When We Were Brave

by Karla M Jay

  “Roosevelt is predisposed to leniency because of your cooperation,” Donovan said. “This tribunal meets one more time before deciding.”

  “I can continue to offer cooperation. Embed me with your field staff. I have firsthand knowledge of the Reich’s warehouses and meeting places.”

  “We may ask you for that type of assistance.” The colonel gathered the files from the table and smiled. “But, probably not, as we are winning without your help.”

  “I did not know I was on trial all along.” He held his breath, willing the colonel to refute his words. Had he believed they would award him a metal? Give him citizenship? No, but he also hadn’t thought this far ahead. He envisioned the exchange of information, the army stepping up to help, but not what might come after.

  When the colonel didn’t answer, Falk said, “If one option is I remain in prison, you can send me back to the war.”

  The colonel nodded. “Actually, sending you back is one of the options.”

  Izaak Tauber

  Terezín, Czechoslovakia, Upper Fortress - October 1944

  The truck rumbled and bumped up the winding hill to the Upper Fortress. Izaak stood next to Papa in the crowded truck bed. His stomach was ajitter. He’d prayed long and hard for this day, and finally his family would be together again.

  This morning, the guards told the prisoners in the long sheds they were moving to the Upper Fortress. Way before sunrise, the guards were shooting over and over again out by the back wall. Papa said they were hunting rabbits and squirrels, food the guards liked to eat.

  There was a time when squirrel meat sounded disgusting, but today his mouth watered at the thought of any kind of meat.

  “Stocking up for the winter to come,” Papa added, in an extra cheery voice. The one he used when Izaak was five. Now at nine, he understood that tone was to distract him from the bad news the guards were killing more prisoners.

  “We’re almost there.” Izaak strained to look over the sideboards. He couldn’t wait to see the surprise on Mama’s face when he led Papa into their barracks. He pointed out the gardens and orchards in the moat area. “This is where we get the best fruit ever. The apples should be ripe now.”

  “An apple sounds wonderful, although apple season has passed.”

  Izaak studied the trees and felt sad. The red fruit was all gone. Then he remembered the new stores and shops. “We can buy them at the market.” He leaned close to his papa’s ear. “Getting fruit there was one of my parts in the big town play.”

  “This was a good town for you and your mama.” Papa gave him a tiny smile. “I’m glad.”

  “It’s still nice. But now for all of us.”

  Papa wrapped an arm across his shoulders as they circled the last part of the outer wall. Everyone must have been busy working inside because only a few people were on the town’s streets. As they neared the road by the town square, two men strained to pull the same wooden hearse the horses once pulled. Bodies filled the wagon, crisscrossed like limp puppets on top of each other. His friend, Aden, was on top. He didn’t want to look but couldn’t stop staring at the horrible sight. His friend had to be pretending or having a nap. When they got closer, he saw neither guess was true. Aden’s body was twisted and draped over the pile in a way only a dead person could lay.

  “No!” He pressed his face away into Papa’s sweaty shirt. “That’s my friend. He shouldn’t be there! He had a nice house with good food. We just got new clothes and everything.”

  Papa held him while tears ran down his face. How could Aden be dead? Old people and sick people died. Then a bad thought jumped into his head.

  “Are we going to die?”

  “Hush, son”—he rubbed Izaak’s back—“We’re going to be fine. I’m here to make sure of that.”

  Izaak pressed his ear against Papa’s chest where his heart galloped fast. He didn’t want to stay here anymore. He didn’t want to see his friend dead. Tears fell from his eyes and his throat pinched painfully tight. They should find Mama and beg to leave as soon as they could.

  The truck jerked to a stop and guards approached. They looked tired and grumpy, not like when he lived here before. One SS soldier, who wore an enormous belt buckle with a swastika in the center and a skull with crossing bones on his hat, yelled at them. “Schnell!”

  They hurried down from the truck and into a long line, leading into the Jewish Council building. He tugged at Papa’s shirt.

  “This will take so long. Ask if we can just go to our barracks.” His throat hurt whenever he pictured Aden. He didn’t want to be crying when Mama saw him since he was her brave boy. But she would probably cry after she screamed their names and hugged them so tight. After hours of hugging, he’d show Papa the art showroom and hope some of the paintings were still there. Papa would be surprised at what a good artist he was, now that he was a year older.

  Papa squeezed his hand. “I’ll try to find out what’s going on, son.”

  A man behind them tapped Papa on the back. “Most of the people were taken away on transports. Lots of trains coming through. As recently as this morning. The only reason we’re still here is to help clean up things before the Russians arrive.”

  Herbert Müller

  Bregenz, Austria - October 1944

  The next morning, on the truck’s bench seat, Herbert sat numb with exhaustion. All night, his mind was consumed by what might happen to Pastor Graf. He studied the morning sun with renewed hope that a prisoner of war camp, which included military personnel from the U.S. and Great Britain, would follow the Geneva Convention and Graf would be housed, fed, and kept safe according to the international pact.

  He woke his family from their makeshift beds on the wooden pews, encouraging them to gather the few sacks with their belongings. They, along with the other deportees, were going to the German border on the back of a flatbed truck. As they climbed onto the bench seats, the morning seemed too beautiful for what was about to transpire.

  The sun inched higher and higher against the sweeping horizon as they left the church. They reached a high plateau, and sunlight sparkled across the vast expanse of Lake Constance.

  A wind that swept across the other passengers beside him was laden with the scent of fear.

  He shielded his eyes from the sun and studied the lake. The city of Bregenz cascaded in a series of terraces to the lake. Switzerland lay to the west, Germany to the north.

  Jutta turned her face his way. “It’s lovely,” she whispered. She looked worn from the illness as if she could tip over at any moment, and her eyes lacked the sparkle that won his heart all those years ago.

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

  “How are you doing, dear?”

  “Just a bit off-kilter.” She leaned into him. “How has it come to this? Your father is left behind in France and today we head into Germany.” A sigh escaped her lips. “I always say, ‘If this is the worst that can happen.’ I need to stop saying that.”

  He paused for a moment, staring at the vibrant lakeshore where fishermen were bringing in their predawn catches. His gaze dropped to his lap, and he picked at a stain on his trousers. When he raised his head, he added a sad smile. “I can’t stop thinking about deserting Pops. Losing him is the worst, love.” His father taught him to be strong, but would he be strong enough to accept Otto was no longer here? “In three days, we’ll be in Wiesbaden and maybe regain some sense of a normal routine. The American Embassy knows where Otto is buried. We can have him moved to our family plot one day.”

  “But he was cremated.” She wiped a tear that raced down her cheek. “He deserved the dignity of a coffin, of a burial plot. I don’t want his death to be stuck in our heads as the blurry nightmare it was. His life was so rich.”

  He had no answer. His father’s work boots would forever stand empty beside the mudroom door where he kicked them of
f each day he entered the house. His favorite chair would still hold his imprint, but his kind spirit would be missing.

  The truck ground through the countryside and up and over a mountain ridge before dropping into the valley below. Alfred and Frieda dozed leaning against each other.

  Not long after, they pulled into a hard-packed dirt parking area.

  “Gather all of your things,” a soldier said. “This border crossing goes one way for you.”

  Herbert felt the hair on his arms rise. He shook off the sudden fear and forced the last ounce of strength into his voice. “Under God’s watchful gaze, here we go.”

  His family walked forward. He and Jutta hand in hand, and Frieda and Alfred with linked arms. Three guards led them along a once-paved road, weeds pushing up through a surface broken by years of war. His hip ached. The days of travelling settled into his joints, making his limp more pronounced. In the distance, two tall sets of gates rose, each separated by a hundred yards. Both stood open. Soldiers restrained four large German Shepherds. The animals barked and snapped, pulling hard at their leashes. High over the border hung a large sign:

  Willkommen in Deutschland!

  Beyond the far gate, a dozen people waited. The more important Americans.

  A U.S. soldier pointed to the ground. “Stand here.” He crossed to the center area, boots scraping noisily on the rough road. Greeting a German soldier, they exchanged salutes and inaudible words. Then each soldier motioned to the armed guards on both sides of the border to bring their groups of people forward.

  Herbert expected to see tension as soldiers from differing sides of the war dealt with each other, but it was apparent they respected the orders from their superiors and carried them out without rancor.

  The people selected to be exchanged for his group looked no different than his family. Men and women in their thirties and forties, mostly couples with a few children, looking weary and needing haircuts and a change of clothes. Was that surprise on the faces of the rescued Americans? They were probably told they were being exchanged for felons, enemy aliens, who were forced to return Germany where they belonged.

  Silence fell. The liberated Americans dropped their gazes as they walked by him and his family, passing within arm’s length. The noxious fumes from the idling military vehicles floated in the air, and he felt the rumble of the engines through the ground. He wanted to let the freed Americans know they could thank mass hysteria in the States for their liberty.

  Alfred’s face was a fearful shade of white as uncertainty reduced him to a trembling adolescent.

  A German soldier, broad-shouldered with penetrating blue eyes, motioned the repatriates to the rear of a canvas-backed truck. “Willkommen zurück,” he said.

  Welcome back? This made him question how much the German government even knew about Herbert’s family and the others in this group. Could anyone really believe they were happy to be in Germany?

  Their American military escorts remained on the Austrian side of the border. Two German soldiers pointed his family to a canvas-covered lorry. The guards weren’t older than twenty. Herbert climbed into the truck and helped pull up Jutta and the children. One soldier, tall with unruly blond hair, clambered aboard and sat on the end of the bench seat closest to the door flap. “Tonight, you’ll come to Ulm. Then in the morning, each of you will be escorted to the right trains to transport you to your destinations. The tickets are paid. You must show your papers at every stop.”

  He translated for his children. His face felt stiff, too serious, and he couldn’t force a smile now if he tried.

  “We have to follow the prescribed route. We’ll be your military chaperones all the way,” the soldier said.

  At least they’d be protected. That was his biggest worry.

  The vehicle bounced along, the flaps slapping loudly against the sides of the truck, the road noise muffling all conversation. Anguish and despair weighed heavily on him. He mourned his father’s death and worried about Pastor Graf. Theodore loved living in America, invigorated by his Lutheran congregation. He kept his departed father’s war letters in his desk in Troy, a desk that would be emptied and discarded if Graf never returned. He also was troubled about the full day they’d travel through enemy territory. Yes, they had military orders stating they were to be safely delivered to Wiesbaden, but with all that transpired in the last few days, he no longer trusted anything written on paper.

  Hours later, the truck slowed. The soldier near the door spit out a toothpick and said, “You’re entering Ulm where they have a curfew. You must stay in the hotel at all times. People on the streets at night are stopped and questioned, but when these local Germans hear English spoken, they shoot first fearing the enemy.” He shrugged as if to say, What else could they assume?

  Dusk seeped into the city as they exited the truck. Herbert studied the hotel facing them. It was dismal at best, the walls in need of paint, a rain gutter hanging loose.

  A roaring sound drew closer, and the soldiers ordered them off the street. Two German motorcycles with sidecars thundered past. Movement in the five-story apartment building next to the hotel caught Herbert’s eye. Behind the closed shutters, fingers parted the slats. Dozens of eyes peered out between the laths. Following the motorcycles, four trucks rolled by and then a single black Mercedes.

  The soldiers snapped to attention, pointed their arms to the sky, and yelled, “Heil Hitler!”

  That’s when reality walked up and looked Herbert in the eye. Everyone he held dear was now in the middle of an active war zone, and the only way out was to cross through it.

  The next day was cloudy and humid, the air heavy with foreboding. His leg ached as he and his family walked to the train station through the ruined side of Ulm, flanked by the two soldiers. The city seemed to be left with nothing but a scattering of dirty children and people too poor for a ticket to a safer town. He’d caught a few hours of sleep in the sagging bed in the run-down hotel, but his family slept deeply for nine hours. Jutta’s cold improved, perhaps from the Absorbine Jr., but more likely from a good night’s rest.

  Eginhardt Stutz was the younger of their escorts, barely nineteen, the tall one with unkempt blond hair. This post was Stutz’s first time away from the family farm near Munich. He returned this morning from bartering at the shops, carrying a sack with bread, cheese, and potato soup. The other soldier was Leopold Bosch, age twenty-two. He shared he was in the thick of the war until injured. Scars raked his left cheek and ended where his left ear used to be. The damaged tissue pulled his eye to the side, giving him a permanent squint.

  They finished eating just as their escorts received the all-clear to travel northward.

  “Is this part of Germany under attack?” Herbert asked the soldiers.

  “The Allies flattened two large truck factories five months earlier. That same night, the Royal Air Force thundered back with over five hundred aircraft. The center of Ulm is gone. All the long-standing churches, castles, and even the hospital were bombed,” Bosch said. “Every city is the same. Thousands of civilians are dying as the Allies try to break the soldiers’ families.”

  Herbert didn’t know whether to apologize or applaud. As they walked to the train depot, truckload after truckload of German citizens, refugees on their own soil, passed at regular intervals. Stutz hadn’t exaggerated.

  “Where are all these people going?” Frieda asked.

  Herbert translated her question, and Bosch answered. “Many have to go to the countryside, away from the cities.” Then he translated Bosch’s words.

  “And I thought our country treated us badly,” Alfred said. “You’d think Germany would have old prisons like Ellis Island to let their people live in.”

  Frieda’s face bunched together. “Don’t say that name.”

  He knew his daughter managed her emotions well, and she seemed determined not to let the attack and near-rape bring her down
.

  Alfred dropped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Sorry, sis. Never again.” He swiped a lone tear from her cheek.

  Herbert prayed the Americans and British were concentrating on other parts of Germany now, far from Frankfurt. Wiesbaden, their future home, was just west of there.

  A coal-fueled haze hung over the long lines of blackened tracks when they arrived at the railway station. “Head to the back of the station,” Stutz said. There, a small unattached house faced the back entrance to the larger station. “The booking clerk is inside.”

  The escorts entered and signaled Herbert inside. A man in a railway uniform sat on the bare floorboards, smoking a pipe, and reading a newspaper. He didn’t look up from his reading until Stutz cleared his throat. They spoke rapidly in German, words centered on the next train’s arrival, and then he stood and crossed to a table and handed them a map. A stocky woman stood at a white chipped-enamel stove with a dour expression that said the arrival of another stray family was merely routine. She ignored Herbert as she set a pot of water to boil, the hum of gas and the tick, tick, tick of cold metal heating. She dropped in quartered potatoes, peels and all. The couple’s furnishings were almost down to nothing. A table, one stool, a bed in the corner, and floor space where furniture once fit.

  “The Frankfurt Express leaves in thirty minutes,” Bosch said. “I’ll get the tickets.”

  “Our suitcases are at the warehouse, Herbert,” Jutta said. “How will we get those?”

  As Bosch and Stutz looked from Herbert to Jutta, Herbert translated and added, “That’s a good question, if we keep moving, our luggage will never catch up with us.”

  Bosch opened the map the booking clerk handed him and flattened it on the table. His finger poised over the lower left side of the paper and then stabbed the word Ulm. “From here we follow the railway line to Frankfurt.” Then his finger traced another spur to Wiesbaden. “You take this branch, and your baggage will be delivered there.”