March 27, 1918 — The drizzle falling over New York Harbor was the kind that soaked a man without him noticing until it was too late. Karl Boeselager stood at the railing of the SS Albany, collar turned up against the wind, watching the Statue of Liberty fade into the mist. He remembered the statue, in glorious bronze, when he first saw it in the early to mid-1880s. The shine has faded, just as his extraordinary life in the United States has.
The 66-year-old knew he and his wife wouldn’t return. And the confidence in that decision made him incredibly sad. Aside from never seeing Boeselager Stadium again, it was family. In February, Peter told him that he would stay in Philadelphia. Peter was born in Philadelphia, and he was engaged to a beautiful woman from Germantown. He still held a good position at the brewery thanks to Gerrit and had stayed in the background enough to avoid being a target for anti-German sentiment. It broke Sue’s heart, and it certainly didn’t help her declining health.
But Peter would do well. Still, Karl had hoped Peter would continue the legacy of the Boeselager Brewery. Most important, though, would be the mission to find Alois. He hadn’t heard from his son in years, and Karl wouldn’t rest until they reunited.
Before the ship left port, Karl had spent weeks tying off loose ends, seeing old friends, and saying painful goodbyes. But the moment that set everything into motion—the one that forced his hand and sent him on this journey—had come earlier in the year, at his dining room table in Philadelphia.
January 4, 1918, Philadelphia, PA — Gerrit de Groot, Karl, and Walther Boeselager sat in the dining room of Karl’s house. The brothers and their successor were waiting for the fourth member to join them for dinner. Just two minutes late, LBL commissioner Jacob Parker arrived, and after a quick introduction of de Groot and some small talk, Parker presented the news.
“Gentlemen, I assume you expected the severe issue of my visit. We discussed this before, but it is happening. You will lose the ballclub.”
All eyes were on Karl and Walther, who showed no reaction. They saw it coming. First, as a result of public pressure, but Parker stood by their side. Then, in October 1917, President Wilson signed the Trading with the Enemy Act into law. It was just a matter of time.
“I can buy you some time, though. We received a letter from Sir Downing demanding that we hand over your shares to him. Otherwise, he would push for an investigation. Now, he doesn’t know that I’ve read the letter today.”
“What do you suggest?” Walther asked.
“Sell the Brewers and the brewery to Mr. de Groot this weekend. Have something on paper, report it to me via telegraph, and I will officially open Downing’s letter on Monday at noon.”
“Gerrit, does that work for you?”
A nod followed Karl’s question. “Yes. I’m unable to pay you here and now, but we can set up a contract,” de Groot answered with a slight Dutch accent.
“Thank you, Jacob.” Walther’s words were sincere. He knew the commissioner supported the Boeselager’s cause and understood that he also took on a lot of pressure for shielding the Huns’ Ballclub.
“Now, let’s dine,” Karl ended the topic. “Who knows how often we can do that?”
The four discussed baseball, the brewery business, and the plans the Boeselagers had in Europe.
On January 7, 1918, Commissioner Parker received the long-awaited telegram informing the league office that the Boeselager shares of the Philadelphia Brewers had been transferred to Gerrit Hendrik Jacobus de Groot. Parker’s assistant put a stamp on Downing’s letter: Received January 7, 1918. She smiled and looked at Parker. “Mister Parker, what a shame. We can’t proceed with revoking the Boeselager’s ownership right.”
“Indeed,” he said, standing beside her and looking at both papers on her desk. He couldn’t resist a little grin. “Please set up a writing to Sir Downing explaining to him that his letter got here too late.”
March 31, 1918, somewhere southwest of Ireland — Karl and Walther sat in Walther’s cabin with Gerrit de Groot desperately trying to teach him Skat. Usually, they succeeded in teaching Skat to any American within a day, but as much as a genius de Groot was, card games weren’t his strong suit.
“Achtien,” Walther nodded at Gerrit’s bidding.
“Negentien,” Gerrit was cut off immediately.
“Er is geen negentien! The next step would be twenty. Or twintig.”
Due to its proximity to the German border, many people spoke German, but Karl and Walther insisted on learning Dutch. Walther learned quickly, Karl thought, and looked at the Dutch literature he wanted to read but hadn’t touched since they left New York.
Karl leaned back and looked out of the SS Albany’s small porthole. He looked at the convoy’s other ships. Then he stared at the horizon. The light of the setting sun spilled across the sea, bathing the horizon in gold and copper. It reminded him of the beer they used to brew in the old copper kettles.
Out there, in the distance, a brief flicker caught his eye. A glint. A sliver of light reflecting off something just above the waves. It vanished almost instantly, like a trick of the light—or perhaps a seagull’s wing catching the sun. Karl narrowed his eyes but shrugged it off.
He turned back to the table, chuckling as Gerrit shook his head. Once again, Gerrit refused to bid higher than twenty. Surely, Walther would be furious and call him a coward for that. But his thoughts drifted.
It was Gerrit who had made this voyage possible. De Groot had utilized his contacts in Rotterdam and Liverpool to arrange accommodations for Walther, Karl, and his wife, Sue, including all necessary documents to ensure their safe and sound arrival in the Netherlands.
The plan was simple: land in Liverpool, take a train to Harwich, then cross the channel on a Dutch mail steamer to the Hook of Holland. From there, a train would bring them to Heerlen.
The brewery owned by de Groot was doing well. They would quickly inspect the brewery, the staff, and the ingredients, but Karl and Walther were confident that both sides would win.
Trading breweries would benefit De Groot more due to the bigger market, but the Boeselagers now had a chance to start over. De Groot mentioned that his biggest clientele were mineworkers and the pubs they would enter after a tough shift of crawling in the deep Limburg mines. And their biggest adversary wasn’t another brewery; it was the mining companies, with the support of the Catholic church, trying to keep the mineworkers in check.
But that was something to worry about when they got to Heerlen. First, they had to complete the most dangerous chapter of their adventure: Crossing the Atlantic. In two or three more days, they could get off this ship.
He turned back to the porthole one last time. The sun was lower now, just above the horizon. Again, something flashed. This time, a narrow ripple. A shimmer. Was it the curve of a wave? A floating bottle? Or…
Before he could finish the thought, the ship lurched violently. A thunderous explosion shattered the calm. Screams erupted from the hallway, and cards scattered like feathers as the table overturned.
Something hit Karl’s head hard. Blurry vision. Smoke. Fire. Sirens. Voices yelling in German, Dutch, and English. Karl stumbled and dropped to the floor.
Torpedoes.