When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  The train came to a stop, and Herbert gently nudged his children awake. Frieda’s pigtails, which she redid each day, were frazzled with hair poking out, and Alfred’s hair stuck up in the back. Jutta was up but looked dazed. “Are we here?” she asked, her voice froggy.

  “Yes. Bregenz.” Herbert kissed her on the head and pointed to the buildings outside the window.

  “It’s pretty,” Frieda said. The dark circles under her eyes were pronounced against her fair complexion.

  “Marseille seemed pretty at first”—Alfred rubbed his eyes with his fists—“Look how that turned out.”

  “It’s not France’s fault Grandpa died,” Frieda said, her voice full of emotion.

  “You’re right,” Alfred said, “but I’m going to keep blaming everyone until I stop being mad and sad . . . and that feels like a long way off.”

  Herbert was glad to hear his son express his feelings. It might tone down his anger.

  Soon, they gathered on the wide platform. The heat from the train’s engine, floating off the machine in waves, pushed against Herbert’s back. Jutta and the children excused themselves to use the washroom. He stretched his aching leg while the pastor smoked.

  “Your family will heal, Herbert.” Graf blew a perfect smoke ring. “It’s important to direct your thoughts away from hate or revenge, although that’s easier to say than to do. I try to set my sights on helping someone else out of a difficult situation. Most times it works.”

  This was the part of the pastor’s makeup he envied. Herbert may have been uncaring to think this, but he had what was left of his family to protect, and from what he saw around him, not many others were worse off than what they were going through. But he didn’t want to sound disagreeable. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  As soon as his family returned, the officers in charge pointed them to buses that drove them to the Unterstadt Rathaus, the Lower City Town Hall. Once inside, they were fed sausages, bread, and potatoes.

  “Reminds me of Grandma’s cooking,” Frieda said.

  “Her Schweinebraten,” Alfred said. “That was the best.”

  Herbert nodded. “Mother made great roast pork.”

  Jutta started to speak but quickly grabbed her handkerchief, a deep cough shaking her entire body.

  “I’ll be back. I’m going to ask for medicine.” Herbert left Graf with his family to finish their meals. He needed to get a cough suppressant for Jutta before they set off on the next part of their journey.

  He waited in line at a makeshift tent before being called next to speak to the medical team. When it was his turn, he explained Jutta’s ailment and asked for cough syrup.

  “All we have is Alka-Seltzer and Absorbine Junior.” The young man raised his shoulders in semi-defeat. “Nothing for a cold. Give her lots of fluids and it will pass. Probably.”

  He wanted to punch the guy, although he realized it wasn’t the young man’s fault. “I’ll take the Absorbine Junior, if you don’t mind.” Perhaps it could act as a substitute for a mentholated chest rub and relieve Jutta’s congestion. He returned to the Town Hall.

  “Did they have anything?” Alfred asked. He hovered over his mother, helpless, as she gasped for air after a long bout of coughing.

  He shook his head. “Nothing for a cough.” He turned to Jutta and held out the tube of pain relief. “You could try this.”

  “That might work,” Jutta said, her positive tone ever-present. She tucked it into her dress pocket.

  “If you’re all done eating, they say you can check to see when your train is ready,” Pastor Graf said.

  Jutta reached for Graf’s hand. “We’re so glad you’re traveling with us.” The cough overtook her again, and she turned and bent at the waist. When she finally stood, she wiped tears from her cheeks.

  He studied his family and sadness overtook him. Although they stood ready to go, they were bedraggled with worry lines on their faces, and exhaustion was evident in their posture. They looked to him for confidence, which he was short on. His father’s death was a turning point. He no longer believed repatriating to Germany was the best solution. An immediate transfer to Crystal City in Texas is what he should have insisted on. His goal, until they reached his cousin Elke’s house, was not to infect his family with his own self-doubt.

  The suitcases they so carefully packed would be sent to a large warehouse and arrive later when another transport became available. Combat troops and war materials had priority since passenger space on the trains was limited, and railway service was sporadic at best.

  They pulled a few pieces of clothing from the cases and packed two potato sacks the military offered.

  At check-in, Herbert learned they were going to spend a night in the pews of St. Gallus Kirche before heading into Germany. The Catholic Diocese opened their churches to refugees passing through and now to internees coming from America.

  Four American guards led their group across town. Jutta squeezed Herbert’s hand, and he squeezed back. Together they’d face whatever came their way.

  Father Karl Wegner waited at the doors of the St. Gallus Kirche, welcoming them. He said in German, “Leave your luggage in a pew of your choice. The bishop of the parish and I will guard. You can sit outside, but come inside before dark.”

  Herbert translated for the children and they moved to a pew on one side. Graf walked away, already in a deep conversation with Father Wegner. Herbert couldn’t help but notice the slump to the pastor’s back. Some worry weighed on his friend, something more than he was sharing.

  “I noticed a beautiful park behind the rectory,” Jutta said. “Let’s enjoy the fresh air a bit longer while we can.”

  A short while later after Jutta and the children went for a walk, Herbert and Graf sat on the church steps as the sun balanced on the edge of Lake Constance.

  “I wanted to speak to you alone,” Graf said. “You told me your mill and property were auctioned. What will you do when you return home?”

  “I’ll start another business, hopefully with my brother. Although I don’t know much outside of grinding grain and running an orchard, I think we can come up with something.”

  Graf’s mouth opened and then closed. Whatever he wanted to say about this situation, the words weren’t forming. “And you are a hard worker. I’ve no doubt you’ll land on your feet.”

  “Have you heard when you leave?” Herbert asked. Initially, they hoped to travel on the same transport, but ultimately, they were headed in different directions.

  “Tonight,” Graf said. “Your family?”

  “We report at eight in the morning.” Herbert’s chest tightened. Tomorrow, they headed into Germany—into the war zone. He’d moved toward their unknown future in moment-by-moment steps. First weeks, then days, and now mere hours away. “We take the early train to Ulm. God willing, our luggage will follow soon after.”

  Graf rubbed his forehead and met Herbert’s gaze. He stood and offered a piece of paper. “We talked about exchanging addresses. Here is my sister’s.”

  Herbert dug out a note from his shirt pocket. “My cousin’s. Please stay in touch.”

  “May God bless your family as you have blessed me these past nine months. You’ve lost much, in particular your father, but also the comforts of home. I pray you will be embraced by your German relatives.”

  Herbert stood, and with a heavy heart, grasped the pastor’s hand with both of his. “You’re a good friend, Theodore.” Graf always bolstered his spirit. “Safe travels to you. I sincerely hope we’ll meet again when this madness ends.”

  “Most certainly.” Graf pulled a sealed envelope from his shirt and offered it to Herbert. “To help with your resettlement.”

  Herbert held up his hands. “If it’s that money you keep trying to give us, we can’t take it.”

  “I insist, since I have no family”—he winked—“I learned to
play the horses at the Saratoga Race Track. Let’s just say I’ve done well. I’ve already sent money to Wilhelm Falk’s widow in the Netherlands, adding my deepest regrets concerning his death.” He stood and straightened his shoulders as if preparing for battle. Then he glanced over Herbert’s shoulder, and quickly leaned forward, and tucked the envelope in Herbert’s coat pocket.

  “I won’t need it,” he whispered.

  “But, of course you wi—”

  Without warning, two U.S. soldiers surrounded them. One dropped a hand on Graf’s shoulder and said, “Your time is up. Hands behind your back.” Graf complied, and another snapped on handcuffs.

  Herbert jumped to his feet. “What are you doing?”

  Graf offered a humble smile. “They let me say goodbye to you. Herbert, that was kindness enough.” The pastor looked resigned.

  “But, wait. What’s happening?”

  “I learned today that I’m being traded, but not as I believed. I’m going to a military P-O-W camp, to one run by the German army.”

  “America is handing you over to the Germans?”

  “The camp is for persons the Germans would like more information from. I’m told I’ll be mixed in with downed British and American pilots.”

  “What information do they want from you?” Herbert couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The United States had not honored their agreement to reunite Graf with his sister. Did this mean he and his family might end up in prison and not in Wiesbaden?

  The soldiers tugged Graf, but he stood his ground.

  “They’re interested in what Falk mailed to me before he was killed in Italy,” he said. “In other words, does the United States know of Germany’s horrific secrets playing out in Poland?”

  “Enough!” The soldiers pulled Graf to the canvas-backed truck and helped him climb in. Herbert’s heartbeat thudded in his ears as he watched the vehicle make a U-turn and bump its way down the cobblestone street, heading north to Germany. Graf’s eyes were closed, more than likely in prayer as the truck faded from view.

  Herbert’s nails tore half-moons into his palms because he squeezed them so tightly. He sat down on the steps and closed his eyes fighting back the tears.

  Graf was minding his own business, living the life he made for himself in America when, by none of his own doing, he received a package. A package from an SS officer who inadvertently turned him into a messenger.

  And from what Herbert knew, the Germans always killed the messenger.

  Wilhelm Falk

  Springfield, Missouri, Federal Prison Hospital - October 1944

  It had been over three months since Falk was shot, and his frustration intensified with each passing day. Despite two weeks of questions and discussions about Auschwitz and the other extermination camps, Falk had no idea if his information was being taken into consideration to halt the mass killings. “We passed everything on to President Roosevelt, and the decision is up to him and the military generals” was as much as anyone would tell him.

  When he pleaded for more information and stressed that every day thousands of lives were lost, the officials only hinted there were plans in the works.

  He’d written out twenty-three pages of notes, mainly focusing on the horrors of Auschwitz, saying there were forty other camps like the one he described. He gave details of the geography, the management of the camp, and how the prisoners lived and died. He made sure to emphasize the locations of Mengele’s and the SS officers’ houses.

  While adding notes about the inner workings of the camps, he wrote about the discharge forms completed for prisoners who were gassed, showing that death rates in the camp were dramatically underreported. And that female prisoners and their newborns were immediately sent to the gas chambers within hours of birth. He described the cruelty of the female camp guard, Irma Grese, referring to her as the prisoners did—“the Beautiful Beast.” Always dressed in a clean dress with a high-waisted belt and wearing jackboots, she was strikingly beautiful. Periwinkle eyes. Every blonde hair in place. And although only nineteen, she planned extravagant ways to torture and kill the prisoners.

  His interrogators asked if he tried to intervene to stop her from committing the crimes stated in the report. He answered he had not.

  Falk was no longer in a hospital room. The previous week, he was deemed healthy enough to move into a small prison cell with a single bed, toilet, and sink, and an echoing loneliness. Other prisoners along the hallways talked to each other, but he remained silent, unsure what American felons might do to a man with a German accent.

  He requested paper and pen to write to his wife to explain his circumstances.

  The request was denied.

  He became a man of action without a solid plan. Everything he wanted to accomplish was altered, which left him cycling through new possible outcomes.

  Again, he was ushered to the courtroom by his usual guards and took his seat next to the same translator. They informed him the inquiry board’s focus for this meeting was the sketches and information in the report about the layout of the gas chambers.

  “Why didn’t the prisoners fight when they exited the trains and saw that certain death lay ahead of them?” General Donovan asked. He remained formal throughout the questioning while Chief of Staff Marshall often loosened his tie as the hours and days ticked on. “Surely word got out about the gassings.”

  Falk gave a tiny shake of his head. “When the inmates heard rumors, their fears were quenched as they got out of trains. They saw groups of red brick buildings designed like hospitals or offices. The SS troops, who welcomed them, were unusually friendly. While new arrivals stepped out, the prisoners in the camp played swing melodies and popular ballads and provided a peaceful atmosphere.”

  “Did you try to persuade other SS officers that this was wrong?”—Marshall looked up from his notes—“That at the war’s end these actions would be viewed as high crimes?”

  “No.” He was culpable of that and more. A bitter taste filled his mouth as if someone had shoved pennies down his throat. Suddenly dizzy, his heart pounded as they watched him. And now wracked with anguish renewed by failure, he forced the next statement. “When death is close, we value life the most. I don’t know who said that, but I have seen it again and again in the actions of the skeletal prisoners who hung on against all odds. For me, the decision to not speak up twisted my guts, however I also did not want to die there. My death would have been a small hiccup in Hitler’s extermination plans. It’s going to take an army.”

  “Once you sent the package of information to Graf,” Donovan asked, “did you consider sabotaging the Reich’s actions?”

  Falk glanced at the ornate ceiling. Sabotage may sound so easy to men separated from the horrors by time and distance, but to him—while he was there—his priority was to secretly gather information and try not to get killed.

  He cleared his throat. “I have already mentioned that I have diverted several trains with Zyklon-B gas. I wrote other dignitaries in a postal campaign for a year, and that proved fruitless. I felt that my only remaining option was to send my collected information to someone in America, and I trusted Pastor Graf. I didn’t know how I’d end up coming here. Actually, I wasn’t sure if it would happen.”

  Donovan looked through his papers and pulled one free. He nodded to a guard who took the sheet from him and walked it to Falk and set it on the table.

  He studied the mugshots of eight men with their names below the photos.

  “Who are these men?” They had German names—Dasch, Burger, Heinck, Quirin, and four more.

  “The League of Eight.”

  “Should I know these people?” Falk asked.

  Marshall leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “That’s what we wonder. Two years ago, the men pictured at the top of the page landed on a beach near Long Island. The bottom four landed four days later, on Ponte Vedra Beach,
Florida. All were German spies.”

  He was suddenly exhausted, frustration wearing him down.

  “Why should I know spies? They would kill me in a blink of an eye for treason.”

  “Well,” Marshall said, “both groups landed wearing complete or partial German uniforms, disguising themselves as prisoners of war in case they were caught.” He studied Falk. “Exactly as you arrived in our country.”

  After all he had risked, how could they still suspect him of conspiring with the enemy? He looked to the side windows where fall had arrived under a cobalt-blue sky. The trees prepared for the worst to come. The last of their golden leaves had shaken free, leaving brown antlers, entwined, hard-looking. Falk returned his gaze to the council.

  “I have nothing to gain as a spy when I reveal the things I’ve seen. I told you the truth. I even made suggestions on how to stop the killings. Yet, the United States does nothing.” He felt heat in his face as he held back a rising flush of anger. “Did I make a mistake when I came to the most powerful country in the world?”

  Donovan was silent, appearing to weigh his next words. “If we believed you were a spy, you would be sentenced to life in prison or executed like the men in those photos.” He smiled. “We’re grateful for your information.” The colonel stood, signaling their meeting was over. The men at the table followed suit. “President Roosevelt’s final assessment is all efforts and resources need to remain with the active front. Men and planes cannot be spared to cross enemy territory to liberate the camps. Defeating Germany as quickly as possible is the best solution and still our main goal.”

  Falk shot to his feet and slammed his palms on the table. “Then he condemns another million Jews to death.”

  When the colonel spoke again, his voice conveyed a note of regret. “It is regrettable, but war always comes with casualties. Tomorrow is your sentencing.”

  “Sentencing? Have I not provided any helpful information to your government?”