Chapter Six Gunther

SIX : GUNTHER

ENEMY ALIEN DETENTION FACILITY, ELLIS ISLAND, NEW YORK

JANUARY 1942

Gunther had waited four weeks for this day to arrive.

From the moment he was detained, he knew a terrible mistake had been made. But like the hundreds of other men on Ellis Island, he was forced to wait his turn to appear at a formal hearing, certain everything would be made right if he could simply tell his story.

That day was finally here.

At early morning roll call he was ordered to pack his belongings and report to the building where the hearings were held. With tangible relief, he'd hurried to comply.

Now he stood in a long line of detainees, waiting outside a three-story redbrick-and-limestone building. Despite bright sunshine in the clear sky, a bitter January wind came off the dark water of the harbor, sending salty spray into the air as waves splashed over the seawall of the ferry slip. Men hunched into their coats, not saying much to the person nearest them. Like Gunther, they no doubt silently rehearsed the vital information each hoped to convey to the people who would ultimately decide their future.

A ship's horn sounded somewhere in the bay, making Gunther wonder if the detention camp was its destination.

Agent Malone was right. The United States declared war on Germany two days after Gunther's arrest, and detainees had arrived at Ellis Island every day since. Men like him, born in Germany, as well as those from Italy, were rounded up and slapped with the label enemy alien . Men who'd come to America with the hope of making a life here. Of starting over for some. He wasn't foolish enough to believe every immigrant came with honorable intentions, but he'd met enough to know the majority simply wanted to live in peace.

Daily he'd watched men called away to attend hearings. None ever came back, leading to speculation as to their fates. Were they released? Shipped back to Germany? Or, according to the latest rumor to sweep the island, they were sent to concentration camps, like those in Germany, in retaliation for what the Nazis were doing to Jews. Although Gunther had not become overly friendly with anyone, preferring to keep to himself, Reinhard, the man who slept on the bunk below Gunther, often shared the day's gossip.

"Those men over there," he'd whispered just last night, motioning to a group of five at the far end of the large room that served as a dormitory. "They are Nazi sympathizers. I heard one say ‘heil, Hitler' and the others raised their hands. Fools, every one of them. We're doomed if the Americans think we're all that stupid."

Although there was uncertainty about what would happen today, Gunther prayed things would go well. He had done nothing wrong and had followed the rules since coming to America. No one could say otherwise. Once the men at the hearing understood this, they would see their error and release him. He might even be back in his tiny flat in Queens by nightfall. With a chuckle, he vowed never to complain about his humble home again.

The ship's horn sounded again, but it was farther away now, its cargo not bound for the island.

Sometime after he'd been arrested, Gunther learned that Japanese detainees were also housed there, although they were held in a different building, supposedly for their own safety. Rumor had it most of them were Japanese Americans, born in the United States, causing some of the men in Gunther's group to lose all hope of being released.

"If the government is willing to arrest their own citizens, why would they let us go free?" Reinhard bemoaned. He'd come to America with his family after the Great War, but out of respect to his grandfather, he had never applied for citizenship. Now it seemed not even legal residency would have saved him from being detained.

The line moved at a snail's pace but sometime before noon Gunther was escorted into a sterile room where three men sat behind a long table, cluttered with stacks of files. He was told to sit in the lone straight-backed chair facing them. When asked if he would like an interpreter, he declined.

The man in the center perused a sheet of paper while the other two men looked everywhere but at Gunther. Unease settled on him, but he forced himself to keep his eyes forward. Finally the man laid the paper aside and met Gunther's nervous gaze.

"State your name and where you were born, please."

Gunther swallowed. "Gunther Schneider. I was born in Krefeld, Germany."

A woman tucked in a corner of the room sat at a small table with a typewriter, ostensibly to keep record of what was said. The machine tap-tap-tapped then grew silent as she waited.

"You should know," the man said, followed by more tap-tap-tapping, "this hearing is being conducted not as a matter of any rights you believe you are entitled to, but merely in order to permit you to present information on your own behalf."

Gunther nodded. "I understand."

Once again, he was asked his reason for coming to America, his date of arrival, and his occupation. He answered each question with honesty, but when it came to providing information about his family, Gunther broke out in a sweat.

"Tell us about your brother, Rolf."

Because Gunther knew next to nothing about his brother's exploits over the past four and a half years, he stuck to the facts of their childhood together, explaining the differences between himself and Rolf. They'd never been close, and he needed these men to understand that. "Rolf did not approve of my coming to America."

"Why is that?"

"He thought I should join the army as any proud German would do."

"Are you not a proud German?"

The question was one Gunther had considered many times over the years he'd been in America. With Germany's invasion of Poland, France, and other vulnerable countries, as well as the horrific stories coming out of Europe of what the Nazis were doing to Jews, pride was no longer something Gunther felt for his homeland.

"Germany is a beautiful place, filled with many good people, but I do not condone what the Nazis and Hitler are doing. That is not the Germany I knew."

The man took a folded paper from a file. Gunther recognized it as one of the letters his mother sent him.

"We've translated the letters supposedly written by your mother," he said, his tone casting doubt on the true authorship, "and there is evidence some of the information is written in code."

Gunther's jaw dropped. "That is preposterous. My mother is a simple woman, a teacher and homemaker until my father died. She went to work at a bakery in Krefeld that was owned by a Jewish family, but when the Nazis forbid Jews to own businesses, she refused to work for the man who took it over. She is a good, Christian woman and does not support the views of the current leadership."

"Maybe she didn't write the letters," said the man on the left, his New Jersey roots as evident in each word as Gunther's German roots were in his own. "Maybe they came from your brother. And maybe you've been writing back to him, giving him all sorts of information about America." His gaze narrowed on Gunther. "Information about New York harbor."

The last sentence, clearly spoken with intent, puzzled Gunther. He couldn't fathom its meaning. What did New York harbor have to do with anything?

A flash of memory from the day he was arrested brought him up straight. He recalled Agent Malone asking why he'd taken an apartment so close to the river.

Did they suspect he was a spy?

The thought sent a cold chill coursing through Gunther.

"I assure you the letters are from my mother and contain nothing but news from home. I have had no communication with my brother since leaving Germany." He thought of Mutter 's last correspondence and her worry over Rolf. "My mother fears for him and what he might be involved in, although I do not believe she knows any particulars of what he is doing in Berlin."

The man on the end didn't appear convinced. "Do you know what a U-boat is, Mr. Schneider?"

The chill turned to ice.

German submarines were used in the Great War and were once again wreaking havoc in the deep waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Many merchant vessels and British warships had been sunk by U-boat torpedoes in the past two years.

"I do." There was no sense lying.

"So you understand our concern when a German citizen with known connections to the Nazi party lives so close to our waterways." He paused. "How often do you go down to Battery Park? Do you ever take a camera with you?"

Any shred of hope Gunther had maintained of being released today vanished as reality sank in. He wasn't simply a foreigner, caught up in a situation beyond his control. He was the brother of a Nazi and a suspected spy.

Before Gunther could answer, the man smirked. "I ask because we have a report from someone who seems to think you spend far more time at the park than a German citizen should. It's also been reported that you've taken numerous photographs of the harbor and Lady Liberty, as well as the shipping docks."

Gunther stared at the man, stunned. "Who would say such things? I do not even own a camera." His mind raced with panic. What did Americans do with suspected German spies? He most assuredly did not want to find out. "You can have no proof of such a false claim. The men who came to my apartment to arrest me would have found a camera if I owned one. Pictures as well."

The man in the center chuckled, as though Gunther had told a joke. "New York's a big city, Mr. Schneider. You could have it hidden anywhere."

The suggestion was ludicrous. Gunther shook his head, trying to make sense of what was happening. "I do not understand any of this. Why anyone would say these things. No one knows I sometimes go to—"

Mrs. Kozlowski's angry face suddenly surfaced in his mind.

The day Gunther was arrested, she'd stood in her doorway, spit on him, and said something he didn't understand at the time. The action was shocking, but he'd had more pressing things to worry about. He'd completely forgotten the incident. Until now. Her words came rushing back.

Brudny Nazista.

Although the meaning of the first word eluded him, the second was obvious.

The woman believed he was a Nazi.

Their brief encounters filtered through his mind. Although her broken English was difficult to understand, he always offered a friendly greeting when he passed her in the hallway. Had he mentioned his visits to Battery Park during one of their conversations? It was possible.

"It was Mrs. Kozlowski, wasn't it?" He glanced between the three men facing him. "She is the one who gave you these false reports."

"Why would she do that if it wasn't true?" asked Mr. New Jersey, confirming Gunther's suspicions.

Without warning, guilt—not his own but that of his countrymen—bore down on Gunther. He closed his eyes to the shame that came with his heritage.

"Because she is Polish, and I am German."

The simple statement held a repulsive truth. Great injustices had been suffered by the people of Poland at the hands of Germany. It didn't matter that the acts were carried out by those under the leadership of Hitler, or that German citizens like he and his mother abhorred what was happening. All people like Mrs. Kozlowski knew was that tens of thousands of Poles were killed, injured, or displaced when Germany and Russia invaded their country in 1939. The horror of the brutal murder of so many innocent people shocked the world. Gunther didn't know Mrs. Kozlowski's story—was she one of the many refugees who'd escaped, and did she still have family there?—but he was certain of one thing.

He couldn't blame her for what she'd done.

"Are you calling the old woman a liar?"

Gunther met the man's hard gaze. If he wanted to survive this, he was going to have to fight for his life just as surely as a soldier on a battlefield. "I'm saying she is incorrect. Since I arrived in America, all my time has gone to furthering my education in the medical field. If you contact my professor, Dr. Sonnenberg, he will confirm this. He will tell you of my hope to become an American citizen, like himself. We've spoken of it many times."

The men exchanged whispers before the man in the center dug through a stack of folders and pulled one out. Upon opening it, the other two men leaned in, and more whispers ensued. Finally the lead questioner met Gunther's anxious gaze.

"Dr. Heinrich Sonnenberg?"

"Yes," Gunther said, the tiniest ray of light entering his dark world. If anyone could help him, it would be his mentor. Despite his German beginnings, the older man had taught at Columbia's medical school since 1927 and was over the operating theater at the hospital. It was there Gunther had planned to do his internship next semester. "Dr. Sonnenberg has known me since I arrived in America."

The man's gaze narrowed on Gunther. "I find it interesting that you would willingly connect yourself to Dr. Sonnenberg."

His ominous tone gave Gunther pause. "He is a man of integrity. I am honored that he has taken an interest in helping me achieve my dream of becoming a doctor."

The man continued his study of Gunther. After a time, he leaned his elbows on the table, tenting his fingers. "I'm going to tell you a story, Mr. Schneider. One that, I believe, you are familiar with. However, the ending may surprise you."

Gunther's heart thudded. He didn't know what the man was up to but suffice it to say it didn't sound good.

"Dr. Heinrich Sonnenberg came to our beautiful country at the end of the Great War. He quickly achieved success as a doctor after he set up his practice in a neighborhood swarming with German aliens. His practice grew considerably over the years, and he hobnobbed with wealthy and important German men, including the ambassador to Germany when the man was in New York. Soon he was teaching at Columbia and working at the hospital."

Gunther licked his dry lips. "He has been blessed."

The man smirked. " Blessed isn't the word I'd choose. Positioned is more fitting." At Gunther's look of puzzlement, he continued. "Who would ever suspect a man in such a prominent position of espionage?"

The room tilted with the loaded word.

Gunther stared, open-mouthed, trying to comprehend the absurd insinuation. "That is even more preposterous than your belief that I am a spy. Dr. Sonnenberg loves America. There is no one more loyal to the idea of liberty and freedom than he. No, I will not believe such lies."

"Would you like to see some of the evidence we have against him?"

"Yes," Gunther boldly declared. "I know there isn't any, just as there is none against me."

The man on the end, who'd been quiet through the proceedings, approached Gunther, papers in hand.

"This is a list of known German spies living in the United States who frequented Dr. Sonnenberg's office."

Gunther took the list. He recognized a half dozen names of men he'd met at dinner parties at the doctor's home. His mind spun, searching for an explanation. "This does not prove anything. Dr. Sonnenberg saw many patients. Even if you are correct that these men are German spies, their association with Dr. Sonnenberg does not mean he is one of them."

"Then there's this."

The man handed a telegram to Gunther, written in German, dated December8, 1941. Dr. Sonnenberg's name and home address were at the top.

Destroy all files. Abort assignment. No further contact. Stop.

It wasn't signed.

While the brief missive could suggest involvement in something illicit, Gunther refused to believe his advisor was a spy. "This could simply be about private medical records. Dr. Sonnenberg is a good man. He's Jewish. He would not be involved in anything that helped the Nazis."

"You don't find it strange that the good doctor received a telegram the day after Japan attacked the United States and is told to get rid of files?" asked the man in the center.

Gunther had to admit the timing was suspicious. "Who is it from?"

"We can't divulge that information." He glanced at his colleagues, who nodded to his silent question. When he faced Gunther again, he looked grim. "This hearing is over, Mr. Schneider. It is our belief that you should continue to be held as a potentially dangerous enemy alien. You will remain in the custody of the Department of Justice and be transferred to Camp Forrest in Tennessee."

He slapped the file closed, banged it with a rubber stamp, and handed it to the man on the end who added it to a tall stack of similar files.

Stunned by the verdict, Gunther was about to protest when the guard, who'd stood near the door throughout the proceedings, came forward. He held a set of handcuffs.

"Stand up and hold out your hands."

Gunther stared at him.

This couldn't be happening. What right did they have to further detain him? To send him to a different state? What would happen to his apartment and his belongings? His schoolbooks?

He shot a look at the men at the table but none returned his gaze and busied themselves with more files. More hearings where more men would be detained simply because they'd been born in Germany.

"You cannot do this!" His voice echoed in the stark room. No one, not even the woman at the typewriter, glanced his way. "I am innocent."

The guard yanked him up by the arm. "Quiet down, mister." He snapped the handcuffs in place and motioned to Gunther's small suitcase of belongings. "Get your things and follow me." He moved toward the door.

Desperation kept Gunther rooted to the floor. "I am not a spy," he said, speaking more calmly yet with the urgency of a drowning man. The agent in the center finally looked up, indifference on his face. "I came to America to be free from a dangerous government I could not trust. I came with dreams, like millions of immigrants before me—maybe your own ancestors—with the hope of one day calling this country my own. But now I see my trust in America was misplaced. What you are doing to me today, to the others, is shameful."

The man's expression hardened. "Mr. Schneider, your country started the war. Your countrymen are killing innocent people by the thousands, with no end in sight. I think you and I have a different definition of what shameful means."

He motioned for the guard, then went back to his files, dismissing Gunther with the action.

"Let's go," the guard said.

Gunther's shoulders sagged in defeat. The vision of freedom he'd felt certain of only an hour ago evaporated as he bent to retrieve his suitcase and followed the military man out a door. Cold air stung his face, and Gunther realized his cheeks were damp with tears.

A boat waited in the ferry slip. Gunther boarded and found it full of men like him—handcuffed, cold, with despair etched in the crevices of their faces. Crushing silence permeated the crowded space, speaking louder than words ever could.

When the boat lurched forward sometime later and moved into the harbor, Gunther presented his back to Lady Liberty. Never again would he gaze upon her and dream of becoming one of her sons. On land, the men were transferred to paddy wagons that took them to the train station. Gunther was herded onto a southbound train headed for Tennessee, uncertain of what awaited him there. Was he going to a prison camp? Or were the fears of his fellow prisoners correct and a concentration camp awaited them?

The young man next to him, perhaps a year or two Gunther's junior, cried softly into his wool scarf, muttering over and over that he wanted to go home. It was no doubt the sentiment felt by each handcuffed man, forced onto a train that would take them far from loved ones, friends, jobs, dreams.

How long would internment last? Weeks? Months? Years?

As the train pulled from the depot, a devastating truth sucked the air from Gunther's lungs and nearly overwhelmed him.

He no longer had a home.

Not in Germany.

Not in America.

Not anywhere.