The photographer, who had a thick, scissor-trimmed beard, moved in closer to me and told me to stand straight and look at the camera, then he took a picture. The shutter clicked. Then clicked again. Each time the camera flashed, I hoped it would bleach out my skin, blot out part of me so the images would eventually show some unidentifiable, nondescript figure. “Good, now take one of us.” Major Oldif stepped next to me, and we shook hands for the next picture.
“Son, I’ve arranged for you to receive the Knight’s Cross for your work on our mission. It’s the highest honor you can receive. We’re going to make a great example out of you, ensign. A Dutch boy does good for the German navy. We’ll put it in the papers to sign up more of your countrymen.”
“The papers, sir?”
“You’re a hero. We’re going to treat you like one.” Major Oldif patted me on the back and led me out of his office. “You keep up your good work.”
I had been up all night thinking of the yellow dog in the water. Hearing it barking. Barking. Barking.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I held back from revealing any of my hesitation. This was something I was becoming an expert at. Still deep down, I doubted everything. And my voice, that voice, my real voice that had not breached the walls of meekness, fear, rancor, and subordination I had boxed myself in with, was still incapable of saying what I really felt then. Weak. Insignificant. It was hard to put into words that smallness, but it made me hate myself.
I had another checkup with the medic that morning and then a mission debriefing after that. At the briefing, Pauwel and I and the other remaining crew members joined in a meeting with a new wave of recruits. Major Oldif stood in front of us and told them all about our previous mission with the Negros. He said it was a great success and what we learned had already begun being implemented by the engineers into upgrades. Then he had me stand, and he told everyone that I was to be awarded the Knight’s Cross. Everyone in the tent clapped for me. Even Pauwel, who still looked pale despite being back on land.
The next day my picture was on the front page of the German newspaper Der Strosstrupp. Major Oldif was quoted praising me, the young Dutchman, as a “credit to his country, whose lead more men should follow and join the German fighting forces.” It talked about the award ceremony to be held for me and mentioned how I couldn’t wait to go back out and fight. It mentioned that from March 16 through the 20th, German naval forces sank twenty-seven Allied ships. “Ensign Koopman was part of our great success,” Major Oldif said at the end of the article.
After we returned, Pauwel moved into my bunkhouse. He hadn’t been able to sleep one night since our mission. I woke in the middle of the night to find him sitting up in his cot, his hands kneading his hair back, tapping some beat on his scalp. Each night Pauwel had been like this, and the deep bags under his eyes were getting darker by the day.
Then, because he was the longest tenured among us, Pauwel got pulled from the midget-sub training group and placed on a U-boat crew that was outbound for a seven-day trip.
“I hope I see you again,” he said before loading onto the U-boat.
The ceremony was set for me to receive my award. Everyone at the base was invited into the tent. There were full steins poured from wood casks of wheat and dunkel beer. Rations of brandy. The cooks made pretzels we dipped in spicy mustard, and we had schnitzel, some of the first meat we’d eaten in a month. I wore my dress blue uniform and was called to the front of the room to stand next to Major Oldif for the ceremony. The major gave a speech about how fine a Dutchman I was and a fine example to other Dutchmen considering joining.
Who would take my lead? If Ludo was alive, as I often imagined him stumbling from the ash of the factory, would he join the Third Reich’s navy because I’d shown him the path? The image of myself being a Dutch hero once the Germans won the war ran through my mind. It wasn’t hard to do with the whole troop of men there to cheer me on. It was the second time in my life I was lauded by a group of Germans. My daydream lifted and dipped on the major’s words. Then I looked out over the crowd of soldiers.
In the back of the room there was a man much taller than everyone else. I squinted to get a better look. He had a German naval hat with the brim low over his forehead and a German jacket with the collar popped up enough that it would have hidden the fine line of tattoo ink I knew rose over his shoulder and up his neck.
Uncle Martin looked right at me, inside of me, at the blood flowing in my veins. Tears started forming in my eyes.
“And so with no further ado, I present our highest honor and these papers of valor signed by the Führer himself, to one of our own, Ensign Jacob Koopman.” Major Oldif clicked his heels together and saluted me. Then he fastened the Knight’s Cross on my chest. It was a large iron cross-shaped brooch with a tree molded into the middle.
“I know. I know,” Major Oldif said and patted my shoulder when he realized I was crying. Then he stepped back and raised his palm up flat to me again.
I looked down at the broad cross, hanging from a thick black and red cut of ribbon. It had small shards of diamonds studding the outer edge of it, which reflected the tent’s overhead lights.
“Face them now, ensign,” Major Oldif said.
Everyone else in the tent stood with their arms raised straight out and over their heads, except for Uncle Martin, whose finger pointed right at me. More fear shot through my body. What decision had I really made? Had he come to kill me? If I pointed to the back of the room and cried out that there was a traitor in our midst, could I save myself—from getting killed, from looking into my past and seeing what had been taken from me since the war began.
The medal lay flat upon my chest, opposite my heart, and hung there like a cold omen. A photographer snapped another picture. If I could have made my own headline at that moment, I would have changed the names, changed the story, changed everything.
Major Oldif led me to several photographers, who took more photos of us shaking hands. Then the major walked me through the tent, introducing me to other officers and telling them my story of downing the troop ship. All that time my uncle circled the tent, probably dropping explosives under each empty seat. Major Oldif handed me a tin cup of dark roasted coffee with whiskey in it, which warmed me on the way down but burned once it hit my stomach.
When there was a break from shaking people’s hands, Major Oldif leaned into me. “You have earned the right to test our new midget submarine. It is called the ‘Beaver’ and should perform better than the Negro. We’ll start testing in a few days.”
My uncle circled the room with a noticeable limp, shifting from corner to corner opposite me. When the major retired for the night, Uncle Martin walked across the room to me. I was surprised all over again at how much he towered over me.
“I thought you may have been smart and run off to save yourself, or even been killed, but it turns out you’re a German war hero now. You’ve got a medal there to prove it.”