Page 5 of All We Thought We Knew
I glanced around the kitchen, with its pale-yellow walls and white cupboards. It was odd being in this house again. I felt more like a stranger rather than someone who once belonged. I didn’t know what was expected of me. Without Mama’s warm embrace and Mark’s joyful presence, everything seemed wrong.
Exhaustion stole over me. Sleep was the only thing I craved. Despite having eaten very little the past four days, I had no appetite. Without lifting the foil to discover what was hidden beneath, I placed the plate in the refrigerator, noting it was well stocked, with milk, cheese, and fresh vegetables. I couldn’t recall my father ever going into town to shop for groceries, but clearly his appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed.
I turned out the kitchen light and followed the same path I’d taken to my upstairs bedroom from as far back as I could remember. When I came to the closed door to Mark’s room at the base of the stairs, however, my feet refused to go any further.
My heart raced as I stared at the wood, the white paint chipped in places. Flickers of memories sped across my mind. I could almost hear Mark on the other side of the door, strumming his guitar or laughing with Nash as they jawed over the football game they’d played that night.
Without thinking it through, I reached for the doorknob.
Faint light from the hallway illuminated the familiar space. A musty odor met my nose, as though the door hadn’t been opened in a long time. After my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I found a handful of football trophies and a half dozen favorite books on a shelf in what looked like an ordinary bedroom. Everything that once declared the space as Mark’s—his clothes, his record albums, him—was gone.
I took a tentative step inside. Then another. I had almost convinced myself I could do this when I turned to my right. There on the wall above his desk hung a new, large portrait of Mark in his marine uniform. Crisp, dark jacket. Brilliant white hat. Serious, handsome face. Exactly how he looked the day he walked out of this room four years ago.
My undoing came when my eyes fell on the folded United States flag below it, encased in wood and glass. Two medals lay next to it.
My knees gave way then, and I crumpled to the floor, the pain in my heart as piercing as the day the hateful telegram arrived. As excruciating as the moment I understood, with unbearable clarity, I would never see my brother again.
I lay on the hard floor and wept until I had nothing left inside me.
TWO:GUNTHER
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
DECEMBER 1941
Loud banging on the apartment door woke Gunther with a start. Bleary-eyed, he reached for the clock on the small table beside the narrow bed, knocking over a half-empty glass of water in the process, and held the clockface to dim light coming through the lone curtainless window.
Five in the morning.
Who would knock on his door this early?
Gunther sat up, replaced the clock, and rubbed his face. He’d stayed awake well past midnight studying for the anatomy exam he was scheduled to take later that day. He hadn’t been asleep for more than a couple hours.
“Who is it?” he called, his voice rough from sleep.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone had stumbled home aftera night of drinking and gone to the wrong apartment. How he wished he could find a better place to live but rent in the crowded Queens tenement was all he could afford. If his internship with Dr. Sonnenberg came through next semester, he’d look for a flat closer to the hospital. The small stipend the position offered would add to the meager salary he earned at Hofbräuhaus, the German café where he washed dishes in the evenings after classes.
The person in the hall pounded on the door again. “Open up,” came a gruff male voice. “Police.”
Gunther’s empty stomach churned with a pang of alarm rather than hunger.
He’d heard rumors that foreigners were being arrested after Sunday’s attack on Pearl Harbor, especially those with ties to Japan. He and some of his German friends had gathered at the Hofbräuhaus the night of the attack and discussed the situation. They’d ultimately convinced themselves they were safe because of their status as students, legally in the country. After all, it was Japan, not Germany, that had attacked the United States.
But what if they’d been wrong?
His gaze darted to the small window, seven floors above ground level. A rusted fire escape offered a way out, but he’d never tried to access it. Would he be able to reach the alley before they caught him? And if he did try to escape and wasn’t successful, would it only make matters worse?
“Open up or we’ll bust down the door.”
Gunther took a calming breath and blew it out.
He hadn’t done anything wrong, he reminded himself. Perhaps they’d mistaken his apartment for someone else’s.
“I’m coming,” he said.
Still fully clothed after his all-night study session, he padded barefoot across the cold linoleum floor of the tiny one-room flat. As he turned the dead bolt, he heard a rat skitter across the counter where dishes and a hot plate sat.
Feeble light from the narrow hallway filtered into the apartment when he opened the door. Three men crowded around the opening. One, a beefy uniformed police officer, held a gun pointed at Gunther.
