‘Hey.’ A girl in front of her, slim, with thin yellow hair underneath her headscarf whispered to her. ‘You see?’ she pointed.
‘What?’ Julia whispered back.
‘They are looking at us. Like a zoo.’
Julia followed her gaze and saw a handful of officers stood pointing, wide grins and powerful stances. ‘Ey! Hey Mädchen, was guckst du?’ What are you girls looking at. One of them spat on the ground and turned around.
The girls both turned back, flushed and scared as the officers moved on, and as they parted, Julia caught sight of a man that she’d seen before. Tall. Dark hair. Broad shoulders that seemed too thin for the clothes he wore. He was sat down and they locked eyes, and then the crowd of women moved into the concrete, and she lost him.
A few months later, Julia and Henry sat side by side in the sun on the narrow step by the barrack door one afternoon, the shadow of the SS officer pacing a few hundred feet away. The step wasn’t wide enough for two people, and she’d moved closer to him, the worn material of her work dress almost brushing Henry’s uniformed arm, her heart pounding. Had they been anywhere else, there would have been a lake nearby, or a field, and a group of friends with a variety of food on a wool blanket, the wheat itching their bare legs. But it was in war, and they did what they could.
‘Hello, Henry.’
‘We have to stop meeting like this, Julia.’ He watched her face, his eyes smiling.
‘But I thought you’d asked me to come to see you.’
‘It was a joke,’ he laughed, a wide smile, his eyebrows raised, and shook his head.
‘Oh.’
Henry nodded to one of the officers as he passed by, eyeing the pair. This meeting would be short, today.
‘Did you eat enough today?’
Julia’s face flushed. ‘The same.’ She crossed her arms, feeling their thinness.
‘Listen, I have some of my rations that I can give you.’
‘Henry, I can’t keep doing this. It’ll get you into trouble.’
‘Don’t worry about me, I have it easier than you do.’
Julia blushed. ‘They’ll start wondering why I’m one of the healthier ones,’ she looked furtively at him. ‘All this special treatment.’
He had been a Werkschutz, an elite worker that would oversee production and maintain delivery routes. They were luxuriously free from certain constraints: they were allowed women, extra food from the pantry, and Henry had chosen her, after seeing her daily.
The first few weeks of innocence had turned into companionship: his hand on her shoulder as he passed by her work station, their bodies brushing up against one another as they walked, first accidentally then with purpose, navigating narrow overgrown paths at the perimeter of the camp’s east corner, discreetly at night, for that was all she was allowed in his company. He told her of his mother and how he had lost her as a child, and of his father’s cold nature, and she felt relief as she unburdened the loss of her sister to him. They uncoiled their pasts and gave them to each other reverently, and then slowly this trust became a kind of love.
They clung to it immediately, because it was all they had. They navigated invisible barriers that separated their stations in that camp: there his dark eyes moved over her face, and she thought of the way her slight body would fit neatly into his.
Henry paused, his eyes scanning the movement of the officers around him. ‘Meet me at your shift change,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll have a few things for you. Not a lot, just what you can hide underneath your coat.’
She looked up at him. ‘Thank you.’
He looked over at her, his eyes letting the details of her seep into his memory: her hands were scarred, and her nails had been bitten to the quick, her thin arms displayed a burn mark and a bruise hidden amongst a smattering of freckles, like a constellation. Her uniform had a tear in the hem, the blue fabric displaying threads splayed through the dust that had collected on it. Her face was strong, sharp and proud, and, didn’t reveal any sort of weakness, and he loved the way she looked at him: with a wary abandon.
She felt complete longing at the feeling of his tall, warm body inches from her slight one. She moved closer, keeping her head down. He offered her a cigarette, and her fingers brushed his as she cupped her hand over the flame, watching the embers glow. She had inhaled, a sputtering cough erupting as the smoke tickled her lungs. She finished half, and stubbed out the ember delicately, saving the other half for later. When it cooled, she placed it in her shoe, and Henry laughed at the remnants of their small lives here. That was simple way it began.
The winter of 1942 was bitter, and Julia and the other workers would layer newspaper and hay within their clothes to stay warm most days; their bones felt as if they would break at every step. After her shift ended and other workers replaced her seat, she quietly navigated the dark path to Henry’s barrack, for it had heating, and though it was incredibly risky, the nights she spent with him were worth it. Julia began to spend nights there with increasing regularity, always leaving for her building before the night skies faded into morning. They belonged to, and protected, each other. It was a few years later, just as the war had begun its slow, painful decline that their lives would change forever.
In the winter of 1945, Henry had been sent on delivery orders to a different camp for two months, and when he returned, Julia told him of the pregnancy, as she had begun to show, and her work shifts had begun to take their toll as the population of the camp diminished— the Nazis had begun to evacuate the workers slowly as the Allies approached, and Julia feared the worst. They decided to marry swiftly, holding on to on piece of joy amongst the ruins— they gathered one evening in the back of a barrack that smelled of wet hay and cold concrete, with witnesses that they didn’t know, and a dying priest that had recently finished his metal-polishing shift. Henry had worn the suit jacket that he’d stolen, his hair freshly wetted and finger-brushed, and Julia had nothing apart from her dark uniform, but she removed her arm band before placing her arm through Henry’s. Maria’s shoes were at her feet, and her mother’s rosary in her pocket. Henry left, and the sirens announced the workday two hours later.
Their daughter was born soon after, in the spring of 1946, on a lonely bed in the medical barrack, next to a disused brick furnace, with the help of a kind midwife whom Julia had shared a wooden bunk with. Henry had been transferred to another camp, so it was three months later, upon evacuation, that he would finally meet this girl, his daughter, with bright eyes and a doughy round face. He had asked Julia what she’d named her, as he placed his broad hand on the baby’s head, his eyes filling with tears at the soft, warm skin underneath his own.
‘Meet your little Slava,’ she smiled. Glory, in Ukrainian.
5
When the liberations slowly tapered off in the summer of 1946, Julia and Henry, along with seven million prisoners and forced laborers left Germany, most travelling slowly West, without families or homes to come back to, as the East threatened more oppression.
The new family had taken their belongings, wrapped Slava in a partially torn blanket that had been discarded in one of the barracks, and ventured into town, hoping to find a house to stay in temporarily, rent that they could afford, from the little money Henry had saved from the jobs that he’d had for the army. Deutchmark was worth something now, for a short time at least, before the economy collapsed again, and they’d had saved their rations to take with them.
Neumarkt looked partially deserted, but was coming to life in fits and starts, with shops opening their windows and roads empty of military vehicles. It would be dangerous for them to stay in an empty house that would most likely be occupied by the Russian military soon, so they wandered off the main street and wound their way towards a group of houses on the Caritasstraße until finally finding a tiny room to rent. It was at the back of a small house with an orange, pyramid-shaped roof on the and a narrow door with one window beside it, owned by an old woman by the name of Helen Wasser— a seamstress with a
small shop in the middle of town. It had not survived the war, and most of it had been looted, but her spirit remained. She was short, her grey hair cut sharply to meet her jaw and always tied back with black hairpins, thin glasses perched on her small nose, her wide face welcoming and curious. She was kind to them and gave them the room that once belonged to her son, who had died in the war, and encouraged them to use the kitchen as if it were their own. ‘Warm food is almost as important as kindness’, she would say. ‘Nourishment within a heart comes in many ways.’ It made the family feel safer than they had in years.
It was late January, and Henry was rubbing his cold, dry hands together, reaching for the kettle in the kitchen, as Helen had gone out for the morning, and had left them eggs, bread, and a tin with coffee in it. He pulled his clothes to his body. Everyone was dressed in so many thin layers, heavy woolen socks.
‘Julia.’ There was affection in his voice, as Henry watched her feed Slava dangling her legs off a highchair at the small kitchen table. He made a face at Slava, and she squealed her response, reaching for him.
‘Ach,’ Julia had been peeling a freshly boiled egg, and winced as it burned the tips of her fingers. She rolled her eyes and smiled at the two of them. ‘Stop distracting her, she needs to eat.’ Henry became serious again, and Julia directed him. ‘Yes, go ahead, I’m listening,’ she answered as she broke the egg apart.
Henry sat down across from them. ‘Well, I think we need to talk about what is going to happen to us. Germany is falling apart, and now the Russians will come back in. Reparations. A new Germany. It’s going to be for us like it was ten years ago, back home. He folded his arms across his chest, waiting. ‘We cannot stay here, Julia.’
Slava squealed, wanting attention from the two adults who suddenly weren’t looking at her. Henry stroked her head absentmindedly, as he watched Julia’s face for a reaction.
Julia put her head in her hands, and then moved them to her lap. Her head moved slowly back and forth. She looked defeated. ‘Henry, I really wish you’d just left this morning, just done something else with the time you have, instead of hovering. Worrying. She looked up. ‘I can’t think about another move. Can we please discuss this later?’
He folded his hands and leaned on the table. ‘Alright, when exactly, because I’m the one that has to think ahead for the three of us’ Sensing a barrier between them, he softened. He knew this would be difficult. ‘We can’t live here forever and pretend to play happy family.’
‘Why not?’
‘Do you really think that Russia coming back here is a good thing for us?’
Julia shrugged. ‘Well— ‘
‘I need you to think back. To the arrests. To the lists. To everything that we left behind. You and I will be on those lists still. Do you want to relive that?’ He looked over at Slava, and back at Julia. ‘We have to find somewhere where we can stay. Build a life.’
Julia looked past him into the small room. The rust-colored paint had faded on the crumbling plaster walls, the wooden cot was pushed up against the unmade bed which was then pushed up against the wall, and the window was too small to let any decent amount of light in. It felt like a rabbit warren.
She looked back up at him, her voice even and calm. ‘We can’t go back home.’
‘No, Julia.’
He leaned closer to her.
‘Listen, we’ve talked about this before. We can’t go back to a country that is under Soviet rule again. It’s too restricted, violent, unsure.’
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of newspaper from his pocket, which looked like it had been in there for weeks. He flattened it on the table and pointed at one of the articles. ‘Here,’ he said, boldly. ‘Here is where our new plan is.’ The small print had strayed and smudged a bit, but Julia could make out the words where his index finger rested: MIGRANTS NEEDED and WORK THE LAND AND RECEIVE YOUR OWN.
Julia knew what he spoke of— she had heard it on the small kitchen radio over the last month. News of countries accepting the overspill of refugees from war-torn countries. The United Nations had sanctioned it, and handfuls of countries had opened their doors.
Henry lit a cigarette. ‘It is money. Freedom from this,’ he gestured excitedly, the smoke floating to the four walls surrounding them, smoke disappearing into the air. ‘It is a way for us to leave this collapsing Europe and start a new life for ourselves.’ He let out a stream of smoke. ‘Julia, there is nothing left for us, here.’
She hesitated and looked at Slava. She smoothed her palm over her daughter’s head and suddenly felt her own mother’s hand on her cheek. ‘But what about me? What am I supposed to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A new country? Again?’ She leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. ‘I feel that if I move again, I might collapse.’
‘I know. But we can do this. I know we can. We have to.’ Henry reached out for Slava’s warm little hands, and then reached out for Julia, his hand open, waiting for hers. An agreement.
Julia was torn, for where she belonged was with them, this was her family now, but her heart yearned for the miles beyond, still.
‘I feel you’re right but also, I feel so angry.’ She frowned, and his hand retreated back to his lap. ‘It’s not only about you and what you need. We only just survived one event in our lives, is it possible to survive yet another?’
He bristled. ‘So, you want to stay here, then? And do what? Constantly live with one eye on the shadows?’ He sighed, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for another.
‘I don’t know. Maybe Germany will get better over time.’
Henry snapped his lighter closed. ‘Julia, did you even ask me where we can go? Where we could work and live and actually receive our own house and land?’
‘I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Australia.’
Julia’s eyes widened. ‘Isn’t that somewhere on the other side of the world?’
‘Yes. But—’ he counted on his fingers. ‘—They’re offering paid work, our own house, our own land to farm, and after three years, we become citizens there.’
Julia smiled weakly at his eagerness. ‘Henry, it’s a world away from what we know. I feel that I can’t keep re-packing our bags, hoping we stay somewhere long enough for it to feel like home.’ Her face was a mix of exhaustion and understanding as she looked at him, hoping she’d be heard, despite knowing that he was right.
He was done with being patient. ‘You’re being selfish.’
Julia wiped Slava’s mouth and picked her up from the chair and placed her down with a small stuffed rabbit. She stood with her arms at her side, which gave her the space for an argument. ‘No. I’m telling you how I feel.’
Henry’s face darkened. ‘What about how I feel? I made a promise to take care of you, and now you’re saying I’m selfish?’
‘It takes two people to make a decision, Henry. Two people to make a child and create a life and a family.’
‘Which is exactly my point. We have to be together in this.’
‘I don’t think I can move again. I don’t know if I have it in me.’
‘Julia, please listen.’ He came to her and grabbed her by both arms, his fingers digging into her flesh, making her wince. ‘We can’t stay.’
Julia wrenched out of his grip and sat back down in defeat, rubbing her arms. ‘What do you want me to say, then?’
Henry placed his hands in his pockets. ‘Maybe we need the space to let it settle. We have two months to make this decision, but the train leaves then, so we have to put ourselves on the list.’
‘Train?’
‘Yes, from Munich station. Trucks are taking people there, and then from Munich, we go to Acerra, Italy.’
Julia lifted her mouth in a smile. ‘As if we’re travelling the earth.’
Henry smiled, sensing that she would come around. ‘But then, from Italy, we make the trip to Australia on a boat.’ He put a hat on, ready to leave. ‘A boat, with food, and
a view of the sea, and maybe even a cabin to sleep comfortably.’
Julia nodded. ‘Alright. Let’s give ourselves time to think.’
Henry walked out, not saying where he was going, but he left without a glance backward. He knew he’d been hard on her. But he couldn’t face another day looking over his shoulder, wondering about an uncertainty that was out of his control. Plans. He needed plans.
Julia cleared the plates off the table and stood at the sink untying her apron. The floor beneath her feet felt unsteady, it was shifting undetectably at first, and then she felt as if she were falling through. Drifting. Needing an anchor when there was none. She looked through the small window next to the door and stared out onto the street. Rows of small houses huddled together, quietly; the streets empty apart from a few Russian military jeeps. Maybe Henry was right.
That afternoon, Julia was outside, the laundry line heavy with sheets snapping in the wind. Slava was at her feet.
She heard a sound behind her, the footsteps were slow, deliberate. Julia turned, expecting to see Henry, as he hadn’t yet come home. But it was Helen. She smiled and walked towards the older woman and kissed her papery cheek.
‘Hallo Madame Helen! Schön dich zu sehen!’ Nice to see you. Julia was reminded of her mother, and her voice was plump with affection.
Motherland Page 5