From Dust and Ashes (30 page)

“I told her to keep every one of my letters,”
Friedrich had told Helene once.
“And I have no doubt she will. They’ll be important someday … important for the children.”

Henri provided more information. He spoke of Mrs. Völker’s kindness and simple lifestyle, and Helene felt sorry for not meeting the woman sooner.

“There has to be something in those letters,” Arno spouted like a man possessed. “I will show them I am no fool!”

Although Füssen was no more than a two-hour drive from Landsberg, heavy traffic and hordes of displaced persons clogging the road made it much longer. Füssen, Arno explained, was a small town in southern Germany near both the Austrian and Swiss borders—thus a perfect escape route for anyone trying to leave the country.

Before they reached the town, an American checkpoint loomed before them. Helene’s fingers tightened around the door handle.

“Don’t even consider it.” Arno pushed his jacket to the side, displaying his gun.

Helene returned her hand to her lap, feeling utterly hopeless.

When they stopped, Arno handed over their papers. The American soldier scanned them. “Everything appears to be in order. Thank you, Mr. Reichmann,” he said, motioning them forward.

“Mr. Reichmann?” Helene asked after they were down the road.

Arno fluttered his hand in the air. “At your service.” He clicked his tongue. “Poor Friedrich. He’s rotting in jail, and soon I’ll be the one with everything he’s worked so hard for.”

Henri spoke up from the back, where he sat with Anika. “I don’t understand. Why all the lies? I thought you were working for Friedrich. Trying to help him. Trying to save his life. You said he was only detained for a while.”

“I told you last night, there will be no more discussion,” Arno snapped.

“You won’t hurt Friedrich’s mother, will you?” Henri asked.

Arno snorted. “Of course not.”

“Or his wife? His children?”

“Nein! Once I get what I want, we’ll all be happy.”

Helene grimaced at Arno’s lies.

A few minutes later, the old Audi pulled up in front of a small cottage.

As Helene climbed out of the car, the view overwhelmed her. When they were first together, Friedrich had told her about this place, but his stories of childhood poverty hadn’t portrayed the enchantment of the region. Two breathtaking castles overlooked the small valley. Just down the road a quaint stone church rested in a pasture filled with blooming wildflowers.

The cottage looked like something from Anika’s book of nursery rhymes. Helene knew immediately it was the house from the photo. The one where young Friedrich had spent his childhood days.

“Those letters contain the clue to where the treasure is,” Arno said again. “A code. Encrypted messages. Something.”

He pushed her forward. Helene balanced Petar on her hip. Anika stood close by her side. She took a deep breath and knocked. Arno stood behind her, Henri beside him.

“Smile pretty,” Arno whispered in her ear.

The door opened and a young man answered. Tattered clothes hung on his thin frame. Helene instantly knew he was a camp survivor. In addition to his appearance, she could see it in his sunken eyes.

Arno must have known too. He pushed past her and barreled through the door, shoving the man backward. The two men tumbled to the floor.

From somewhere in the house a young woman let out a scream. “Niklas! Please, don’t hurt him!”

Helene turned to Henri. An expression of horror crossed his face. She handed Petar and Anika to him. “Here, take them. Run to the car.” Then she darted into the room, refusing to be a bystander any longer.

Arno had the man pinned to the floor. Helene ran up and kicked him as hard as she could. “Get off!”

Arno hardly flinched. He shook the man beneath him. “Where is she? Where is the old woman?”

“She … she was ill. She could hardly move when we arrived. She died,” the man choked out. “We tried to help her.”

Helene searched the room for something to stop Arno. She spied the young woman huddled in the corner, hands over her head. Another survivor.
Dear God, help
.

“You filthy vermin Jew!” Arno snarled, slugging him in the jaw.

Helene grabbed a chair, but Arno had already released the man, running to the woodstove. He crouched before it, staring into the flames. “What did you do?” he wailed. Helene noticed piles of letters. Some in stacks. Others crumbled. Some simply ash.

“How many did you burn?” Arno croaked.

The man shook, wiping blood from his lip. “I … I am not sure. We had no wood for the fire, only those papers.”

“How many?” Arno repeated, his eyes red as a mad bull.

“A few dozen? A hundred, maybe.”

“A hundred?” Arno moaned. “One of them could have held the answer!” He pulled the gun from his belt and pointed it at the man’s head.

“No!” the woman in the corner cried.

“No!” Helene echoed. She ran to the man, clinging to him.

“Get out of the way!” Arno yelled, lowering the gun. “Now!”

“No. I will not let you do this.”

He aimed the gun at Helene. “Fine. You are no use to me anymore.”

A shot exploded through the room. Helene clutched the frail man, every muscle in her body tense. A man’s voice screamed. It took a second for Helene to realize it was Arno, squealing in pain as his gun clattered to the floor. He crouched in the corner, cradling his bloody elbow.

Helene lunged for the pistol. A tall figure stood in the doorway, light framing his form. Helene aimed the gun, then faltered when she recognized the uniform of the United States Army.

“Whoa, now,” the man from the doorway called, lifting his hands in surrender.

She lowered the gun, her hands trembling. The soldier stepped toward her and gently took the gun. She recognized him. It was the same one who had visited weeks ago, bringing gifts from Peter.

He took Arno’s pistol from Helene and tucked both guns into his belt. Then he yanked Arno from the floor.

“My arm,” Arno cried, releasing a stream of obscenities. “What did you do to my arm?”

Helene gasped at the gaping wound. Then she remembered her children. She ran to the door and let out a sigh of relief. They sat safely in the army jeep with Henri.

“Mutti,” Anika called, reaching her arms toward her. Helene ran to her children.

The GI yanked a screaming Arno into the daylight. The young man and woman staggered behind. Helene went to them, giving each an embrace. Their thin bodies reminded her of Michaela and Lelia when she first found them at the camp.

When Arno was secure in the jeep, Helene gave the soldier a hug, then stepped back. “Thank you. You saved us.” She stroked Anika’s head as the girl clung to her leg. “I’m sorry, but I forgot your name again.”

“Clifton,” he said with a tilt of his cap. “Dan Clifton.”

“Oh, yes, the music major. The soldier who was going to be stationed by that castle,” she said, pointing toward the mountain. “But I don’t understand. How did you know I was here and that I needed help?”

“I’ve been stationed at the checkpoint for a couple of days. I happened to be walking up when your car drove past. I recognized you immediately, and you didn’t seem happy. I followed, but lost you. Then this boy flagged me down, saying there was trouble with a former SS.” Clifton scratched his head. “What are the odds that I’d walk up at that moment? Someone must be watching out for you.”

Helene’s hands trembled. She kissed the top of Petar’s head. “Oh, Someone is.”

Thirty-Six

AUGUST 15, 1945

O
utside the cottage, Helene helped Anika gather wildflowers to put on her grandmother’s grave. King Ludwig’s castle cast a shadow over them as they strolled through the swaying meadow. Helene snuggled Petar on her hip. She couldn’t help but wonder about her mother-in-law. How had she felt about her son? Had she known of his imprisonment? Did she realize how those castles on the hills had given him such a lust for treasure?

Later, in the cool of the afternoon, Helene sat in the small bedroom and watched Petar and Anika as they napped. She wondered if this was the same bed Friedrich had slept in as a child. The room was obviously his. And it looked as if his mother had changed nothing since Friedrich had left for SS training. A small sling hung on a nail. A boy’s cap dangled from a peg. When had her husband changed from the innocent boy in the photograph to a vengeful, hostile man?

Niklas, the camp survivor, shuffled through the doorway with a pile of letters. “These are just a few of your husband’s letters. There are more under the bed.”

If Arno was right, and some clue to mysterious riches was hidden within those pages, Helene was determined to find it. She had to know what treasure had caused her so much grief.

“Thank you, Niklas,” Helene said, taking the pile. “How’s your wife?”

“She sleeps,” he said, smiling. “I will go get more of the letters for you.”

Helene spent the rest of the day stacking the letters into piles, trying to find a clue. Because of Anika’s song, Helene was most interested in letters where Friedrich made mention of operas by Wagner. She quickly discovered all of those letters originated from Vienna.

When she had sorted them all, Helene had found twelve letters that held the most promise. They were all dated within a three-month window of when Friedrich worked as a clerk for the Nazis. She read them each a few times, but nothing stood out. She read one again.

Dear Mother
,

As you may have noticed, I have been drawn to Wagner operas as of late. They are a favorite of
der Führer
also, and I often search the private seats in hopes he might be present. I have been to 17 operas and have yet to see him. But I keep searching
.

Last night as I watched a drama called
The Ring,
I finally made the link between the Jewish race and Niebelungs, the demons and goblins, and their lust for gold. I know you think it is wrong to link people according to race, but I have found the symbolism relevant. As a clerk I record everything Jewish-owned that would provide value to the Reich. Personal items, jewelry, furniture, even Swiss bank accounts. The greedy Jews live like kings while many of our own starve!

Helene rubbed her face. She’d been given a glimpse back to view the shaping of her husband’s soul, and it wasn’t pretty. She read some more. From there, Friedrich wrote about many trivial things. The price of bread. His weekly paycheck. The number of people attending certain events.

As Helene studied the letters more closely, she noticed something peculiar.
They all deal with numbers
. And the numbers were written numerically, not spelled out. She studied a few more letters, ones that didn’t deal with Wagner. In those, numbers were written as words.

Helene grabbed a fountain pen and began writing down the numbers, until soon she recognized a pattern. She thought back to the map, with the route into Switzerland. She recalled the address in Chur, a Swiss town.

It could only mean one thing. Immense treasure, securely hidden where no one would think to look.

AUGUST 20, 1945

Helene sat across the desk from Captain Standart. She’d returned to Linz, leaving her mother-in-law’s house under the care of Niklas and his wife. Henri, who had no family and had grown up idolizing Friedrich, decided to remain there also.

Captain Standart shuffled the papers in front of him. “Well, Mrs. Völkner—Helene.” A smile tipped his lips. “You were right.”

“Which means?”

“Your husband was a brilliant man. He had planned to escape through Switzerland. As you guessed, the address you found on that map led us to a Swiss bank. And the numbers from those letters … they led to over a dozen accounts.”

The captain stood. “We believe your husband planned to use his friend, Mr. Schroeder, to help him withdraw the funds, believing it would be too suspicious for one man to extract from so many accounts alone.”

“What will happen now? Can the rightful owners be found?”

“Due to the secrecy of these accounts, we can’t say yet whether the owners survived the war, or if they can be reached. But the matter has been turned over to the proper authorities, and you can be sure the money will not fall into the wrong hands.”

Helene wondered how many letters had been burned. How many other people had been affected who would never be identified?

Captain Standart leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Now, is there something we can do for you? For all your help?”

Helene tilted her head. “Actually, I was hoping you would say that. Do you have connections with the Red Cross stationed in Poland?”

“Poland?” He sat up straighter in his chair.

“Ja. You see, I have a friend there who needs help.”

“A friend? I was talking about helping you.”

“And I thank you for that.” Helene tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But you see, she is in need of a building to hold church services and—”

He laughed. “Slow down. Write down all the information and I promise to check into it.” He leaned back and opened his desk drawer, pulling out a stack of papers. “Young lady, you never cease to surprise me. I assumed you’d ask for this.” He placed the papers on the desk in front of her.

“I don’t understand,” she said, seeing her name and her children’s names printed on the first page.

“It’s a visa for the United States. Our country welcomes you.”

Helene’s eyes widened. “Really? I’m allowed entry? But how?”

“Sergeant Scott asked me to check into it after the brick incident.”

Peter
. Her chest constricted just thinking about him. His help continued to reach her even now.

“If you’d like, I can have someone take you back to Gmunden, and you and your children can leave from there. It shouldn’t take more than a month to make the arrangements.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Speaking of which, where are your children?”

Helene laughed. “My ever-faithful friend Rhonda is caring for them. I’m thinking about hiring her as a nanny.”

“You realize,” the captain said, lowering his glasses, “you could have hired a private nanny and bought much more with the money from those accounts.”

“I know.” Helene shrugged. “But I’ve been taken care of time and time again by a God who can provide more security than any Swiss bank account.”

Captain Standart nodded. “You have indeed.”

Peter hurried to the office. He had just jumped into his jeep, preparing to make another pickup of prisoners, when a soldier waved him down. “Scotty, you have a phone call. It’s urgent.”

In his time in the military, Peter had come to learn that a telegram may be bad, but a phone call was life changing.

Peter picked up the receiver, his heart pounding. “Hello? Peter Scott here.”

He’d been so convinced it was Helene, calling to say that something had happened to one of the children, he was caught off guard when another female voice broke through the static.

“Pete? Oh, Pete, is that you?” The woman sobbed over the line. “He’s gone, did you hear that he’s gone!”

With the word
Pete
he realized who it was. “Andrea?”

“I didn’t even get to see him. I should have found a way to get there.”

Peter felt as if someone had just punched him in the ribs. He gripped the receiver with both hands.

“Pete, are you there? Can you hear me?”

“I’m here, Andrea.”

“You saw him at the hospital, didn’t you? He wasn’t that bad, was he? He wrote and said he was fine.”

Peter rubbed his eyes. What could he tell her? What words could he offer? His throat felt thick and tight. “Yes, I saw him. He couldn’t stop talking about you. About how much he loved you. How much he wanted to see you again.” He hated himself for not letting her know more sooner. “Oh, Andrea, I had hoped … I would have been there if I’d known. When did you find out?”

“Just today. I was visiting my cousin in Minnesota for a month, and there was a package when I returned. A box of all his stuff. He’s been gone a couple of weeks, Pete.” He could hear her trying to maintain control, her breath coming in gasps. “Why didn’t I feel it? We loved each other so much; you’d think I’d know when his soul left the earth.”

Peter pictured Goldie’s face and the wave of his hand the last time he saw his friend. Neither had known it was a final goodbye. The phone grew loud with static, then became clear again.

“What can I do?” Peter asked. “Anything—just tell me.”

“Visit his grave in Belgium. Can you do that? Pray over it for me. Tell him I love him.” Sobs overtook her. “I … I have to go, but I need to tell you one last thing. I don’t understand it, but maybe you will.” He heard the rustling of papers, then her voice again. “There’s a note here from the nurse. She wrote down his last words.”

Peter held his breath.

Andrea’s voice grew distant. “It says, ‘Tell Pete I beat him home.’” The static increased. Peter stared at the phone through a blur of tears, but she was gone. The connection was broken.

“You always did have to win, didn’t you?” He sobbed into his hands.

The sun had just begun to set when Peter pulled up to the Henri-Chapelle American Cemetery not far from Bastogne. Peter stopped near the chapel to read a plaque.

1941–1945
IN PROUD REMEMBRANCE
OF THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF HER SONS
AND IN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO THEIR SACRIFICES
THIS MEMORIAL HAS BEEN ERECTED BY
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA