CHAPTER ELEVEN

From Johanna to Major Davies

November 9, 1944

Dear Major Davies,

It was Peter, you know, who told me to begin letters with a compliment, but after our meeting yesterday, I can’t think of a single thing to say to you that is both positive and honest.

However, I am sorry about throwing the intelligence files at your head. I was upset and not thinking clearly. If you put yourself in my place, you’d realize how infuriating it would be to be patronized when your best friend was accused of treason.

After taking the rest of the day off to rest my “delicate nerves,” as you suggested, I’ve written out answers to your questions. If these aren’t detailed enough for you or whatever investigative agency will be looking over them, I’ll add to them.

Question: Did Peter Ito ever reveal any classified information about the language-school program?

Answer: I wouldn’t know if something was classified, but he only ever spoke in generalities, except for possibly a few notes inside the instructional book he sent to me, which he forgot were there. Otherwise, the most detailed descriptions I heard were of the first snowfall or the behavior of his students.

Question: How often did Peter Ito speak positively of Japan, its government, or his remaining family there?

Answer: Peter and I never spoke much of politics. He was shocked by the aggression of Pearl Harbor and firmly on the side of the Allies. Mostly, he spoke of his family here in America, which the government held in a “relocation” (concentration) camp despite absolutely no evidence of American-born Japanese sabotage or espionage before or after America entered the war.

Question: Did Peter Ito ever reveal his reasons for joining the army?

Answer: He was deeply proud of the fine work he did in his teaching and wanted to use those skills in service of the United States alongside his former students.

Question: Did Peter Ito ever express hesitation about fighting against his native country?

Answer: First of all, his “native country” is America. He was born and raised here, even if his parents were born in Japan, and only spent three years of high school in Tokyo. As to hesitations, he always talked about his desire to shorten the war with as few casualties as possible, which is the most noble motivation I can think of.

Question: Did you ever have any doubts about Peter Ito’s loyalty to the United States of America?

Answer: I know I said this emphatically in our meeting yesterday, but I will repeat it here: Peter Ito is not a traitor to his country. I can unequivocally state that he is as loyal as I am, and I’m sure new information will arise to validate my assessment.

The facts, as you presented them to me, are conjecture, a narrative cooked up by anti-Nisei sentiment, playing on deep-seated and completely baseless fears. Let’s consider those, shall we?

Peter disappeared during the invasion of the Philippines and hasn’t been heard from since, along with two other members of his regiment listed as missing in action without thought to treachery. And why? Because their ancestors emigrated from Europe—enemy, ally, or neutral, it doesn’t matter—a few generations farther back than Peter’s emigrated from Japan.

Yes, I was am Peter’s friend. Rather than disqualify me, that makes my witness even stronger. I knew know him like no one else, and I can’t think of a single thing to say against him.

So go ahead. Requisition the letters he sent to his family. Run a background check. Talk to every student he ever encountered and mentored and helped to thrive. You’ll find nothing but a sterling-silver portrait of an honorable American, I’m sure of it.

Johanna Berglund

From Johanna to Thomas Ito

November 10, 1944

Dear Mr. Ito,

The army has asked me to write to you as a good-faith gesture, to ask you to comply with their requests in investigating Peter. Their thought is that, since Peter must have told you about me (I’m flattered they think so), a reassurance from me would mean more than empty promises from stern-looking officers in uniform. I don’t know if that’s true. After all, we’ve never met. But I hope you know that your son was a dear friend to me in a time when I badly needed one. I didn’t realize just how much until I stopped hearing from him.

But back to the point: The Military Intelligence Service does want to exonerate Peter. I can promise you that because I shouted at them a good deal before I got at their motives. The army would be humiliated if it was made known that one of their language school’s teachers had collaborated with Japan, so they are asking you questions and requesting documents as evidence to try to prove Peter’s loyalty. Whatever help you can give them will help Peter.

And on a personal note: Thank you for raising such an honorable son. I have never doubted his loyalty, not necessarily because he has reason to love America, but because I know he would never lie to his students, and especially not to me.

With regard, Johanna Berglund

From Thomas Ito to Johanna

November 13, 1944

Dear Johanna,

Peter has more than mentioned you. Sometimes we heard more about your life than his in the letters he sent us. I’m sorry it has taken my son’s disappearance for us to be introduced.

You should know that I did not approve of Peter’s decision to join the army language school as a teacher, much less go to war. This bothered him for a long time. He would try to persuade me, arguing late at night when my wife and mother had gone to sleep. He said it was not so different from the Japanese class he went to in California as a boy, taught by the elders in the community.

Now we know. It is very different, and everything I feared has come true.

I will answer any questions they bring to me. I have learned, though, that honesty is no guarantee of understanding. When I refused to say yes to question 28 of the loyalty questionnaire, they threated to take me away from my family. What was I to do? If I said I would renounce loyalty to the Japanese emperor, it would imply that I had any in the first place. There was no way to win.

That is why I’m worried they will decide Peter is disloyal. No matter how much evidence they see, they begin with a bias. That is where you and I disagree—you still trust the American government to seek justice. I have seen too much to have that faith.

This is not what I would have chosen for Peter. You are not who I would have chosen for him. And yet, after my father’s death, I came to America, a country he disdained. I married a poor grocer’s daughter of my own race, taking on a new faith, a new occupation, a new life. I gave my son a name both American and Christian: Peter, the rock.

As we say in Japan, shikata ga nai. It can’t be helped.

Still, I am proud of my son. And I am proud that he has a woman such as yourself standing with him, even now, wherever he is.

You might ask yourself how I can make such a statement. Enclosed in this package are all of your letters to my son. They were with his personal effects, abandoned at the base when he disappeared, and mailed to us when no news of him could be found. I will ask your forgiveness for reading them, but I wanted to understand why Peter made the choices he did.

That is why I ask that you do whatever you can to clear my son’s good name. He deserves at least that much.

Sincerely,
Tatsuo “Thomas” Ito

From Johanna to Dr. Howard Hong of the YMCA

November 14, 1944

Dear Dr. Hong,

I don’t know if you’ll remember me. I’m the woman translator at the branch camp in Ironside Lake, Minnesota, the one whom you conscripted to teach an English class. I’ve forgiven you for that now, though for a while—well, let’s just say that in the future, I’d recommend asking a person before volunteering her.

I know you work primarily with prisoners here in the United States but that the YMCA is also involved with care of our prisoners overseas, so I have a request to make of you.

My friend Peter Ito is MIA after the invasion of Leyte. That’s all the information I could get out of the army, but they’ve had the nerve to suggest that, instead of being taken prisoner, he deserted or betrayed his unit to the Japanese. The idea is absurd, and I’ve taken it on myself to find out as much as I can.

I tried to place a call to the Red Cross but couldn’t seem to talk to anyone who could give me useful information. They assured me that POW camps in all countries are required to register prisoners by filling out a capture card, to be filed with the International Red Cross, at which point the War Department would inform the next of kin by telegram of their son’s whereabouts. All neat and tidy, like a brown-paper parcel wrapped by a smiley attendant at Donaldson’s department store.

When I asked what could be done if such a capture card was never sent, they made excuses: the hostilities in the Philippines are ongoing, a full account of the killed and missing in action might not occur until a cease-fire, some governments refuse to cooperate with the convention agreements, aid workers can’t go in until the danger has passed, which might take months . . .

I’m ashamed to admit I hung up on them at that point, but I can’t tell you how frustrating it was to hear that nothing can be done. I can always do something, say something, make something happen.

Somehow, I suspect that Peter’s not getting a full tray of meatloaf, green beans, and soft rolls, or playing in a ten-piece orchestra while working on his correspondence courses like our men here. That’s not to say I resent our POWs’ treatment, like all of the angry letter writers who fill the pages of our local newspaper. But maybe now I understand some of their resentment.

Please, Dr. Hong. I don’t know what else to do. Are there inquiries that can be made? Aid packages that can be sent to the area where he disappeared? Do you have a friend in the Military Intelligence Service who might shake someone by the lapels until they realize that their best agent is not an informant?

I would be grateful for any assistance you can give me.

Johanna

P.S./Appendix:

P.S. I read the volume on Kierkegaard that you recommended. It was quite good, and I can see why it motivated you to join a charity organization. Do you ever wish you hadn’t?

From Pastor Sorenson to Johanna

November 15, 1944

Dear Johanna,

Cornelia Knutson told me her daughter Hattie went to practice the accompaniment for Sunday’s service last night and saw you seated alone in the back corner of the church, but that you left before she could speak to you.

Please don’t interpret this as a subtle way of telling you to go elsewhere. I wish all of my congregation would find refuge in the sanctuary during these difficult days. No, I don’t mind at all you praying in the church. I just wish you wouldn’t pray alone.

Remember that even our Lord, praying in agonizing pain in the Garden of Gethsemane, brought three of his disciples with him in his time of need.

Then again, they fell asleep instead of keeping watch with him. I suppose that’s a sobering reminder that people will fail us, even people we love. Perhaps those most of all.

Please come to me if there’s something you need to talk about, or to your parents, or perhaps even an older woman like Mrs. Knutson. She has her eccentricities, but beneath that high-collared black brocade is a heart as wide and deep as the sea. We would all be happy to help as we’re able.

Peace be with you,
Pastor A. Sorenson

From Johanna to Pastor Sorenson, left in his mailbox

November 16, 1944

Dear Pastor Sorenson,

Thank you for your concern. There’s been a good deal on my mind lately. I’ve felt a special burden to pray for our troops overseas this week, and I’ve resolved to keep praying until I get an answer, or at least a fragment of peace.

You know how I’ve always liked quiet places and time to think by myself.

So please don’t worry about me. I am fine.

Johanna

From Johanna to Peter, never sent

November 16, 1944

Dear Peter,

You aren’t dead. You can’t be.

This is the stage of grief known as denial. I’ve decided I won’t move past it until I have definitive proof that I need to. Therefore, I’ll continue to write to you as usual (although Mother says I shouldn’t waste a stamp, since wherever you are, I don’t have the address).

By now, I’ve read the papers and have at least a vague idea of your mission, the invasion of the Philippines. Old General McArthur1 said he would be back, and I hate him for keeping his word, or at least for dragging you along.

After Davies questioned me about you, I thought about resigning in protest, but it’s only another two weeks, and these men need me. When I think that now you might be a prisoner of war, far out of my reach, it makes me feel all the more that I should do what I can for them. I’ve felt like a sleepwalker, however, going through the motions of my work.

The first snow was today, and it occurred to me that we won’t get the chance to make bets on the last snowfall. Spring seems impossibly far away.

Dad and Mother are worried about me—and about you, of course. They’re forever asking if I need to talk, but what am I supposed to say? There’s nothing they can do.

When I looked over the tactical map of the Pacific, next to a pin for the battle of Leyte was, in Mother’s tiny, neat handwriting, “Peter captured.” Not killed, not deserted, not turned traitor. Captured.

I can only pray that’s the truth.

My last few letters to you were returned, and I have all the others, sent to me by your father. As I look through them, I can’t help but be furious with myself. Why did I wait so long to tell you what you mean to me? I could say that I didn’t know, that it was this final separation that told me, but that’s not true. I’ve known for a long time . . . and it frightened me.

I’m a coward, Peter. That’s the honest truth. And now it’s too late to be brave.

The dance is in a couple of days, and I no longer care. If I hadn’t agreed to take tickets, I’d stay far away. Maybe I should find a mask after all, so I don’t have to explain why I don’t look at all cheerful and carefree.

For the moment, I plan to bury myself in my work, translating and censoring a stack of letters. Is it terrible to admit I’m searching through them for anyone who might be as miserable as I am?

I’ll answer as you would have: Yes, Jo, it is. You should want others to be happy, even if you can barely sleep from pacing your bedroom floor at all hours of the night.

Well, that’s probably right, but at least if I find another tragedy or two, I can have someone to commiserate with. On with the letters, then.

Jo

1 General McArthur . . . like King Arthur. Perhaps I have Le Morte Darthur too much on my mind, but it seems that both have the fatal flaw of pride. And if I’ve learned anything at all from epics and mythology, it’s that one’s flaw always affects others.

From Rose Schlitter to Dieter Bormann

August 29, 1944

Dear Dieter,

I would say that your last letter was outrageous and offensive, insulting me with one sentence, flattering me at the next. But that always was how you were, changeable as the sea, and I can’t bring myself to be angry at you. In a way, I pity you.

Unlike you, I can write as much as I like, provided I have the stationery. But I’m afraid I’m running out of things to say. I’ve had less and less as the months have turned into years. You going on about your battles and tactics that I care nothing about, and now so far away in America. While your life stays in one place, my life is going on.

Which leads me to the most important news: I’ve accepted Arland’s proposal. Never mind how he asked; it was very sweet and practical. Mother was in tears at the announcement, and Father has promised me a full reception dinner after the war is over, since the wedding itself will be quite simple. It will take place just after the new year, with greenery and punch and a new dress with lace at the collar. I am quite happy.

Try to understand. If you love me, you’ll let me go. This is the last letter I’ll be sending to you, as it isn’t proper for a married woman to correspond with a former suitor.

I will always remember you, Dieter. Please do come visit our home if you return.

With regard,
Rose

Article on the Society page of the Ironside Broadside on November 16, 1944

CHURCH GROUP HOLDS ARMY BENEFIT DANCE

All residents of Ironside Lake are invited to a formal costume gala at the high-school gymnasium this Saturday, November 18. The event will be hosted by the Lutheran Daughters of the Reformation in cooperation with Camp Ironside. Besides the price of admission, dances with army guards will be auctioned off. All funds collected from the evening will be used for a long-distance phone call home on Thanksgiving for each of the soldiers stationed in Ironside Lake.

“Many of us eagerly volunteer to roll bandages and send care packages to our troops overseas,” LDR secretary Annika Sorenson said. “How can we ignore the opportunity to serve soldiers who are completing a thankless assignment on our doorstep? Many only have the opportunity to hear the voices of their loved ones briefly once a year. This would be a deeply meaningful gift to them.”

Music will be provided by the Camp Ironside orchestra, under the direction of Otto von Neindorff. Currently, the orchestra is comprised of ten musicians, including an accordion, a piano, various woodwinds and brass, and a violin. They intend to play favorite selections from Beethoven, as well as a movement from one of Wagner’s operas. The camp’s assistant cook, Raymond Harrison, will be performing on the piano alongside the POWs for the closing numbers, a trio of jazz tunes borrowed from Duke Ellington and his band.

These are the only POWs who will be in attendance, and they will be under heavy guard to and from the camp. When questioned, Major Davies said, “We believe the entire community deserves to hear the artistry of these men. They have been practicing for months, and we assure you that all possible precautions will be taken to prevent any incidents.”

So far, ten of the twenty guards, all eligible bachelors, have agreed to give up their off-duty time to attend the dance. Major Davies and his wife will also make an appearance. Tickets are available for purchase at the post office.

From Christopher Wright to Johanna

November 17, 1944

Dear Miss Berglund,

I didn’t want to speak with you in case any of the men would overhear, but I wanted to leave you this note. There’s been a change among the POWs over the past week. I’m a farmer’s boy myself, and usually, just after harvest, folks are full of energy, you know? All their hard work paid off. Or maybe they’re just plain tired out.

Not at my assigned farm. I can hear them whispering sometimes, shooting us suspicious looks, that sort of thing.

They’ve closed ranks. I’ve tried to ask Werner what’s going on, but either he doesn’t know, or he’s in the center of it. Plays dumb every time. And if there’s one thing Stefan Werner is not, it’s dumb.

The POWs don’t trust the guards as far as they can throw us, that’s for sure. I see their mouths shut any time I so much as glance their way. But you’re different. You’re the nice lady who brings them mail from their family and teaches English and asks them how they’re doing. If anyone can get out any information about what’s happening—or what’s going to happen—it’s you.

It might be nothing. I hope it’s nothing. But any chance you have to find out what’s going on . . . take it.

PFC Christopher Wright

P.S. It’s none of my business, I know, but why don’t you and Annika work things out? She misses you. I can tell.

From Johanna to Christopher Wright

November 17, 1944

PFC Wright,

Thank you for your concern, and for thinking that I might be of some help. Unfortunately, at the moment, Major Davies is reluctant to let me out of his sight. Besides, I have more pressing matters on my mind at the moment and can’t spare the time. We have only two more weeks with the men here. I’m sure they’re just restless pending another change of location.

As far as Annika and me, there’s nothing to say. We’ve been growing apart for years, and this is the inevitable conclusion. I will always think fondly of her, as I hope she will of me, but I’m sure she doesn’t need me as a friend when she has you. That sounds bitter, but I truly do wish you both the best.

I hope to see you at the ball, although I will be assisting in taking tickets and not dancing. It was your article that set all of this in motion, I’m sure of it. Thank you for that. It’s been good to see that, every once in a while, Ironside Lake can change its mind.

Johanna Berglund

From Dr. Howard Hong to Johanna Berglund

November 15, 1944

Dear Miss Berglund,

Thank you for your letter. I’m sorry to hear about the predicament you find yourself in. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be able to help you. Unfortunately—

(I do hate that word; the number of letters I drafted to prospective students of the university at which I taught beginning “Unfortunately,” or “We regret to inform you,” was staggering.)

But unfortunately, I have faced this particular challenge before. The most I could do is contact the Red Cross to try to expedite a visit to the camp where your friend might be held, but as the fighting in the Philippines seems to be only beginning, I’m afraid it won’t do any good.

Japan has repeatedly violated the Geneva Convention—it seems almost a point of pride. That said, noting the last name of your friend and assuming he has Japanese heritage, it is possible that will put him in an advantageous position. I have heard stories of Japanese-speaking troops able to negotiate for better conditions, or making threats to inform the Red Cross of violations.

However, when it comes to direct action, I’m quite as helpless as you. I am sorry.

As to your other question: Yes, there are times when I wish I’d never abandoned my cozy tenure at the university. Especially at moments like this one, in fact, when I know the good I would like to do but am unable to do it.

And yet, if I’d never left the safety of my library, think of the stories I would have missed, the places I would never have seen, the people who would have gone unaided in a time of need. It was sometime this summer that I realized that, at the bottom of it, I am still doing what I love, though in a very different way than I had once envisioned.

I have a plaque in my office that gives the mission of my work: Redeem the time. For me, it refers to helping the POWs make good use of their free hours, in constructive activities for the mind, body, and soul, but it is also a reminder of how short our time on earth might be. Your uncertainty over your friend is, I’m sure, an unwelcome reminder of this as well.

So perhaps the best counsel I can give is that: Redeem the time, Miss Berglund, as you wait for news of your friend. You will not regret doing so.

Sincerely and with sympathy,
Dr. Howard Hong
Field Secretary,
YMCA War Prisoners Aid

P.S. I am sorry to hear that the English class would not have been your first choice of employment. However, if it’s any comfort, I’ve gotten reports from your camp spokesman that you did an excellent job.

From Stefan Werner to Johanna, left on her desk at headquarters Translated from German

November 17, 1944

The major tells me you plan to help von Neindorff load the orchestra instruments and equipment into the truck tomorrow night for the concert. Please don’t bother; I will gather additional men to assist. The guards will approve us being out after curfew for something like this. I don’t know about you Americans, but where I am from, gentlemen do not ask a woman to do such things.

I am glad you will be attending the ball. You will be quite lovely. I confess, I wish we nonmusical Germans might be allowed to attend along with the performers. Perhaps I could take the place of young Private Bormann, who is in the infirmary. Alas, I can’t play a note on his violin. As it is, you’ll have to tell me about the music when you return.

–S

From Johanna to Stefan Werner

November 17, 1944

Captain Werner,

Thank you for your concern, but I need to be there for translation purposes, and I’m quite capable of hefting an accordion while I’m at it.

Aryan womanhood indeed.

Article in the Ironside Broadside written for the November 20, 1944, Society page

ARMY BENEFIT DEANCE A HIT

Talk to anyone who attended the Army Benefit Costume Ball last Saturday night, and you’ll hear nothing but praise for its smashing success.

Major and Mrs. J. E. Davies started off the dancing to the strains of a classical waltz. Alongside her husband’s uniform, Mrs. Davies was resplendent in a green gown as the Statue of Liberty. After this, a swing dance mixer, called by the vociferous Johnny Clark from the post office, added more couples to the floor while refreshments were served and the silent auction for dances with the army men began.

Miss Annika Sorenson oversaw the filling of dance cards from those who contributed to the auction, packing each guard’s evening with waltzes and foxtrots with the women of the town, both young and available, and married but seeking to support our troops. According to her, the LDR raised more than enough for a half hour long-distance call for each soldier stationed at the camp. She herself made a handsome half of a couple while in the arms of one of the guards, Private First Class Christopher Wright, for four consecutive dances, drawing complaints of monopolization. But any who saw the young dancers couldn’t object for long, so striking a figure did they cut on the dance floor.

Highlights of the evening included the rose-bedecked trellis archway transforming the doorway, lively classical and jazz performances by the Ironside Lake orchestra, and a short-lived jitterbug competition in the center of the dance floor between two energetic couples before a stern LDR chaperone intervened to outlaw this style of dance.

There was also the appearance of a reverse Cinderella late in the night: a gentleman dressed as a Charlie Chaplin hobo, complete with grease paint, paid his fee, swept Miss Johanna Berglund into her lone dance of the night, and then disappeared. Could this Depression-era drifter in disguise be the reason she’s shown no interest in local social mixers? Only time will tell.

At the end of the evening, ribbons were distributed for the best costumes to Hank Dahl as Robin Hood, and Jenny Johansson as Marie Antoinette. Mrs. Cornelia Knutson presented the award, though this columnist, at least, was unable to determine the precise nature of her own costume.

According to the major, the soldiers, even those unable to attend because of their duties at the camp, were grateful for this show of support from the community.

From Johanna to Peter, never sent

November 19, 1944

Dear Peter,

It’s the middle of the night, but I’m writing this now—by hand, not on my typewriter, or I’d wake my parents—because I haven’t been able to fall asleep. I can’t send it, of course. But when we hear from you, or when you come back to us . . . maybe if you read this, you’ll understand my predicament.

You might expect this to be full of details of the costume ball, so I suppose I’ll oblige.

Annika was a lovely, if low-budget, Glinda the Good Witch, with a dainty tiara and a length of tulle under her pink skirt substituting for the massive hoops Billie Burke wore in the movie, fortunately for anyone dancing with her. Which, I might add, was almost entirely Christopher Wright. If anyone in town didn’t know about her army romance, they do now.

You’ll appreciate this: Cornelia Knutson came dressed as Joan of Arc. But not Joan of Arc in a demure French-style gown, or even Joan of Arc in armor with a banner held high. Oh no. Joan of Arc on fire. Not literally, but that was the effect she was going for with tongues of red-and-orange plaid leaping up to the waist of her high-necked white dress. The crowning touch was a gold cross necklace and a homemade chainmail collar made of bottlecaps. She has apparently been canvassing soda fountains and lunch counters for weeks.

Otto and his orchestra were magnificent, even though Dieter Bormann, their lead violinist, was resting in the camp’s infirmary—supposedly from the flu, but I suspect he’s nursing a broken heart based on the latest letter I delivered to him. I’m no musical expert, but the way they played, perfectly in tune, perfectly in meter with each other, was beautiful. Otto and Raymond Harrison played a duet near the end, their fingers flying over the keys so quickly, you’d have thought there was an entire hall of dueling pianos. Hearing the guests’ hushed admiration, I’ve rarely been so proud of my POWs.

For the first half of the night, I managed to follow my plan of remaining off the dance floor. I like to think that my neo-Greco imitation of “Athena with a clipboard” intimidated even the most stalwart.

Until he arrived.

Now it’s time for the rest of the story. All of those things are true, but none are the most momentous bit of news from the costume ball.

You see, Stefan Werner came. And danced with me.

I didn’t recognize him at first. When he first sauntered up to me, all I saw was a collection of inside-out rags with exaggerated patches and frayed edges. But there, underneath the Charlie Chaplin hobo grease paint, were those steady gray eyes. And, all nerve, he whispered, “Darf ich bitten?” May I have this dance?

What could I say, Peter? I couldn’t expose him in front of everyone. I had no idea how he had gotten in, how he’d escaped from the camp after curfew, but how could I ask him unless I took his hand and let him lead me onto the floor?

The orchestra began to play “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered”—the music set must have been clairvoyant, because those were the exact feelings I was experiencing at the moment.

It’s quite a long song, slow and gentle, very easy to be overheard. I tried to pitch my voice as low as possible, asking Captain Werner, “How did you get here?”

His eyes actually twinkled like this was all a game. “Fences can be crawled under.”

“You’ll be caught!”

His only response was “We can’t talk now,” paired with a spin that jerked me along with him. “Unless you’d prefer to speak in German.”

I tromped on his toes to inform him I would not. He just laughed.

It wasn’t fair. My hands were slick with sweat, sure that one of the twirling couples around us—the major and his wife were only a few yards away!—would shout, “Halt! It’s one of the prisoners!” And yet there he was, gliding in time to the music like he hadn’t a care in the world, holding me far too close.

“You are a fool,” I told him. “Why did you do it?”

As the last melancholy strains of the song played, he stepped even closer, his mouth just by my ear. “Don’t you know?” Then he had the nerve to press a kiss to my cheek. “I must get back before they notice I am gone.” With that, he squeezed my hand . . . and left. Out of the crowd of dancers, out of the gymnasium, out into the dark, leaving me staring after him.

It was just like Stefan to do something as outrageous as this, I told myself, trying to work up the appropriate amount of fury. He was bored and almost certainly hadn’t thought about the potential consequences of his actions. Always charming, always a showman.

Still, it nagged at me. How had he gotten away? Was it his first—and last—escape attempt? Or was he the one that various townspeople had reported seeing outside of the stockade all this time?

Across the dance floor, I could see Major Davies tilting his head back to laugh at some joke my father had just told. In that moment, before the next song began, I knew I should have stormed across the gymnasium floor like a goddess on the warpath and ordered the guards out of the gymnasium to arrest Stefan before he could slip back under the fence.

But I didn’t. And now Saturday night has turned into Sunday night, and still I’ve said nothing. Now I’m wondering if that was a mistake.

I can’t sort it out. Flirt though he is, Stefan is not in love with me; I’m sure of that. So he must be flattering me because he wants something. I imagine he’ll come to camp headquarters tomorrow morning and beg for a letter of recommendation to begin his citizenship process. I’ve firmly decided today that I can’t in good conscience give it to him, not with what I know about his Nazi convictions. If Stefan wants to remain in America, he’ll have to charm someone else.

Here’s the trouble: If I go to Major Davies now to tell him that Stefan was at the ball and danced with me, his already low opinion of me would sink to new depths. As humiliating as that would be personally . . . it also affects you, Peter. I’ve been the staunchest advocate of your loyalty to the United States, and here I have been dancing with and covering for an enemy solider. Will it make him doubt my word about you too, the one person I was trying to protect?

I didn’t go to church this morning, telling Mother I hadn’t slept well and felt sick, which was true. But also true was that I didn’t want to see Stefan in his back pew with the other POWs, and I certainly didn’t want to risk him winking at me after the closing hymn, or worse, trying to speak to me.

Every man who has ever showed interest in me had some ulterior motive. Erik wanted to marry so he wouldn’t be drafted. Stefan is using me to obtain American citizenship. And you . . . you don’t mean it, of course, Peter, but you want someone to hold on to while you fight overseas. I don’t doubt that you care about me, and I care about you, but all those things you said . . . you can’t mean them. Can you?

As much as I hate it, there’s really nothing to do now but to talk to Major Davies. I’ll tell him my concerns about Stefan and ask that he have him monitored more closely. Then I’ll face the consequences for my bad judgment. No more keeping his secrets, no more deception.

It’s what you would do, isn’t it, Peter?

Well, let’s not fool ourselves. You would have done it immediately. But we can’t all be heroes. Some of us are only ordinary mortals, trying the best we can and hoping it’s enough.

Jo

Letter on the bunk of escaped prisoner Found on Monday morning, November 20, 1944 Translated from German by Johanna Berglund

By now you have discovered both of us missing. Please do not waste your resources on searching for us, as we will have two days’ lead and may already be out of your country by now.

The Fatherland needs its sons. Perhaps you will hear from us again someday when we have rejoined the victorious Reich.

Captain Stefan Werner

EVIDENCE FOR THE PROSECUTION

QUESTIONING OF WITNESS #12, PRIVATE FIRST CLASS CHRISTOPHER WRIGHT DECEMBER 3, 1944

 

Q: Did you ever observe interactions between Captain Werner and the accused that suggested an understanding of some kind?

Wright: If there was anything between Miss Berglund and Werner, it was one-sided.

Q: Why do you say that? Please elaborate, PFC Wright.

Wright: One afternoon in October, when I was patrolling the grounds on a daytime shift, Miss Berglund asked me to accompany herself and Werner on an errand.

Werner was in charge of finding costumes, he said, for the dramatic tableau that two of the men would act out during the orchestra performance at the dance. Some opera piece about Icarus. Miss Berglund told him about a storage room where donated clothing was kept. Some people gave old shirts and pants and such, along with the records and books, not realizing the prisoners had to keep to marked uniforms, even on Sunday. I went along with them to see if there was anything they could use.

Q: So she asked you along because she didn’t have a key?

Wright: No, she had the key. It seemed to me she just didn’t want to be alone in a small, dark, enclosed space with Werner. And from the way he glowered at me, I guess he didn’t much like having me there. While they sorted through the bins of clothes, I kept an eye on him like he was a mouse and I was the hawk. Then we left, and that was that.

Q: Did you have any idea—

Wright: Wait. I wasn’t finished. I wanted to say, Miss Berglund could’ve taken Werner right inside with no one the wiser, if she’d wanted to rendezvous in private, either to exchange secret information or . . . well, anything else. But she didn’t. She didn’t because she’s not that type of woman. She asked me to accompany her several times after that when meeting with him.

Q: Private Wright, were you aware that the clothing Captain Werner and his compatriot were wearing upon their escape—unmarked clothes—were the ones he took from the storage room under the guise of looking for a costume?

Wright: I . . . no. I didn’t know that. But that doesn’t mean . . .

Q: You attended the prison camp orchestra’s performance at the dance. Did you see a “dramatic tableau” accompanying any of the songs?

Wright: There wasn’t, was there? I hadn’t remembered until now.

Q: Doesn’t this seem like something Miss Berglund ought to have known, given that she regularly attended rehearsals of the camp orchestra?

Wright: That seems like a question you’d have to ask her.

Q: Isn’t it possible that Miss Berglund asked you along simply to give legitimacy to the errand? She may have known all along that Werner was seeking a disguise for his escape.

Wright: I . . . I just don’t think she’d do something like that.

Q: Another guard we interviewed said Miss Berglund was often seen deep in conversation with Werner. After her English class, during inspections, before she left after working late into the evening—

Wright: He was the camp spokesman. That was her job.

Q: And that there was talk around the guard tower that they had more than a professional relationship.

Wright: Of course there was talk. Some people don’t do anything but talk. But I’ll tell you what I told them: There’s nothing to see. Werner was likable. We all trusted him, all enjoyed talking to him. When you’re surrounded by German all day long, it’s nice to have someone who understands you, you know?

Q: Yes. I’m sure Miss Berglund felt very . . . understood by Captain Werner.