Chapter Two Gunther

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 after a 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 Hofbr?uhaus, 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 Hofbr?uhaus 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.

"Are you Gunther Schneider?" a suit-clad man asked.

"Ja, ich bin Gunther Schneider," he answered, nervousness causing him to slip into German. When the man scowled, he repeated it in English. "I am Gunther Schneider. Is something wrong?"

The man's frown remained. "I'm Special Agent Malone, with the FBI. My colleague, Brock. We have some questions for you."

Gunther's heart pounded hard, and he feared they would hear it and assume he was guilty. Of what, he didn't know. "Please, come in."

Down the hall, a door clicked shut as the men entered the apartment. One of his neighbors must have heard the banging. Most of the residents in the tenement were like him—foreigners hoping to improve their lot in life in America, the land of opportunity.

The room seemed to shrink with four grown men standing nearly shoulder to shoulder. After Gunther handed his identification card to Agent Malone, the man told him to sit on the edge of the bed. The agent studied the card, then took a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket while the other agent and the police officer walked around, rummaging through Gunther's schoolbooks and papers spread over the small table and floor.

"When did you arrive in the United States?" Malone asked, his attention focused on Gunther.

That information was on his ID card, but Gunther didn't want to appear difficult by stating the obvious. "I came in 1937. In May, aboard the SS New York . I—"

"Where were you born?"

Unease grew in Gunther's gut. "Krefeld, Germany."

"What is your business in the US?" The other men stopped their prowling and waited for Gunther's answer.

"I am a student at Columbia medical school."

The suit-clad men exchanged a glance before the questioning continued.

"Why did you take an apartment so close to the East River?"

This inquiry stumped Gunther. "It... it was the only one I could afford." He didn't confess the river reminded him of the Rhine, where he'd spent time as a boy with his father.

"You speak English surprisingly well for a Kr—" The man paused, smirked, and continued with, "for a person born in Germany. Where did you learn English?"

Gunther guessed the man was about to use a derogatory term for people of German descent. He'd heard them all, especially over the last months as Germany continued to raise its iron fist across Europe.

"I was tutored in English and French as a boy. Mutter was a teacher. Both of my parents believed education was important."

"What was your mother's maiden name? Is she loyal to Germany?"

Alarm washed through Gunther. Would answering these questions put Mutter in danger? She'd lost so much already. He didn't want to bring more trouble to her.

"What does my mother have to do with this? Why are you asking all these questions? I came to this country to study medicine, and I have lived as a law-abiding citizen since my arrival."

"Citizen?" Agent Malone shook his head. "No, Mr. Schneider. You are not a citizen of this country. You are an enemy alien. Do you know what that means?"

When Gunther didn't answer, Malone said, "You recall registering last year in compliance with Congress's Alien Registration Act?" He didn't wait for Gunther to respond. "Now that we are at war, we can't have potentially dangerous people roaming free. Therefore, the President and the Justice Department feel it is vital to national safety to remove any threat to our citizens ."

His brutally candid explanation stunned Gunther. "I am a student, not a dangerous criminal. Besides, the United States is not at war with Germany."

Malone scoffed. "Surely you're not so naive. But because I'm a generous sort of fellow," he grinned, causing the other men to chuckle, "I'll let you in on a secret. We will declare war on Germany any day now."

Raw fear exploded in Gunther. "Are you arresting me?"

The man ignored the question and asked one of his own. "What is your brother's name?"

Terrible awareness, fast and swift, surged through Gunther. "Is that what this is about? You think I'm like my brother? That is the furthest thing from the truth. My mother sent me to America to get away from my brother and the things he was becoming involved in. She wanted to protect me."

"What sort of things is he involved in?"

Gunther turned away.

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, but Mutter would not allow it. She wanted me to become a doctor, like her father, not a soldier."

"Like your father."

Gunther had never been ashamed of Vater 's service in the military 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 infamous Schutzstaffel , 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. Mutter only 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 my Gott -fearing Mutter . 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 pleasantries with 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.

A guard standing near Gunther shouted back. "Ellis Island. If any of you try to escape, you'll drown in the bay."

The vessel lurched forward and pulled away from the dock. Any shred of hope Gunther had held on to since his arrest melted away as he looked across the dark water to the small patch of land where he'd taken his first steps onto American soil. Ellis Island was the very place where his dreams of becoming a doctor and living life in peace, far away from the Nazi regime, had taken root. As soon as he'd saved up enough money, he'd planned to bring his mother here, too. Now he was a prisoner of the country he'd called home for over three years. An enemy to the people he'd hoped to provide medical care for someday.

Lady Liberty, with her arm raised in victory, stood in the distance as they crossed the bay. She was a symbol of freedom to every immigrant who arrived in New York from faraway lands, and Gunther remembered seeing her for the first time when he arrived from Germany. Her beauty and everything she represented brought tears of gratitude to his eyes that day. He often visited Battery Park and sat on a bench looking out to her, a reminder that one day soon he would be one of her sons.

But the Lady no longer welcomed Gunther and the men aboard this ship. She'd turned her back and declared them adversaries in an evil war Gunther wanted no part of. A war he'd tried to escape by coming to the land of the free.

The ship pulled up alongside the dock, and a gangplank was lowered. The stately brick buildings on the island loomed above them, appearing more like a prison than a place where he'd heard the Declaration of Independence read in multiple languages when he last stood there.

Something died inside Gunther when he stepped off the boat.

Whether it was his hopes and dreams of a happy life in America, or something that reached far deeper inside him, he knew, beyond any doubt, whatever it was could never be brought back to life again.