by Karla M Jay
Alfred joined other teenage boys in Ping-Pong, and Frieda was getting faster on a typewriter. The trip took on a vacation-like atmosphere, a relief from the tedium and fears of Ellis Island. Although he worried about Jutta as her cold deepened, now Otto seemed to be coming down with it.
He and Pastor Graf met each day to share news they picked up from other passengers. Today, Graf put his back to the wind and pulled his coat closed.
“I was thinking how expensive we are. All the money and effort to move us off American soil. Hope it’s worth it to them.”
Herbert watched the ocean, the clouds casting shadows like black islands bobbing on the surface. They morphed and changed shapes, their shadows rising and falling on the swells.
“I worry about that. What if the Germans decide we’d make good laborers? They must have work camps just like the United States has for the German P-O-Ws. What if the German government counterparts forget about reuniting us with our family?”
Graf’s brow wrinkled. “I think we’re too valuable to their exchange program for them to lose track of us.”
“True. They have to help more important Americans return home.” Had his government really bartered with the Germans, using his family as mere objects of trade? “Big money must have changed hands.”
A loud announcement over the ship’s speakers momentarily stopped their conversation. The passengers should gather their belongings for the arrival. Herbert stood.
“Let’s meet up here and disembark together.”
“Yes.” Graf shook Herbert’s hand. “See you soon.”
As the MS Gripsholm moved into the Le Vieux Port of Marseille, France, Herbert’s heart quickened. His family would be landing on the fringe of a recent battle. The war was up close and real.
Otto stayed in his room to rest until it was time to disembark but the rest of his family climbed topside again. From the ship’s deck, they enjoyed a bird’s-eye view of the harbor’s entrance guarded by ancient stone forts on each side. The horseshoe-shaped port was a buzzing, picturesque waterfront lined with boutiques, restaurants, and cafés. The Allies had wrestled the city away from the Germans six days earlier. The streets were jam-packed, and people cheered while others danced, holding their hands in the air, fingers formed in a V for victory. Girls kissed soldiers. The bars’ doors must have been flung open, because drunkenness seemed to prevail.
After ten minutes, Jutta sat on a bench and the children took seats beside her. She was weak from her near-constant coughing.
It might be a long wait before they were allowed to disembark.
Herbert turned to the pastor. “Does it make you nervous that we are so close to the war? A week ago, this place was probably lit up like the Fourth of July.”
“We’re here just in time. A celebration feels good,” Graf said. Then his brow furrowed. “But I do have mixed feelings.”
“Why?” Herbert asked. If only they could remain here, he’d be thrilled.
“I’m torn. America is winning and that is the good news, but my German friends and neighbors . . . What has happened to them these past years?” He set his mouth in a firm line. “I can’t help but think this is how Wilhelm Falk’s life ended. Fighting to hold a city, but in Italy, overpowered by the Allies.”
“I’m sorry,” Herbert said. “Of course, you’re torn between two countries.”
“I feel allegiant to both.”
“When we get interviewed, I’m going to ask about staying here, rather than chasing the battle into Germany. Jutta and Otto need rest, and not this nonstop travel.”
“Let me know how that goes.” Graf smiled. “Flexibility does not seem to be in our itinerary.”
Herbert turned to Jutta. “I’m going to wake up Pops and bring his bag up”—he kissed the top of her head—“Sit tight, and I’ll be back.”
He wound through the passengers, heading for the staterooms and tried to shake off a sense of impending doom. His family would be fine. He just needed to adopt Graf’s positive attitude. They were guaranteed safe passage to Elke’s house with protection by military escorts. They’d been treated well, coddled almost, compared to their time on Ellis Island. But something nagged at him.
He tapped on his father’s door and waited. He was glad Otto took a nap before their situation turned crazy again. Except for the chest cold, the ocean crossing added color to his father’s cheeks, and he walked taller, ready to take on whatever came next.
He knocked louder. “Pops.” He leaned closer to the door. “Time to go. Let me grab your case.”
When no sound came from beyond the door, he turned the knob and stepped inside. The interior cabin was dark, but that wasn’t what caused him to stall. He and Otto slept side by side on their cots for months in the open dormitory area, and he knew every breathing pattern Otto made. From the short quiet breaths when he was barely falling asleep, to his rumbling snores in the middle of the night.
The room was too quiet. Before he reached his father’s side, anguish moved through his chest knowing what he would find—his father was dead.
Izaak Tauber
Terezín, Czechoslovakia - September 1944
Izaak liked snuggling against Papa as they sat on their bunk even though Papa was all bones now when he squeezed him.
The prisoners crowded in the biggest barracks to listen to Mr. Eppstein and Mr. Gerron talk about the movie they filmed in the Upper Fortress. It sounded like a success, but for some reason, the day they finished the movie, the two men were sent to the Lower Fortress.
Was his mama in the movie, maybe sewing, or feeding babies? He would ask the men after the talk. The movie was called The Führer Gives the Jews a Town, and it took eleven days to film.
“I doubt we will see it,” Gerron said. “Once the filming was over, things”—he seemed to look right at Izaak—“returned to normal.”
Kurt Gerron was an actor in real life, so he would know how to make a good movie. Paul Eppstein remained the main contact in the Upper Fortress between Commandant Rahm and the prisoners. Last Izaak saw, the two men got along fine, so it was strange he was sent down here now. Gideon Klein, who set up all the concerts in the town’s new bandstand was also here along with artist Unger Rita, who helped Mr. Spier provide the artwork for the souvenir booklets for the Red Cross. Maybe they were here to now beautify the Lower Fortress.
Mr. Eppstein wiped a line of sweat from his face. The inside of the barracks was always too hot in the afternoon. “We must hold strong. The Red Army is rumored to be closing in.”
That red-colored army must be on the prisoners’ side because the men nodded their heads and many smiled, while others prayed. Izaak didn’t understand it all, but the Germans were afraid of the Reds and the Russians. He was glad something scared them. They’d done nothing but ruin everyone’s lives and keep the prisoners scared all day, every day.
“Is the war almost over?” Izaak whispered as he played with his papa’s ring finger, where there used to be a gold band.
“It is sounding more positive. The groups fighting the Germans are closing in on all sides.”
So many times, in his head, Izaak sketched what it would be like when his family returned home. Now it might finally happen. His papa would touch the praying hands door knocker and make a wish for good luck. Mama would check out the kitchen and pull drawers open, amazed by the choices there. Sometimes in his drawing, he raced next door to see if Guus were home, or he and Papa would walk hand in hand along the canals and get ice cream.
With the Reds moving in, Izaak and Papa’s jobs changed. Papa was now building coffins, this time for German soldiers. Izaak sprayed military uniforms with a white dye, so the German soldiers could wear them and hide out in a town called the Russian Front. The strong-smelling paint gave Izaak headaches that made him dizzy for hours after.
“The trains are running on full schedule again,” Mr. Ge
rron said. “We all know what that means.”
Most of the men were silent but others swore. Izaak didn’t know what full schedule meant. He leaned in to ask Papa, who gently shushed him.
“Friedl Dicker-Brandeis agreed to go on the transport with most of the children. Her husband volunteered to board with her.” Mr. Eppstein studied his hands. His face was sad, and his mouth jumped around as if something inside was fighting to get out.
His art teacher was gone. He hoped whatever town she and the children went to, she could start another art class. Of course, he would miss out on that. And what of the paintings and drawings that hung in the art gallery? Maybe Mama could find a way to send a few down to brighten up their brown and dirty barracks. He and Papa hadn’t heard from her in the past week and that worried him, but Nicklaus blamed himself. With less people in the Upper Fortress, it was more dangerous now to exchange messages.
Paul Eppstein concluded his talk with a prayer, emphasizing atonement and repentance. This evening was the start of Yom Kippur. “And no need to fast the next twenty-four hours. The Germans have taken care of that for us.”
That was for sure. Every day was a fasting day.
Just as the men were leaving for their barracks, two SS guards entered and motioned for Paul Eppstein to follow them outside. As Izaak and Papa were kneeling to pray for Mama, a gunshot sounded and then repeated two more times. The room went silent, and a man whispered Paul Eppstein’s name.
Izaak knew the Jewish lecturer was dead. He was too sad and weak to feel any more emotion except anger. The Germans chose a Jewish holy day to kill a special man.
Papa pulled Izaak closer and said a prayer right into Izaak’s ear about getting rid of their sins. It went on for a long time, but he didn’t mind. He loved Papa’s voice, and like most nights, it relaxed him and made him feel safe until he drifted off to sleep.
Herbert Müller
Marseille to Bregenz, Austria - September 1944
“My father has died.” The words sounded foreign coming from Herbert’s lips, and they physically hurt as he spoke them. “We would like to remain here in France to mourn.”
His family stood in a weeping huddle next to him in the internee processing tent. He’d had little time to internalize that Otto was gone. Once he’d notified the ship’s communications officer that his father had passed, and a doctor declared his cause of death to be a heart attack, the man radioed to shore. Two sailors arrived to take Otto’s remains to a local morgue. Jutta and the children and Pastor Graf were praying over Otto’s silent form. The sailors brushed them aside, stating the rules of international waters forbid the body from remaining on the ship.
The shore officer in charge of their repatriation looked from Herbert and his family to the ship’s manifest he held in his hands. He flipped a page and ran his finger down a list of names before stopping and putting a checkmark beside one. “Otto Müller, right?”
“Yes.” Herbert choked back tears. His father, the man he worked alongside, his personal idol, was gone. He expected when he had a second to grieve, his pent-up sorrow would flow out of every pore and leave him a mournful husk of a man. For now, he had decisions to make and his family to help. “We need to figure out how to have him returned to the United States, so he can be buried beside my mother.” Herbert had nothing to lose, unsure of how matters were handled.
“Request denied.” The officer took off his wireframe glasses. “I am sorry for the tragic loss of your father.” He looked to Jutta and the children. “My condolences to all of you. However, repatriation law says his remains must stay here and not be returned. Often, cremation is the best solution as funerals are costly and I am aware you have limited travel funds.”
“I can pay for a funeral,” Graf said, stepping beside Herbert. “Let them give Otto a proper burial.”
“And who are you?” the officer asked.
“Theodore Graf. A pastor and friend of the family.” Graf loomed large in his long cloak.
Herbert was awash with gratitude with Graf’s kind offer. A burial could cost hundreds of dollars. But how would he ever repay him?
“Thank you, pastor.” Jutta barely said the word pastor before she broke into a coughing fit. Alfred wrapped his arm across her back to help her stay upright.
“Even if we allowed you to pay,” the officer said, “you wouldn’t be around for the ceremony.” He swept his hand at the five of them. “You are all on the next train to Austria. No exceptions.” He motioned to the guards who approached Herbert and his family.
Herbert was stunned into silence as they were ushered outside and led to a long bench away from the other deportees. Keep the weeping family away from the already nervous passengers seemed to be the plan. And his family was inconsolable. They had to leave their father and grandfather—a selfless man—on the coast of France like a useless life raft. The sun was out, but gloom settled at the edges of Herbert’s vision, and he wanted to crumble to the ground and give up. His father died never seeing justice, or getting an apology for the misery he’d been put through. Otto was no one’s enemy. He was a giving, hardworking family man who longed for the freedoms America offered twenty years earlier. Every action was to benefit his wife, children, and grandchildren. And his family could do nothing to show their love and respect in turn.
The pastor stood. “They cannot keep us from honoring your loved one. Please stand and hold hands as I offer these words.” In an extra loud oratorical voice Herbert never heard Graf use in church, he prayed as if daring the military officers to silence him. “Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the Almighty Father, who created you, in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, who suffered for you. In the name of the Holy Spirit, who was poured out upon you, we bid thee a speedy return to the arms of your Father.” He paused then added, “Give us the strength to forgive others, and I pray also that You forgive those who are full of ignorance, and have caused great misery for so many. Amen.”
Herbert echoed the closing word and was surprised to hear many deportees standing nearby do the same. He wiped tears from his eyes, his throat constricted. Jutta and the children wept in a tight circle. He clasped the pastor’s hands in his.
“Thank you. Your words, and friendship, mean more than you will ever know.”
Graf nodded and smiled. “Let’s see if they arrest me for calling them ignorant. That’s not standard Lutheran verbiage, as you know.”
“It’s the truth.” Alfred wiped tears from his face.
“Yes,” Graf said, “but it seems in the midst of war, so few recognize it.”
An hour dragged by before the ship’s passengers were processed, a desolate time when grief circled back and struck each member of his family randomly. Herbert struggled with the knowledge his father lay nearby in some building, the horrible image his body was perhaps left on a cold floor. The thought drove a deep ache through his chest. He would never see his father again. He was consumed with guilt for not recognizing that his father’s cold might lead to a more serious medical condition.
Graf left their side for his interview, and Herbert began to worry when his family was told to line up and the pastor was not back yet. Had he gotten in trouble for his portside prayer after all? When Graf returned, he seemed subdued. When Herbert asked what took so long, Graf shrugged. “You know. More of the same questioning.”
With the help of the communications officer, Herbert sent a telegram to his brother, Karl, in the Pacific informing him Pops was gone. A dull ache settled at the back of his eyes. Was his brother even alive? He needed Karl to come home safely at the end of the war. To help him start a new business even though all they knew was the trade—running a gristmill and operating orchards. But mainly, Herbert couldn’t stand the thought of losing another loved one.
His family and Graf were put in a group of twenty-five and directed less than half a mile through backstreets
to the two-story Marseille Saint-Charles Station. Inside, sunlight filtered through the peaked glass ceiling, painting slices of yellow streaks along the shiny steam engine. Herbert and Jutta took seats in the comfortable Pullman car behind the children while Graf sat across the aisle.
As the train wove northward, Herbert was glad to see his emotionally exhausted family doze off. He went through the motions of eating and getting off the train at the stops to stretch his legs. But as the miles accumulated behind the coach distancing him from Otto, he was overcome with a loss so powerful he prayed he could keep moving. He’d abandoned his father. Should he have insisted on meeting with the American Embassy while in France? This plagued him even though the military made it clear he had no rights as an enemy alien.
The journey to Bregenz, a border city in the westernmost side of Austria, should only have taken one day. But it turned into an overnight trip due to the seemingly endless delays spent waiting for troop trains to pass. Arriving just as the sun rose over Pfander Mountain, he spotted Bregenz. The town nestled between the soaring peaks and a huge lake below.
He crossed the aisle to sit beside Graf who was awake and studying the scenery. “Beautiful area.”
“Reminds me of my childhood in Bavaria,” Graf said, a wistful look in his eye. “We summered there, hiking, dressed in my Lederhosen, going from festival to festival.”
Herbert vaguely remembered the short pants and suspenders that disappeared once his family immigrated. He didn’t expect to have any fond memories of his childhood, yet they rushed in as he studied the view.
“Same here. We did an awful lot of car camping and fishing in Bavaria. It gave my mother a break, I think. My father was opposed to paying for a hotel, no matter how much my brother and I begged him. Pops owned a huge 1934 Opel we three could sleep in and that was good enough for him.”
Pastor Graf laughed. “I sold my neighbor my Opel Olympia before I moved to America.” He shook his head. “That gas guzzler was big enough to sleep half my congregation.”
