by Karla M Jay
Men’s voices, out of breath, drew closer.
How had they found him? He’d come so far and covered his tracks so well.
Pulling himself up and over the log, he stifled a scream and dropped into the space behind. Lying flat, he couldn’t see over the log and prayed his hiding spot would be sufficient.
A gunshot to the shoulder wouldn’t end his plans. He could still make it to the valley. Trained to withstand pain, he reasoned if it proved to be too much, he still had the pain pills he stole from Dr. Lauterbach.
He just needed to stay hidden until the men moved on.
Then bad news arrived on the breeze. The sharp sound of a gun being cocked behind him.
Falk floated in and out, the fog of consciousness shifting to black then white. He and Ilse were in a hotel in Greece. The sun danced on the white ceiling above their bed, the sound of the ocean crashing on the rocks on the cliff below.
But, that couldn’t be right. Why would his shoulder hurt so much?
Shoes squeaked on a floor.
The rattle of metal on metal, voices, antiseptic smells.
His heart thumped in his chest as reality crowded out his dreams. Suddenly, fully alert, memories returned in a rush. Flashes of being shot. Two English-speaking men hovering over him. The search party had found him. He’d failed. The forest moving above him as he was carried to a vehicle. Passing out, waking up, trying to remember to speak English.
The curtain slid to the side, and a young doctor studied him. “How is your pain?” he asked in German. He was a short man who wore black-framed glasses that magnified his eyes to twice their size.
They chose to speak to him in his native tongue? He must have spoken in German while in and out of consciousness. His ruse, pretending to be an American, was over.
“Where am I?” he asked in German.
“Where do you think you are?” The doctor reached for the stethoscope on the wall and draped it around his neck.
“In Vermont.”
“You were shot in Vermont. Do you remember what happened?”
He nodded. “Some of it.”
“You are a lucky man. A few more inches to the left, and we would not be having this talk.” The doctor peeled up the corner of Falk’s shoulder bandage and studied the wound. “It’s looking better. You were in bad shape when you arrived here.”
“Where is here?”
“A medical center”—the doctor reached for the stethoscope—“in Missouri.” He positioned the device on the unbandaged area of Falk’s chest to listen.
Falk’s thundering heart must have been a deafening roar in the doctor’s ears. Missouri? He was captured, and if his memory of a map of the United States served him, he was far from Troy, New York, his destination. He needed to ask for Pastor Graf. It was reasonable to ask for clergy after being shot, wasn’t it?
The doctor stood back. “Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
“You have no identification with you, but you were carrying a scalpel. And pills, including this one.” The doctor held up a small vial containing his sole cyanide pill. His backup plan, if all else failed, was no longer an option. “Which is more than interesting.”
Could it be they didn’t suspect him of being an escapee? He’d try out that possibility. “I was on a day hike and didn’t believe I needed identification.” He would say no more about that, but he was curious about one thing. “The men who shot me . . . what were they doing out there?”
The doctor’s eyebrows drew together, and he stared hard at Falk.
“Deer hunters.” The doctor smiled. “They are in a little hot water since it is not deer season.”
Falk had assumed wrong. They weren’t tracking him. He drew in a breath, nodding, but his mind was spinning. “An accident then. And they helped me get to a hospital.”
“Yes. First to one in Vermont, then you were transported here. Your mistake was wearing tan clothing in the woods, in the fog.” The doctor clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m Doctor Roy Baker. How may I address you?”
“As the Foolish Man.”
“With a scalpel.” The doctor chuckled but was clearly unamused. “And a poison tablet.’
To end this questioning, he pretended pain suddenly gripped him, letting out a groan and panting hard for extra effect. “I have a friend.” He laid out the next words with each labored breath. “A . . . pastor. Theodore . . . Graf. In Troy, New York.”
The doctor pulled a pad and pen from his white coat and scribbled. “Who shall we say is asking to speak to him?”
“A friend from the old country.” He groaned again.
“I’m going to give you a painkiller. Your heart rate is too rapid.”
Falk closed his eyes and waited for the injection he didn’t really want. He needed to stay alert and his pain level wasn’t that high. There were sounds beyond the door but his room was quiet. He opened his eyes to see Dr. Baker holding the syringe, needle up, but motionless, studying his face.
The doctor pushed up his glasses. “There’ll be more questions after we get you stable.” He found a vein and pushed the plunger.
The fuzzy warmth moved up Falk’s arm and filled his head.
“Sleep now. We’ll get acquainted later.”
The words maybe we will and maybe we won’t floated through his head. He’d decide who he was pretending to be when the next round of questions came.
Voices roused Falk from sleep. Men’s voices, talking fast, and drawing closer.
He tried to push himself to a sitting position, but unbearable agony ripped through his wounded shoulder. He managed to struggle upright as the door opened.
Expecting to greet his old friend, Theodore, Falk was unprepared for the four men who entered. Two men in military uniforms hung back, guarding the door while the other two approached his bedside. They wore dark business suits, white shirts, and fedoras. Simultaneously, they flashed badges, and the tallest man stated what Falk already assumed. “We are with the FBI.” The man spoke perfect German. “I am Agent Klein, and this is Agent MacBride. I will be translating today.”
He felt the heat of their attention. His seven-month struggle to reach Graf and reclaim his information came down to this. Was he about to be returned to Camp Sparks? Or worse, sent back to Europe? If he claimed to be Klaus Stern, it was unlikely he would ever connect with Graf. His only chance was to use the truth to explain what brought him here.
“We were called here to investigate a wounded German male without identification,” Klein said. He was clean-shaven and smelled of expensive aftershave. “Let’s start with who you are.”
“My name is Wilhelm Falk. I was an officer in the German army. I defected to bring classified information to Washington, D.C.”
He watched their faces knot as they looked to each other. One raised his eyebrows in surprise. They hadn’t expected his honesty.
He continued. “You most likely have me listed as Klaus Stern, a prisoner of war escaped from Camp Sparks.”
Klein pulled a notebook from his pocket, flipped through it, tapped his finger on a page and passed it to his partner.
“Then you were not just out for a walk?”
“It could be said I have been on a very long walk.”
“To where?” MacBride asked.
He understood enough English to not need the question translated. “The circumstances are strange.” He shifted some. “To meet up with my childhood friend, Theodore Graf. A pastor at a church in New York. He is expecting me.”
“Expecting Falk or Stern?” Klein asked.
“Stern was a soldier killed in Italy. I took his identity to gain safe passage to the United States.” He briefly told his story and the agents took notes, barely looking up as he spoke. This was a good sign. He had valuable information to share. “I’m worried too much time has passed. Ev
ery day, thousands die under Hitler’s plan.”
“What was your plan once you met up with Graf?”
“Months ago, I sent him photos and documents, and I laid out strategies for your country to take military action. I intended to have him drive me to your president’s advisors, so I may explain what horrors are taking place.” He studied their faces. They didn’t appear excited about this tactic. “Please. Call Pastor Graf. He will bring you these documents.”
The tall agent put away his notebook and nodded in the direction of the military police. “For now, you are under twenty-four-hour guard.” He studied Falk. “And we already have the package you sent.”
What? Graf had acted on his own and contacted the FBI? He had not been able to reply to the pastor’s letter asking what he should do with the box of information he received. Falk had fled Brussels and headed to Italy to initiate his escape plan. He believed he would meet with the pastor within a month of sending the package, but nearly ten months passed.
“Then you know I am no threat. I would still like to meet with my friend back in New York.”
“Theodore Graf won’t be visiting you,” the other FBI agent said. “Mr. Graf was arrested over a month ago for receiving military papers and for corresponding with the enemy.” His face twisted into something resembling a smile. “Now you have cleared up a mystery for us. It was with you he was in contact.”
The pastor was in jail because of him? Heavy disappointment settled in his chest. He’d imagined their face-to-face meeting so many times. It seemed impossible it wasn’t going to happen. Falk needed to make this right. “He is guilty of nothing. Pastor Graf didn’t ask to receive my documents. I am at fault. I will take his place in prison.”
An FBI agent with a pencil-thin mustache laughed. “Just so you’re aware, that won’t be necessary. You are in the United States Medical Center for Federal Prisoners.”
Izaak Tauber
Terezín Concentration Camp - June 1944
Izaak’s new job was important. He recalled Papa’s words about believing things will remain the same during wartime, but that he shouldn’t count on fairness to be one of them. Well, fairness seemed to have circled back because his and Mama’s lives were much improved, although nowhere near normal.
His new chore was to run messages from the Jewish Council and Paul Eppstein, who was in charge of making their new town beautiful, to each work area. He scampered past the new school and along the cobblestone streets under the big welcoming banner strung across the street. Mama said the words were in Danish because visitors from Denmark were arriving—the Danish International Red Cross. The group sounded important, and everyone was extra busy getting ready to show them their town. He liked the feel of how his legs were strong again, pumping under him, and he didn’t get dizzy anymore. For weeks, they’d been served real food and not just soup. And he no longer sucked on a button to try to trick his stomach into believing it was full. It never worked very well anyway. His stomach was smarter than that button.
Despite missing Papa every day, he and Mama enjoyed the new town. Just last night, in the attic of the Magdeburg Barracks, they listened to a concert by a famous man, a composer. Gideon Klein, who used to perform in Prague and other big cities around Europe, walked to the piano and played as if showing off for a large audience. Even though there were only about fifty people sitting on the rough wooden benches. His hands flew over the keys, his face full of happiness. And the music crawled inside of Izaak, so much so, that his heart pounded and his stomach felt jumpy but in a good way. Later, as they left the building and he held Mama’s hand, she said the music was by Chopin.
“It made me think of nice things,” Izaak said.
“Me, too.”
Today, he was headed to the freshly built café, a place where soon everyone would enjoy coffee. The town’s rules changed quickly after the elders announced they were beautifying the walled city. People were no longer crowded in the houses. A school was built, so the children didn’t have to learn in secret. And the old barracks, where women broke apart mica every day and got sick very fast, was turned into a dining hall. The servers wore white hats and pretty aprons.
The biggest change was everyone regained weight, and they didn’t die while they worked.
Izaak’s favorite change about this town was its art classes. They were taught by a real artist named Friedl Dicker-Brandeis. Mama said not to get too attached to the classes. She always worried everything would go bad again, but he trusted they were finally in a good camp this time. Mrs. Dicker-Brandeis wore her dark wavy hair tied back with a special pink ribbon. She explained she’d found it on the train ride from her home in Vienna to Terezín, and hoped to find the little girl who owned it. Izaak soaked in her admiration for his drawing ability, but she taught him many tricks, too, like how to see basic shapes in nature and sketch them with a few easy lines. The best part was all the paper and charcoal and paints she laid out in an open room in one of the barracks. Now their creations would decorate the Upper Fortress instead of secretly stowed inside her quarters.
As he ran along the streets, Izaak’s skin was sticky with summertime sweat even though he wore a short-sleeved shirt and knickers. He studied the cheerful street signs and tried to remember the new names. His street, once called Q, was now named Heidelberg.
He turned the corner and slowed to a walking pace at the main square. This was his second favorite place. Grass shoots grew, creating a soft jade carpet in the center of the square. Protecting this lawn were rows of blooming rose bushes and newly painted benches. Until two weeks ago, a tall fence circling the beat-up grass kept anyone from using the park, and the bushes and flowers were all dead. He and the other people were never allowed near the church with the tall spire and big clock that stood nearby. Now he dragged his fingers along the pitted building blocks of the white cathedral just because he could. The church had a name above the tall double doors—MDCCCV. He couldn’t sound it out, so it must be one of those other languages he didn’t know.
On the road next to the square, workers pulled boards from the back of an open hearse and carried them to the center of the grassy area. Izaak tried to figure out what the men might be building there, but he’d wait and see.
He was always on the lookout for Papa in these groups of men. The man who helped rebuild the school said he thought he’d met a man named Tauber, who was here at one time. He nearly did flips, and Mama cried when she heard the news. Papa was handy with tools and a smart engineer, so Izaak wished he’d be brought back to rebuild the town.
Papa wasn’t there today. Izaak took off running again, turning down two more streets before reaching the café. A man on a ladder attached a sign above the front door. This could only mean one thing—the Kaffeehaus would be open soon. He missed the taste of the sweetened coffee he and Papa used to enjoy after leaving the barbershop during their monthly appointments. The drink had more milk in it than coffee, but Izaak knew he looked grown-up sipping it from a fine china cup that matched Papa’s. His head hurt from the memory, and he took big breaths to make it go away.
Inside the café, the waiting area contained plush chairs circled around a fancy table. There were also big vases filled with fresh flowers cut from the moat area. Izaak handed off the letter to the gentleman in charge of designing the building. “Thanks, little man,” he said.
Izaak liked being called that, especially since he was almost nine. He no longer asked the men if they knew Saul Tauber since he’d already done that too much. The workers at every stop promised to let him know if they bumped into him.
The worker who called Izaak “little man” quit his hammering. “Do you have a part in the new opera?”
Brundibár was an opera just for children. Older boys and girls were talking about the parts they hoped to get, but Izaak hadn’t been asked. “I don’t think so.”
One of the men, built like a skinny crowbar with a he
ad stuck on, said, “I know the directors, Verdi and Franek. They need many younger children for the parts. I’ll tell them about you.”
“Thank you!” Happiness washed over him. He’d wanted to be in a play or concert ever since the town started holding secret shows in attics and cellars, but they didn’t often need children. Mama said some of the musicians were very famous and once made more money than Izaak could even imagine. Here they played their secret shows in attics and earned half a kilogram of extra margarine a performance.
The older man saluted Izaak. “Thank you, Izaak Tauber.”
The clock on the tall church steeple showed midmorning. Time for art class.
He walked into the barracks where Mevr. Dicker-Brandeis waited with a few children for everyone else to arrive. Wrapping her arms around him, the teacher gave him a big squeeze. “My favorite artist,” she whispered in his ear. “May your day be full of energy and talent.”
He hugged back extra hard, a smile stuck on his face. It was important to hug her each day. She explained that she and her husband hadn’t had any children, so she needed the energy of young people around her to keep her happy and healthy.
When all forty children were gathered around eight tables, she held up postcards with colorful fronts. “These pictures were painted by an Austrian artist named Gustav Klimt. Each table will have a different painting that I want you to mimic in your own style, with either the watercolors or pencils.”
There was a long table in the middle of the room covered with pencils, paintbrushes, watercolors, and paper. Izaak walked over and chose watercolors. He returned to his table and arranged his paints while Mevr. Dicker-Brandeis set the postcard in the center. “This is called Poppy Field.” She smiled as she viewed the card. “It is one of my favorite places to turn to in my mind.”
The painting was full of greens in the background with a vague outline of trees and fields. Orange and red splotches filled the foreground. The picture made Izaak’s heart pound. What if he could someday create something this beautiful?
