Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  Juan Antonio looked at the two of them. “Shall we try to get you on a train to Spain or Portugal? From there you may be able to board a ship for America.”

  Forty-eight hours later she looked up at the enormous steamship in the Lisbon harbor. What luck, she would finally be on her way to America! Over and over in her wildest dreams she had imagined escaping and finding her brother in New York. In 1941 she had heard an American speech about freedoms – freedom of religion, speech, freedom from want and freedom from fear. She had lived with the consequences of her awful mistake on her birthday six years ago, and had experienced the loss of each of these freedoms. Once they got to America she would be able to find Hans and her future.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Upstate New York

  May 1945

  “U.S. Army Retrains Prisoners of War. Handpicked prisoners are given a six-day course in U.S. style democracy and sent back to Germany or Austria as free men.”

  ~ Christian Science Monitor

  Lieutenant Burns looked up at the prisoner standing in front of him, a young German wearing a loose blackish jumpsuit with POW stenciled on the sleeves, chest and legs. The prisoner had no name, no rank and no home. A simple nametag read “Willi.” He stood nervously in front of the officer, his steel-rimmed eyeglasses fogging up with nervous sweat. He did not stand at attention or salute. Military attitudes were forbidden to the prisoners.

  Some eggheads had gotten together with the Department of State and decided that the army would now take on the process of making peace with enemy soldiers. Prisoners were coming by boatloads into San Francisco and shipping out to Camp Shoemaker in the East Bay. Used barracks were plopped down into Northern California, a short bus ride away from the San Francisco harbor. The eggheads’ idea was that U.S. Army Intelligence would now determine the captives’ loyalties, and craft democratic citizens who could be repatriated in a new Europe.

  More than fifty countries had participated in the conflict, using young men who might have volunteered, might have been conscripted, or who might have been serving as prisoners all along. The process then was to separate European prisoners into groups of: Black – hostile and unrepentant, Gray – non-committal, and White – compliant listeners who might respond to reeducation. Former members of the SS and Gestapo were pre-determined to be “Blacks - Schwarzen” because of their proven loyalties to the Reich. They were sent to holding areas, where they would be reprocessed into work units. They would be trained for hard labor, and later sent to clean up the ruins of France. The rest would be sorted by a series of interviews. “Whites” would be given crash courses in English and the principles of American democracy before they were returned to Germany.

  Burns looked at his prisoner, greeted him in German, and invited him to sit down. Willi stood with a stern, expressionless face, eyes not moving behind the glare of his spectacles. The Army Morale Officer pulled his chair around the corner of the desk and introduced himself. “I guess you know why you are here. It’s a long way from Europe, isn’t it?” The young prisoner startled at the friendly question, a quick short gasp, and turned toward his interrogator. This was not what he had expected. He had planned on being threatened, asked questions that he could not answer, and perhaps physically assaulted. He nodded his head. “Where are you from?” The prisoner looked confused. “Where did you live before the war?”

  “Oh, we had a little farm in the Rhineland, but I went away to school. I was studying when I was called to serve.”

  “What were you studying?”

  Burns waited through the long silence. Willi bit his lip, and looked around the room. He drew in his breath and puffed out a thick sigh, one that would convey his memories into words.

  “Music, I was studying violin.” Then silence, stillness so complete that not even air could escape. He removed his glasses and wiped them, keeping his head lowered and avoiding the scrutiny of the Morale Officer. He hadn’t even heard a recording of a violin in three years, let alone touched one.

  “Were you working as well?”

  “I sometimes helped with repairs – fine woodworking, that sort of thing.”

  “Ah, so you are an artist and a woodworker.” Burns paused. “I was an artist before the war as well – photography.”

  The captive became even more uncomfortable. Was this a conversation? Was he supposed to ask questions? Why were they talking about art?

  “I want to ask you a few questions about your education. You must have been a kid in 1933. What did you learn about Hitler?”

  “He was our leader, and we were supposed to.. to.. to organize our society around ideals?”

  “Were you a member of the Nazi Party?”

  “Everybody had to respect the Führer.”

  “I’m going to repeat the question.” Hans looked directly into the eyes of his captive. “Were you a member of the Nazi Party?”

  “We didn’t actually join, but we were loyal.”

  “So you are a man of loyalties. By ‘we’ do you mean your family?”

  “My papa tried to do what was best.”

  “When did you last write a letter to your family?”

  Hank was already thinking about placing the young man into an intensive six-day course where he would study American Government and Principles of Democracy. The responses to these questions would need to match up under a polygraph interview. Some smart captives knew how to trick interviewers. Willi would also be assigned part time to the woodshop where he could practice his skills. It would be a long time before he saw a violin.

  “Let’s talk a little bit about your service to the Reich.” The captive hesitated then explained the details of the recruiting officers coming to the conservatory and emptying it of able bodied young men. “So they sent you to the French front. Were you in Normandy?”

  Willi hesitated. He was not a hero. He had been alone in the room of an abandoned hotel, his gun pointed out the window, when an American soldier walked into the room. Turning around, the soldier spoke, “Hände hoch oder ich scheiss.” “Hands up or I’ll shit.” The American had inverted the German ie/ei vowel combinations. He had meant to say: “Hände hoch oder ich schiess.” “Hands up or I’ll shoot.” The American had made a mistake, but he observed the young man’s back shaking with laughter and the barrel of his gun bobbing in the open window. He was able to wrestle Willi to the ground and take him prisoner. As far as Willi knew, the consequences of laughing at the error might now result in his torture or death.

  Burns smiled and quietly held in his laughter over the bizarre circumstances of Willi’s capture. He had processed three other men that morning, including a defiant former officer, a sullen fifteen year-old kid, and a schoolteacher who possibly had communist sympathies. Willi was a good candidate for re-education, thoughtful and aware of how his life had been affected by the Nazi vision. Feeling pretty good about his efforts at making peace with just one German, Hank Burns stepped outside for a midday walk. At a local newsstand he looked at a couple of magazines, a San Francisco Chronicle, and city papers from all over the U.S. A news headline caught his eye:

  Dachau captured by Americans who kill guards, liberate 32,000

  DACHAU, Germany, April 30 – Dachau, Germany’s most dreaded extermination camp, has been captured and its surviving 32,000 tortured inmates have been freed by outraged American troops who killed or captured its brutal garrison in a furious battle.

  Prisoners with access to records said that 9,000 captives had died of hunger and disease or been shot in the past three months, and 14,000 more had perished during the winter. Typhus was prevalent in the camp and the city’s water supply was reported to have been contaminated by drainage from 6,000 graves near the prison.

  39 Cars Full of Bodies

  A short time after the battle there was a train of thirty-nine coal cars on a siding. The cars were loaded with hundreds of bodies and from them was
removed at least one pitiful human wreck that still clung to life. These victims were mostly Poles and most of them had starved to death as the train stood there idle for several days. Lying alongside a busy road nearby were the murdered bodies of those who had tried to escape.

  Bavarian peasants – who traveled this road daily – ignored both the bodies and the horrors inside the camp to turn the American seizure of their city into an orgy of looting. Even German children rode by the bodies without a glance, carrying stolen clothing.

  The camp held 32,000 emaciated, unshaven men and 350 women, jammed in the wooden barracks. Prisoners said that 7,000 others had been marched away on foot during the past few days. The survivors went wild with joy as the Americans broke open their pens, smothering their liberators with embraces.

  Bodies were found in many places. Here also were the gas chambers – camouflaged as “showers” into which prisoners were herded under the pretext of bathing – and the cremation ovens. Huge stacks of clothing bore mute testimony to the fate of their owners.

  Rescued by soldiers

  When Lieut. Col. Will Cowling of Leavenworth, Kan. slipped the lock in the main gate, there was still no sign of life inside this area. He looked around for a few seconds and then a tremendous human cry roared forth. A flood of humanity poured across the flat yard – which would hold a half dozen baseball diamonds — Colonel Cowling was all but mobbed.

  He was hoisted to the shoulders of the seething, swaying crowd of Russians, Poles, Frenchmen, Czechs, and Austrians, cheering the Americans in their native tongues. The American colonel was rescued by soldiers, but the din kept up.

  Flags appeared and waved from the barracks. There was even an American flag, although only one American was held there. He is a major from Chicago captured behind the German lines when he was on special assignment for the Office of Strategic Services.

  Reprint courtesy of New York Times

  In a flash the feeling of satisfaction from his morning’s work disappeared. There was no purpose in it. He had spent days asking young men about their families. Now he stood on a sunny corner reading the headlines. He and his family were part of a massive tragedy that had no purpose. There would be no peace. Desolation, despair, loneliness, yes. There was no meaning in reconciliation, no room for acceptance or forgiveness. He froze his face into a mask, one that would not reveal any thoughts or feelings.

  There were no afternoon interviews. He closed his door and wrote up reports. Pain seized his chest, a squeezing and clawing in the area around the heart, but he didn’t want to leave work to ponder the fate of his family. He wasn’t sure if the liberation of the camps was good news, or if it revealed sorrows that could never be conquered. For one thing, who were these people and why had they been shipped from the east to Dachau? Six years after his last meeting with Esther he needed to think about fate – her fate and his. It was certain that she and Peter had not married and lived happily ever after. Had she been seized, and did she survive? He couldn’t imagine his plump mother working or starving to death.

  Resolve filled him. If Esther were a prisoner in the camps, there would be no bouquets of flowers on her upcoming birthday. Hopefully, she had found ways to survive. How did one find people who had been freed? That evening he pulled out his packet of blue stationery and decided to address a first letter to the family home in Amsterdam.

  Dear Moeder,

  It has been a long time since I have written, and we have all had experiences that perhaps are best not to share. I have been working for the U.S. Army since….

  He broke off his sentence. What could he tell her? He had had three meals a day while Jewish families starved in camps. He was proud of his work, but he was under federal non-disclosure restrictions that would last most of his lifetime. He pondered the statements that bound his loyalties.

  OSS NON-DISCLOSURE

  I understand and accept that by being granted access to classified information, special confidence and trust shall be placed in me by the United States Government. …

  I have been advised that the unauthorized disclosure, unauthorized retention, or negligent handling of classified information by me could cause damage…

  How could he let his mother know that he was a man now, that he had undertaken things that required great responsibility and judgment? He was not to disclose his accomplishments until sometime in the very distant future, if ever.

  Unless and until I am released in writing by an authorized representative of the United Stated Government, I understand that all conditions and obligations imposed upon me by this agreement apply during the time I am granted access to classified information, and at all times thereafter.

  Even though he had dispatched his duties with honor and received medals and promotions, he couldn’t tell anyone what he had done. Heroes in bars would brag about tight moments in battle. What could he say? “I took pictures and counted supplies.” “I shot the war with a camera, not a gun.” He did not really belong to the brotherhood of returning soldiers. He was of no more consequence than when he inventoried shops for his stepfather.

  Instead of writing up his exploits, he asked for information about his brother and sister. Where had they gone? Had Max survived? Either his asthma kept Max from being a good candidate for a work camp, or he had become stronger. It was also possible that there were no survivors, and the letters were an exercise in futility. Curiosity about his family prepared him for any answer and none. He folded the thin blue paper into thirds and carefully addressed the envelope to his mother. A new piece of paper was lifted from the tidy stack.

  Dear Esther,

  I am not sure that you will ever see this letter, but there are some things I want to put in writing. When we last saw each other, you were in love, and you were willing to give up your chances for life in America to be with your lover. I didn’t understand why someone would do this. But I have also learned some things about love in these last five years.

  Anyway, your birthday is coming soon and I hope that somewhere, somehow, you are celebrating it. I believe you would be 24 now, perhaps married? I have not been so lucky with love. We can talk about that when we next see each other.

  I would like to hear from you, and also to hear news of mother and Max. Please let me know what you find out.

  All the best,

  Hans

  Later that night Hank lay on his bed, his body rigid. Not a muscle moved, but inside he was trembling. Thoughts and worries flashed, nightmares with no images. He took stock of himself. A vast country far from Holland was now his home. Soon he would become an American citizen, but pride rang hollow. There was no one to celebrate his hard work, and his accomplishments were all in classified records. He sat up in the dark, eyes wide open, feeling nothing and everything. It was after ten o’clock.

  He had seen men worn from battle, and he wasn’t one of them. He didn’t have scars that anyone could see. Some fighting men chased women. Hank’s choices in women had proved disastrous. No wonder people drank. It had its merits. He dressed, looked at the neatly stacked letters on his desk, and left his room. Maybe a shot or two of gin at the officer’s club would numb the worries and help him sleep.

  The club was quiet, a few couples were sitting in banquettes, some single men perched on stools, and a couple of card games were in progress. He took a stool and ordered a shot of gin. Tipped it up, set the glass down.

  “Refill, sir?”

  “Please.”

  He lifted the second shot, a silent toast to Holland running through his mind. The shot of gin burned. In just a moment he should be able to relax. The chest pain came again, a brutal squeeze that took his breath away. Officers don’t faint, but the next thing he knew he was lying on the carpet. The room twisted around him. There were a few peanut shucks right in his line of vision. He could hear garbled talking, as if he were under water, but he couldn’t speak. There just wasn’t enough ai
r in the room. More talking, and hands grasping him. He didn’t like the jostling – the movement on the stretcher made him queasy. Seasick. He hadn’t been seasick a day in his life. Why didn’t things stop moving?

  The night went on and on, like a scene out of purgatory. The ambulance pulled up to the Army hospital. The glass doors opened into white glare and noise. People rushed toward the gurney, dragging boxes, attaching stickers to his chest and legs, trying to make him talk. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

  By now he knew he was in the hospital, a place where some would be saved, and some would not. He was pretty sure it didn’t matter much in his case. A bed, some sleep – that mattered. Near dawn a nurse came into the darkened ward, looked at his chart and took his wrist. She turned her watch around and began to count the seconds. The touch seemed so familiar. It wasn’t his mother’s touch. She checked his wristband. “Hank Burns, Lt.”

  “Hank Burns?” She dropped his wrist and hurried to the end of the long room with its two rows of beds. He looked out toward the nurse’s station at the far end, and saw that she was tall, blonde hair rolled up under her starched white cap. She spoke rapidly to another nurse, pointing toward his cot. The second nurse shook her head, took the blonde by the shoulders and steered her back into the ward.

  “Mr. Burns, I have to take your pulse again.” She took his wrist, breathing slowly as she concentrated on her counts for one minute. Sixty-three. The bartender said he had only taken two shots. Clearly he had been sick, but it was not life threatening. “Sir, can you tell me what happened?”

  His voice was weak, but the Dutch accent was unmistakable. She asked a different question.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Obviously, he was supposed to know. Her touch was so…

  “Greta?” Good God, she had the right to kill him. “Greta, I’m so sorry.”