The Darkest Canyon

by Roberta Kagan

  Gretchen was sent to work at the Bayer pharmaceutical company who was using prisoners as slave labor.

  While they were each being assigned to their jobs, one of the SS officers chose Rebecca to be a housekeeper for his family.

  Once they were assigned their jobs, they were led off to work.

  After ten grueling hours, the prisoners returned for the final roll call of the day. Once every prisoner was accounted for, they were allowed to eat. Rebecca and Gretchen ate their bowl of watery soup and small crust of stale bread sitting together quietly. There was so much to say, yet they were both so tired and scared of what the future might hold, that they could not speak. Dinner was a short fifteen minutes, after which the prisoners were ushered back to the barracks. Rebecca and Gretchen shared a bed with four other women.

  “There is murder going on here,” one of the women in the bunk said, her voice barely a whisper. “Those ashes that come down from the crematorium, those are the ashes from burnt bodies. The Nazis are killing people and then burning them up.”

  “How do you know this?” Gretchen asked.

  “Because I saw the men loading the ovens.”

  “That’s too horrible to think about,” Rebecca said.

  “Sure, what do you care? You have easy work. You work in a clean house. I work outside in the cold. Soon I will be dead, then they’ll put me in the oven too,” the other woman said.

  “I do care about you and about everyone here. I care more than I can ever express. But what can I do? What can any of us do? We take the work detail they assign to us,” Rebecca said.

  “And yours was better than mine because you are beautiful. So the SS officer didn’t mind having to look at you in his house every day. I am no longer attractive. The war did this to me, and so I am working outside shoveling and . . .” She began to weep. Gretchen gave the woman a look of disgust. But Rebecca shook her head, and then she took her into her arms and held her.

  “I am sorry for your suffering,” Rebecca said. “You didn’t do anything to deserve this life. But neither did I. I am as much a victim as you are. Please know that. I started work today at the home of Rapportführer Ziegler. It may seem to you to be an easy job. But it’s terrifying. I am being watched all day. And I am afraid that the rapportführer's wife doesn’t like me. She criticizes everything I do.”

  “That’s because you’re beautiful.” This came from a woman who was sitting up on the floor in the middle of the room, wrapping something around her injured foot.

  “It can be a curse,” offered another woman in the bunk next to theirs.

  “Yes, here, in this place, beauty is a curse,” said a woman in her early forties, who was sitting up on one elbow.

  “But she did get an easier job because she is so attractive.”

  “Easier? Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “And you?” one of the women turned to Gretchen. “You were sent to work at the pharmaceutical factory? That’s not the worst job here.”

  “No, it’s not. I mean, not in comparison to some others. But today, when I was going through someone’s suitcase and I saw pictures of their family, I felt terrible. I was reminded that they are human beings just like you and me. And it makes me feel so sad. All of these things that people brought with them. Things they valued. Now meaning nothing. They are just thrown onto a pile of possessions. And their owners? Who knows what will become of them? Who knows what will become of any of us,” Gretchen said.

  And so the weeks trickled slowly by.

  At night, when everyone else had fallen asleep, Gretchen and Rebecca talked with bittersweet nostalgia about their past. They talked about Eli and about the uncertainty of their futures. Finally, one night Rebecca told Gretchen about her friendship with Esther and how Esther died.

  “She was my best friend before you,” Rebecca said. “She killed her abusive husband, then she killed herself.”

  “That’s terrible,” Gretchen said.

  “Well, the only consolation I have is knowing she never got sent to one of these awful camps.”

  “Yes, that is something to be thankful for.”

  Several women around them were snoring.

  “Rebecca? Do you think Eli is all right?” Gretchen asked again. It seemed as though she asked this question at least twice a week.

  “I hope so.”

  “I miss him every day. I love him with all my heart. And every day that we are here in Auschwitz, and I don’t know where he is, I feel like I love him even more.”

  “He is your bashert. I believe that with my whole heart,” Rebecca said.

  “I’ve often wondered if you ever resented me. I know you said you didn’t, but deep down I always wondered. You can tell me the truth now. No matter what you say, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “I never resented you. Eli and I were never in love. After a time, we became good friends. But it was never that way between us. Our marriage was a failure, and I didn’t understand why until I met you. Then I knew that it wasn’t anything that I did wrong. The reason he couldn’t love me was because he had already given his heart to you.”

  “And you weren’t angry or hurt?”

  “No, actually I was relieved. I knew from that time on that true love was possible. And someday, somehow, I would find my own bashert.”

  “You are truly like a sister to me. I never had a sister, but I always wanted one,” Gretchen said, squeezing Rebecca’s hand.

  “And you are like one to me.”

  CHAPTER 59

  As several months passed, Rebecca and Gretchen both became accustomed to their routine. Each morning after roll call and a quick breakfast of dry bread, Rebecca was escorted by a guard to her job in the home of Rapportführer Ziegler, and Gretchen was ushered off to the Bayer pharmaceutical company.

  Frau Ziegler was a cold and demanding woman. As soon as Rebecca arrived, she ordered that all the floors in the house be scrubbed. Rebecca didn’t say a word. Keeping her eyes cast down she took the bucket, filled it and began to wash the floors on her hands and knees.

  “And make it fast. You have a lot of work to do. So don’t let me catch you being lazy or I’ll replace you. There are plenty of prisoners who would give an arm to have a job like this.”

  Rebecca nodded, still keeping her head down, not looking up from her work.

  Gretchen was busy counting tablets when a guard called out the number that had been tattooed onto her forearm: 82478.

  Gretchen dropped the bottle of pills. The guard who had been overseeing her work kicked her in the calf. A sharp pain shot up her leg. That’s my number, she thought. After a quick glance at one of the women who shared her block, she ran forward and followed the guard outside. Where are they taking me? She glanced over at the crematorium and shivered. Could this be the end? Gretchen followed the guard. He was walking very fast. She tripped and almost fell. Terror and anticipation of what might come next filled her with anxiety, and she was having trouble catching her breath.

  “Get in the truck,” the guard said, without any further explanation.

  “Where am I going?” Gretchen asked.

  The guard slapped her across the face. “Don’t ask questions,” he replied.

  Gretchen felt blood trickling down from her nose. It ran into her mouth. The thick, salty flavor along with her fear made her gag. How can I get word to Rebecca? She won’t know what’s happened to me, she thought as she climbed into the back of the truck. It was almost spring, but the weather had not yet broken, and it was still cold outside. A heavy rain began to pour from the charcoal sky just as the truck started to move. A heavyset guard, angry that he had to get wet, stood over her with a rifle as the vehicle slowly rolled out of the gate that read Arbeit Macht Frei.

  CHAPTER 60

  Rebecca lay in her bed, crushed between two other prisoners and wept that night, when her blockmate told her what happened to Gretchen earlier that day.

  “Where do you think they took her?” Rebecca asked.

  �
��No idea. But I can tell you this, wherever it was, it was not good. She might already be dead.”

  “Shut up, Golde. Why would you say that?” a small girl named Marta sneered at Golde.

  “Because it’s true. Any one of us can be called up and taken to the gas, for any reason, at any time.”

  “That’s enough,” an older woman said. “We all need to get some sleep. This conversation is helping no one.”

  Rebecca climbed into her bed and tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. Eli was gone; he might be dead for all she knew. And now, the Nazis had taken Gretchen. Crying didn’t help, yet she couldn’t stop. How could all of this be happening to her and her loved ones? She’d lost her family and all the people who were close to her. What was to become of her? Perhaps it was best to just wish for death. She couldn’t see anything bright waiting for her in the future. If she were dead, all of this would be over.

  In the morning, when Rebecca arrived at her job, the lady of the house was not at home. She’d gone off with her husband to a meeting somewhere out of town. It was a Wednesday. On Wednesdays Rebecca did the laundry. She took the hamper of dirty clothes and emptied them onto the floor. Then she filled a bucket with hot, soapy water and began to wash the dirty things, scrubbing them until her hands were red, bleeding, and swollen. As she knelt on the floor working, she heard a heavy tapping coming from the hallway. It was getting louder.

  “Good day, Fräulein,” said a tall man with a chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, deep-set, green eyes, and black hair that shone like the coat of a wild horse. He carried a wooden cane. Glancing up quickly she saw that his left leg was missing from the knee down. “You don’t know me, Fräulein. I just arrived here last night,” he said, sitting down at a kitchen chair. He wore a Wehrmacht uniform adorned with lots of medals. “I suppose it would be polite to introduce myself. I am the spoiled-rotten son of the powerful rapportführer,” he said with a note of heavy sarcasm in his voice.

  Rebecca kept her eyes on the clothes as she continued scrubbing. She dared not look up at him.

  “Yes, Fräulein, this is my father’s house,” he said, gesturing with his hands to show the entire house. “Ziegler is my name. Jan Ziegler. And I should be proud of that name, shouldn’t I? My father is such an important man. And me? I am a war hero. A cripple for life but a war hero none the less.”

  Rebecca didn’t speak. She was afraid of him. He was ranting, and in his voice she could hear a deep-seated anger. She didn’t know if she was supposed to ask him if he would like something to eat or drink. She didn’t know what to say, but she was afraid to leave the room. So she sat on the floor with her head down, washing the clothes. Fearing that, at any moment, he might do something terrible to her. Since she’d been at Auschwitz she’d seen the cruel tricks the Nazis would often enjoy playing on the prisoners. Sometimes they would pretend to be friendly, only to turn on the poor inmate in a terrible and vicious manner.

  “What is it, Fräulein? You can’t bear to look at me because I am crippled? Ahhh . . . so that must be it. Go ahead; say it. Say that you find me repulsive. Of course you do, a man missing a leg . . .” he said, a look of melancholy coming over his face.

  Rebecca glanced up at him, and when her eyes met his, she believed he was sincerely feeling bad. Against her better judgment, she answered him. “It’s not that,” she stammered, scrubbing faster now. “I am a Jew. A prisoner here. Please, let me be. I do not want any trouble. I just want to do my work and be left alone.” Tears threatened to fill her eyes.

  “I ask nothing of you, Fräulein. I am a lonely man who just returned from the front. I can’t talk openly to my friends or my family. They don’t care how I really feel. I need someone who will listen. Someone who won’t expect me to be proud to be my father’s son, or proud to have blown my leg off. I need a friend who won’t be repulsed by me, either, like my ex-fiancée, who broke off our engagement because she said she couldn’t bear to sleep with a one-legged man.” He laughed bitterly. “War hero, indeed,” he said, then he added, “I would like to be your friend.”

  “Friend?” She stared at him in disbelief. What am I supposed to say? I wish he would leave me alone.

  “Yes, in case you didn’t hear me earlier, my name is Jan. You can call me Jan,” he said smiling. There was less sarcasm in his voice now. “What’s your name?”

  “Rebecca.”

  “Is it all right if I call you Becky?”

  She nodded, still very frightened of him.

  “I can see that you’re afraid of me. Please don’t be, Becky. I really just need someone to talk to. Sometimes I am so disheartened. I find myself overcome with anger and confusion. Before my father insisted that I march off to war, I had what was considered a bright future ahead of me, a beautiful fiancée, a family with money and influence. But here is the secret: Even while I had all of those things, I was uncertain that they were what I truly wanted. Now, I don’t have the fiancée anymore, and my father’s position has become repugnant to me. I am a cripple, and I know there is something that I am searching for, but I don’t know what it is,” he said.

  Rebecca looked at him, her eyes wide.

  Jan took an apple from a crystal bowl on the table and polished it on his shirt. “The truth is, I don’t care about losing my fiancée, or my career as a soldier. But I am heartsick over losing my leg. Do you know that in my dreams I can still feel my leg?” He shook his head.

  Rebecca wasn’t listening because she couldn’t take her eyes off the apple. Saliva filled her mouth. I am so hungry; what wouldn’t I give for just one bite.

  Jan took a bite. Then he studied her. He seemed to know what she was thinking. “Would you like an apple?” he asked gently.

  She was afraid to answer, yet at that moment, the very idea of the sweet fruit in her mouth seemed more important than living “Yes. Yes, please.” He might be teasing her. This could be the cruel joke. This was just the kind of thing Nazis did to Jews. Show them the apple, then take it away.

  He picked up the largest, reddest apple in the bowl and handed it to her.

  She took it carefully, watching him fearfully out of the corner of her eye.

  “Go on, eat it, please. No one is home but us,” he said.

  She took a bite and closed her eyes. The sweet juice filled her mouth and seduced her senses. Rebecca gobbled the apple while Jan watched.

  “Good?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  “I don’t hate Jews. In fact, I’ve never hated anyone. I got swept up in all of this. I was sent off to war. I never wanted to do that, either. But, of course, my father would not have been able to live with me, had he thought for a single minute that I was a coward. So, to please him, I enlisted. His opinion was so important to me when I was young. I don’t care what he thinks of me anymore.” He smiled but it was a sad smile. “See these medals? I didn’t really earn them. They were given to me because of my father. Not because of what I did but because of who my father is.”

  She finished the apple, eating the entire core.

  “You were hungry?” he said. “Please take another one for later.”

  “I dare not,” she answered, her voice barely a whisper.

  “You’re afraid of getting caught?”

  “Yes.” Rebecca found herself talking to him in spite of her fear of anyone wearing a Nazi uniform.

  “I’ll bring it to you. In fact, I’ll bring you several. What block are you in?”

  Rebecca wished he would go away. He was kind, but his friendship could be deadly for her. After all, if he were caught bringing her an apple, she would get in trouble, not him. “It’s all right. Really. I would rather you didn’t.”

  “Then you shall have some extra food each day when you come to work.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but if your mother sees you giving me food, she will be very angry. And I am afraid . . .”

  “So we’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t see it. Don’t worry, leave everything to me. Can
you do that?” he asked, his blue eyes twinkling as he smiled at her.

  “Yes, I can try. And you are very kind. I am very grateful,” she said.

  “Am I? I suppose.” He smiled wistfully. “Being maimed has made me a mixture of rage and despondence. Disinterest and compassion. How can that be? I am a mess of contradictions . . .” He let out a short laugh.

  Again, she glanced up into his eyes. She searched them for cruelty, for the lust for power she’d seen in the faces of so many of the guards, but all she saw was a man who seemed to have given up on happiness, yet she could see a spark in his eyes that said he was still searching. A mixture of black and white, of yes and no, of opposites.

  “My family and friends don’t want to hear the truth about my time at the front. They want to hear that I am a war hero. They want to believe that I fought bravely. But it’s not the way it really was. You see, Becky, I was a coward. I hid in the trenches more often than I fought. It made me sick to fire the gun and see men fall bleeding and dying even if they were the enemy. And my leg? It got blown off by a landmine. Do you know that I sometimes reach down to feel for my leg because I can’t believe it’s really gone?”

  She shook her head.

  “Yes, I do. But when I reach down, there is nothing. My leg is gone. I am a cripple for life. And this, my father refers to as heroism. I would trade that foolish little title to have my leg back.”

  A month passed, and almost every day, Jan found a way to talk to Rebecca when she was working. He always came to her at a time when his parents were either busy or out of the house and presented her with a piece of fruit, a hunk of bread, or a sausage. She was so grateful that she couldn’t help but like him. He was kind and unassuming. He asked nothing of her, only that she listen to him. And as the days wore on, he told her more about himself, his dreams, his pain, his hopes, and his fears.