Do you ever think before opening a door? To stop and consider that you are putting your life at risk every time you leave the relative safety of indoors and brave the streets outside?

Most don't. Most people don't have to.

Abigail Kinchloe had to ask herself that question several times a day.

Detroit was called the arsenal of democracy but to the colored population of city, Detroit felt more like a ticking time bomb. The whole city had been on edge ever since the walkout by the white workers at one of the large plants after being told that they would have to work on the same line as Negroes. The tensions between the races had never been higher and Abigail knew that every time she stepped outside she was a potential target simply because of the color of her skin.

Abigail laid one hand on the doorknob as the other pushed aside the curtain of the store where she worked the closing shift to look outside. There was a large crowd gathering on the street outside and to her eyes they looked agitated.

Debating whether it was smarter to hurry home now or wait for the crowd to disperse, Abigail didn't like either of her options. However, her boss made her decision for her when he walked into the front room. "Don't go out there," Martin ordered. "John called and said a rumor is flying around the bars that a white mob threw a colored women and her baby off a bridge."

Shock and rage rose equally within her. "Is it true?"

"Wouldn't surprise me if it was," Martin spat. "It wouldn't matter to that crowd; they are looking for blood. There's already fighting out on Belle Island."

Biting her lip, Abigail agreed with Martin's reasoning but she also knew that knew that if she didn't get home soon her oldest brother, Matthew, would come looking for her. Matthew worried her because he carried in him so much hate over the way their people were treated. If things on the street turned violent, Matthew would not stand by and watch.

At that moment, Abigail was not ashamed to admit that she wished her other big brother was with her. For James had the ability to calm his older brother down, to make her feel safe, to help her see the good in the world when things looked bleak but James wasn't here; he was rotting away in some Nazi POW camp facing untold dangers of his own.

Abigail would have to look out for herself.

As Martin locked and bolted the door, Abigail drew the curtains closed on the storefront windows. After the lights were turned off, the two of them waited in silence praying that the violence wouldn't reach the business or their homes.

That hope was short lived as the raised voices on the streets turned to shouts and then screams as sounds of fighting echoed throughout the night.

The crowd outside had turned into a mob.

Martin grabbed Abigail by the arm and pulled her under the counter. As they hid, anger became Abigail's companion. This was crazy! Her brother was currently a prisoner of war after fighting their real enemy and here she was hiding from Americans! They were supposed to be on the same side! Or not, a voice in Abigail's head whispered. Perhaps, Matthew was right and James was wrong. Perhaps, there was no point in risking your life for a country that would take it without a second thought.

There was a war going on and people were dying not from the Japanese or the Nazis but from fighting each other.

It was a chilling thought to realize that at least for tonight her brother was safer in Germany than she was in America.

A loud crash broke Abigail from her thoughts. Someone must have thrown something through the window. Holding back a cry, she drew her knees tight against her chest and tried to remain still.

Martin looked like he was forcing himself to remain in hiding as the mob looted and trashed his store. In that moment, Abigail was proud to work for the middle-aged man, admiring him for his courage. Their merchandise could be replaced, their lives couldn't.

Suddenly, the counter they were hiding under caved in as looter attacked it with a baseball bat. Rolling to her left to avoid being trapped, Abigail jumped to her feet and found her herself as the object of hate of men without a hint of mercy in their eyes.

Two men jumped Martin while a third grabbed her wrist and dragged her across the room. Determined not to go quietly, Abigail starting screaming and kicked out with her feet to try to get the man to loosen his grip. Her actions only seemed to further infuriate the man and he shoved her hard against the wall.

Out of corner of her eye, Abigail saw Martin slump to the ground. Not knowing if her friend was dead or unconscious, her fear turned to rage as she brought up her right knee and hit her attacker with all her strength between his legs.

The man doubled over in pain but somehow managed to mention a tight grip on her wrist.

Wrenching her hand out of the man's grip, Abigail heard something snap. Crying out in pain, she cradled her broken wrist. The other looters began to move to her attacker's aid so Abigail turned and jumped through the broken store window and ran out onto a warzone.

Smoke from burning cars filled her lungs as men used fists and clubs to hurt each other. Both races were attacking each other with reckless abandon while destroying property without a care to which side it belonged to.

Every instinct in her body telling her to flee, Abigail turned down a side street and tried to put as much distance between herself and the mob as possible. She didn't make it far before she bumped into a group of white sailors on the prowl for more victims.

Summoning strength and endurance that she didn't know she possessed, Abigail raced past the rioters as they shouted insults and pelted her already bruised body with rocks. Tears born of pain and fear began to roll down her cheeks as she prayed, Lord, save me! Don't let me die!

But as soon as the prayer left her lips, Abigail found herself lying flat on the pavement with a throbbing pain in her skull and blood trickling down her face. Trying to push herself to her feet with her one good hand, she almost threw up as her head refused to stop spinning. After struggling to remain conscious, Abigail succumbed to the darkness – a victim of a war fought not in some foreign land but on the streets of her hometown.

A battle of the barracks was taking place in Stalag Thirteen as Colonel Hogan had wrangled permission out of Klink for a camp-wide soccer – or football as their European comrades insisted on calling it – tournament. Barracks Two was doing well; they beat Barracks Ten in their first match and were currently tied with the boys of Barracks Six.

Grinning as he twirled the ball he had just caught in his hands, Kinch punted the ball to Addison who had a clear path up the field. Unfortunately, a midfielder came out of nowhere and stripped Addison of the ball and passed to a striker who was running up the field

Newkirk, who was playing sweeper, managed to put enough pressure on the man that his shot was an easy stop for Kinch.

Breathily heavily, Kinch questioned again why he had volunteered to play goalie. He was getting out of shape spending a lot of his free time minding the radio. But as LeBeau and Davis had a great give and go that resulted in a scoring chance that was stopped only by the goal post Kinch had to admit that he was having a lot of fun.

Falling into his preferred stance, Kinch watched carefully as the ball slowly made its way back toward his end of the field.

At of the corner of his eye, Kinch noticed a car make its way into camp. He tried to keep his attention focused on the field but when he saw who got out of the car and he immediately forgot that he was in the middle of a game. Kinch only realized that the ball was in the back of his net when Barracks Six suddenly burst out in loud cheers.

"Kinch, mate, you're supposed to catch that," Newkirk called out unhelpfully.

More concerned about this visitor than the game, Kinch gestured for Newkirk to turn around. "We have company."

The color drained from Newkirk's face as he saw who Kinch was referring and it wasn't because he was looking at a drop dead gorgeous woman.

"That's Berlin Betty!" Carter exclaimed as he jogged over to his teammates.

LeBeau responded with an insult in French that Kinch didn't care to translate.

Hogan, who had been designated the referee of this tournament, announced to the restless men. "The match is postponed. We'll pick it up later."

Newkirk turned to his superior officer, a rare hint of pain in his voice. "I wouldn't do it again, sir. I refuse."

"Easy, Newkirk, you won't have to," Hogan reassured the anxious corporal. "We don't need to use her and, if she tries something, we'll stop it."

Kinch hoped that Hogan was right because his gut was telling him that Berlin Betty hadn't shown up for a pleasure visit.

Klink was beside himself; it wasn't every day that he received a visit from a goddess. So as Berlin Betty glided into his office, he jumped to serve her. "Welcome. Welcome. Can I get you anything to drink? A smoke? Something to eat?"

"No thank you," Betty replied as she studied the room.

Desperate to please, Klink kept pushing. "Would you like for me to send for Corporal Newkirk?"

Berlin Betty sat down on Klink's chair and responded dismissively, "Who?"

"The man you interviewed during your last visit."

"I do not do reruns. I am here to speak with a different man. I want you to send for a Sergeant Kinchloe."

Shocked, Klink could not understand why out of all his prisoners this woman thought had asked for this one. "Sergeant Kinchloe is a…" Klink hesitated, embarrassed to correct such a highly influential party leader. "A Negro."

Betty was unfazed. "That is why I need to speak with him

"But!"

"I am very aware of the party's stance toward the lesser races. However, that does not mean that we cannot use them to achieve our own ends"

Klink furrowed his brow. "I do not see what use this man could have. His own country has similar opinion of his race as our Fatherland. Though, of course, we are not foolish enough to let them fight."

Betty sighed. "Where is Sergeant Kinchloe from?"

Klink tried to remember but, clearly impatient with the military man, Betty answered her own question. "Detroit; the so called arsenal of democracy. A city that turns out more planes and tanks for the Allies than any other. Who do you think works in those factories?"

Realizing what Betty was implying, Klink answered, "Negros."

"Exactly. If we can turn the Negro against their white masters we can put a serious dent in their war production."

"But how?"

Betty smiled. "That is the easy part. The Americans are doing the hard work for us. I do not have to do anything but share the news."

As Kinch was escorted into Klink's office he failed, even though he had overheard Berlin Betty's conversation with Klink thanks to the coffee pot, to understand why that Nazi woman wanted him. Did she really think that she could say something that would make him turn traitor?

Alone the office with Berlin Betty and a sole guard who stood in the back of the room, Kinch sat down in the vacant seat in front of Klink's desk and prepared himself for what was to come. He had fooled many officials over the phone since he had come to Stalag Thirteen. Now, he was getting a rare chance to play the game face-to-face. He could do this.

Berlin Betty smiled her best smile as she began. "Sergeant, or shall I call you James. I think we should be friends."

It was difficult not to be disarmed by that smile. No white woman had ever looked at him like that before. If Kinch hadn't just heard her say to Klink how she planned to turn him against his own people and if he hadn't known how had she had manipulated Newkirk's emotions that last time she was in camp he might have been tempted by her sweet seductress act.

"Sorry, but you're not my type. I don't go for Nazis."

Betty was unfazed. "Now our records say you are from Detroit."

"Staff Sergeant James Kinchloe. Serial number: 16249153."

"No need to start that. I am just trying to make friendly conversation."

"Then why did you start with a question?"

"I believe I made a statement. You interpreted it as a question."

"Then you already know the answer," Kinch stated firmly.

Berlin Betty looked surprised. "You are surprising intelligent for one of your race."

Kinch figured that those words were supposed to be a compliment but if Betty kept this up she might not be that difficult to resist after all.

Sensing that she was losing control of the conversation, Betty changed the topic. "I see that you do not trust me. Perhaps this will convince you that I am not your enemy." Reaching into her bag, Betty pulled out a copy of the Detroit Free Press and laid it on the top of Klink's desk.

Trying to take a page out of Hogan's book, Kinch replied, "The only thing you've convinced me is that you have spy in Detroit with no taste. The Detroit News is the better paper."

"Read it."

Even though Kinch knew it was what Betty wanted, his curiosity got the best of him as he leaned over and picked up the paper. But instead of looking at the front cover, he flipped straight to the sports section. He needed to know first if the paper was authentic. While he suspected that the Nazis would have known to make sure the baseball information was correct, he doubted that they would have looked up the name of the reporter on the amateur boxing circuit. Only when he saw that the column was in the right location with the right reporter's name by it, did Kinch look at the front cover.

The lead story was about a strike at the factory where his father and brother worked because three colored men had been promoted to work on the same line as white workers. While it made him angry, there was nothing in the story that he found particularly shocking. He had grown up in Detroit. He knew very well what the white population thought of Negros who lived there.

Knowing that Hogan and the others listening in would want to know what was going on, Kinch said, "A bunch of white workers went on strike when they tried to integrate a factory. Am I supposed to be surprised?"

Berlin Betty's answer was to pull out a second newspaper; this one was dated three weeks later. Kinch immediately noticed the picture of the front page as imagine of cars burning and the sight of men fighting with each other on a street he used to walk down everyday took his breath away.

Riots in Detroit – his home. Fearful for his family, Kinch reached for the paper needing to know how bad things had gotten.

Recognizing that she had Kinchloe right where she wanted him, Berlin Betty snatched up the newspaper and read the most damning snippets aloud. "Three days of riots. Thirty-four dead. Four hundred and thirty-three wounded. Colored men pulled from streetcars and beaten on their way home from work. Eighteen hundred arrests. Business destroyed, cars burned. The military sent in to regain control. The NAACP blamed."

Setting down the paper, Betty rose and walked around to the front of Klink's desk. Leaning forward so that her hands were resting on the arms of his chair and her face was just inches away from Kinch's own, she made her move. "Your hometown is burning, James, and your country dares to say that Germany is evil. Consider this: you are safer in a POW camp than in your own hometown."

Kinch swallowed; he was letting this woman get to him. No, he couldn't blame this on Berlin Betty. She was just the messenger - an opportunistic messenger - but she was still just a messenger.

He knew who really at fault for the riots and that was what hurt most of all.

However, nothing could have prepared Kinch for the news he heard next.

"Our agent managed to get inside the hospital that treated most of victims. Does the name Abigail Kinchloe mean anything to you?"

Barely able to breathe, Kinch's mind immediately filled with worry. There was no way Betty would have dropped his sister's name without knowing that they were related. But the question was could he trust anything that this woman said?

Kinch's worry must have shown on his face because Betty glanced at him like a cat looking at the mouse trapped in her claws. This time she produced a photograph which Kinch quickly took. It was picture snapped of a medical record – his sister's medical record.

While Kinch read the details, Berlin Betty repeated them, "Miss Kinchloe is suffering from a concussion, broken wrist and extensive bruising."

Kinch tried to picture the sight of little sister lying in some hospital bed, beaten and battered and failed. Abigail was a grown woman but at moment all he could think of was a pig-tailed little girl who followed him around. He was her big brother. He should have been there to protect her.

Determined not to show emotion in front of this woman, Kinch forced himself to remain calm.

Betty, however, was not fooled as she kept pressing. "Your own country is the reason your sister was beaten. You own country did nothing to stop your people from being killed and then blamed them for starting the violence. Your own country watched as businesses owned by your friends and neighbors were burned."

Each word was like a knife to his heart. All of her words were true.

Then Betty twisted that metaphorical knife. "Your country said, let me quote, 'I'd rather see Hitler and Hirohito win than work next to a nigger.'*

"Let me ask you something, James. If your own country would rather live under German rule than work your kind, what is stopping your people from letting that happen?"

Unable to keep the pain from his voice, Kinch asked, "What do you want?"

"Nothing difficult," Betty purred. "Just a little speech, addressed to your people. Tell them that you are treated fairly by your German captors while they are being killed in streets of Detroit. Tell them who their real enemy is and encourage them to stop supporting the American war effort. James, all I am asking is that you tell your people the truth."

Berlin Betty was making too much sense and that made Kinch uncomfortable. But fortunately his work in Germany had left him well aware that the Nazi Party's opinion of his people was not any better, if not worse, than the average American's.

Forcing his anger and his pain down, Kinch stated, "Sounds tempting except for one problem. Your party doesn't look too fondly on my people."

Berlin Betty looked every bit the true believer as she explained, "The Führer understands that it not possible for the master and lesser races to live together in peace. So we do not lie and claim that you are equal. Instead, we will set up a world where each race can live separately from the others in peace. Our policy has worked out wonderfully for the Jews."

That last sentence banished any temptation Kinch had about doing what this woman wanted. For no one knew what had happened to the Jews who used to live in Germany. They had all just disappeared and where supposedly living out east somewhere but no one ever heard from them. He shuddered to think of something similar happening to his people.

Looking Berlin Betty in the eye, Kinch gave her his answer. "Do you know what will happen if I give your speech? I do. My people hear it but they won't do anything. They need those jobs to survive and the word of one soldier won't convince them to give those jobs up. But the whites who live in Detroit will take my words seriously. They will see all coloreds as enemy collaborators and the riot that will follow will make this one look like child's play.

"You can tell me anything you want but I won't put my family and my people in more danger. It doesn't matter what I want, I can't give your speech."

By some miracle, Kinch's words convinced the Nazi of his sincerity. "Very well, Sergeant," Betty replied all sweetness gone from her voice. "I hope you can sleep at night knowing that you are wearing the uniform of your worst enemy. If you change your mind, Klink knows how to contact me."

Dismissed, Kinch quickly left the office and walked back to Barracks Two with a heavy heart. When he opened the door, he saw his commanding officer and his fellow prisoners all staring at him with looks of concern on their faces.

Hogan walked up to his friend. "Kinch, I'm…"

"Don't," Kinch snapped. "Don't try and understand." Then without another word, Kinch walked over to his bunk, hit the latch and descended into the tunnels.

Kinch knew that he shouldn't have snapped at this friends but the last thing he needed was to put up with well-intentioned sympathy from people who would never be able to understand. They all thought that Berlin Betty's news was an awful tragedy but Kinch knew better; it was another battle in a long and bloody war. When the war with Germany and Japan was over, his friends could go home and celebrate while he would return to the never-ending war between white and colored.

A war that never changed, regardless of what his people did.

Yet, as Kinch slumped down to the ground in a private corner of the tunnels he was unable to bring himself to cry. His pain was a pain beyond tears, beyond grief. It was the pain of an entire people who had lived through centuries of slavery and oppression. It was the pain of a young boy who had been forced to learn that the world hated him not because of anything he did but because his skin was dark.

Kinch had been a fool. How had he ever believed that joining the military would make a difference, that it could show the world that his people were worthy of respect? For all joining the military had accomplished was leaving those he cared about the most unprotected from at evil at home.

The rational part of Kinch's brain knew that his presence likely wouldn't have changed anything. The riots still would have happened and, if he had been there, he probably would have been in the hospital bed next to his sister.

But that didn't change the fact that his sister had been hurt and he hadn't been there.

Here Kinch was, voluntarily spending out the war in a prison of war camp, risking his life to serve in a rescue and sabotage unit. His actions saved lives – lives of white men – but the nature of the operation meant that the world would never know. They would never know about the sacrifices he had made or the lives he had saved.

In the end, his actions would do nothing to change his nation's attitudes toward his people.

It didn't matter how many doors he opened in search of freedom while the door of equality remained firmly shut.

However, in the midst of Kinch's pain there was one slight flicker of hope: his sister was alive. If Abigail had died, Betty would not have hesitated in sharing the news of her death. Still he would worry until he held a letter written by her in his hands.

Knowing that he couldn't hide forever, Kinch decided to hold onto to the hope and walked back down the tunnel. When he turned the corner, he saw Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter all sitting there, waiting for him to return.

Humbled by this simple sign of their friendship, Kinch was struck by the thought that while his friends might never be able to understand his predicament, they still were willing to be his friends.

Perhaps, he was wrong. Perhaps, things could change. Perhaps, his bond with these white men meant that while he wouldn't change hearts of a nation, he could change the hearts of men – one heart at a time.

As Kinch rejoined his friends, they exchanged no words. They didn't have to. Their presence told Kinch that they would stand with him no matter what. They would support him as they fought the war in Germany and the war on home front – together.

Author's note: The Detroit Race Riot happened on June 20-22, 1943 and it is a fact that the Axis powers used the riot in propaganda pieces to try and convince African-Americans to sit out the war.

*This quote is reported to have been said over the loudspeakers before the walkout by white factory workers.

Source: Wikipedia