sincerely believe that there’s a Nazi underground working in this country, and for all anybody knows, it could be working right here among us.”
Inside the store I saw that the only activity was over by the hardware. Three farmers were lined up in front of a counter.
My father called for Chester. The black man in his gray porter’s jacket came running from the back storeroom. “Yes, sir, Mr. Harry?”
“Chester, go bring up all the twelve-gauge shotgun shells we’ve got.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Harry.”
Two men wearing striped ties and business suits came in the door and headed directly towards my father. I followed them.
“Mr. Bergen?” asked the older of the men as he flipped open a small leather case.
“Yes, sir, I’m Harry Bergen.” My father came from behind the counter to shake hands with both men. “What can I do for the FBI today?”
“I’m John Pierce. This is my partner, Phil McFee. We’rehere investigating the escape of the prisoner from the POW camp.” Pierce handed my father a black-and-white glossy photograph. “Do you have any recollections of this man?”
“Once,” said my father, “some POWs were brought in here to buy things, but I didn’t pay much attention to what those rats looked like.”
Pierce pointed to the photograph. “Look carefully, Mr. Bergen. Reiker may have been acting as interpreter for the others.”
“Oh, you know, there was one.” My father nodded his head up and down. “He was a kinda smart aleck, that one. Tried to joke with me, but I told him right off I wasn’t interested in making jokes with Germans.”
Pierce struck the picture with his index finger. “Is that the man who tried to joke with you?”
“Well, he might be the one. I’ll tell you fellows the truth, I didn’t pay much attention to what he looked like. There was one thing I remember. Don’t know if it’ll help you boys much.”
“What?” asked Pierce.
“He talked in a funny way, pretending to be a Harvard boy instead of a convict.”
“And there’s nothing else?”
“No, sir. I sure wish I could be more helpful to you and Mr. Hoover ’cause he’s one of the two greatest living Americans. The other one’s General MacArthur.”
McFee, who looked as though he hadn’t gotten comfortably settled into his twenties yet, allowed his chest to swell to enormous proportions. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your saying that.”
Pierce crossed the store to show the picture to my motherand Gussie Fields, who shook their heads in unison. Then Sister Parker was asked to take a look. She said No and was about to return the photo when she gave a second, more thoughtful appraisal. “You know, he looks a little something like the man Mr. Bergen’s girl waited on.” Sister Parker turned to find me only a step behind. She held Anton’s picture aloft. “Patty, isn’t this that German you were talking and laughing with?”
The eyes of the FBI were upon me. I asked, “Is it all right if I look?”
The older agent took the picture from Sister Parker’s hand and gave it to me. As a precaution against the shakes, I let my hand rest against the top of the counter. “Well, this might be the same prisoner I waited on. It looks like it could be him only I don’t remember his hair being so dark.”
“Why didn’t you say something before now?” asked McFee. “You’ve been following us since we entered the store.”
“I have a right to be in this store if I want to. It’s my father’s store.”
“You were laughing with him,” pressed McFee. “Did he say something funny?”
“No.”
McFee’s face came in close. “Then why did you laugh?”
“I laughed because—because—” The dam that kept my tears back sprang a leak. “Because he didn’t know what to call a pocket pencil sharpener.” I hid my eyes in my hands, letting the sobs come at will, regulating their own intensity and volume. Sister Parker put her arm around me, giving me little now, now pats to my
Inside the store I saw that the only activity was over by the hardware. Three farmers were lined up in front of a counter.
My father called for Chester. The black man in his gray porter’s jacket came running from the back storeroom. “Yes, sir, Mr. Harry?”
“Chester, go bring up all the twelve-gauge shotgun shells we’ve got.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Harry.”
Two men wearing striped ties and business suits came in the door and headed directly towards my father. I followed them.
“Mr. Bergen?” asked the older of the men as he flipped open a small leather case.
“Yes, sir, I’m Harry Bergen.” My father came from behind the counter to shake hands with both men. “What can I do for the FBI today?”
“I’m John Pierce. This is my partner, Phil McFee. We’rehere investigating the escape of the prisoner from the POW camp.” Pierce handed my father a black-and-white glossy photograph. “Do you have any recollections of this man?”
“Once,” said my father, “some POWs were brought in here to buy things, but I didn’t pay much attention to what those rats looked like.”
Pierce pointed to the photograph. “Look carefully, Mr. Bergen. Reiker may have been acting as interpreter for the others.”
“Oh, you know, there was one.” My father nodded his head up and down. “He was a kinda smart aleck, that one. Tried to joke with me, but I told him right off I wasn’t interested in making jokes with Germans.”
Pierce struck the picture with his index finger. “Is that the man who tried to joke with you?”
“Well, he might be the one. I’ll tell you fellows the truth, I didn’t pay much attention to what he looked like. There was one thing I remember. Don’t know if it’ll help you boys much.”
“What?” asked Pierce.
“He talked in a funny way, pretending to be a Harvard boy instead of a convict.”
“And there’s nothing else?”
“No, sir. I sure wish I could be more helpful to you and Mr. Hoover ’cause he’s one of the two greatest living Americans. The other one’s General MacArthur.”
McFee, who looked as though he hadn’t gotten comfortably settled into his twenties yet, allowed his chest to swell to enormous proportions. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your saying that.”
Pierce crossed the store to show the picture to my motherand Gussie Fields, who shook their heads in unison. Then Sister Parker was asked to take a look. She said No and was about to return the photo when she gave a second, more thoughtful appraisal. “You know, he looks a little something like the man Mr. Bergen’s girl waited on.” Sister Parker turned to find me only a step behind. She held Anton’s picture aloft. “Patty, isn’t this that German you were talking and laughing with?”
The eyes of the FBI were upon me. I asked, “Is it all right if I look?”
The older agent took the picture from Sister Parker’s hand and gave it to me. As a precaution against the shakes, I let my hand rest against the top of the counter. “Well, this might be the same prisoner I waited on. It looks like it could be him only I don’t remember his hair being so dark.”
“Why didn’t you say something before now?” asked McFee. “You’ve been following us since we entered the store.”
“I have a right to be in this store if I want to. It’s my father’s store.”
“You were laughing with him,” pressed McFee. “Did he say something funny?”
“No.”
McFee’s face came in close. “Then why did you laugh?”
“I laughed because—because—” The dam that kept my tears back sprang a leak. “Because he didn’t know what to call a pocket pencil sharpener.” I hid my eyes in my hands, letting the sobs come at will, regulating their own intensity and volume. Sister Parker put her arm around me, giving me little now, now pats to my
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