The Great Perhaps (18 page)

A
T THE RETIREMENT HOME, LATE THAT
T
UESDAY AFTERNOON,
Thisbe sits beside her grandfather, praying for a quick, merciful death for the both of them. She closes her eyes, whispering a single prayer over and over again, holding his tiny white hand, ignoring the noise of the recreation room, which is now being used for an impromptu checkers tournament. Thisbe looks over and sees the frustrated expression on her grandfather’s face, she can tell that he is upset about something, sitting there in his wheelchair so meekly, his teeth and gums sadly sunken into themselves. His mouth, wrinkled, blue-veined, small, perfectly weak, does not open to speak, not at first. He only has three words left, and after that, he will be done with words, just as he will be done with food and done with remembering. These last utterances, these three remaining sounds, must be carefully considered. When he has made his decision, Henry leans over, placing his mouth next to his granddaughter’s ear, and asks in a solemn whisper, “Help…me…escape.”

Thisbe, surprised, turns to look in her grandfather’s eyes. He is not joking. There, in the gray-green flecks of Henry’s eyes, Thisbe can suddenly see the truth. Her grandfather is just as lonely and just as desperate as she is.

“But how? And where could you go?”

Henry doesn’t answer; his fingers scramble into the breast pocket of his robe and produce his wallet, unfolding it in his lap. Thisbe can see a number of twenty-and one-hundred-dollar bills folded inside. Her grandfather glances down at the money and smiles.

“What will I tell my dad?”

Henry shakes his head and without speaking, only using his eyes, he seems to repeat the question.

Thisbe looks up, staring at the pairs of elderly residents distracted by the black and red squares of their game. There is no nurse or orderly on duty at the moment; the glass security doors that lead to the elevator are only twenty or thirty feet away. She turns to her grandfather and nods once, pulling herself to her feet. She slips behind his wheelchair and begins to push him toward the glass security doors. She loses her nerve when she sees a serious-looking nurse sitting behind the front desk, paging through a tabloid magazine. Anxiously, Thisbe pushes her grandfather past the desk, past the glass doors—the old man grabbing at the wheels to try and stop her—then back to his room, where she quietly closes the door behind them, already apologizing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “But there was a nurse. We couldn’t have gotten past her.”

Her grandfather shakes his head angrily, his eyes squinting with bright annoyance. He grabs her hand, pulling it toward the open door. But Thisbe is too afraid of the nurse at the front desk, too frightened by the idea of what her father might do or say whenever he finds out, which, of course, he eventually will.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sitting down on the bed. “But I don’t think it’s such a good idea anyway.”

Henry hisses his displeasure, then slowly wheels himself into the far corner of the room. Ignoring his granddaughter, he searches the pockets of his red robe for his notebook. When he finds it, he flips to a blank page and then begins to write angrily.

W
HETHER IT WAS
only Henry’s imagination or the sad, strange truth—that his father and uncle were indeed guilty of treason, their secrets hidden in the lines and stitches of the clothes they mended—was never officially proven. For within a day of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt’s Presidential Proclamations 2525, 2526, and 2527 had been issued, granting the federal law enforcement agencies the power to arrest and detain resident aliens of Japanese, German, and Italian descent for engaging in subversive activities. Immediately the federal agents of the Chicago Field Office quickly had their hands full.

December 8, 1941

Transmit the following message to:

CBC:CSH

TO ALL SACs: MOST URGENT. SUPERSEDING AND CLARIFYING PREVIOUS INSTRUCTIONS RE: GERMAN AND ITALIAN ALIENS. IMMEDIATELY TAKE INTO CUSTODY ALL GERMAN AND ITALIAN ALIENS PREVIOUSLY CLASSIFIED IN GROUPS A, B, AND C, IN MATERIAL PREVIOUSLY TRANSMITTED TO YOU. IN ADDITION, YOU ARE AUTHORIZED TO IMMEDIATELY ARREST ANY GERMAN OR ITALIAN ALIENS, NOT PREVIOUSLY CLASSIFIED IN THE ABOVE CATEGORIES. IN THE EVENT YOU POSSESS INFORMATION INDICATING THE ARREST OF SUCH INDIVIDUALS NECESSARY FOR THE INTERNAL SECURITY OF THIS COUNTRY. ABOVE PROCEDURE APPLIES ONLY TO GERMAN AND ITALIAN ALIENS, AND NOT TO CITIZENS. ABOVE PROCEDURE DOES NOT IN ANY INSTANCE APPLY TO DIPLOMATIC OR CONSULAR REPRESENTATIVES OF THE GERMAN OR ITALIAN GOVERNMENT. BUREAU MUST BE ADVISED TELEGRAPHICALLY AT EARLIEST POSSIBLE MOMENT CONCERNING INDIVIDUALS ARRESTED PURSUANT TO ABOVE INSTRUCTIONS. THIS TELEGRAPHIC INFORMATION TO BUREAU SHOULD SPECIFICALLY DESIGNATE, WITH REGARD TO EACH INDIVIDUAL MENTIONED, WHETHER THE ALIEN IN QUESTION HAS BEEN PREVIOUSLY CLASSIFIED ON THE A, B, OR C LIST, OR WHETHER HE IS BEING ARRESTED AS AN ALIEN CONCERNING WHOM INFORMATION JUSTIFYING HIS ARREST IS POSSESSED, ALTHOUGH NOT PREVIOUSLY CLASSIFIED IN THE ABOVE CATEGORIES. AS TO ALIENS IN LATTER CATEGORY, SPECIFY CONCERNING EACH INDIVIDUAL WHETHER CUSTODIAL DETENTION DOSSIERS PREVIOUSLY SUBMITTED BY FIELD OFFICE INVOLVED CONCERNING INDIVIDUAL IN QUESTION. AS TO GERMAN OR ITALIAN ALIENS CONCERNING WHOM INFORMATION IS POSSESSED INDICATING THEIR ARREST NECESSARY FOR INTERNAL SECURITY OF THE COUNTRY, ALTHOUGH NOT PREVIOUSLY CLASSIFIED IN A, B, OR C CATEGORIES, AND ON WHOM PREVIOUS CUSTODIAL DETENTION DOSSIERS NOT SUBMITTED. BUREAU MUST BE FURNISHED IMMEDIATELY COMPLETE SUMMARY OF INFORMATION POSSESSED CONCERNING INDIVIDUAL INVOLVED, JUSTIFYING ARREST. ALL INDIVIDUALS ARRESTED MUST BE TURNED OVER TO NEAREST REPRESENTATIVE OF IMMIGRATION AND NATURALIZATION SERVICE.

HOOVER

December 13, 1941

From a Department of Justice Press Release:

Attorney General Francis Biddle today announced that, under proclamation issued by the President, the Department of Justice and the War Department have apprehended a total of 2541 Axis nationals in continental United States and Hawaii who were regarded as dangerous to the peace and safety of the nation.

Mr. Biddle said that a report from Director J. Edgar Hoover of the Federal Bureau of Investigation showed that, from December 7 through December 11, FBI agents have taken into custody 1002 German aliens, 169 Italian aliens, 1370 Japanese aliens…

In addition to the enemy aliens, Director Hoover reported that FBI agents in Hawaii…have taken into custody 19 American citizens of German extraction, 2 American citizens of Italian descent, and 22 American citizens, most of whom are of Japanese extraction…

December 15, 1941

GERMANS:

ITALIANS:

JAPANESE:

W. F. Kelly, Chief Supervisor of Border Patrol

H
ENRY’S FATHER
and uncle were now both gone, his mother almost a phantom. Henry would stand beside her bedroom door and listen to her strange, brutal prayers. Closing his eyes, he would do his best to mutter along. Henry’s little brother, Timothy, was as small and as frightened as ever. He refused to leave their apartment to go to school, preferring to stay at home with their mother. Henry, thirteen years old, continued to hope that his father would be released soon. Without Len and the little tailor shop, the family had no income, no way to buy food, clothes, to pay the rent for the residence where they all sat huddled in disbelief.

By the spring of 1942, with the United States now at war, Henry did odd jobs in the little shops around the tiny German neighborhood—sweeping up at the porcelain shop, repainting the viewing rooms at Mr. Kratz’s funeral home, restocking the shelves at the small grocery store where his older brother Harold—now in the United States infantry—had worked. But a cloud of suspicion hung above the young boy, and many sympathetic store owners, fond of Henry but fearing for their livelihoods, felt they had no choice but to refuse his services. When he could not find work, Henry would crouch in the back row of St. Benedict’s Church on Irving Park Road, staring up at the broken body of his mother’s Lord and Savior, muttering his prayers in English, asking for help and guidance. More often than not, he spent the evening watching the flickering candles near the altar, imagining that their movements held a secret message. Outside, walking home, in the rain or snow, each raindrop became a note, each snowflake a code, a missive telling him not to be afraid.
Be brave
, the snowflakes would read:
Be brave.

B
Y THE WINTER
of 1942, after a year, with no news of his father’s case, the family was living on credit and the rent hadn’t been paid for many months. One night, Henry’s mother finally crept from her room and, having brushed her hair and dressed in her best gown, crossed the hall to ask their neighbor Mr. Holz for help. On behalf of the family, Mr. Holz—the only one in the tenement building who owned a typewriter—wrote to the FBI, demanding to know the status of Len Casper’s imprisonment.

After another two months without a response, Henry’s mother once again crossed the hall to Mr. Holz’s, then again, then once more, petitioning the FBI to please reunite the family. Finally, one night late in February 1943, as Henry climbed the front stairs of the tenement, the odd odors of embalming fluid and Mr. Kratz’s cigarettes rising from his dirty clothes, he could hear loud voices coming from the apartment. Henry bounded up the stairs on frightened legs, and found two men in black suits and gray felt hats. They were FBI agents. As soon as Henry entered the parlor, they turned to him with serious frowns and Henry’s hands began to shake with panic.

“Who are you? What’s going on here?” Henry asked, glancing at his mother, who was sobbing on the worn-looking sofa, looking stricken. Timothy, in his blue pajamas, was beside her, looking back at him, terrified and wondering.

“They said we’re leaving tonight,” Timothy, whispered.

“Who’s leaving?” Henry asked, staring at the blank-faced men.

“Your father’s been interned. You’ve got ten minutes to pack what you need,” one of the agents announced grimly.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to send you to be with your father, kid. Now grab your things and hurry.”

Henry, helping his mother to her feet, turned and ran into the tiny room he shared with his brother. Finding the large yellow suitcase beneath his bed, he began piling all the clothes he could fit, lifting armfuls from his and Timothy’s dresser drawers, as his mother, still standing confused in the parlor, kept on sobbing.

“Mother,” he said, holding her hand. “Go get your things. We’re going to see Father.”

His mother’s face did not brighten. She only shook her head and asked:

“What did he do? What did he do to us?”

Henry left her standing there and ran to her room, finding as large a traveling bag as he could and taking whatever looked necessary—shoes, dresses, a coat, underwear, he packed them up, hurrying to place the brown bag by the front door.

“Where are we going?” Timothy asked, sitting on the sofa, afraid to look the strange men in the eyes.

“You’re going somewhere safe. It’ll be okay,” one of the agents said. “Now go help your brother out.”

Timothy nodded, helping Henry close the enormous yellow suitcase, which they dragged to the front door together. Henry looked around the dreary apartment in a panic, searching for anything else his family might need, but the taller of the agents, glancing down at his watch, said:

“Okay, it’s time. You got a train to catch.” He reached down and grabbed both suitcases, the tiny family following, marching out into the quiet, unfamiliar whispers of the city street.

M
ORE THAN THREE DAYS
later, Henry climbed out the wide door of a troop transport train and stepped into the dry heat of a nearly empty Texas town. Holding hands, the two boys shuffled quietly behind their father, whose wide, strong arm braced their mother as they marched slowly along, following the line of internees before them. It had turned out that their father and uncle had been held in Chicago all that time, in a converted warehouse with other German-and Italian-born suspects. Henry’s uncle Felix was a bachelor, and because of this he was sent to another internment facility somewhere within the snowy borders of Wisconsin. Henry, still deeply shamed by his father’s cowardly betrayal, refused to look him in the eye, and so he stared outward at the blank plains of silent brown earth, the horizon a single line bisecting the blue sky.

“Where are we?” Timothy asked.

“Somewhere in Texas,” Henry whispered.

“Why did they bring us here?”

“Because we’re German.”

Henry glanced around and saw family after family, all disheveled and heartbroken, their small bundles and suitcases packed tightly with their possessions, some wearing the only set of clothes they owned, climbing out the open door of the train, blinking at the wide blue sky. Their faces were all the same as his father’s and mother’s, long and gray, their eyes sadly sunken into the flesh. Their lives had been torn from them, like a beating organ, and they did not know how to carry on, other than to be silent and to obey the orders shouted at them.

A guard with a rifle directed the families onto several transport trucks. Henry sat beside his brother in the truck bed, turning to watch his father as the vehicle slowly pulled away.

“How long will we be here, Dad?” Timothy asked in a whisper.

“I don’t know. They can do what they like to us.”

Henry turned and saw his mother was crying once again.

“Will we be put in jail?” Timothy asked.

“I don’t know,” their father said. “We can only wait and hope they treat us better than they have.”

Henry turned away from his father and looked at the other families, who, like his, sat huddled together and whispering. Perhaps a half hour later, maybe more, maybe less, the truck began to slow, and the flat, nearly invisible horizon of gray earth began to brighten, turning green. Henry stared from the back of the truck at the fields of verdant leaves, unsure what he was seeing, until a young girl across from him shouted it out: spinach. There were irrigation ditches cut back and forth and troughs of fresh water and workers walking along the wide fields and then the farms were gone and the earth became gray again. Finally, after almost an hour, the truck slowed to a halt. Henry turned in his seat and saw the shadow of an enormous fence, guarded by dozens of soldiers. The transport trucks slowly drew past the gate, stopping a few moments later, one beside the other, nearly five trucks full of interned families. The families stepped from the trucks no longer tethered to the world around them. What would happen to them? What sort of life would they be allowed to lead? And everywhere, only silence, and the shadows of young men in uniforms, wielding guns.

Henry could see there were houses, gloomy, rectangular-framed wooden bungalows, much like the shape of the homes back in Chicago. He smiled when he saw them, then stopped because he saw there were no trees. There were no trees anywhere and no birds either and the sun had become very hot suddenly. He noticed he had sweated through his one clean shirt. A man in a military uniform climbed down from one of the transport trucks, lifted his helmet off, wiped at his sweaty forehead with a white linen handkerchief, and then donned his helmet again. He looked around at the sad faces and said to the dirt: