to small slits with black pearls in the center. “I contacted the hearing board about your request to be reunited with your family.”

  Finally. He’d waited five long months to get them to answer anything. “Well? What did they say?” If the man’s answer included a history lesson, he would lose it.

  “It was denied for both you and your father.”

  Denied? A wave of dizziness hit him as words failed. Cahoon’s face registered no sympathy. Herbert shifted his gaze to view the painting of the president, the man who ruined his life with his executive order. Something in his chest dropped. Maybe he was having a heart attack. Did he even care?
He might as well be dead for all the support he gave his family.

  “You and your father will remain in this internment camp, and as stated before, you will each receive an impartial and just hearing. All alleged enemies are granted that, although it takes time.”

  Otto might not have time. “Could my father be released, and I will stay? It’s pretty clear he’s no danger to anyone.”

  “No. But to address your family’s difficulties—”

  “What difficulties are you talking about? What have you heard?”

  In last week’s letter, Jutta said someone spray-painted “Nazi” in five-foot-high letters on the side of the mill. Then, Alfred had a difficult time getting anyone to help paint over it until their Lutheran pastor and his son showed up.

  “Your son was in a fight with some boys at school.”

  Alfred had finally lost control. Herbert wasn’t surprised. “They’ve been harassing him and my daughter. How far can one kid get pushed before he pushes back?”

  “When the sheriff came, your son threw a punch.”

  “That can’t be right.” Alfred knew better than to disrespect law enforcement no matter how angry he became. “Let me call home and talk to him.”

  “He’s sitting in jail.”

  His world spiraled down into a pool of his worst fears. His son was jailed? “He’s fifteen!” He pounded his fist on the desk. “And the sheriff’s nephew is one of the boys who has been messing with my family and destroying our property.”

  “Your son’s old enough.” Cahoon looked at his expensive watch. “Boys his age have joined up and are off fighting.”

  “Not legally.” Did the man seriously believe Alfred should go to war?

  “No. But your son isn’t exactly following the law either.” He drew in a long breath. “Your family is in dire straits, Mr. Müller. Your bank accounts are frozen, and you will soon lose your assets.”

  Because of you and your cronies, he wanted to scream. “They have jobs.”

  “Well, we have an offer.”

  “I’m sure you do. You guys have everything worked out, whether it hurts a fellow American or not.”

  Cahoon cocked his eyebrow. “Your wife and children may secure your property with a trusted friend and then they can join you here on Ellis Island. You’ll be together.” He raised his hands as if to say, See? Isn’t this a great idea? “There is a larger camp in Texas, Crystal City, that’s more of a family camp. We would work on transferring you all there.”

  He tried to picture his family in this hellhole, or any other internment camp. Selfishly, he’d be with them again, which was everything he prayed for. But to take them away from a comfortable home to a crowded, often smelly, living arrangement? Unacceptable.

  “The assault charges against your son will be dropped, and we will pay for your family’s transportation.”

  With that, the rational part of his brain argued in favor of bringing them here. He had to get Alfred out of jail first and foremost. Who knew what havoc the angry boy might do there if he felt trapped? School was almost out for the year, and the children were reticent about attending anyway. There was a school on Ellis, and if they were here, he would at least know they were safe—and together. He was genuinely worried what more might occur if his family stayed in their home. “May I call my wife?”

  The admiral nodded to the military escort. “Take Mr. Müller into the next office and let him make his call.” He stood and absently ran his fingers over the outline of the fancy model ship. “You’ll have five minutes.”

  Once in the adjoining office, Herbert tried to control the tremor in his finger and spun the phone dial, the guard standing just three feet away. He hadn’t heard Jutta’s voice in a month since their three-hour visit on the island. When she said hello, he felt his insides melt. God, he missed her!

  “Herbert?” Her voice held disbelief. “Have you been released?”

  “Honey. I just heard about Alfred. Is he still in jail?”

  She was quiet and his heart beat faster. What else had happened? It was then he heard her quiet sobs. “He will be home tomorrow. We posted bail. Twelve dollars.”

  “That’s great, Jutta.” His grip on the phone tightened. He should be home helping Jutta through this field of landmines. “I got an offer today that I want to discuss with you.” He explained that he and Otto still had no hearing date, but there was a bigger, hopefully better, camp in Texas they could all stay in until the war ended.

  “You’re saying we should just leave things?” She sounded composed but surprised.

  He was stunned he was even thinking about this, but they’d be together and that felt like the right thing to do. “By all accounts, the war is winding down so I don’t think this will be for long. It doesn’t feel safe there anymore, and I’d rather have you all with me. I mean with us.” He needed to tell her about Otto’s health but would wait.

  “Otto agrees, too?”

  “Yes.” A little lie since Otto had not heard the offer. “And the government will pay to get you here . . . What do you think?”

  “We miss you so much.” She choked on a sob. “And it’s been hard here, Herbert. Everyone treats us like we’ve murdered someone. We might as well leave so they can rest easy.”

  He swallowed hard. They were coming. “Pack up the valuables and ask Pastor Huber to store them for us. Give the chickens to Mrs. Mason.” She was the widow whose boys attacked Herbert and Otto six months earlier. He didn’t know why he kept trying to prove he wasn’t the enemy, but he hoped to return to Tulpehocken soon, definitely before September. If they returned home by then, they would be back in business for the fall harvest.

  The guard tapped his watch and made a circling motion with his finger.

  “Jutta, I’ll get more details and call you back. I love you and tell the children I love and miss them.”

  “I will. And for better or worse, Herbert, we’ll see this through.”

  He returned the receiver to the phone cradle and closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now, he needed to explain to his father why the family was joining them in prison.

  Wilhelm Falk

  Green Mountains, Vermont - June 1944

  The next morning, Falk opened his eyes to a slice of sunlight poking through the leafy mesh. When he sat up and stretched out the kinks in his back, a narrow vein of gold lit up the area around him.

  Had he slept too late? He wanted to travel before first light, but his aching body demanded more sleep. He stood and listened to the sounds of the forest. The piping of songbirds and the chittering of squirrels split open the quiet as the forest came alive.

  Parched, he stopped at a stream and filled a water jug, drinking deeply before heading to the tumble of boulders that marked the rugged trailhead to the valley. The descent would be challenging, but he was rested and ready.

  The trees were sparse, and the rocky outcroppings provided little cover, so he pushed faster to get off the face of the mountain. He suspected Commander Dobbs’s description of the New Hampshire citizens as “half-wild, avid hunters, rugged people who hated Germans” might be true of Vermonters, as well.

  Using tree limbs to help hold his weight, he dropped to lower levels, often sliding on shale and loose rocks, sometimes easing over large logs and boulders on his backside.

  After an hour, the forest thickened around him, and he discovered an authentic trail. He was still heading downhill, but covered more ground now that he could walk. He was making good time when a moving wall of pale white fog rolled in and just like that, he could see nothing. He swiped his arms in front of him, but it did little to clear a visual path. The fog seemed to glide with deadly intent, which was sure to be his fate if he tried to hike farther in whiteout conditions. He leaned against a tree, impatient to get moving again. He wished he had a cigarette, but those were long gone.

  H
e focused on his upcoming reunion with Pastor Graf, a man he owed so much. Graf got him freed from prison in ‘40 when Falk and other social democrats spoke out against Hitler. Back then, Dachau was an unused gunpowder and munitions factory outside Munich, not yet a death camp. He loaded bullets for twelve hours a day, alongside other political prisoners.

  At great peril to himself, Pastor Graf petitioned the government for his friend’s release. Falk was an upstanding citizen, Graf argued, and a highly skilled manager at Eastman Kodak. As soon as he was safely home with Ilse and his sons, Graf immigrated to the United States under one of the few visas available at that time. Falk had known the pastor for over half of his thirty-four years and trusted him with his life.

  A welcoming breeze moved through the forest, and the fog split into ribbons, carrying the scent of bogs and hay and farms. He was close to the valley now and to his reunion with his longtime friend. In the distance, the unmistakable buzz of chainsaws told him men worked nearby.

  His heart jumped at the sound of breaking branches. Something large was coming toward him. The fog still slithered between the trees, leaving some areas clear and others obscured. He stopped and ducked behind an oak. All he had was Lauterbach’s scalpel to fend off an attack. Not nearly enough protection if it were a bear.

  More thrashing in the bushes and then an animal snorted. A deer burst from the woods to his right, charging down the trail ahead of him, the fog collapsing behind his disappearing hooves. He waited for a few moments, wondering what startled the animal. His own scent? After weeks in the forest, Falk figured he could wrinkle the nose of a Billy goat.

  Sensing all was clear, he stepped from behind the tree back onto the path.

  Immediately, the crack of a rifle sounded, and a white-hot pain shot through his shoulder and spun him to the ground.

  Trying desperately to rein in the fear coursing through him, Falk crawled off the path using his one good arm. The wavering veils of fog made it almost impossible to find a place to hide. He spotted a huge moss-covered log and dragged himself in that direction.