From Dust and Ashes (5 page)

Helene turned the paper over, noticing an address in the upper-right corner. PBC, 7002 Chur. Chur? That was a city in Switzerland. What would he be doing there?

She stuffed the map in with the other papers, then left the desk, ignoring the bottom drawer altogether. She already knew what was inside: watches, pendants, and a pearl necklace. Trinkets Friedrich had acquired from the camp. Items she refused to wear. Just the thought of them made her stomach queasy.

With hurried steps, Helene moved to the smaller bedroom on the second floor and rifled through Anika’s things. She put small garments for the baby into the satchel, then tried to think of what else she might need.

It all seemed unreal. Helene had to remind herself this was actually happening. Life would never be the same.

She moved on to the larger room. Friedrich’s uniform shirts still hung from hooks on the wall. She grabbed one and stared at the bed.

When she’d announced her pregnancy with Anika, she thought things might be different. Friedrich had been overwhelmed and awed at the thought of being a father. He had discussed his own father’s death at an early age. He’d even shared stories about his kind mother.

That night, he’d knelt before her, his head pressed to her stomach, and wept. “I want to be a good father. But I cannot bear to bring a child into this awful place. We will go away. We can start fresh somewhere else.”

She’d been hopeful that night, and even in her dreams she’d imagined sailing away from the control of the Nazis.

Yet when Friedrich awoke the next morning, it was as if those words had never been spoken. He climbed out of bed the same unfeeling guard he’d been the day before.

On that day, the man Helene married disappeared. Her husband became cold, harsh, and bitter. He even yelled at her for yielding to morning sickness. Over time, Helene found herself shrinking back more and more from his quick temper, drunken rages, and sulky attitude.

She sat on the bed and fingered the roughness of the shirt, then held it close to her face. Instead of the scent of him, the shirt stank of vodka. She threw it to the floor.

What now?
she wondered.
What will happen when he returns for me and the children? Does any fragment of that devoted man remain?

The baby kicked within Helene’s womb, and she massaged her ribs. Would the child look like Friedrich? Perhaps this time she carried the son her husband longed for.

The sounds of more Allied vehicles filtered in through the windows. She didn’t have to check outside to know that soon it would be her house they parked in front of.

Helene regarded the room one last time, then picked up her satchel and rose from the bed, kicking the shirt behind the door.

She was on the bottom step when the knock came. But it didn’t sound like soldiers.
Perhaps it’s Katharina bringing Anika back
. She opened the door.

Edda, a neighbor she didn’t know very well, stood there, filling the doorway with her presence. Her face was pale, and her hands fidgeted with an envelope.

Helene took a step back. A chill settled over her. What did this woman want? Had she heard of Helene’s journey to the camp? Helene still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. That her every act against the Nazi Party was being recorded and reported.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Helene motioned Edda inside. “I was just leaving, but come in.”

Edda did so, closing the door behind her. “I won’t stay long,” she said, her voice strained. “I have to finish packing. But I have news for you.” The large woman shuffled to the kitchen and slumped into one of the white kitchen chairs, pressing her forehead into her hand. Helene glanced at her plump, pink fingers that bore no calluses. Why, they’d probably never performed a stitch of manual labor.

Helene’s own hands trembled as she sat, and she fingered a dish towel left on the table. The baby continued to tussle in her womb.

“I’m sorry,” Edda said. “This is more difficult than I thought.” She fidgeted in her seat. “I’ve had word from my husband. Arno made it to safety.”

“That’s wonderful,” Helene said.

“I also have news for you.”

“About Friedrich?” Helene asked.

Edda lowered her gaze. “He did not make it to Bavaria. He was with a group a few hours behind my husband’s. I was told the Americans blocked their path, and when they attempted to escape, the men were captured and killed. Right on the spot. Without even a trial.”

A cold sensation washed over Helene. She saw Edda’s full pink lips moving but couldn’t comprehend the words.

Finally Edda paused. “Do you understand, Helene?” she asked. “He’s not coming back.”

Helene nodded. Though she wanted to cry, no tears surfaced.

Edda rose. “I have a letter here for you. From him.” She placed it on the table. Helene noticed a bloodstain on the corner.

“My husband found it on his body,” Edda explained. “A messenger brought it to me. I’m sure he’d planned to send it upon his safe arrival.”

Somehow Helene was able to mutter a word of thanks as Edda let herself out. The letter sat on the table. Helene remained on the kitchen chair, her half-packed things by her side, and stared at the envelope.

She lost all track of the ticking clock until a heavy fist pounded on the door. It was time. Helene rose and straightened her hair. She tucked the envelope into her apron pocket next to the photo of Friedrich.

The knock came again. The doorknob twisted.

“Time’s up,” a voice shouted in German as two American soldiers burst into the room. “This building is now under the jurisdiction of the United States Army.” Helene grabbed her things and hurried out, refusing to look into their faces. The satchel dug into her shoulder as she left the gate and scurried down the street. Still heavier were the thoughts of what could have been. What never would be.

Friedrich was dead.

Six

MAY 6, 1945

P
eter plodded through the gates of Gusen and leaned on the cold concrete pole for support. The subcamp was small compared to the massive rock structure of the main camp, Mauthausen, where he’d spent part of the previous day. Here, thin wire separated the prisoners from freedom, whereas thick stone walls surrounded the perimeter of the mother camp. While Gusen adjoined the small town of St. Georgen, Mauthausen was a fortress set apart, covering the top of a high hill.

But death was the same in both places. Thousands of bodies, and thousands more dying daily.

Peter’s legs felt like lead, and he covered his face with his hands. He’d tried not to look. Had attempted to walk past the man without hesitation, but it hadn’t worked.

He glanced back at the body that rested just twenty yards outside the camp gate. It lay there, face to the sky, mouth open. The knees were swollen and bloody, reminding Peter of two large knots on the limb of a branch. The man’s chest neither rose nor fell. Peter didn’t have to check his pulse to know he was dead.

Peter guessed what had happened. The opportunity for freedom had arrived and the desire to escape had proved too strong. The weak man had crawled from prison into liberty, knowing eternity waited on the other side.

Peter sank to the ground, his back against the pole. It made no sense. Why did this have to happen? How could God allow such suffering? He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to scrub away the deep ache inside.

He placed his head between his knees and took a long breath. It was no use. All he managed to inhale was the scent of death. He’d been told the crematoriums had stopped weeks earlier, yet the stench still blanketed the camp. And even last night, as Peter had traveled back to his base, with thousands of German prisoners in tow, the wind had whistled around him and the driving rain had soaked him to the bone. Even so, he could not escape the foul smells of Gusen and Mauthausen. They had permeated his skin and remained through the night. Perhaps they would always be with him.

Yet even with the mix of smells—human waste, foul body odors, and smoldering flesh—one scent angered him above all. German tobacco. He caught a whiff of it and pictured arrogant guards patrolling the grounds, judging the helpless with possessed eyes. He imagined them smoking their cigarettes while their boots sank into the sticky mud created by the trampling of a thousand bodies.

Peter raised his head and surveyed the camp. His attention rested on one woman. She was too weak to stand. But with all her strength she propped herself onto one elbow. She caught his eye, and he glanced away. He was supposed to be the strong one.

Peter rose and wandered through the crowd, inspecting the caricatures of human beings. Josef approached him, his face pale. “Scotty, we need your help at the graves.”

Peter didn’t have the strength to ask why. His feet plodded toward the edge of the camp. As he approached the chasm of a mass grave, he noticed a few of his men bent over two people. One was still alive. A young boy—perhaps in his early teens—rested on his knees and leaned over the motionless form of the other.

“He’s been here all day.” Banion rubbed a hand over his dirty face. “For hours he’s just stared at the body. He won’t let us take it.”

“It’s his brother,” Josef explained. “He’s been begging us to bury him in an individual grave.”

Murphy crouched at the boy’s side. “He won’t eat, he won’t sleep. He won’t let go.”

“Then we’ll do it.” Peter picked up a shovel that was lying near an open ditch. “Let’s make a grave.”

Peter’s shovel hit the ground and sank into the dirt with little effort. His men quickly followed suit. But soon the soft dirt gave way to stony soil. Rocks blocked every blow. Josef and Murphy gave up their shovels and worked on hands and knees, frantically pulling rocks from the earth. Banion and Peter continued on with shovels, inch by inch, until the hole was large enough.

Peter wiped his brow, then examined the faces of his men. Murphy had been with him when they landed at Normandy. Banion and Josef joined them on other battlefields. But as they laid that frail body in the grave, with the man’s brother watching, Peter truly felt he knew them. Their faces expressed both accomplishment and agony as together they fulfilled the boy’s wish.

Peter dropped his shovel and stood beside the boy. Tears streamed down the gaunt cheeks as he knelt beside the grave, watching the last clump of dirt fall over his brother.

Josef stood over the grave and chanted the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, in Yiddish.

Dropping to one knee, Peter lifted the boy’s chin with one finger and gazed deep into his mournful eyes. “It is finished. You must get up now.”

The boy trembled, and Peter gently took his bony arm and helped him stand. He staggered a few steps, then fell back to the ground. Peter picked him up and carried him away from the grave.

The boy’s face nestled into Peter’s shoulder. Peter tightened his grip, pulling him closer to his chest. Tears ran over his sergeant patch.

This is what it’s all about
, Peter sensed deep inside.
This is what we’ve been fighting for
.

Peter carried the boy to the barracks. The others stayed at the gravesite, where thousands more awaited burial.

Inside the barracks, a few rays of light fought their way through the slits in the walls. Peter gently set the boy on the nearest wooden bunk.

Former prisoners, scattered around the room, watched him.
What can I do? What can I say to them?
Peter turned away from their distressed gazes.
Nothing
. He could say nothing.

Peter stepped out of the dim barracks and headed toward the gates. He didn’t notice her until she was ten feet away. Then there she stood, a lone flower among a field of dead weeds.
“Una donna bionda con due bambini,”
one Italian survivor had called her when she’d brought food earlier. When Peter asked for a translation he discovered it meant “Beautiful blonde woman with child.” This time, though, no child accompanied her.

A slight smile brightened her tired face.
How hard this must be for her
, Peter thought.
How brave she is
.

“It is good to see you again,” he said in German.

“I have come for the two women. Everything is arranged. Can you still help?”

Peter grasped the arm of one of his men passing by. “Clifton, find me a truck and park it by the front gates.”

“You got it, Sarge.”

Peter wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The burial of that beloved brother still haunted the fringes of his mind. The boy’s tears seemed to burn through his uniform to his skin.

“Have you seen the two women today?” The blonde surveyed the area.

“They were near the back this morning.” He led the way for a while, then stopped. “I’m sorry, I should have asked sooner, but what is your name?”

“My name is Helene—” She stopped before giving her last name.

“And where will we be going?”

She pointed toward the town. “To a large yellow house on the west side of the main street.”

“I know the one you’re talking about,” Peter said. “Find the women and wait with them. I’ll get a truck ready.” He tried to keep his voice steady. “I’ll be right back.”

The woman, Helene, nodded. Her face looked haunted and weary. Very weary.

Everyone has a story
, Peter thought as he scanned the entrance.
I wonder what hers is
. He was curious, but too often the people’s stories weighed more heavily upon his heart than the dead bodies. The stories put voice to the horror, where bodies refused to speak.

Peter headed toward the gates. New troops were arriving daily, attempting to bring order to the chaos. Officers moved from building to building, confiscating Nazi documents that had somehow survived the purging. Other troops searched the miles of underground tunnels used to assemble aircraft parts and German weapons.
Bergkirstall
, the tunnels were called. He’d been amazed at how the sand dug from the tunnels had created a man-made mountain just outside the camp.

Peter noted that even reporters and photographers had made their way into the camp, shocking the world with news of survivors, ovens, and mounds of bodies.

Clifton waited at the camp gate, hat in hand. “Sorry, Scotty. The jeeps are blocked by wagons. They’re all over the place. Local farmers are using them to haul bodies to a potato field down the road.”

Peter watched two men sling a corpse onto a wagon bed. “Never mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Yes, Sarge.” Clifton headed back toward the graves.

Peter considered his options. He knew he could carry the women if he had to. Each of them probably weighed less than ninety pounds. Lightweight compared to the packs he’d been trained to carry.

No, he had to find some other way. He’d hauled enough bodies in this war, both alive and dead, to know he never wanted to do it again.

Peter circled around a large truck and spotted a wooden wheelbarrow, carelessly tipped onto its side. He righted it, then lined it with a dirty blanket he found along the fence line. Peter’s jaw tensed as he realized that both women’s emaciated bodies could fit within the small bucket. Still, he would not let them travel like baggage. He would take them one at a time—through the gates, to freedom, to life.

Peter pushed the creaky wheelbarrow back into the camp, where American soldiers were herding a stream of townspeople. They were mostly older men and boys. A few women were scattered among them. Many wore Sunday attire.

“What’s going on?” he asked the soldier leading the citizens.

“Gravediggers on special assignment,” the young GI said with mock authority. “Rounded up from the town.”

Peter recognized a few townspeople who’d brought food, clothing, and blankets into the camp. “Under whose orders?” he asked, knowing the chain of command varied depending on who’d left and who’d arrived.

“All the way from the top.”

“Patton?”

“Yes. Patton.”

Peter watched as shovels and picks were handed out. It wasn’t right. These were decent people.

Peter maneuvered the wheelbarrow in front of the GI, stopping him. “Who can I talk to about this, Soldier?”

The man pointed to a colonel Peter had seen a few times when they were stationed in France. He started toward the man, then remembered Helene was waiting.

Glancing one last time at the group of villagers moving toward the gravesite, Peter headed in the direction he’d sent her. The townspeople would have to fend for themselves.

“One thing at a time,” he reminded himself, spotting the blonde hair and navy-blue dress in the distance. “One thing at a time.”

Michaela’s body tensed as a hand touched her shoulder. Where was she? Was she safe? She opened her eyes, wondering whose shadow fell upon her. A man and woman stood over her. A halo of sunlight circled the woman’s golden hair, and Michaela wondered if she was peering into the face of an angel.

Then she remembered. She was outside the barracks in the fading sunshine. This woman and the GI beside her were here to help.

Lelia lay crumpled at her side. Dirt streaked the girl’s gaunt face. Sores covered her arms. Yet they had made it.

Michaela urged a smile to her lips despite the weakness of her limbs and the pain in her stomach that never seemed to cease.

“We are taking you to my home,” the woman said in German, speaking slowly and clearly. “I will care for you there.”

Michaela noticed a wheelbarrow in the hands of the soldier—apparently, her ride out of this place. She chuckled to herself before sharing her thoughts with the others. “You are familiar with the German fairy tale about the cinder girl?” she asked the American GI.

“Of course. It’s a classic.” His voice held a note of surprise. “We call her Cinderella.”

After months of captivity, this was one thing Michaela hadn’t lost. The stories of her childhood had remained locked away where no human hands could strangle their power. Fairy tales, poetry, parables. Recalling them had kept her mind clear during the endless days and nights.

Michaela stretched out a finger toward the wheelbarrow. “So this carriage will carry me out of the cinders?”

The GI didn’t seem to know how to respond. His eyebrows raised, and he eyed her with curiosity.

Michaela stared at her gaunt feet. “Forgive my lack of a fancy slipper.”

The man’s face brightened. He gently lifted her into his arms. “Your highness.”

“Ah!” She winced at his touch. He’d tried to be gentle, but the contact caused a thousand protests.

He cautiously set her on the blanket inside the wheelbarrow, and Michaela suddenly felt embarrassed for her filthy shirt, naked limbs, and matted hair. A cinder girl, indeed.

A moan replaced the lightheartedness of the moment before. A simple memory of a previous wagon ride, with her hair done in bows and her plump hands clinging to the rails, caused a gentle whimper she could not hold in. Was that another girl during another lifetime? A girl as fanciful as the tales she’d read?