Page 92 of All We Thought We Knew
His grim pronouncement drew Dr. Sonnenberg to the scene. “Let us hope this does not end badly.”
Gunther opened the window, and they listened as the men chanted in German, although the distance between the hospital and the mob was such that Gunther couldn’t make out all the words. Freedom seemed to be the main theme. Armed guards and border patrolmen arrived from all over the camp and took up positions on the opposite side of the fence. Boyd, one of the guards who often escorted Gunther and Dr. Sonnenberg in and out of the enclosure, ran past the hospital toward the group, carrying a submachine gun over his shoulder.
Gunther and Dr. Sonnenberg exchanged grave looks.
“We best prepare the staff for an emergency,” the older man said as he turned from the spectacle.
Over the next three hours, they readied bandages and various medical supplies needed should the riot erupt in violence. Even Dr. Ludwig came to help, his demeanor unusually solemn and cooperative. Every so often Gunther glanced out the window to see if the situation had changed. Although the men continued shouting and singing in German, and the guards stayed in their positions with guns raised, things remained tense but controlled.
At ten o’clock, the curfew whistle sounded throughout the camp. Tonight, with fear and unrest swirling in the dry, cool air, the long, eerie blast was especially unsettling as it reverberated across the Missouri River bottomland. Would it trigger violence if the men did not disband and return to their barracks?
Thankfully the group slowly began to disperse until only the guards remained. Later, Gunther wasn’t surprised to learn the Schlageter were responsible for instigating the riot. Seven of their comrades were locked up after beating an internee who mocked their pro-Nazi ideals. That the entire camp came to their defense left Gunther wondering what his fellow detainees—those who were moderate in their political beliefs—would do if forced to choose sides. Would they align with the Schlageter? The thought was frightening, considering he and Dr. Sonnenberg were already at odds with the sailors who made up that notorious group.
Things had finally begun to settle when the camp was once again plunged into turmoil after one of the newer internees became the first to successfully escape, four weeks after the near riot.
Gunther and Dr. Sonnenberg huddled around a furnace in the hospital as a howling, bitterly cold November wind swept across the barren landscape with brutal force. Dr. Ludwig soon joined them and launched into the tale of how one of his frequent patients, Heinz Fengler, walked away from the railroad gang he was assigned to and disappeared.
“Fengler often came to the hospital with bouts of depression or insomnia. He complained of headaches and seemed a troubled sort of fellow.” The doctor chuckled. “But I would have never guessed he had the nerve to escape. I heard he has a woman friend in a nearby town. I suspect she assisted him.”
Rumors circulated for weeks about where Fengler would go, who had helped him, and what would happen to him if he were caught. Mr. McCoy, the camp commander, and his staff ramped up security, including posting an armed guard inside the hospital and restricting civilian visits. Everyone was thoroughly checked when they entered the building and when they exited.
Between the riot and the escape, the mood around camp felt like a tinderbox ready to ignite. While some internees applauded Fengler and his ingenuity to break free and hoped he wasn’t caught, others argued both the escape and the nighttime uprising had made things worse for the rest of them. Tightened security, activities canceled, earlier roll calls, stricter curfew checks. Guards who’d been friendly and relaxed before the incidents now held guns at the ready, casting suspicious looks at everyone. Even Hooch and Waven, the two German shepherds used to patrol fence lines, growled and bared their teeth when Gunther and Dr. Sonnenberg walked past on their way to the hospital.
It was January, however, when the unrest became personal.
Late one night, a loud banging sounded, followed by scuffling feet in the hallway. Groggy, Gunther clicked on the light and found someone had slid a note beneath their door. By the time he peeked into the hall, the culprit was gone.
“Death to all Jews,” Dr. Sonnenberg read the brief, hate-filled message aloud. The image of a swastika served as a signature.
“This is outrageous.” Gunther paced the wooden floor of the small room, his frustration and his voice rising. “I don’t understand why McCoy won’t rein in the Schlageter. He is the officer in charge, yet he allows them to put up a monument to the Naziparty and hang Nazi flags in their rooms. They greet each other with their ridiculous ‘heil, Hitler’ and salute one another. They terrorize anyone who doesn’t agree with their vile way of thinking. Those men should be separated from the rest of us.Theyare the real enemies.”
The older man sat on the edge of his bed, his thinning gray hair wild. Gunther couldn’t help but notice his mentor seemed more frail, more vulnerable, there in his pajamas in the middle of the night, holding what was essentially a death threat.
“Mr. McCoy is busy with the hunt for Fengler.” Dr. Sonnenberg shrugged. “Dealing with the Schlageter is not a priority.”
Gunther scoffed. “McCoy is more worried about how the escape looks to his superiors rather than what is going on here in camp. Heinz Fengler was allowed too much freedom after he volunteered for the railroad gang. It isn’t surprising he simply walked away.”
“I cannot fault him for wanting to leave this place.”
“Neither can I, but his selfish decision has affected everyone. While all the attention is on finding him, the sailors think they can get away with their bullying without anyone noticing.” He indicated the contemptable note. “We need to report this. I doubt anything will be done about it but at least McCoy and the others in charge will know what kind of hate is being perpetrated against you simply because you are Jewish.”
His words echoed in the quiet dormitory. Someone in the room next door thumped on the wall and shouted for Gunther to be quiet.
Dr. Sonnenberg studied the note. “It has always been this way for my people,” he said sadly. “An unpleasant note is nothing compared to what my fellow Jews are experiencing in Germany. Arrests. Concentration camps. Death chambers. More horror than I can imagine, I’m certain. I’m honored to stand in solidarity with them here, across the ocean.”
Gunther sank down onto his own bed, sobered by his friend’s words. He thought back to Dr. Sonnenberg’s first day at the hospital. “How did Wolfgang Schmidt discover you were a Jew?”
“When he heard my name, he asked if it was Jewish. I told him the truth. I am not ashamed of my heritage.”
While they’d never discussed either of their religious beliefs during his time at Columbia, Gunther had always known Dr. Sonnenberg was Jewish.Mutterwas a devout Christian, placing her faith firmly in Jesus Christ, and she taught Gunther and Rolf to do the same. He couldn’t say for certain whether his brother accepted what the Bible said, but Gunther did. Yet he could never hate someone simply because their views were different from his.
“Why don’t your people believe Jesus is the Messiah?”
The question came out of nowhere, but it somehow seemed appropriate tonight.
“Jews do not believe that Jesus satisfies the prophecies concerning the Messiah,” Dr. Sonnenberg said in the thoughtful, unhurried manner he’d always used while giving lectures at Columbia. “The verses in the King James Bible that Christians most often reference, claiming they prove Jesus is the long-awaited One, are, at times, misinterpreted in my opinion.”
An idea formed in Gunther’s mind. “I’d like to learn more about the differences between Jews and Christians. Perhaps you and I can study those passages together. I have the Bible myMuttergave me when I came to America.”
