Page 90 of All We Thought We Knew
Although Gunther was a thousand or more miles away, I suddenly didn’t feel quite so lonely.
TWENTY-SEVEN:GUNTHER
FORT LINCOLN, NORTH DAKOTA
AUGUST 1943
Gunther repositioned the bare light bulb above the examination table, hoping to get a better look at the gash on the back of the German sailor’s head.
“You’ll need stitches,” he said, speaking in his native language.
Since arriving at Fort Lincoln three months ago, he’d found that most of the inmates of the internment camp didn’t speak English. Especially those who remained loyal to the Nazi party and vocally promoted their anti-American sentiments. Whether the men couldn’t understand the language or chose not to use it, Gunther didn’t know and didn’t ask.
“You’re lucky,” he continued. “I don’t believe you have a concussion.”
The man grimaced as Gunther cleaned the wound. “I wouldhave been luckier if I hadn’t fallen off a table in the casino and cracked my head open.”
Gunther kept his concurrence to himself.
In the weeks since he’d been assigned to the hospital, he’d attended to numerous patients with minor injuries received in drunken antics or brawls at the detainees’ canteen, the small building next to the mess hall where inmates were allowed to drink beer, wine, and play cards after dinner. The colorfully decorated establishment also offered cigarettes, paper, pens, candy, and basic hygiene items for purchase. However, it took only one visit to the noisy watering hole for Gunther to discover a hierarchy existed in the camp.
He’d barely taken his first sip of dark beer when a burly sailor filled the seat across from him.
“You’re new. You need to know how things work around here.”
He was one of over two hundred German seamen—many who worked for Standard Oil—who’d arrived in May and June of 1941. The sailors were detained while docked in New York after Germany invaded western Europe. Their merchant ships and tankers were seized and the men taken to Ellis Island before being transferred here. Gunther remembered hearing about the seizures but assumed the men in question were Nazis, thus leading to their arrests. Unfortunately, neither Gunther nor his friends took the aggressive act as a warning of things to come.
Although Gunther found that most of the sailors were amiable, there were some who believed they were in command. They called themselves the Schlageter in honor of an early Nazi hero who was executed by the French, and they had a deep disdain for the enemy alien internees. The group of twenty or so men viewed Gunther and the others as traitors to Germany because of their presence in America when the war erupted. Gunther quickly learned to avoid this group of men when he saw them in the mess hall or the casino.
He sent the stitched-up sailor on his way, warning the young man to return to the hospital should he feel unwell. It had been a long day, and Gunther was more than ready to return to his barracks. Dr. Lipp, the local physician contracted to provide medical services for the inmates, was too busy with his private practice in town to come to the camp the last couple days, leaving the care of patients with Dr. Ludwig, the medical officer from one of the oil tankers. That man, however, was difficult to work with and held clear biases against anyone who was not pro-Nazi.
Gunther finished straightening the examination room, putting supplies away and sterilizing the instruments he’d used. He’d just turned out the lights when a ruckus arose down the hall.
“Get out. I won’t have a Jew tend to me,” a patient bellowed in German, followed by a string of foul words.
Two civilian nurses stood outside an open doorway, whispering, and peering into the room as though they were afraid to enter.
“What is the problem?” Gunther asked in English, his voice lowered.
The older of the two, Nurse Roe, huffed. “A new doctor arrived today. Mr. Schmidt isn’t pleased the man is Jewish.”
Gunther groaned inwardly.
Wolfgang Schmidt. One of the leaders of the Schlageter. The sailor had suffered a ruptured appendix last week, and although Dr. Lipp performed lifesaving surgery, the man had a long way to go to full recovery. His demands on the hospital staff and surly disposition were taxing on everyone.
The unknown doctor murmured something Gunther couldn’t make out, to which Wolfgang responded with more foul words. There were only three or four Jewish prisoners at Fort Lincoln, but they kept to themselves to avoid problems with the Schlageter. The fact that the new doctor’s background was already creating drama could prove troublesome in the long term.
The nurses returned to their duties while Gunther peeked intothe room. A partially drawn curtain around the bed allowed a view of Wolfgang’s blanket-covered feet and nothing more. The new doctor remained out of sight.
Gunther had just turned to leave when the man spoke again.
“You may refuse treatment,” came calm and gentle words, “but you will put yourself in danger. There is still a great risk of infection.”
Gunther paused.
The voice. It sounded familiar.
“I’d rather die than have a Jew touch me,” Wolfgang snarled.
