by Bette Greene
Inside the garage I strained my ears for sounds overhead. The creak of a chair? A footstep? But there was nothing. Then I remembered that the very last thing I had heard last night was the whistle of a train. He must have been on that train.
I stuck the sack between my teeth and started the climb up the stair braces. He has to be there. He wouldn’t leave without so much as a good-bye. “Anton—it’s me. Anton!”
Suddenly the door at the top of the landing swung open and a hand reached down to pull me up and in. “Don’t shout my name!” Without touching the shade he bent to look out the window. “Don’t you know better than that?”
“I’m sorry. I was afraid you’d gone.”
“Well, I’m still here.” Anton’s frown began to melt into a smile showing a perfect set of white teeth. “And I am happy to see you.” He smelled of soap and water, but his face showed the very beginning of a beard.
“I wanted to come back last night,” I apologized. “But it wasn’t safe. You knew I’d be back, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I think so,” he said, letting his eyes settle upon me. I turned my head away. I’m not much to look at.
As I ripped open the sack, spreading it flat against the desk like a tablecloth, I felt his eyes still watching me. “I’m sorry about not having a cloth, and I know I should’ve warmed the potatoes, but—”
“Please!” He lifted an open palm. “It looks good enough to eat.” Anton pulled out the desk chair for me. Then, motioning towards the chicken, he asked, “White meat or dark?”
“Oh, no, it’s all for you. I’m really not hungry.”
Gray eyes flecked with green looked up from the food. “Then we’ll wait until you are.”
I tried to calculate how long it had been since Anton had eaten. “I’ll have something if you want me to.”
Anton didn’t let a hungry stomach interfere with his hunger for talk. Sometimes maybe a minute or more would pass before a bite of chicken was eaten. And when he spoke his face moved, matching the humor or intensity of his story. He talked about his parents’ home three blocks from the University of Göttingen, a home of gables and gazebos where every Sunday afternoon at three, tea was served to professors, students, and long-time family friends.
Anton described his father, University of Göttingen history professor Erikson Karl Reiker, as being “a truly civilized man” for whom the war started back in the early thirties.
The president of the university had summoned him to his office. “Professor Reiker, these unfortunate statements, these jokes, that you are making about the new regime must cease! Did you actually tell your students that Chancellor Hitler sleeps with a Raggedy Ann doll?”
“No, Herr President, I did not. What I actually said was that I suspect Chancellor Hitler sleeps with a Raggedy Ann doll.”
The president would not be put off. “Listen to me well, my friend. I will not jeopardize this university so that you may demonstrate your wit. If one, just one more of these treasonous remarks comes back to me, then you will give me no choice but to inform the authorities. These are dangerous times and one cannot make such statements and survive.”
Anton took a swallow of coffee from the Mason jar. “Late that very night, something—I don’t know what—woke me. I followed the light downstairs to my father’s study, where I found him sitting, his head resting on his desk.
“He said that he was O.K. and nothing was wrong, but then he began speaking of his grandfather who had once been president of the university. Pointing to the books in mahogany cases that ran the breadth of the room, he said that some of these books were written because Grandfather believed that a president’s job was to encourage scholarship. But our current president, he said, would be as comfortable burning libraries as building them.”
For moments Anton just stared down at the bony remains of chicken. Then, abruptly, his forehead wrinkled along his hair line as he said, “It wasn’t long after that, in the early summer of 1933, when students and S.S. men stormed through the university burning books.”
“I wish people would have stood up to Hitler,” I said.
“Some people did, but not many. My father chose acquiescence and life rather than resistance and death. Not a very admirable choice, but a very human one.”
Anton went silent and I placed a red apple in his hand. “Tell me about your mother,” I said. “Do you have sisters and brothers? And, if you don’t mind telling me, how did you escape from the prison camp?”
He smiled. “You’re a funny one, Patty Bergen. I’ll answer your questions—then I’ll ask one of my own. Yes?”
I nodded Yes.
Anton leaned back in the canvas lawn chair.
“My mother’s minor virtues are limitless,” he said as though he was warming up to the subject. “She sings on key, calls flowers by their generic names, and looks like she was born knowing how to pour tea from a silver service. And of her major virtues there are at least two—her warmth and her great sense of fun. She has the special ability to find adventure on a trip to the greengrocer. But primarily there is her warmth.” He paused to brush away a smile. “I remember once, I must have been all of seven, running home from school, expecting her undivided attention. Instead the house was empty. There was a light on in the kitchen, pots of food simmering on back burners, and I knew she hadn’t gone far or for long. And yet there I stood, brimming over with the most inconsolable disappointment.”
Anton stopped for a moment, pressed his lips together before confiding, “It’s funny, but I might feel something of that today. Now to your question—sisters or brothers? One sister, Hannah, three years younger whom I never had time for.” He shook his head. “I’d like another chance.”
“You will have one!” I said, totally convinced. “Just as soon as the war is over you can go back to Göttingen, start again. Will you return to medical school?”
“How did you know that?”
“You told me. Remember? The first time we met.”
“I’m going to remember that you store information the way squirrels store nuts. Yes?”
“Only if I’m interested,” I said. “Well, are you going back?”
“I’m only concerned with now. And from now on I must be free.” Anton breathed deeply as though the air outside barbed wire was different somehow.
“But can’t you get hurt escaping?” I asked. “And wouldn’t you have been free sooner or later anyway? Wars don’t last forever.”
A crease, like an exclamation mark, sliced Anton’s forehead. “What do you know about sooner or later? Is a moment only a moment when you’re in pain? For twenty-seven months I’ve been mostly bored to death and occasionally scared to death.” Anton flung his hand out as though giving an emphatic good-bye to all of that. “Well, enough!”
Scared. Anton was a coward! “Our American soldiers aren’t scared, do you think?”
“I think it’s not in the best masculine tradition to admit it.”
“How—I mean, why do you?”
Anton winked. “Because it’s just another emotion.”
“Sometimes I cry.” I said, feeling exceptionally brave admitting it.
“And so do I.” Anton began laughing as though he was having a good time.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “I want you to stay safe.”
“I will. There’s no reason why the Americans should bother with one missing prisoner. An ordinary foot soldier.” He adjusted his gold ring, the surface of which had some sort of a crest. “Also, I’m lucky. Twice I’ve been so close to exploding bombs that only a miracle could have saved me. And so I’ve had a couple of miracles.”
He took a quick look out the hide-out’s front and back windows. “But suppose I am recaptured. What will the Americans do? Deposit me in the nearest POW camp where I’ll have to wait till the end of the war. But in the meantime this day, this month, this year belongs to me.”
Anton began carefully polishing his apple. “What was the last question?”
“I was wondering how you managed to escape?”
“The actual mechanics of the escape are not important,” he said. “The pertinent point is that I was able to create a—a kind of climate that permitted the escape. Specifically, my deception was believed because it was built on a foundation of truth. Hitler taught me that.”
I heard him say it. “Hitler taught you?”
Anton smiled. “I learned it by analyzing his techniques. Hitler’s first layer is an undeniable truth, such as: The German worker is poor. The second layer is divided equally between flattery and truth: The German worker deserves to be prosperous. The third layer is total fabrication: The Jews and the Communists have stolen what is rightfully yours.”
“Well, I can see how it helped him, but I don’t see how it worked for you.”
“Because I had a rock-bottom truth of my own,” he said, striking his chest with his index finger. “My excellent English. I let it be known that I had had an English governess. And this gave me the advantage of being considered wealthy. But I didn’t have a good workable plan that would capitalize on my believed riches until I saw that pin with the glass diamonds—the one you sold me.”
“Yes! I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why you wanted it. So gaudy and not at all like something you’d like.”
“I loved it!” protested Anton. “Because those glass diamonds were going to make me a free man. One of the guards was a simple fellow with financial problems. One day I told him my father would pay five thousand dollars to the person who could get me out of prison. The guard looked too surprised to answer. But eight days later he followed me into the latrine and asked, ‘What’s the deal?’ ‘Five perfect diamonds, each diamond having been appraised in excess of one thousand dollars, will be given to the person who drives me out beyond those gates,’ I told him. So he did, and I paid him with a dollar’s worth of glass jewelry.”
“I’m glad you made it,” I said, “but that guard—he could get into an awful lot of trouble.”
“I don’t feel guilty.” His hand rubbed across the slight indentation in his chin. “His concern was for reward; mine was for survival. But, on the other hand, I wouldn’t wish to implicate him.”
I nodded. “Now I’m ready to answer your question.”
His teeth pressed together, giving new strength to the line of his jaw. “I’m certain you appreciate the seriousness of what you have done, aiding an escaped prisoner of war. I was wondering why you were taking these risks on my behalf. Because of your German ancestry? Perhaps your father is secretly sympathetic to the Nazi cause?”
“That’s not true! My father’s parents came from Russia and my mother’s from Luxembourg.”
Anton looked alarmed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that Bergen is such a good German name.”
“It’s also a good Jewish name,” I said, pleased by the clean symmetry of my response.
His mouth came open. “Jewish?” An index finger pointed toward me. “You’re Jewish?”
I thought he knew. I guess I thought everybody knew. Does he think I tricked him? My wonderful Anton was going to change to mean. As I nodded Yes, my breathing came to a halt while my eyes clamped shut.
Suddenly, strong baritone laughter flooded the room. Both eyes popped open and I saw him standing there, shaking his head from side to side.
“It’s truly extraordinary,” he said. “Who would believe it? ‘Jewish girl risks all for German soldier.’ Tell me, Patty Bergen—” his voice became soft, but with a trace of hoarseness—“why are you doing this for me?”
It wasn’t complicated. Why didn’t he know? There was really only one word for it. A simple little word that in itself is reason enough.
“The reason I’m doing this for you,” I started off, “is only that I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
Anton turned his face from me and nodded as though he understood. Outside, a blue-gray cloud cruised like a pirate ship between sun and earth, sending the room from sunshine into shadows.
9. Interrogation
ON MAIN STREET, something was different—too many people hanging around for an ordinary weekday better than an hour before noontime. And it wasn’t the usual little groups of farmers slow-talking about too many bugs and too little rain. There were quick movements of their hands and high excitement in their voices. “And I’ll tell you this—them people would sooner espionage you than look at you.”
There were also late-model cars licensed “Arkansas—Land of Opportunity,” but with a combination of letters and numbers that marked them as having come from places other than here.
Everywhere this strong current of excitement and pleasure, only slightly disguised, that at long last something pretty big had happened right here in Jenkinsville.
I stood in front of our store, watching the editor of the Gazette holding informal court for six of Jenkinsville’s leading citizens. Mr. Blakey looked up as a shiny black sedan passed slowly down Main Street. He studied the two business-suited occupants before reporting, “FBI agents from the Little Rock bureau. Those fellers gonna find out this was no ordinary escape. No, sir!”
“Then you figger the POW was fixin’ to join up with them eight saboteurs?” asked Mr. Jackson.
“I didn’t say that,” answered Mr. Blakey. “Still, something’s mighty fishy. Harold himself told me that the Nazi was seen sitting on his bunk at five o’clock; at five fifteen he was reported missing; and at five seventeen those Dobermans couldn’t find a scent worth picking up.”
“What about the train, the five fifteen to Memphis?” asked Mr. Henkins.
Mr. Blakey nodded. “Gone through with a fine tooth. Why, that train was held up for better’n thirty minutes in Ebow.” He shook his head. “No, sir, I’m telling you this was no ordinary escape.”
Mr. Jackson said, “Quent, why don’t you quit saying what it ain’t and tell us what you think it is.”
Mr. Blakey swallowed down some excess saliva. “If you want my opinion, I will say this—Reiker had to have help. All right, if he had help where did he get it from?” Mr. Blakey was like a champion fighter readying his knockout punch. “Not from inside the camp, I’ll wager, ’cause them guards are good clean Americans.”
The crescent of men tightened around Blakey. “If you fellers will recall,” he continued, “a couple of weeks ago there was this troop train that derailed in California. Before that an Army Air Corps plane up and explodes over New Jersey. And yesterday, the very same day that Reiker escapes, four Nazi saboteurs are landed on the Florida coast while four more land on Long Island. And you want to know what I think? I’m gonna spell it out for you. I sincerely believe that there’s a Nazi underground working in this country, and for all anybody knows, it could be working right here among us.”
Inside the store I saw that the only activity was over by the hardware. Three farmers were lined up in front of a counter.
My father called for Chester. The black man in his gray porter’s jacket came running from the back storeroom. “Yes, sir, Mr. Harry?”
“Chester, go bring up all the twelve-gauge shotgun shells we’ve got.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Harry.”
Two men wearing striped ties and business suits came in the door and headed directly towards my father. I followed them.
“Mr. Bergen?” asked the older of the men as he flipped open a small leather case.
“Yes, sir, I’m Harry Bergen.” My father came from behind the counter to shake hands with both men. “What can I do for the FBI today?”
“I’m John Pierce. This is my partner, Phil McFee. We’re here investigating the escape of the prisoner from the POW camp.” Pierce handed my father a black-and-white glossy photograph. “Do you have any recollections of this man?”
“Once,” said my father, “some POWs were brought in here to buy things, but I didn’t pay much attention to what those rats looked like.”
Pierce pointed to the photograph. “Look carefully, Mr. Bergen. Reiker may
have been acting as interpreter for the others.”
“Oh, you know, there was one.” My father nodded his head up and down. “He was a kinda smart aleck, that one. Tried to joke with me, but I told him right off I wasn’t interested in making jokes with Germans.”
Pierce struck the picture with his index finger. “Is that the man who tried to joke with you?”
“Well, he might be the one. I’ll tell you fellows the truth, I didn’t pay much attention to what he looked like. There was one thing I remember. Don’t know if it’ll help you boys much.”
“What?” asked Pierce.
“He talked in a funny way, pretending to be a Harvard boy instead of a convict.”
“And there’s nothing else?”
“No, sir. I sure wish I could be more helpful to you and Mr. Hoover ’cause he’s one of the two greatest living Americans. The other one’s General MacArthur.”
McFee, who looked as though he hadn’t gotten comfortably settled into his twenties yet, allowed his chest to swell to enormous proportions. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your saying that.”
Pierce crossed the store to show the picture to my mother and Gussie Fields, who shook their heads in unison. Then Sister Parker was asked to take a look. She said No and was about to return the photo when she gave a second, more thoughtful appraisal. “You know, he looks a little something like the man Mr. Bergen’s girl waited on.” Sister Parker turned to find me only a step behind. She held Anton’s picture aloft. “Patty, isn’t this that German you were talking and laughing with?”
The eyes of the FBI were upon me. I asked, “Is it all right if I look?”
The older agent took the picture from Sister Parker’s hand and gave it to me. As a precaution against the shakes, I let my hand rest against the top of the counter. “Well, this might be the same prisoner I waited on. It looks like it could be him only I don’t remember his hair being so dark.”
“Why didn’t you say something before now?” asked McFee. “You’ve been following us since we entered the store.”
“I have a right to be in this store if I want to. It’s my father’s store.”