The Christmas Train to Ft. Lincoln by Ursula Vogt Potter
It was seven days before Christmas in 1941 that Karl Vogt was taken from his cell in the Spokane County Jail in the state of Washington to a waiting train car. This car was filled with men from all over the West who had also been arrested on December 9, 1941, two days after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and two days before war was declared between Germany and the U.S.
These men shared a common ancestry---they were all German nationals; most were legal permanent residents of the U.S., who had been wrested from homes and occupations and taken to county and city jails in Los Angeles and San Francisco, California, Portland, Oregon, Seattle and Spokane, Washington and other western communities. Now the train was heading for Bismarck, North Dakota, to a place called Ft. Lincoln where a new type of holding facility was being established---an enemy alien internment camp.
As Karl looked out through the open door of the train car, a slight flurry of snow was visible in the afternoon sky. "Armin will be happy," he thought. "Four year old boys love snow, especially at Christmas time." Then the stricken faces of his family swam into his memory again, making him feel almost nauseous. "No," he thought, "Christmas will be a sad time for my family this year."
"Sir! Sir!" a persistent voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you all right? You look very pale."
Looking up, Karl saw two kind eyes staring at him across the aisle. "Hello. My name is Heinrich Hoffmann."
"Karl Vogt. I am pleased to meet you. Is it Father Hoffmann?" Karl responded, noticing the gentleman's clerical collar.
"Yes, I am a priest, albeit a misplaced one. I was only intending to visit America for a few months. Now going home looks somewhat hopeless."
"Where is home for you, Father?"
"My most recent home is the Vatican. I am part of the library staff there. I was studying the library system here when I was picked up by the F.B.I. Oh, oh, don't be impressed," said Dr. Hoffmann noticing Karl's surprised look. "My status is evidently not lofty enough to remove me from this mess! And you, my son, where is your home? And do you have a family?"
"My wife, my brother and I own a farm near Plaza, Washington which is about 20 miles south of Spokane. I have two children---a son who is four years old and a daughter who is just a baby---she turned one this fall."
"Tell me why you are here, my son. I look around me and I see no one who looks the least bit dangerous, and you look the least dangerous of all!"
With that encouragement, Karl poured out his story to this kind listener. He told him how three F.B.I. agents came to the farm on the afternoon of December 9 and accused him of engaging in un-American activities. How when asking them what these un-American activities were, they said something about his having sent money to Hitler---a ridiculous allegation! How after searching the house from top to bottom, all while Elsie, his wife, and his two children wept uncontrollably, they hauled him off to the Spokane County Jail where he was mug shot and fingerprinted---like a common criminal. How he was left to languish in the jail without advice from counsel of any kind. How his wife was only allowed one short visit with him during this time, and now he was on this train going to some place in North Dakota---and it was almost Christmas!
By this time the fellow sitting next to Father Hoffmann had awakened and had heard with great interest most of Karl's story. "Sounds like what happened to me.---Hello, I'm Erich Braemer from Seattle.---Only difference---my wife, Mimi, cried while my daughter-in-law, Helene cussed those guys out royally. Would you believe that Helene's husband, my son, Fred, is in the U.S. Army Air Corps----and now I'm being hauled off to an internment camp?!"
As the train slowly made its way to Ft. Lincoln a special friendship grew between these three men, and this friendship seemed to spread throughout the whole car. Men shared their stories. They had very similar stories---some more tragic than others, but the core issues were essentially the same: they had been wrongfully accused; they had been denied legal counsel; they had been embarrassed and humiliated; they were victims of wartime hysteria. Now it was nearly Christmas and they were being taken away from the warmth of family circles; away from the respect and goodwill of their neighbors; away from the magic of Christmas trees and gift giving. These miracles of the season would be denied to them, but the true gift of Christmas would flame as brightly as ever. God would visit them through new friendships.
When the train finally crept into Bismarck, North Dakota and stopped, the men disembarked from the train, and as they walked throught the snowy landscape to Ft. Lincoln, they heard music in the distance. They were not the first people to arrive here after all! A group of men was standing just inside the gates---near the haunting outline of the guard tower. They were singing:
From Heav'n above to earth I come,
To bring good news to everyone!
Glad tidings of great joy I bring,
To all the world we gladly sing!
These men shared a common ancestry---they were all German nationals; most were legal permanent residents of the U.S., who had been wrested from homes and occupations and taken to county and city jails in Los Angeles and San Francisco, California, Portland, Oregon, Seattle and Spokane, Washington and other western communities. Now the train was heading for Bismarck, North Dakota, to a place called Ft. Lincoln where a new type of holding facility was being established---an enemy alien internment camp.
As Karl looked out through the open door of the train car, a slight flurry of snow was visible in the afternoon sky. "Armin will be happy," he thought. "Four year old boys love snow, especially at Christmas time." Then the stricken faces of his family swam into his memory again, making him feel almost nauseous. "No," he thought, "Christmas will be a sad time for my family this year."
"Sir! Sir!" a persistent voice interrupted his thoughts. "Are you all right? You look very pale."
Looking up, Karl saw two kind eyes staring at him across the aisle. "Hello. My name is Heinrich Hoffmann."
"Karl Vogt. I am pleased to meet you. Is it Father Hoffmann?" Karl responded, noticing the gentleman's clerical collar.
"Yes, I am a priest, albeit a misplaced one. I was only intending to visit America for a few months. Now going home looks somewhat hopeless."
"Where is home for you, Father?"
"My most recent home is the Vatican. I am part of the library staff there. I was studying the library system here when I was picked up by the F.B.I. Oh, oh, don't be impressed," said Dr. Hoffmann noticing Karl's surprised look. "My status is evidently not lofty enough to remove me from this mess! And you, my son, where is your home? And do you have a family?"
"My wife, my brother and I own a farm near Plaza, Washington which is about 20 miles south of Spokane. I have two children---a son who is four years old and a daughter who is just a baby---she turned one this fall."
"Tell me why you are here, my son. I look around me and I see no one who looks the least bit dangerous, and you look the least dangerous of all!"
With that encouragement, Karl poured out his story to this kind listener. He told him how three F.B.I. agents came to the farm on the afternoon of December 9 and accused him of engaging in un-American activities. How when asking them what these un-American activities were, they said something about his having sent money to Hitler---a ridiculous allegation! How after searching the house from top to bottom, all while Elsie, his wife, and his two children wept uncontrollably, they hauled him off to the Spokane County Jail where he was mug shot and fingerprinted---like a common criminal. How he was left to languish in the jail without advice from counsel of any kind. How his wife was only allowed one short visit with him during this time, and now he was on this train going to some place in North Dakota---and it was almost Christmas!
By this time the fellow sitting next to Father Hoffmann had awakened and had heard with great interest most of Karl's story. "Sounds like what happened to me.---Hello, I'm Erich Braemer from Seattle.---Only difference---my wife, Mimi, cried while my daughter-in-law, Helene cussed those guys out royally. Would you believe that Helene's husband, my son, Fred, is in the U.S. Army Air Corps----and now I'm being hauled off to an internment camp?!"
As the train slowly made its way to Ft. Lincoln a special friendship grew between these three men, and this friendship seemed to spread throughout the whole car. Men shared their stories. They had very similar stories---some more tragic than others, but the core issues were essentially the same: they had been wrongfully accused; they had been denied legal counsel; they had been embarrassed and humiliated; they were victims of wartime hysteria. Now it was nearly Christmas and they were being taken away from the warmth of family circles; away from the respect and goodwill of their neighbors; away from the magic of Christmas trees and gift giving. These miracles of the season would be denied to them, but the true gift of Christmas would flame as brightly as ever. God would visit them through new friendships.
When the train finally crept into Bismarck, North Dakota and stopped, the men disembarked from the train, and as they walked throught the snowy landscape to Ft. Lincoln, they heard music in the distance. They were not the first people to arrive here after all! A group of men was standing just inside the gates---near the haunting outline of the guard tower. They were singing:
From Heav'n above to earth I come,
To bring good news to everyone!
Glad tidings of great joy I bring,
To all the world we gladly sing!
posted by Ursula at 6:11 PM
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