From Dust and Ashes (4 page)

Four

MAY 6, 1945

H
elene slid her trembling fingers through Anika’s shoulder-length hair, amazed at the feather lightness of the silken strands. Golden hair. Just like her own.

Helene considered weaving the hair into tiny braids, but she knew it wouldn’t stay. The slightest touch, even a gentle breeze, would unfurl it until it flapped like flaxen banners across the girl’s cherubic face.

Anika remained motionless as Helene tied her hair back with a pink ribbon.

“There you go.” Helene set the soft-bristled brush on the table. As she rose from the kitchen chair, apprehension in her chest made breathing a chore. Try as she might, she couldn’t fool herself into pretending today was just another day and their outing simply more errands.

“Come, love.” Helene lifted the pot of milk she had thickened with stale bread. She placed it into a large picnic basket along with some bowls and spoons. “The hungry need food … and your smile.” Yet even as Helene said the words, she didn’t want to consider where they were actually going.

The moment Helene stepped out the door, she longed to dart back into the safe womb of her home. The world inside was warm and protected. Outside was chaos.

Dozens of old men, women, and children wandered the streets, many with hands in pockets, looking as if their destination was still being considered. What creatures of habit those in her village had become. Was it so difficult to remember how to think and act for oneself?

The sky was slightly overcast, but the air was warm. As Helene walked through the SS housing units, she was sure she saw a curtain flutter. Then another. People were watching her, like always. She had never truly fit in with the other SS wives. Some of them wore fine clothes pilfered from the inmates. She’d heard that a few wives of the higher officers even had lampshades made from human skin. The thought made her ill.

A jeep drove by with an American driver, and Helene noticed the curtain nearest the road fall. She understood the fear. For so long, men in German uniforms mounted on horseback or riding in automobiles had reigned over the village. They had become as natural to the landscape as the wide Danube River. Now who could the villagers trust?

Helene walked beyond the SS housing into the village, which had barely changed over the centuries. She passed quaint cottages made of brick and garden spots that had been tilled for generations. It was a small town, where every person considered his neighbors as family.

The basket grew heavy on her arm. She clutched Anika’s fingers with her free hand and slowed her pace. Ahead, under a pear tree, Alec Weis stooped to pick up a piece of fallen fruit. The sun sparkled against his pure white hair. Not many months before, villagers had scurried through the fields before dawn picking the ground clean. Among other mandates, orders had come down that all fruit must be taken away from the fields and gardens before 6 A.M., lest the numerous prisoners being driven through the fields find even a scrap of nourishment.

And now,
liberation
. The word was so sacred she dared not speak it aloud. The German soldiers’ terrorizing faces had changed to the appalled American ones.

Yes, this is real
, Helene had wanted to tell the small group she’d witnessed from her window upon the discovery of the camp.
Welcome to our nightmare
.

Anika tripped over a small stone in the path, then righted herself. Mr. Weis tossed the fruit back to the ground and shuffled up the walkway to his cottage. Perhaps he did not know what to do without SS uniforms to mend.

Helene considered how the people in the village had been forced to feed, clothe, and house the guards. What else was there to do but comply?

But now things were different. Now something could be done.

Just this morning a red-haired American solider had approached Helene as she’d hurried back from the store. “In their freedom they cry for food,” he said in German. Then he moved on, continuing his plea through the streets.

Finally
, Helene thought.
Something I can do
.

She tried not to think of how Friedrich would react to the idea of his wife venturing into the camp to offer help. He considered her too timid. But Friedrich was not around.

Helene could not fool herself into thinking she was not afraid. Her trembling body revealed the true feelings of her soul. Yet greater than her fear was the sense of urgency to help those people. And with Anika at her side, she knew no one would dare confront her for the coward she’d been all these years.

“Anika, child,” Helene said softly, “stay close to Mother.”

“Guten Tag.”
Helene nodded to a soldier as she entered the camp. She gawked at the hillsides outside the gate. Amazingly, they appeared just as green and beautiful from inside the barbed wire. Helene couldn’t decide if it was better or worse to suffer in the midst of such beauty.

The American soldier who’d spoken to her earlier approached and lifted the cover of her basket. The scent of warm milk drifted from the pot inside.

“You’re the first from the town to bring food,” he said in German. “Danke. Can you bring more later?” His green eyes pleaded even more than his words.

“I’ll see what else I can find.”

The soldier peered down at Anika with concern, then turned back to Helene. “Come, I’ll take you to the women.” His voice quivered as he led the way. “They’ll be grateful for this.”

Helene glanced around. “Will we be safe?”

“Things have settled down. The prisoners are cooperating. Of course, if you’d rather not …” Helene couldn’t make out the rest of his words as he led her across the noisy compound.

They rounded the corner of a now-empty administration building, and Helene stopped abruptly. A narrow brick structure rose before her. Her heart rate quickened as she recognized the tall chimney that extended above the camp. Helene had seen that smokestack exhale smoke and a fine white mist every day for years. Today it stood cold and empty.

As she drew closer to the center of camp, Helene noticed a large pile of—something. Her stomach wrenched. Bodies. Stacks of them. Left by men who in their haste were unable to hide the evidence of their crimes. Rats gnawed at the bones. She used her clean white apron to block her daughter’s gaze. Anika pushed it away. Her eyes grew wide.

Helene pulled her daughter along as she caught up with the redheaded soldier.
What have I done, bringing my little girl here? I should have just left the food at the gate
.

But before she had a chance to walk away, Helene saw them. Hordes of people huddled in groups, leaning on each other for support. Alarm surged through her at their emaciated appearance. She inched closer to the soldier.

The sound of her shoes on the gravel caused many to turn her direction. Or was it the smell of food?

Helene stared at the ground, attempting to ignore their feet … their hands … their faces. How pitifully thin they were.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and willed her nauseated stomach to calm. A scrawny hand reached for her. Helene’s own hand trembled as she filled a bowl with warm milk and handed it to the woman. As she started to scoop more, she noticed a group in the back who seemed weaker, more in need. She took Anika’s hand and proceeded in their direction. The girl’s tiny fingers clamped down tight.

Another woman stretched a thin hand from the ground and gently touched the hem of Anika’s dress. “A child,” the woman whispered. “A real child.”

Anika offered a tenuous smile, then turned to gaze at some people sitting along the barbed-wire fence.

Helene’s first instinct was to gasp at the frail, skull-like faces and bony arms. Then she noticed one woman speaking gently to a younger one, most likely a teenager, who was curled up in a ball next to her. The woman was probably in her twenties, like Helene, but her gaunt face made her appear much older. Her thin hand stroked the teenage girl’s equally thin shoulder. Her warm eyes caressed even deeper.

Helene approached the two women, but a strong hand grasped her arm. She looked up to find the redheaded soldier.

“They might be too weak to even eat,” he warned. “We gave some of the women in this area meat and bread yesterday.” The GI lowered his gaze. “It killed them.”

Helene hesitated, but only for a moment. “Warm milk for you,” she said to the woman. She lowered herself to the ground and pulled Anika onto her lap. Then she scooped up another bowl.

“I’ve been praying.” The woman’s hands trembled as she took the bowl and spoon. Slowly she lifted the spoon to the teenager’s mouth. “Here, Lelia, eat.”

A knot formed in Helene’s throat as she grabbed another spoon. “I’ll feed her. You feed yourself.”

The woman lifted the spoon to her mouth and took a small taste. Her eyes closed and a euphoric smile lit up her face. “Oh, milk. Warm milk. And a spoon.” She took another sip. “How long it’s been since I used a spoon.”

Helene felt suddenly embarrassed by her rounded figure. She lifted the spoonful of milk to the teenage girl’s mouth. Cracked lips parted, and Helene struggled to keep her hand from shaking. Even worse than the helplessness she’d felt over the years was the desperation she felt now. There must be something more she could do. She had to help these women.

“Good?” Anika asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Quite good,” the woman said in a voice too beautiful for this place. “You, little angel, make Michaela very happy.”

Without thinking, Helene blurted out, “Would you come home with us? We could better care for you there. I live close by.”

The woman’s eyes grew dim. “Lelia is ill. I’m not sure she would survive being moved. And I mustn’t leave her. I promised long ago I’d take care of her.”

Helene stroked the woman’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to the American. The one who speaks German. Surely he can help.”

Turning to search the crowd for him, Helene was surprised to see he was not more than a few feet away and had obviously overheard.

“I will help.” He looked at the women with compassion. “Of course.”

With the aid of the American soldier, Helene fed others too. Hands stretched toward her as the food ran out. “There’s no more,” she explained. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to come back.” She packed up her bowls and spoons in the basket, then returned to the two women by the fence.

“Where do you live?” the soldier asked, taking Anika’s hand. Surprisingly, Anika let him. He lowered his voice. “Do you really want these women to go home with you?”

Helene suddenly felt foolish for her hastiness. How could she take these women to the SS housing? What would the American think if he knew who she was married to? And what if the women knew? Helene tried to think fast, avoiding the soldier’s questioning gaze.

“My home is not suitable, but I have another place in mind. I can be back in a few hours after preparations are made. I will bring more food with me too.”

“Danke,” the redheaded soldier replied.

Helene took Anika’s hand from his, caressing the girl’s fingers with her thumb.
“Komm mit
. Come, we must make room. Let’s go talk to your grandfather, shall we?”

A look of desperation crossed the face of the woman by the fence.

“I will be back,” Helene reassured her. “I promise.”

When she was halfway across the courtyard, Helene looked back at the women one last time. As she did, she seared the picture of them into her mind. For their sakes, and for Anika’s, she would return to the place she had been forbidden to go. For them, she would approach the man she no longer had the right to call Father.

Five

MAY 6, 1945

T
he small town of St. Georgen bustled with activity as new American troops rolled into town. Only a few hours before, as she had left the Gusen subcamp, Helene discovered numerous soldiers setting up their tents and supplies just outside the concentration camp gates. Many of the GIs marched through the town in uniform, their olive-drab shirts and trousers dotting the streets. Tanks rumbled over the bridge along the outskirts.

From the town center, Helene could see the large yellow house in the distance. Once used as an inn for travelers, during the war the house had been converted into a storehouse for military supplies. Emptied just weeks ago by the retreating SS, only the man who lived there before the war still remained. It was this man she now sought.

Helene clenched her fingers into tight fists. Her hands seemed empty without Anika’s grasp. She thought about the neighbor who’d finally agreed to keep Anika for the afternoon.

Katharina’s round face had been blotchy, her nose red. “The Americans came. They said we only have two hours to move out. They’re clearing out all SS housing.”

“Why would they do that?” Helene asked, bewildered.

“The American army needs space to house their men. What better place for their soldiers to occupy than their enemies’ beds?”

Helene stared at Katharina, unable to think.

“I’m sure they will be at your house next. But you, at least, have your father to live with—if he will take you back. Where am I to go? How will I feed my children?”

Helene hated leaving Anika with the frantic woman. But after all she’d witnessed that morning at the camp, she thought it best for her daughter to remain in a familiar setting. There was no way to know what she was about to face by returning to the former inn. For years now, the silence between Helene and her father had widened the chasm between them, until only regret and heartache filled the gaping valleys.

She had heard little about her father’s activities during these last few years. “He is well,” the grocer had told her occasionally. She supposed the Germans had been supporting him in exchange for use of his space. But what would he do now? Would he reinstate the gasthaus? It seemed only logical. If so, perhaps he would need an extra hand … and if he couldn’t love her as a daughter, maybe he could benefit from her help as a hard worker? It was these hopes that had brought her here.

Helene started up the walkway leading toward the house. Tufts of new grass poked through the cracks between the large stones. She placed a foot on the first porch step. It was more worn than she remembered. The paint had peeled, and a subtle sway in the step reminded her of the curve of a mare’s back. She touched the metal handrail, warm from the sun. Could she really do this?

Two creaky steps up, Helene hesitated. In the far right corner,
MUTTI
was carved into the wooden beam.
Mama
. In her mind’s eye, Helene saw herself as a girl of eight. With her light hair falling around her face, she’d painstakingly shaped each letter with a dull knife. Her mother, who had been sick for many years, had breathed her last on that cold October day.

Helene stared at the carved letters a moment longer. Then she continued on, her fingers trailing along the delicate purple clusters hanging beside the steps. She took a slow breath. The air carried the smell of lilacs and river breezes. Sweet, moist scents. It smelled like home.

“Father’s flowers,” she murmured. Her heart missed a beat as she noticed tall weeds choking the once-beautiful garden beside the house.

She examined the windows for any sign of movement . The drapes were drawn. Helene tried to remember how long it had been since she’d seen the top of her father’s hat and his slow gait as he strolled through the streets. Two weeks? Three?

She had often secretly watched him from afar. But where had he been of late? She realized now that she hadn’t seen him since the SS emptied his home of their supplies. She cursed her stubborn pride and hurried up the remaining steps, her low heels clicking on each one.

Helene paused with her hand on the doorknob. How natural it seemed to simply twist the knob and enter, even though she hadn’t done so for five years. Helene’s heart felt drawn to the door and the home beyond. This was what she’d been missing. This place and that man.

She raised her fist and knocked. Nothing.

She tried again, louder. Finally, she noticed a stir in the drapes. Then the door rattled open.

Arms wrapped around Helene before a word could escape her lips. Her well-practiced plea for forgiveness was forgotten as tears overtook her. Her cheek rested on her father’s shoulder. Her arms clutched his tall, thin frame. Wool scratched her cheek, and she breathed in the scent of his familiar shaving foam.

“Papa,” Helene managed to choke out, and she wondered how she’d ever faced this horrible war without his embrace.

“Shh,
mein Tochter
, my daughter.” His voice caught in his throat. “It is over,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Welcome home.”

Helene felt the embrace loosen slightly. She took a step back and peered into his face. The familiar gray eyes looked tired, his cheeks pale. His smile was tentative-far from the broad, happy one she remembered.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t listen,” she said. “You were right about him. About them.”

Her father raised a hand. Then he limped through the door, as if too weary to stand and listen to her confessions.

She was forgiven. From the first glimpse of him she had known that, felt that.

“Come inside,” he called. “We have much to prepare. I heard about the Allied soldiers taking over the SS housing. A wagon will be here soon to help move your things. This is why you have come, is it not? To move back here?”

“Actually …” Helene started. But her father was already moving farther inside.

Helene followed him into the quiet house. The same family photos graced the walls. The same furnishings adorned the rooms. The same musty scents filled the air.

New to the landscape was a pile of potatoes in the hallway that reminded her of a tall anthill. She stepped around them.

Her father’s arm intertwined with hers as if only days, not years, had passed since their last meeting. He led her to the high-backed sofa and urged her to sit.

“First, we talk.” He settled on the couch beside her as if the ticking of minutes didn’t matter.

“What are all those potatoes for?” she asked.

Her father ran a hand over his wrinkled face and stroked his thin white mustache, a habit she remembered well. “I have been collecting for the camp all morning. Most people gave me something just to get me off their doorstep.” He shook his head. “Things are not good there.”

“I know. Katharina told me hundreds of barrack leaders have been murdered since the gates were opened. She’s afraid to leave her house, yet she has no choice.” Helene pulled her arms tight around her. She thought of her own trip to the camp. A shiver traveled down her neck. She hadn’t realized how daring she’d been, or how foolish.

“The camp officials knew what they were doing by placing German criminals in charge,” her father said. “The barrack leaders took great pleasure in doing the dirty work. Killing for the sake of killing. But do you think the SS guards concerned themselves with the fate of the barrack leaders? No, only their own.” He pointed a finger into the air. “Now the swine are finding little mercy.”

Her father rose from the sofa, his voice rising with him. “I heard most tried escaping into the woods, but they were all found. It is amazing what strength the nearly dead can find in the name of revenge.”

Years ago Helene had ignored her father’s prattling, shrugging off his enthusiasm and his efforts. Now she stared at him in awe. He was, and always had been, a man of principle and action.

“What next?” Her father raised his hands, palms up. “Who will they turn their weapons on now? The prisoners are angry and have every reason to be. The violence will continue if we do not help.”

He crossed to the hallway and plucked a potato from the stack. “You should see the countryside. Prisoners from the camp have robbed the farms, killing animals for food. Two men came by this morning with Angora rabbits from a neighbor’s cages and wanted to cook them here. How could I say no? They were half starved. So we all had rabbit stew, ja? But this is only the beginning.”

Helene watched him roll the potato in his hands, surprised at how thin and aged they had become. “I took some food to the camp this morning. I plan to take more later.” She searched his face for a response. “I never agreed with what they did. I tried to talk to Friedrich, but he wouldn’t—”

Her father flinched at the sound of her husband’s name. “Ja, ja, good. We will work together now.” He pulled back the drapes to look outside.

Helene picked up his blue jacket from the armrest. She rubbed its fabric between her thumb and fingers. The cloth was thin and worn. The past five years had been even harder on him than she’d imagined.

She stood, weighing the tension that hung in the air between them. Yes, she was forgiven. Yes, they could move on and help others. But as Helene replaced the jacket, she considered what she and her father could have accomplished together.

“How is my granddaughter?” His voice interrupted her thoughts. He turned from the window and beheld her face.

“Anika is fine. Beautiful. Many people from town say she’s like me when I was her age.”

“And how are you?” The gentle manner in which he spoke overwhelmed her. Gone was his humanitarian air. The man standing before her was simply her father. And she had hurt him deeply.

“Mir geht es gut
. I am well.” She noticed him staring at her stomach. “I am due to have my second child in a few months. Friedrich may be back by then, though I do not know what to do if …” She paused, ashamed for again mentioning his name in this place.

“And until then?” He tossed the potato back onto the stack and limped to the coatrack, where he lifted his hat from the hook. “Until then you need to come home. I will help you get your things.”

“Wait.” She touched his arm, taken aback for a moment at the strong emotion the brief contact produced. “There’s not just me. Not just Anika and the baby. I’ve offered … I’ve offered to care for two women prisoners from the camp.”

Helene didn’t know what she expected from her admission. She knew her father would agree. He was that type of man. But she hadn’t expected the broad smile that crossed his face, causing the worry lines to disappear.

“My daughter has indeed returned. Komm, let us get your things and then prepare the house. We will have many to feed and care for.”

Helene hurried into her house and shut the door. Her father’s friend had brought a wagon around, and in an hour’s time they had loaded most of her things. There were only a few more items she needed. But she knew she didn’t have much time before the U.S. soldiers arrived to claim her house.

She surveyed the nearly empty living room and kitchen. For years this had been her sanctuary. The first home that had been all hers. The windows, where bright white curtains had fluttered, were bare. The hardwood floors appeared naked without the colorful rugs scattered across them.

Some items Helene refused to take. On the counter rested Friedrich’s radio, a gift from his captain when he became SS
Untersturmführer
. It was still tuned to the official Nazi station. Even now she could imagine Wagner, Hitler’s favorite composer, blaring over the airwaves.

The high-backed white chairs remained assembled around the table, reminding her of the pale boys in Hitler’s Youth. Those chairs had been Friedrich’s too. She’d never cared for their modern style.

An unsteady mixture of emotions swirled through Helene at the thought of leaving. She had become a lover and a mother in this place. It was also here where she’d experienced some of her darkest nights, waiting for her husband’s return from the camps.

Helene walked to the window. She looked beyond the crisscross pattern of her fence to the long, metal railroad tracks and the town beyond that. Behind her, out of view, was the camp.

Helene moved toward the desk. It would have to stay. Father’s inn had little room for extra furniture, and the shed in the backyard would fill up fast. Still, she needed to sort through the items inside. As Helene reached for the first drawer, she noticed a corner of a photo peeking from beneath the desk lamp.

Lifting the lamp revealed a picture of a young boy in front of a small cottage. Helene picked up the photo. Behind the boy and the cottage, large mountains rose straight up from the fields. On one peak, the tower of a castle spiraled into the sky. Helene used her finger to wipe dust from the boy’s toothy grin.

Helene recognized that smile. She turned the picture over, and a handwritten name confirmed her guess. Friedrich. Where had this photo come from? And why hadn’t she seen it before? Outside, trucks rumbled down the road. She couldn’t worry about that now.

Helene slipped the photo into her apron pocket, then packed other pictures and several important-looking papers from the desk drawers into a small satchel. As she finished, she noticed a piece of paper on the floor where her rocking chair had sat. She picked it up, blew off the dust, and realized it was some sort of handwritten map. A pencil line was drawn from St. Georgen through Germany into Switzerland, then to Italy. Was this Friedrich’s escape route? Had he made it to Italy?