Chapter Twenty-seven Gunther

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 would have 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 into the 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.

"As you wish. I will make a note, asking Dr. Ludwig to look in on you. Good night, Mr. Schmidt."

A small, bespectacled, suit-clad man emerged from behind the curtain. He was thinner than Gunther remembered, but there was no mistaking his old professor.

"Dr. Sonnenberg?"

His mentor's eyes widened. "Gunther Schneider," he said, clearly as astonished to see Gunther as Gunther was to see him. "I could not have wished for anything so wonderful as to find my favorite student here in North Dakota."

The two embraced.

"How long have you been here?" the older man asked when they parted.

"I arrived in May," Gunther said. "Before that I was in Tennessee, and before that, Ellis Island."

Dr. Sonnenberg opened his mouth to respond, but Wolfgang's loud voice interrupted their reunion.

"Schneider, don't tell me you're a Jew-lover as well as a traitor," he shouted. Gunther couldn't see the riled sailor's face, but it didn't matter. He'd witnessed Wolfgang's anger plenty of times in the past three months. "I always knew you couldn't be trusted."

Gunther ignored the remark and motioned for Dr. Sonnenberg to follow him. He led the man to an empty room at the far end of the hallway where they could talk in private.

"I cannot believe you're here." Gunther spoke in hushed English, astonished at finding his beloved professor so far from Columbia medical school. "When were you arrested?"

"In the spring. My longtime position at the university kept me safe for a while, but I knew it was a matter of time before they came for me." He gave a helpless shrug. "They accused me of being a spy."

"Were you given a hearing?"

Dr. Sonnenberg shook his head. "I was charged with passing vital information to the Gestapo. There was supposedly evidence but nothing was ever presented. I was held at Ellis Island until three days ago."

A memory surfaced in Gunther's mind. "When I was questioned on the island, they showed me a telegram you received, with instructions to destroy files after America declared war on Germany."

He gave a solemn nod. "I suspect my nurse was a spy. I don't know what secrets she passed while working in the clinic, but I believe her associates sent the telegram to me to throw the authorities off her trail."

Gunther's stomach roiled at the injustice. "You are a renowned doctor and professor at Columbia medical school. It is obscene the way you've been treated."

"I am a German in their eyes. Nothing more, nothing less." His keen gaze studied Gunther. "Tell me about yourself. Are you practicing medicine these days?"

Gunther filled his mentor in on the work he'd done at Camp Forrest, giving the doctor credit for demonstrating the lifesaving technique he'd used on the soldier in the mess hall. He told how Colonel Foster assigned him to the dispensary and recommended him for the hospital at Fort Lincoln when they learned of his transfer.

Gunther left out the part about Ava's help and how she'd become someone dear to him. He'd been disappointed she hadn't come to the depot to see him off. The one brief letter he'd received hadn't given him hope she felt more than friendship, and he'd deliberated the wisdom of continuing the correspondence. Ultimately, he decided he would rather have Ava as a friend than not have her in his life at all. He'd sent another letter and now awaited her response.

"What barracks are you assigned to?" Gunther asked as they made their way outside.

The small medical building was located on the west end of the internment camp, just beyond the ten-foot cyclone fence surrounding the complex. Only authorized personnel were permitted in and out. Should someone attempt an escape, as Gunther had heard happened before he arrived, patrolmen positioned in the seven steel guard towers strategically located along the fence were armed and ready to stop the desperate inmate from getting far.

The sun had just disappeared below the treeless horizon when they were escorted through the gate. Although afternoons could get hot on the North Dakota prairie, evenings were comfortable and pleasant. All that would change once winter arrived, he reminded himself daily.

As it turned out, Dr. Sonnenberg was housed in the same redbrick building as Gunther but on a different level. The man sharing Gunther's small, dormitory-like room volunteered to switch with Dr. Sonnenberg when he heard of their long friendship, allowing Gunther to delight in deep conversations with his mentor once again.

If not for the ugly detail of being held prisoners of the American government, Gunther might have thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

· · ·

By September, Gunther and Dr. Sonnenberg had firmly reestablished their teacher-student relationship, with the older man giving wise instruction to Gunther as they worked side by side in the hospital. Medical procedures, thoughts on various medications, and all manner of lively scientific discussions helped lift the depression each of them had carried since their arrests. Although they continued to remain hopeful their internment would not last the duration of the war, having a friend one could trust was life-giving while they awaited freedom.

Two events, however, reminded everyone of their status as enemy aliens in America.

On a mid-September evening, Gunther and Dr. Sonnenberg were making rounds at the hospital when the roar of loud voices came from the enclosed camp.

"That does not sound good," Gunther said. He rushed to a window and looked out across the yard. A large group of internees—too many to count—made their way toward the main gate, shouting, and brandishing sticks and anything else they could use as a weapon. "It looks like a riot."

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 Nazi party 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. They are 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. Mutter was 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 my Mutter gave me when I came to America."

A slow smile lifted the corners of Dr. Sonnenberg's mouth. "Ever the student," he said with a chuckle. He laid aside the hateful note. "I do not believe I will be able to return to sleep. Shall we begin now?"