CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WARRANT FOR THE ARREST OF JOHANNA BERGLUND FILED: NOVEMBER 22, 1944
To the County Sheriff:
Defendant to Be Arrested: Johanna Berglund
Charge:
I. Treason
II. Conspiracy to Commit Treason
Sex: F
Race: W
Age: 22
Address: 1384 Turner Ln., Ironside Lake, Minnesota
Remarks: Defendant not to be released on bail until the return of two POW escapees.
From Johanna to Pastor Sorenson
November 23, 1944
Dear Pastor Sorenson,
To start a letter from jail with “Happy Thanksgiving” is entirely too good of an irony to pass by. I hope the holiday finds you considerably more grateful than I am.
I called Dad and Mother this morning, but I thought I’d send a letter to you. There’s no limit on those. Apparently not many people in the county jail write them, but they have paper on hand for—I don’t know, confessions, I suppose. Likely in this uneventful town, their supply has been used more often for endless games of hangman by bored deputies.
See? Gallows humor. Literally. I’m clearly still in fine spirits despite a lack of sleep—it’s terribly drafty in here—and the general destruction of my life.
They’re still fiddling with bail requirements and the arraignment—I’m told it’s complicated because of the military aspect—but no one expects me to be here longer than three or four days, as long as they recapture the POWs. I am a “low flight risk,” even though I’m being accused of directly aiding two prisoners’ escape. This seems an example of literary irony, but that’s much more fun to analyze in Hippolytus than to encounter in one’s real life, I’m finding.
All that to say, lacking any proper reading materials, I may die of boredom in the space of three days. The silence is beginning to grate.
If you have any recommendations for books, I’d appreciate you giving them to Dad or bringing them to me directly. I imagine they’d let my spiritual advisor in as a visitor, though they’ll probably search your volumes of Luther and Kierkegaard for saws and files.
If you don’t mind associating yourself with the most despised woman in America—and I will understand if you do—I’d welcome a visit. It’s very lonely here. Even my prayers seem to be Returned to Sender, but I suppose that’s nothing new.
Johanna
From Pastor Sorenson to Johanna
Left in the top of a stack of books delivered to her cell
November 24, 1944
Dear Johanna,
I remember your reading pace and know these two volumes will only last you eight hours, give or take. If you remain here for much longer than that, which I hope you do not, don’t be afraid of silence. It’s where God is most likely to be heard.
I should know—I can’t count the number of sleepless nights after my wife died, and then again after the news of Erik’s death. While our situations are not remotely the same, I thought you should know that. In its own way, it may help.
We are, all of us, alone, living in our own narrow worlds, isolated from each other like pioneers in a blizzard. The world can seem very cold at times.
But at the same time, we are not alone. Never, not even if we look around and see nothing but blinding white. If we reach out, we’ll find we’ve always been tethered to something solid and strong.
I’ve lost a beloved wife and son. Believe me when I say that, at times, God tests and trusts us with silence . . . but he also speaks. Have you been listening?
I know I won’t be able to keep you from reading, thinking about your case, and writing letters, and there’s a place for all of that. But please, take time to be still. And while you’re at it, you might read psalms 42 and 43. I’ve always found them to be helpful.
Know that I’m praying for justice to be done, and quickly.
Peace be with you,
Pastor A. Sorenson
Written by Johanna Berglund
November 24, 1944
Dear God,
Pastor Sorenson said I should talk to you, and as I have no intention of making an insanity plea, I felt it would be better not to be seen pacing my cell and muttering to myself. Besides that, I’ve found over the past year that it’s easier to compose one’s thoughts on paper. So, a letter. I’ll at least save money on the stamp.
I have a pressing question for you. Most of it is a simple, somewhat accusatory “Why?” but it needs proper context, back to January 1943.
Do you remember? I suppose you do, being omniscient. It’s the last significant conversation we had, so I too remember every detail. Dad sent me a telegram while I was at school, an extravagant expenditure in his nickel-and-dime economy. I read it twice, three times, to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake. Erik had been reported wounded. Not dead. There was still hope. There was still time.
I crumpled on the hideous brown linoleum of my tiny apartment and prayed so fervently, I half expected the curtains to blow, like on Pentecost. I took short breaks to shuffle to the teakettle and refill my mug but couldn’t even bring myself to drink it. I just emptied out the cold Earl Grey and refilled it again to have something warm to hold on to.
In those prayers, I reminded you of everything Erik was—earnest and loyal, patient and full of a desire to serve others. I described what he was meant to do, painted the picture for you with my imagination so you could see him as something more than one more body on a field stretcher, bleeding and barely holding on. And not only what he was, but what he would be. Erik playing “Stardust” on his trumpet; Erik taking a young, towheaded son to fish in the creek; Erik with gray hair, preaching in his father’s pulpit at Immanuel Lutheran, that beautiful light of unshakable faith in his eyes.
If that wasn’t enough, I made a promise of my own to you. I even wrote it down like a contract, signed it, and placed it securely inside my linguistics textbook, since I realized I didn’t have a Bible with me in Minneapolis. I wasn’t sure at the time if that was orthodox or not, but if I was going to be a heretic, I wanted to be a thorough one.
It’s still in my desk at home, but I have it memorized.
“I, Johanna Berglund, do solemnly swear that if the Almighty God spares Erik Martin Sorenson and returns him to life and ministry, then I will come back to Ironside Lake and remain there until such time as I have fulfilled my obligation to my family and the town, as indicated by some sign yet to be determined.”
It was all I had. Some small part of me suspected that this was your way of—not punishing me, exactly, but warning me to come back home. To remind me of what I’d turned my back on: my family, my childhood sweetheart, and my quaint hometown. I knew from Pastor Sorenson’s sermons that you require sacrifice, and I could think of nothing more valuable to promise you than my greatest dream.
But it wasn’t enough.
That’s probably why I fought coming back for so long. It wasn’t the town or the job or even my classes. It was that I didn’t want to be forced to hold up my end of the bargain when you didn’t bother to follow through with yours.
But I came, just the same. You got what you wanted after all. I’m here.
So where are you?
From Major Davies, posted at City Hall and printed in the Ironside Broadside
November 25, 1944
To the People of Ironside Lake,
As you have likely heard by now, the two POWs missing from Camp Ironside were apprehended late last night, having reached a point 52 miles to the northwest of the city. A citizen like yourself, aware of the escape, saw the smoke of their campfire in the woods and called the sheriff, an example of the good we all can do when working together.
Captain Stefan Werner and Private Dieter Bormann are being kept in a secure location until they can be questioned by authorities. They are in good health and came peaceably upon their arrest.
Whatever the circumstances that led to their escape, rest assured that we will uncover the truth! Until then, please support due process by keeping all rumors to yourselves. Remember, loose lips sink ships.
I am aware that national news agencies have already picked up this story, and I apologize for the additional scrutiny it means for the good people of this town. God knows I never would have wished it on you!
Deepest gratitude to those of you who volunteered for citizen search parties and community watch groups. It is because of your vigilance that we were able to apprehend the prisoners!
Onward, my fellow Americans! Justice will prevail in the end!
Major J. E. Davies
US Army, Fort Snelling
From Olive to Johanna
November 24, 1944
Johanna, you’re in the newspaper. The Tribune. And for aiding and abetting the escape of German POWs. Have you gone and lost the plot, or have the reporters? Someone around there must be mad, or else I am.
I know we’ve both been busy and haven’t spoken in a while, and maybe that’s partly my fault, but please write back soon. I’m desperately worried about you.
Olive
Article in the Ironside Broadside on November 27, 1944
TREASON SUSPECT CORRESPONDED WITH JAPANESE SPY
While police have not released new information regarding the alleged crimes of former Camp Ironside translator and accused conspirator Johanna Berglund, the Broadside staff investigated a tip that has led to a startling new development.
Previously reported in an editorial in this paper was Berglund’s relationship with Peter Ito, a teacher-turned-war-translator in the US Army, who met Berglund when she was at the university in Minneapolis. Their friendship is now the subject of close scrutiny, as Ito, who spent the majority of his formative years in Japan and whose parents were Japanese citizens, has disappeared in enemy territory and is under investigation for collusion with the Axis powers.
Many theorize that this connection might be where Berglund first developed anti-American sentiments, which grew as she fraternized with German soldiers at the camp, particularly Captain Stefan Werner, the charismatic camp spokesman.
Miss Berglund is currently released on bail, living with her father, Mayor Carl Berglund, only a month after his reelection to public office. A petition has been started to demand his resignation. Neither could be reached for comment.
Werner and Bormann are being thoroughly interrogated, and a source close to the investigation believes they have already made a full confession.
From Johanna to Olive
November 28, 1944
Dear Olive,
At this point, I don’t want to place blame on anyone for anything, so whyever we stopped writing, I’m ready to start again.
As to who’s gone mad, it feels like the whole world. But this is what I can tell you.
I’ve been accused of helping two of the prisoners in my camp escape. I’m sure you’ve seen their names. Once the men were captured and questioned, Stefan’s and Dieter’s stories both aligned perfectly: I had fallen in love with Stefan and wanted to help him return to Germany. To that end, I gave the men unmarked clothing and a map of Minnesota, then distracted the guards by requesting help in loading the orchestra equipment, allowing them to slip into the truck and out the gate. Stefan risked meeting me at the dance because he couldn’t resist my charms (honestly, that’s what they’re saying) and wanted to confirm our meeting spot. Later, I rendezvoused with them at the shed in Turner’s Woods and gave them money and supplies for their journey.
They also added that I had let them send uncensored letters filled with intelligence to Germany and POWs in other camps, described top-secret military operations to them, started the fire in the storage room, and supported a resistance group in Camp Ironside to stir up public opinion against America. I suppose if my friend Annika hadn’t already found several incriminating letters he planted in the woodshed on my family’s property, Captain Werner would have directed the police there after being captured, to corroborate the story he spun.
Even one of these lies would have caused trouble. All of them together, along with dozens of bits of circumstantial evidence, might be enough to ruin me.
But here is the one thing: I did see Captain Werner the night he escaped, and I did nothing about it. He let himself be seen with me in order to seal the case against me. His gamble paid off, because I didn’t have the moral strength to go to someone right then and there and ask for help.
I’m not a traitor. But I have made some very poor choices these past few weeks.
They say the grand jury and the trial won’t take place until late winter or early spring, which will give time for the counsel to prepare and for the publicity around me to die down. I’m certainly regional, and probably national, news. So here I am, trapped in my room, bound less by the terms of my bail than by my own fear to step outside my door.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? All I ever wanted to do was get as far away as possible from this place, to travel and see the world and experience life outside of this small town. And now I’m trapped to a few square yards of it.
Dad has temporarily disconnected our telephone, and my sister and her husband are going out of town for an extended vacation until everything calms down. Irene is pregnant with her second child and can’t take the strain of being shouted at in the streets. It isn’t a good time to be associated with the Berglunds, me in particular.
Dad’s also hired a lawyer. Not a relative or friend of the family or even a resident of Ironside Lake—he felt like we needed someone with more criminal law experience. So I’m meeting with Charles Donohue Jr. of Duluth, and he is just as citified and stiff as his name indicates, droning through lists of questions and protocol. He probably doesn’t realize that I’ve done extensive research on his previous cases and already know most of what he’s telling me. I nod along anyway. We’re discussing the particulars of treason next week.
I’m not in the best state of mind at the moment, so I’m sorry if this is confusing or if there are details I’ve left out. Most days, all I want to do is sleep, then wake up and find out this was all a dream.
Please don’t tell me what the newspapers are saying, Olive. I probably don’t want to know. But you believe I’m innocent, don’t you?
Johanna
P.S. If you kept them (and can find them—I remember the mess that was your bedroom), can you please mail me the letters I wrote to you from Ironside Lake? I know I spoke about Captain Werner to you, and Donohue is looking for anything at all that might help.
From Dr. Smythe to Johanna
November 29, 1944
Dear Miss Berglund,
I regret to inform you of what I assume, given your relative intelligence, you have already divined: Word has reached the university of the legal trouble in which you are currently embroiled. Regardless of whether there are enough loopholes for you to result in an acquittal in court, as some of the newspaper accounts are predicting, you will not be welcome to enroll at the university in the spring, or ever again in the future. I’m sure you understand that such publicity can be—and already is—damaging to the reputation of our institution.
The private donor, whose identity is still concealed from me, has been informed of this change, and will, I’m sure, award your scholarship to someone more deserving.
Please do not contact me in the future; all letters from this address will be discarded before opening.
Dr. Sheridan Smythe
Chair of the Modern
Languages Department,
University of Minnesota
From Brady McHenry to Johanna
December 1, 1944
Miss Berglund,
The mail’s been pouring in after my latest article. Too many editorials to print, even if we added a special section. Thought I’d drop you a few of my favorites, though I’m sure you’re getting plenty at your home too, and at your daddy’s office in city hall. I bet he never guessed his greatest political liability would be his own daughter.
What did I say about threats, hmm?
Maybe I was an artist once, but now I’m a newspaperman. One with some juicy headlines to write. You’ve turned me straight after all. No need to print anything but exactly what the people have to say about this.
Brady McHenry
Owner and Editor in Chief,
Ironside Broadside
Editorial in the Ironside Broadside on December 1, 1944
Dear Editor,
A recent article incorrectly labeled Johanna Berglund as a “member of the Lutheran Daughters of the Reformation” when, in fact, she declined our invitation to join. I have her letter of refusal as proof, and given the way things have turned out, I see her reluctance to associate herself with the LDR as a credit to our organization. It is important that such an error be corrected at once.
I will add that all efforts of the LDR related to Camp Ironside, such as the costume gala, were solely and exclusively focused on support of our own United States troops. We were not consulted in the decision to allow German soldiers into our town or our church, and we hope that a discerning reader would recognize the distinction.
Mrs. Dorothy Lewis
Editorial in the Ironside Broadside on December 2, 1944
Dear Editor,
Didn’t we say this would happen, putting a prison camp on our doorstep? I was at the city council meeting when some concerned citizens presented a case that the POWs were being treated too leniently, but Mayor Berglund didn’t listen. Bet he wishes he had now, unless he was in on it with his daughter since the beginning.
I got five minutes of time to talk about how the major used YMCA money to buy out my theater on a Thursday night to let some of them watch a film. Probably they were taking notes during the newsreels to smuggle information back home. They stole candy on the way out too. I know it, but who do you think tried to talk me out of reporting it to the police? Johanna Berglund. We should have known it would have been her.
My boy went off to the city too, when he was her age. Now he only writes to ask for money. Well, good riddance, I say. Good riddance to all of them. I’ve got high-school students taking tickets who need to see what comes of leaving behind your home and your values. Let this be a lesson to them.
As for the POWs, they’d better not try to pass that lot off on us again next year, labor shortage or no. I, for one, won’t let a single German goose-step his way through the doorway of my establishment, that’s for sure.
Clarence Jakes
Johanna’s notes after meeting with Charles Donohue Jr. of Clark and Donohue Legal
December 7, 1944
Hardly anyone has been executed for treason since John Brown raided Harpers Ferry. This seems like good news.
The prosecution will argue before a grand jury (23 citizens) to indict me. They don’t need to prove guilt, just that a crime has been committed and there is evidence I should be tried for it.
I am not permitted to attend the grand-jury proceedings, nor is Donohue (no cross-examination of evidence or witnesses by the defense). If they return an indictment, the case moves to trial.
The chances of that, according to Donohue’s estimation, are roughly 70%. The argument against me is mainly circumstantial, but the prosecutor is competent and has issued dozens of subpoenas for witnesses/documents. The testimony of both Werner and Bormann together is very serious.
It doesn’t, apparently, matter how ridiculous I find that. I should calm down and save my energy for the trial. (At this point, I discussed the damaging nature of condescension to a client relationship.)
The treason charge likely won’t stick—too difficult to prove intent within its parameters. The counts of aiding and abetting enemies of the United States or conspiracy to commit treason (more minor) might.
Statistically, women aren’t convicted as often. I brought up Mary Surratt, conspirator to assassinate Lincoln. Donohue and I debated her guilt or innocence for twenty-two minutes.
Modern treason cases have rarely resulted in conviction. Related: the case of Velvalee Dickinson, the doll shop spy, in August of this year. Asked Donohue to elaborate, spent another thirty-nine minutes discussing the case—she smuggled military information to Japan via seemingly harmless letters about dolls (a code). Fascinating. She was not convicted of treason but “violation of the censorship statutes” and sentenced to ten years in prison and a $10,000 fine.
Two-hour appointment concluded. I learned more about Mary Surratt’s and Velvalee Dickinson’s fates than my own.
Given all this, a few notes as I prepare my statements for the trial:
If sentenced to prison, I’d be thirty-two when released, assuming I couldn’t get out early on good behavior.
I’m sure my family could raise $10,000 for a fine, somehow.
To Do: Work on collecting documents to present as evidence of my intentions/behavior over the past year. To seek out possible motives, request any information I can find about Stefan Werner and Dieter Bormann before they came to the camp. Also, begin preparing statements on the relevant details likely to be raised at the trial. (Parameters: “Please don’t say anything too shocking, Miss Berglund.”)
From Johanna to Peter, never sent
December 12, 1944
Dear Peter,
I haven’t “written” to you in a while, mostly because I’ve been afraid to add to a stack of evidence the prosecution will probably subpoena any day now.
Our old friend Brady McHenry has been keeping the newspaper filled with the latest drama. The letters written directly to me are even less tactful than the ones he prints. Even McHenry won’t let profanities or death threats be printed in his newspaper, but dozens of each have found their way directly to our door, some from as far away as Dallas and Boston. How they got an address for me, I’ll never know. I wouldn’t be surprised if people start scribbling, The Traitor, Ironside Lake, and assume the postman will just know where to send it.
The common theme of the letters is that I should be ashamed of myself. Which, of course, I already am, just not for the reasons the writers think I ought to be.
I keep playing the past year over again in my mind, like a movie-theater attendant forced to watch the same film every night from the projection room, trying to see if this time, I’ll be able to see the twist coming, find another detail I should have noticed, a conversation I shouldn’t have had, some sign that this would happen.
I don’t have your faith, Peter. I don’t go to church anymore, not wanting to draw any more unwanted attention to my parents or the Sorensons. When I read my Bible in my room on Sunday mornings, I see those promises you talked about, but I don’t see them when I look around.
I’m afraid. Really, truly afraid. I try not to show it when talking to Donohue, but every time I think about going to trial, or to prison, I’m up all night with a thousand prickling anxieties.
It seems like it’s nearing the end of the story, and I keep hoping for Peter ex machina, some dramatic entrance where you arrive to save the day and set everything right, but it hasn’t come yet. And I’m not sure how much longer I can do this alone.
Jo
From Olive to Johanna
December 11, 1944
Dear Johanna,
My word. After two years of complaining to me about how undergrads have entirely too much drama in their lives, you tangle yourself up in this!
Of course I believe you’re innocent. I didn’t doubt it for a second. The nerve of those Germans!
What is your solicitor saying about your chances? I don’t know a thing about American law, but none of this could stand up in a serious court, could it? (Your letters are attached. It took me an hour of searching to find them, and I accidentally cleaned my room in the process.)
Also, I have to say it was stupid, stupid, stupid of me to get angry at you before, when you said you weren’t sure if you still wanted to attend Oxford. I was only afraid of losing you. Several times, I meant to write to you and apologize, but I never knew quite what to say.
And here’s the worst of it: Just when I’ve realized what a terrible friend I’ve been, I’m going away. I’ve finished out the semester (which really was brutal), and the children and I are going home to Mum in England. For good, and hopefully in time for Christmas. All except Charlie, who’s resolved to stay here and work the farm. At seventeen, he’s man enough to make his own decisions, but I will miss him. And you.
Will you visit me in England? Promise? Even if you’ve given up on Oxford, I would love to show you around London.
Do send a letter anyway, with all the details you can about the proceedings. I’ve put Mum’s address at the bottom here. I promise to write back this time, although the postal service is criminally slow and it might be Easter before you get it.
Must pack. Chin up, dear; you’ll get through this. I only wish I could be there to help.
All the best,
Olive
Editorial in the Ironside Broadside on December 14, 1944
Dear Editor,
I’m writing to complain about recent coverage of the arrest and arraignment of Johanna Berglund. The case hasn’t even gone before the grand jury, and you’ve all made up your mind on the verdict. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? Those of you who are so proud of yourselves as loyal patriots should remember that American virtue.
I’ve done a lot of thinking the past few weeks. And I’ve realized that maybe there are certain people given to every community. They are the advocates, the idealists, the ones you can’t shush and tell to go along with the way things have been. In movies like Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, we give their parts to actors like Jimmy Stewart because we know they’re heroes. We understand it takes courage to speak up, especially to suggest that your town or your country might be wrong.
That’s what Johanna did, and she’s being punished for it now.
Right now, all we have are a few incriminating documents, which could easily have been planted by the escapees, and the fact that Johanna was one of a handful of people in this town who treated the POWs as individuals. When the court actually looks at the facts, I know they’ll find that all the hubbub is a cluster of skewed facts and out-of-context conversations, distorted by a public hungry for the drama of wartime.
We’re not England, hurried into air-raid shelters and rocked by bombs every night. We’re not France, celebrating the liberation after a long occupation. We’re not even Russia, forced to quarter troops during the freezing winter.
We’re America, an ocean away from the fighting, safe in our own borders, the quietest home front of all. Very little has been asked of us here. But let’s not invent a spy and traitor just for the thrill of a good headline. Let’s not disown Johanna Berglund without first finding out the truth.
Annika Sorenson
Christmas card from Cornelia Knutson to the Berglunds
December 21, 1944
To the Berglunds, but especially Johanna,
I’d wish you a merry Christmas, but that seems rude given all you’ve been through.
It was the same the year after the Crash. So many families were full of doom and gloom that they practically shuffled into the church, singing “Joy to the World” like a dirge, myself among them—Henry and I lost our fair share to the stock market, you know.
Johanna, you would have been only a young girl at the time, so perhaps you don’t remember. I do. Wrote it down in my Bible, right next to the Christmas story. We all watched as gaunt, mourning-clad Anders Sorenson got up to the pulpit, only months after losing his dear wife, and said, “If the only gift we receive this year is Jesus, it will be enough.”
Well, he was right then, and he’s right still.
That McHenry boy refused to print my letter in that worthless rag of his, so I’m sending part of it to you directly, along with this apricot-fig fruitcake (extra bourbon). There are some of us still behind you, the ones who know you and won’t stand for gossip and deception.
You’re one of us, Johanna Berglund. I’ve watched you grow up and feel I know you. You let us hear those boys’ stories, and I don’t know a soul who wasn’t moved by them at one point or another. Maybe you didn’t want to be back in town, one step farther away from Oxford, but I speak for many others when I say we’re glad to have you, and we’ll defend you to the last.
Apparently, people aren’t allowed to apply to jury duty, though. I was turned away by all three government agencies I tried, and they had the nerve to imply that I was biased. Imagine. Me, biased.
Much love,
Cornelia Knutson
Letter from Mayor Carl Berglund to Ironside Lake
Read at the city council meeting and reprinted in the Ironside Broadside on January 2, 1945
To my fellow citizens:
Since protests have led to a nasty town hall meeting, in an effort to keep the peace, I would like to have a chance to speak to all of you without being hollered at.
In light of the recent allegations about my daughter, I have been asked to withdraw from this office. I refuse to do so, not because I have any higher priority than the well-being of my family, but because doing so would reflect doubt in Johanna’s innocence, which I do not have.
If the petition going around town receives enough signatures, as I am told is likely, and the majority of the citizens of this town have no faith in my ability to lead, I will honor the due process of our democracy. But I will not bow to pressure and resign before that point.
My wife and I stand resolutely beside our daughter in the midst of these false accusations. She may have made mistakes—who among us hasn’t?—but I will not here go into a defense of her actions. That will be left for the courtroom and our judicial system, should the case go to trial.
My platform has always been simple: Represent the people. That’s why I supported the prisoners of war as a solution to the labor problem in our county. Last year, representatives from area farms petitioned my office nearly weekly to address the worker shortage, and after months of planning and strategizing, we decided this was the best possible short-term solution. The government funds coming into the city, combined with the recorded surge in productivity from the recent potato and beet harvest, show that this plan succeeded.
Besides the financial benefit, I ask you: Have we not grown richer as a community in other ways through the coming of these young men? I know it’s difficult to remember in the chaos of the past few weeks, but let me remind you.
I have seen some of the most closed-minded and strong-willed individuals in our community come to give unselfishly to these prisoners, hoping that German and Japanese and Italian mothers might do the same for their sons overseas.
I have seen costumed citizens discuss race relations in America, in fragmented English, with the conductor of a prison-camp orchestra . . . and walk away with a burden for change.
I have seen a pew full of boys just like our own sing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” in its original German, alongside Immanuel Lutheran’s choir in English, and it sounded like the praise of many tongues and languages we will hear together one day.
Most of all, I have seen my own daughter learn to stand up for what she believes in, advocating for justice and mercy, especially for our enemies, with a force of passion that I have not managed to equal in all my years of public office.
And just as I have never been prouder to be her father, I have never been prouder to serve as mayor of this fine city. Thank you for the honor you’ve given me to be in that position for the past twelve years.
Carl Berglund
Mayor of Ironside Lake
From Charles Donohue Jr. to Johanna
January 2, 1945
Dear Miss Berglund,
As you requested, here are the highlights from my office’s investigation into the personal life and character of Captain Werner, though I’m not sure there’s anything of use.
Date of Birth: March 19, 1912
Hometown: Frankfurt, Germany
City of Enlistment: Berlin, Germany
Date of Capture: May 13, 1943
Decorations: Iron Cross, Level 2
Your mention of Captain Werner’s competition in the 1936 Olympics intrigued me. I called up a rowing friend from my university days, now a district lieutenant governor of the Amateur Athletic Union. He looked through the records, and no one named Stefan Werner ever participated in an event or was listed as an official German athlete in 1936. It seems he exaggerated his athletic prowess to impress his men, or perhaps you.
A bit of additional investigation, including a vague reference to “experience with film equipment” in the transcript from his processing interview directly after capture in Tunisia, revealed that Captain Werner was likely in attendance at the games as part of the film crew for a documentary, Olympia, directed by the renowned artist and personal friend of Hitler, Leni Riefenstahl. It won a good number of awards and acclaim before Kristallnacht soured the world to Nazi propaganda films. His name is listed in the credits for the cinematography.
Our Captain Werner has quite literally had a closeup view of the best propaganda creation in all of Germany. Frustratingly, he has applied that knowledge to carefully scripting and editing the current legal debacle in which we find ourselves embroiled, and for which we will likely win no awards at all. I will settle for an acquittal.
This, however, is the only moral lapse anyone on my staff can attribute to him, and it certainly doesn’t have the defamatory power I was hoping for. In all military and prison camp documents, his records are spotless. Indeed, everyone with whom he interacted praised him as respectful, well-spoken, and even charming, with an excellent command of English. These are factors that make him the worst possible witness against you, as his manner is likely to play well to the jury.
If this information gives you an idea for where we might go or whom we might add to our list of witnesses to call into question Captain Werner’s character, do let me know. I’m afraid there seems to be quite a dossier of those testifying against yours. You haven’t made this easy for me, have you?
Best wishes for your new year; I hope it will be better than your last.
Sincerely yours,
Charles Donohue Jr.
Clark and Donohue Legal
From Johanna to Olive
January 4, 1945
Dear Olive,
How strange to postmark a letter to England. I’m happy for you and your siblings, and sad for myself. Is this what you felt like when I left to come to Ironside Lake? It really is awful, being left behind. At the same time, I know how much you’ve missed your mother. She’ll be overjoyed to see all of you again.
As for my life, for now it’s just me and a large stack of books. On good days, I wander down to the kitchen and help Mother with dinner, but then inevitably something will remind me of the trouble I’m in—a heap of peeled potatoes, like in the title of my former newspaper column, for example—and I’ll feel that stomach-clenching fear again, paralyzing me.
Even Dad hasn’t been himself lately. He tells me, quite fiercely, that he doesn’t think a thing of the people demanding his resignation. But after someone threw a brick through our window in the middle of the night, I found him in his bathrobe, hurriedly sweeping glass, as if I might not have heard.
“I’m sorry,” I said over and over again. He put his arms around me and told me it wasn’t my fault, but I know it is.
The waiting is wearing on us all.
They’ve set the date for the grand jury for February 27. The dead of winter.
The men of the camp are all back in Algona now until the town decides whether to bring them back next spring. To say it seems doubtful is like saying that the bobby-socks crowd has a slight affection for Frank Sinatra.
I’ve just learned that Captain Werner was a filmmaker before he was a soldier. A propagandist, if my lawyer is to be believed. That would explain his knowledge of terminology that surprised me after the men visited the movies. I suppose it also means you were right all along not to trust him. You can feel free to say, “I told you so.” Everyone else is.
All of this is a bit gloomy. Whenever you get this letter, feel free to reply with all the updates on friends you left behind, and how your dog Webster is doing (he’s rather old now, isn’t he?), and anything small and amusing so I can take my mind off my troubles.
Thank you for being a good friend. And say hello to Oxford for me, from a distance.
Your friend,
Johanna
Article in the Ironside Broadside on January 15, 1944
IRONSIDE LAKE NATIVE AWAITS TREASON by GRAND JURY
The entire nation has been captivated by the sensational news of an alleged home-front spy in our small town. Johanna Berglund’s grand-jury hearing will take place on February 27 in Duluth. If the grand jury returns an indictment, the trial will proceed within a month.
Local officials have cooperated with the FBI and other government officials to gather information on the controversial case, including extensive interviews with army staff and civilian workers at Camp Ironside, currently closed for the winter season.
Miss Berglund’s father, Carl Berglund, is facing a reversal of public opinion. Only weeks after being reelected as mayor, Berglund and the city council received a petition signed by over 60% of voters in last November’s race. In the face of mounting pressure to resign, the city council has determined to meet early next month to discuss next steps, and promises to release a statement at that time. Should Berglund resign, a new election will be held within two months to fill the vacant position. There is currently no official recall process in the state of Minnesota to remove public officials accused of malfeasance, abuse of office, or other crimes, so citizens of Ironside Lake will have to wait to see how their government will respond to these serious accusations.
No press can be present at the grand jury; however, if the case goes to trial, be assured that the Ironside Broadside will report every detail to our reading public.
From Johanna to Charles Donohue, attorney-at-law
January 26, 1945
Dear Mr. Donohue,
Well, now you know all of it. Probably more than I do. If you can think of any additional documentation that would be helpful, let me know, and I’ll beg, steal, or borrow it.
That was a joke, for the record. The stealing part, I mean. I suppose it’s not wise to allude to illegal activity in a letter to a lawyer, is it?
While I’m writing to you, which provides a convenient shield from your probing expression that might weaken my resolve, I want to add that I will not say anything to distance myself from Peter Ito, although I realize why you think it would be helpful for my testimony.
Peter is my friend, the best one I’ve ever had, not a casual acquaintance who shared my interest in language. I realize there are some mildly incriminating passages in our letters that could raise suspicions about either of our loyalties or patriotism, but I know Peter isn’t a spy, and the case against him is so flimsy that it would be foolish for anyone to bring it up as an argument against me and my character. However, given how the press has been prattling about my “Japanazi” love triangle, I’m prepared to admit it may come up, so I wanted you to be aware of how I will respond.
If this case goes to trial, I hope we can raise enough doubt in the minds of the jury that they realize it’s all a smoke-and-mirrors circus act. Better, I’m praying that the lies will stop and this entire deception will fall apart in front of them.
The unanswered question that still bothers me is not knowing why Captain Werner would target me so directly. At our last meeting, you pointed out that I was the only American whose record of defending the POWs would make me open to suspicion. I became—or rather, made myself into—someone with motive, means, and opportunity to aid in a prisoner’s escape. In short, the perfect target from an objective standpoint.
The logical part of me knows this, and yet the planted love letters and Captain Werner’s appearance with me at the dance feel especially spiteful, more than a man grasping at any sensation that might create unrest in the country of his enemies. His malicious lies might well ruin my life, and I have no idea what prompted them.
I’ll admit, one of the reasons I hope the case will not go to trial is so I don’t have to face him again. Watching him being sworn in to testify against me while I’m helpless to protest is a scene that haunts my dreams these days.
Regardless, I’m prepared to answer all of the charges. I will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, no matter what it costs. So help me God.
Sincerely,
Johanna Berglund
EVIDENCE FOR THE PROSECUTION
FROM AMALIE WERNER TO STEFAN WERNER
Note: Found in the possession of Captain Werner upon his recapture after the escape. No indication of any censorship whatsoever. Prisoner claims that the defendant never censored his mail. If possible, subpoena original letter from the defendant to Heinz Werner, the prisoner’s father, referred to in this letter.
July 25, 1944
Dear Stefan,
I’m scribbling this in a hurry—Father’s told me not to write because he’s angry with you, and these days Aunt Karin watches me like the old hawk she is.
He’s done it. Father has joined the Wehrmacht, like he’s been threatening for months now, ever since the factory was bombed and the assembly lines rendered useless. (Did he at least tell you that? I told him he ought to.)
It was the letter from the American woman, Miss Berglund, that pushed him over the edge. Did you know she wrote to Father? I managed to read the letter before Father threw it into the fire. It was a glowing report about how he ought to be proud of you and the work you’re doing there.
I mean no offense to you, Stefan—but you know how that sounded to Father. To him, a letter of recommendation from the enemy is more terrible than a denunciation.
Worse, the letter was opened by the censors. Nothing was removed, but, Stefan, I think we are being watched. Three times, I’ve seen a black car parked just down the street, by the Attenbergers’, and Father came home half drunk last Friday night, raging about some “visitor” who had come to the factory to question him. That’s when he decided to enlist.
Can you imagine, Father, of all people, under suspicion of disloyalty to the Nazi party? Simply because an American woman wrote him a letter? They must be mad.
Aunt Karin is as nervous as my kitten during a shelling, always jumping at shadows. She’s forbidden me to leave my room.
Isn’t there anything that can be done? I’ve already pleaded with Father not to go. Besides his age, he’s injured from the last war, and the man of the house. But no, he storms about quoting Goebbels, Hitler’s Megaphone and your old employer back when you were making films, going on about “total war” and “final and complete devotion.” He’s left Aunt Karin with an allowance from the banks, but what if the value of the Mark plummets as it did at the end of the last war? And what if the police arrest us because they suspect us of corresponding with the Americans? What will we do?
Please, Stefan, when will they release you? Aunt Karin and I are alone in the house, with no one to protect us. We hear the Americans may be coming, or the British, or even the savage Russians. Can’t they let you come home under these circumstances if you solemnly swear not to take up arms?
I’m frightened, Stefan, and I have never felt so alone. Please write as soon as you can.
Love,
Amalie