Helen was the only person in the large hall accompanied by a guard. Several people gave her sidelong glances as they passed, and one little boy stopped and stared frankly at her, moving on only after a woman, presumably his mother, had hissed sich beeilen at him. In spite of everything, Helen smiled at that. How many times in her childhood had Nanny hurried her along with the very same command? Helen ignored the remainder of the curious looks by examining a WPA mural about the role of immigrants in industrial America. From her seat, she could see coal miners, a pigtailed Chinese man working on the railroad, and a young family consisting of a man shouldering a large bag and a woman wearing a kerchief and carrying a baby in a sling.
At last, the two officers turned towards Helen. Captain Fitzpatrick folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the edge of the table, observing Helen with the kind of expectant interest people give to dozing zoo animals. Major Levy, hands clasped behind his back, smiled at Helen. He had a beautiful smile, but seeing it didn’t make Helen feel any safer.
“Miss Schneider,” the major said, “you brought some information to Captain Fitzpatrick yesterday that holds some interest for us.”
Helen wondered who “us” was. The Army, she supposed. But Ellis Island was run by the Immigration and Naturalization Service. Why hadn’t they taken her to an Army facility? Why had they taken her anywhere at all?
“What we need to know now,” the smiling major continued, “is who gave you that information. Also, when and where he gave it to you, and how.”
“How?”
“Was it a face-to-face meeting? A phone call? Perhaps an encrypted letter …”
Helen looked past Major Levy to Captain Fitzpatrick. Hadn’t he told him?
“It was a vision,” Helen said, returning her gaze to her inquisitor.
His smile slipped a little. It occurred to Helen that it was more like a tic or a scar than a real smile. There was something involuntary about it. At the same time, it was vaguely predacious, like bait.
“Come, come, Miss Schneider, you don’t expect us to believe that, do you?”
“It’s the truth.”
The smile, or whatever it really was, vanished. The major, with the air of having to do something he wished he didn’t, went to the table and opened a drawer. He drew out a sheaf of oversized papers. As soon as he’d turned around again, Helen saw what they were. Her father’s maps. She couldn’t imagine how they’d gotten to this room, but their presence frightened her.
“I see you’re familiar with these,” Major Levy said. “Why don’t you tell us about them?”
“They’re maps,” Helen said, embarrassed at sounding stupid, but unable to come up with anything better. “About the war.”
The major nodded encouragingly.
“Lots of people keep maps,” Helen added, rallying a bit.
Major Levy selected one map and handed the others to Captain Fitzpatrick, who set them on the table.
“Very few people,” Levy said, “keep maps like this.” He held it up. “In fact, I’d venture to say that no one whose allegiance is in the right place would have any occasion to create such a map.”
It was a map of the United States. It was incomplete, but Walter had entered a good number of symbols and names, especially along the Eastern seaboard, and he’d worked out a careful key, pasted into one corner. Red squares for military training camps, blue squares for embarkation points, green squares for defense plants, green circles for airfields, blue circles for detention camps, red circles for relocation centers. Helen saw a blue circle in the Hudson off lower Manhattan and realized it must be Ellis Island.
“That map was my idea,” she blurted.
“Was it now?” A bit of smile slunk back. “And who told you to make it?”
“No one.”
“Who were you going to give it to once it was done?”
“No one.”
“One of your father’s German friends?”
“No.”
“One of your grandmother’s connections, then.”
“No, no. The maps aren’t for anyone. It’s just a hobby. You’re making it sound like—”
“Like a conspiracy?” Levy carefully rolled up the map.
“Your mother volunteers in a veterans’ hospital, doesn’t she?” he said. “I imagine a sympathetic, motherly woman could pick up some useful tidbits of information from homesick soldiers without them even realizing what they’re saying. Quite the family operation you’ve got going, Fräulein Schneider. Nicht?”
“Why are you saying all this?” Helen burst out. “My family has never done anything wrong.”
“Very commendable.”
The major handed the rolled-up United States map to Captain Fitzpatrick without turning around. He kept his eyes fixed on Helen.
“Would you have any objection, Miss Schneider, to signing an unqualified Pledge of Allegiance to the United States of America?”
Helen wondered if this were some kind of trick. She no longer trusted anything this man might say. He could turn ordinary statements into attacks. But she felt it would be a serious mistake to refuse to sign a pledge of allegiance.
“No, of course not,” she answered. “No objections at all.”
“That’s fine,” Levy said. “We’ll get the captain here to take care of that later.”
He walked thoughtfully up and down the room a few times and looked once at his watch.
“While we’re on the subject of your family, we have a few more questions. Purely routine.”
He lifted his arm, and following his cue, Captain Fitzpatrick picked up a pen and a clipboard from the table.
“Do you have any relatives serving in the Armed Forces of the United States?” he began.
“I have … that is, I had …” Helen stammered, unwilling to bring the tender fact of her and Billy into this harsh room. She touched her thumb to the back of the ring Billy had given her. A delicate band of diamond and emerald chips, it had once been his great-grandmother’s. Helen had moved it to her right hand on the day of his funeral. “My fiancé was in the Army Air Force.”
“That would be William Mackey?”
“Yes, but how did you—?”
“You kept his letters.”
“Well, of course I did, but—”
“They were among the materials the FBI confiscated from your residence yesterday.”
A flash of nausea assailed Helen.
“Those letters are mine,” she said fiercely. “I want them back.”
The captain was unmoved. “Everything not pertinent to our inquiry will be returned to you in good time,” he said.
“Do you have them here?” she demanded.
Fitzpatrick scowled at her. “I strongly suggest, Miss Schneider, that you calm down and let us get on with the interview.”
Helen glared at him. He returned her stare with one of his own, icy and implacable and clearly meant to intimidate her. It was working. Fear and awful helplessness were rolling back in. Retreat was her only option. But she was determined to retreat with dignity. She nodded assent to the captain, but she didn’t lower her challenging gaze. In the periphery of her vision, she saw Major Levy bend to the table and write something down.
“Do you have any relatives serving in the German Army?” Captain Fitzpatrick resumed in a wooden tone.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said, trying to keep meekness out of her voice. “We might. I don’t exchange letters with anyone, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Have you at any time been a resident or visitor in Germany?”
“No.”
“Do you speak German?”
“No.”
“Did you ever hear anyone in your family speak German?”
“My grandmother.”
“Did you ever hear her, or anyone else in your family, or any friends of your family, praise Hitler?”
“Never,” Helen said, quickly deciding not to mention Uncle Franz’s brother Erich. He wasn’
t a close relation. He’d never even been to the Schneider home. Anyway, she honestly didn’t know whether Erich had ever praised Hitler.
“Has your grandmother adhered to the regulations for enemy aliens regarding curfews and restricted zones, and the prohibitions against plane travel and the ownership of photographic equipment?”
Helen nodded.
“Please answer aloud,” Major Levy instructed her.
“Yes, she’s obeyed the rules,” Helen said.
“Will you, for the duration of the war,” the captain asked, “avoid any typically German clubs, associations, and organizations?”
“I guess so.”
The captain glanced up from his clipboard, where he’d been reading out the questions and recording her replies.
“You guess so?”
“Well, I’m not sure what that might include.”
“We can supply a list,” Major Levy put in, brushing away the digression.
“Your father, I believe, is a member of the NordAmerikanischer Sängerbund, a national federation,” Captain Fitzpatrick said.
“A federation of men’s singing societies!” Helen said. She almost could have laughed at the absurdity of them thinking the Sängerbund might be in any way threatening. Sängerbund members were like any other Americans. They bought Victory bonds, they had sons and grandsons in the military and wives and daughters in the Red Cross.
“And your grandmother pays dues to a local organization, the Krankenkrasse,” Fitzpatrick pressed on, unfazed by Helen’s disdain.
“The Krankenkrasse is a sick and death benefits society,” Helen said, feeling worn out. “I’d guess every old-time German in Bergen County is probably in it.”
Fitzpatrick returned his attention to his clipboard.
“Are you willing,” he said, “to give information to the proper authorities regarding any subversive activity you might note, or which you might be informed about directly or indirectly?”
Helen hesitated. As with the loyalty pledge, this appeared on the surface an easy thing to agree to, but shadowy distinctions seemed to be hiding below the easy surface, like the slimy, jagged branches of sunken logs that sometimes snagged boats and fishing lines on Hunter River.
“Do you have a list for that?” she asked, genuinely hopeful.
Major Levy’s face darkened.
“This isn’t a game, Miss Schneider,” he said. “There are already enough questionable activities and ties associated with your family for us to deem the lot of you potentially dangerous to the public peace and safety of the United States, and intern you all for the duration.”
“That’s crazy! This all started because I came to Captain Fitzpatrick with some information I thought he ought to have.”
“A correction, Miss Schneider,” said Captain Fitzpatrick. “This all started because you demonstrated that you knew things that you shouldn’t have known.”
“Things I shouldn’t have known?”
“How and where certain soldiers died. When a certain ship sank.”
“But I told you—”
“Yes, we know: the spirits.”
Now it was Captain Fitzpatrick’s turn to go to the drawer in the table and pull something out. This time it was a thick sheaf of papers tied with a black ribbon. The automatic writings from Helen’s boys. The instant she saw them, she put out her hand for them. Major Levy stepped forward. Fitzpatrick gave the papers to him.
“Tell us about these,” he said in a suspiciously gentle voice.
Helen lowered her hand.
“Haven’t you read them?” she said.
“Yes, we have. The captain thinks they’re stories you pieced together out of newspaper accounts and flights of fancy, to use in your seances with gullible parents and wives of servicemen.”
“What do you think?” Helen knew Levy outranked Fitzpatrick. She thought he also might have a more open mind, if only because he seemed honestly curious.
“I think that whether you made them up or not, they sound true.”
Helen clasped her hands tightly together in her lap.
“They are true,” she said.
“And you received this information how, exactly?”
“From the spirits,” Captain Fitzpatrick interrupted.
“That’s right,” Helen said, ignoring his mocking tone. “Those boys came to me, unasked. I wrote down everything they said, and I didn’t put in one word that wasn’t theirs.”
“Why would they do that?” Levy said. “Come to you and tell these incredible stories?”
“I didn’t ask them why.”
“Do you usually write down your … spirit communications?”
“Not usually. They wanted me to.”
“Again, Miss Schneider, one has to wonder why.” He turned to put the papers down on the table, then turned back to face her. “Quite apart, of course, from wondering if any such appearances really did—or ever could—occur.”
So, curious or not, the major had limitations on how far he’d go.
“All right, Captain,” he said, “I think we’re through for the time being.”
The captain began stacking the papers and maps.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Helen asked, getting up. It felt good to be on her feet rather than craning her neck up to look into the faces of the standing men.
“Your family will be here shortly to visit you,” said the major. “They’ve been advised to bring you a few personal items. Later this afternoon, you’ll be sent to Camp Seagoville by train.”
“Seagoville? Where’s that?”
“In Texas.”
“Texas!”
“It can’t be helped. Seagoville’s the only long-term facility for single women.”
“But how long will I be there?”
“That depends. We’d like to have some more discussions with you.”
“Why can’t I stay here?”
Major Levy caught the eye of Captain Fitzpatrick, who had finished gathering the papers and was standing near the door.
“She’s almost as inquisitive as we are, isn’t she, Fitz?”
“Miss Schneider,” the captain explained, “Ellis Island is a transit facility. The people here are awaiting deportation or repatriation.”
“But don’t I get a hearing?”
“You can put in to the Justice Department for a hearing at Seagoville if you like,” Major Levy said. “But you don’t get to ask questions of a Hearing Board.”
Captain Fitzpatrick opened the door and went out into the hall, where he waited for his cohort.
“There are no locks here, Miss Schneider,” Major Levy said. “You’re free to go to the main hall or the library, or to walk in the compound outside.”
Free, Helen thought miserably. That’s a joke. It struck her that an island made a perfect prison. Levy gave her a curt farewell nod.
“Major,” she said, staying him. “I still don’t know what it is you suspect me of.”
“Why, Miss Schneider,” he said, his strange and coldly beautiful smile materializing again, “we suspect you of exactly what you claim for yourself: that you have access to knowledge beyond the grasp of most people. And in this war, we can’t afford to ignore any possible advantage, however farfetched, now can we?”
Helen was too flabbergasted to respond. The major exited the room. Helen heard the receding clicks of the men’s shoes against the hallway’s cement floor, and then, through the open window, the screech of a sea gull.
CHAPTER 39
Helen was on the train to Seagoville for three days, in the custody of a Border Patrol agent. She let Helen roam the train freely, but whenever they neared a station, Helen had to return immediately to her assigned seat, with the agent beside her. They’d been handcuffed together from the time they stepped off the ferry from Ellis Island to the moment the train pulled out of Grand Central Station, and the woman said she wouldn’t hesitate to use the handcuffs again if Helen wasn’t in her place every time the train arrived at a
stop.
Miss Pierce wasn’t a cruel person, as far as Helen could tell, only a very conscientious one. Not that she got to know her very well. They dined separately. They didn’t converse beyond small talk about the passing countryside. Miss Pierce reminded Helen of her high school gym teacher. She had the same no-nonsense air, the same earnest attachment to the rules of the game. But when they were walking down the crowded Manhattan sidewalks and through bustling Grand Central, she’d hidden the fact of the handcuffs by linking elbows with Helen and laying a sweater over their manacled wrists so that they looked like two chums connected by affection, not law, thus sparing Helen deep embarrassment. She hadn’t had to do that, and Helen was grateful to her for it.
Seagoville looked more like a college campus than a prison, though before the war it had been a federal reformatory for women. Six two-story, colonial-style red brick buildings connected by paved walkways framed a grassy quadrangle. These buildings were where most of the camp’s 700 internees lived. There were also sixty pre-fab wooden “victory huts” assigned to married couples, with and without children. Other brick buildings housed a library, a beauty shop and a barber shop, a hospital, the power plant and maintenance shop, and storehouses for food and household items. But the collegiate grounds were fenced, with a white line marking a “kill zone” ten feet in from the fence, and armed guards patrolled the perimeter on horseback.
The first thing Helen was asked when she arrived was what language she spoke. She was surprised to learn that the majority of Seagoville’s internees had been brought there from Central and South America, and many of them spoke only German and Spanish or Japanese and Spanish. The Italians were long gone, Italy having surrendered in the autumn of 1943. It was the German army fighting the Allies on Italian soil. But on June 4th, while Helen was still on the train, the Allies had at last entered Rome.
An English-speaking Panamanian woman was appointed to show Helen around. Marta was a voluntary internee. Her husband, a German national, was interned at Camp Stringtown in Oklahoma.
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