Page 7 of All We Thought We Knew
He’d said too much. He needed to be careful. They could twist his words. Twist the truth.
“What sort of things has your brother Rolf gotten himself into back in the fatherland?”
Gunther met Malone’s cold gaze. “You already know the answers to these questions. Why waste your time asking them?”
“Your brother, Rolf Schneider, is a member of the SS branch of the Nazi party,” the agent said, contempt in his voice. “He joined Hitler’s youth program when he was fourteen. Your name was listed directly beneath his on the roster.”
Gunther shook his head. “Nein.No. That is not true. I never joined. Rolf wanted me to, butMutterwould not allow it. She wanted me to become a doctor, like her father, not a soldier.”
“Like your father.”
Gunther had never been ashamed ofVater’s service in themilitary during the Great War, but here, in this room where his very freedom was at stake, he buried his pride.
“My father was a good man. He made mistakes, as all men do. He died before I came here.”
Malone didn’t seem impressed. “Do you have plans to return to Germany?”
“No, I want to stay in America. I hope to apply for citizenship.”
“Why haven’t you done it yet?”
Gunther thought of the letter he’d received from the German government last year, demanding he return and join the military. It had left him shaken and fearful for his mother’s safety.
“It seemed best to wait until the war in Europe was over.”
Malone studied Gunther a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then turned to the other men. “Search the place. Take anything that looks suspicious.”
The men began an inspection of every inch of the tiny apartment, tossing papers, clothes, and dishes to the floor as they went through Gunther’s sparse belongings. They looked under furniture, tapped floorboards, and opened the window to examine the fire escape. The policeman retrieved a cardboard box from the hallway, and Agent Brock began to fill it with books printed in German, the handful of pictures Gunther had of his family, and a stack of letters his mother had written to him since he arrived in America. He was tempted to ask to see their search warrant but thought better of it. Things would go easier if he cooperated.
How,he wondered as he watched his home dismantled, did they know so much about his family? Yes, he’d gone to the Astoria post office last year to register as an alien after the law required him to do so, but he didn’t recall providing information about his brother other than his name. Rolf was only one year older than Gunther, but they were as different as any brothers could be. Where Gunther was timid and studious, Rolf was loud, arrogant, and mean. He bullied and belittled anyone he deemed inferior,including his brother. When recruiters for Hitler’s youth program came to their school, Rolf leaped at the chance to join despite their mother’s disapproval of the organization.
Was Agent Malone telling the truth about Rolf’s involvement with the infamousSchutzstaffel, an elite unit within the Nazi regime? Stories of SS brutality were in the news more and more lately. Rolf had gone into the military after he graduated from the youth program, but Gunther left for America soon after.Mutteronly said that Rolf was in Berlin, although her last letter revealed her worry over him.
We must pray for your brother,she’d written.I fear he has forsaken everything I ever taught him about what is right and what is wrong.
When the policeman picked up the Bible Gunther’s mother had given him the day he left Germany, he stood. “That was my father’s, given to me by myGott-fearingMutter. Please do not take it.”
Agent Malone reached for the book. After thumbing through the pages, he handed it to Gunther. “You may keep it. Pack one suitcase of clothes and any personal items you want to take with you.”
Gunther froze. “You are arresting me?”
Brock and the policeman continued tossing Gunther’s possessions into the box.
“You’re being detained,” Malone said. “For more questioning.”
Arrested. Detained. What did it matter what they called it? He’d been deemed dangerous, worthy of being locked up, kept away from true American citizens. An enemy to the very country he’d hoped to claim as his own someday.
Minutes later Gunther was told to put on shoes and a coat before he was handcuffed and led out of his apartment. A door down the hall opened on squealing hinges, and Mrs. Kozlowski, his Polish neighbor, poked her head out to watch. She knew very little English, and Gunther had only exchanged simple pleasantrieswith the older woman since she moved in the previous year. She always seemed to be aware of his comings and goings though, as evidenced now. He thought she might offer a sympathetic nod, but her upper lip curled in an ugly sneer.
“Brudny Nazista,”she hissed and spit on Gunther as he passed.
The agents snickered but kept moving.
Gunther had no time to ponder the woman’s strange behavior and was driven to the Astoria police station where he was photographed, fingerprinted, and placed in an overcrowded cell with dozens of other German-speaking men, none of whom he recognized. They seemed as clueless about what was happening as Gunther. No charges were read against him, and no explanation was given for his detainment. Despair threatened to overtake him, but he forced himself to remain calm. Surely this was a mistake that would soon be rectified. If he could get word to Dr. Sonnenberg, the professor would surely be able to help him.
Sometime in the afternoon, Gunther and the others were loaded into paddy wagons and taken to New York harbor. A number of similar vehicles with more prisoners were already parked near the docks when they arrived. Gunther followed the man in front of him and carefully climbed from the wagon, his bag of belongings clutched to his chest with his handcuffed hands. Armed guards herded the men like cattle up a gangplank and onto the deck of a waiting Coast Guard ship.
“Where are we going?” someone called out.
