Lilac Girls

by Martha Hall Kelly

  We’d all witnessed the process. Binz wanted me to write the number on Mrs. Mikelsky’s chest, the final indignity for every dead or dying prisoner. My heart hammered as I stepped along the dark cherry trail Adelige had left in the snow to where my teacher lay. I found Mrs. Mikelsky on her back, the flesh at her throat ripped to the bone, and there was blood smeared across her bare chest as if painted there. Her face was turned toward me, eyes partially open, the gash across her cheekbone like a gaping smile.

  “Write it,” Binz said.

  With my jacket sleeve, I wiped the blood from Mrs. Mikelsky’s chest and wrote in grease pen, 7776.

  “Remove that piece,” Binz said.

  She wanted the body dragged to the pile beside the linen shop.

  I took hold of both of Mrs. Mikelsky’s wrists and dragged her, still warm, across the snow, exhaling the white fog of my breath like a plow horse. The horror of it. The hate grew black in my chest. How could I live without revenge?

  By the time I reached the stack of bodies, snow covered and shoulder high, my face was wet with tears. I tucked Mrs. Mikelsky along the side of the pile with great care, as if she were sleeping there. Our lioness. Our hope. Our North Star.

  “Poles,” Irma said to Binz as I walked by her, back to lineup. “Why do they even try to teach them math?”

  “True,” said Binz with a laugh.

  I stopped and turned to Irma.

  “At least I can count,” I said.

  This time I didn’t have to wait for the sting of Binz’s crop.

  1941

  I stayed at Ravensbrück.

  Once I received word my father had died and Mutti would need rehabilitative care for her back, my salary became more important.

  It was lonely there with only male doctors for company, so I kept to my office when Fritz was not available and worked on my scrapbooks. I pasted in a photo that Fritz had asked a waiter to snap of us lunching in Fürstenberg, matchbooks, and other souvenirs. So many newspaper clippings. German infantry had just invaded the Soviet Union with great success, so there were many positive articles to save.

  I wrote back and told Mutti how hard I was working to get the Revier cleaned up and running efficiently. How I expected the commandant would notice my hard work if I somehow brought a sense of order to that place.

  On my way back to my cottage one night after my daily duties concluded, I noticed a light on in the bookbindery and stopped, hoping to find someone there to talk with. Binz sat on a low stool, back straight, in full uniform, her chin high. A prisoner with a red badge sat in a chair nearby sketching her. It was a Pole I’d seen in processing, the one with the ring Binz had spat on to pull off. There was a pale band of white skin on her finger where the ring had once been.

  Binz waved me into the room, a compact space devoted to the production of the Reich’s educational materials. Stacks of pamphlets and books sat on a long table along one wall. “Come in, Doctor. I’m just having my portrait drawn.”

  “Please be still, Madame Overseer,” said the prisoner. “I can’t draw if you are talking.”

  A prisoner giving Binz orders? Even stranger, Binz was obeying them.

  “Halina here is our resident master artist,” Binz said. “You should see the portrait Koegel commissioned. You’d swear the medals are real.”

  The prisoner stopped sketching. “Should I come back another time, Madame Overseer?”

  Anyone would notice that the bookbindery, once a mess of paper, ink, and supplies, had become vastly more organized.

  “Commissioned?” I said to the prisoner. “How are you paid?”

  “In bread, Madame Doctor,” she said.

  “She gives it away to the other Poles,” said Binz. “Crazy in the head.”

  It was soothing, almost hypnotic, to watch her sketch, the pencil tapping out rough little lines on the paper.

  “You are Polish? Your German is good.”

  “Fooled me too,” Binz said.

  “My mother was German,” the prisoner said as she sketched, her eyes trained on Binz. “Grew up on an estate not far from Osnabrück.”

  “And your father?”

  “Born in Cologne, where his mother was raised. His father was Polish.”

  “So you are group three on the Deutsche Volksliste,” Binz said. The German People’s List categorized Poles into four categories. Group three consisted of persons of mostly German stock who had become Polonized.

  “As close to German as you can get,” I said.

  “If you say so, Madame Doctor.”

  I smiled. “If a chicken lays an egg in a pigsty, does that make the chick a piglet?”

  “No, Madame Doctor.”

  I walked behind the prisoner and watched her finish the shading on Binz’s chin. The portrait was remarkable. It captured Binz’s strength and complex personality along with her likeness.

  “I’m giving this portrait to Edmund for his birthday,” Binz said. “I wanted a nude version, but she isn’t good at those.”

  Halina colored slightly but kept her eyes focused on her pad.

  “You should commission a portrait, Doctor,” Binz said. “Your mother would like it.”

  Would my mother care about a portrait of me now that Father had died and she was busy with her new life?

  Binz smiled. “All it will cost you is bread.”

  The prisoner put down her pencil.

  “I really should get back for Appell.”

  “Halina, I’ll fix it with your Blockova,” Binz said. “Sit down, Doctor. What else are you doing tonight?”

  Binz walked around the prisoner to look at the finished product and clapped her hands together like a delighted child.

  “I’m giving this to Edmund tonight. Make sure you turn the light out, and Halina, I’ll tell your Blockova you’ll be in by nine. I will send a white loaf tomorrow for this.”

  I took Binz’s place on the stool. Halina turned to a fresh piece of paper and began sketching, taking a peek at me now and then.

  “Why were you sent here?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Madame Doctor.”

  “How can you not know? You were arrested?”

  “My daughters were arrested, and I tried to keep them from taking them.”

  “Arrested for what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Probably the underground.

  “What did you do when you went to Osnabrück?”

  “We visited my grandparents’ country house,” said the prisoner in excellent German. “He was a judge. My grandmother was Judi Schneider.”

  “The painter? The Führer collects her paintings.” The prisoner had the same talent the Führer admired so much in her grandmother. “And where in Poland are you from?”

  “Lublin, Madame Doctor.”

  “There is a well-known medical school there,” I said.

  “Yes, I completed my nursing certificate there.”

  “You are a nurse?” How nice it would be to have someone cultured and bright to talk medicine with.

  “Yes. Was. I illustrated children’s books before…”

  “We could use you in the Revier.”

  “I haven’t been a practicing nurse in ten years, Madame Doctor.”

  “Nonsense. I will have Binz reassign you immediately. What block did you end up in?”

  “Thirty-two, Madame Doctor.”

  “You will be a Lagerprominent and move to Block One.”

  “Please, I would like to stay—”

  “The Revier prisoner staff lives in Block One. You will not only be treating prisoners but the SS staff and their families. You will find clean bed linens in Block One and not a single louse.”

  “Yes, Madame Doctor. Could my daughters come with me?”

  She said this nonchalantly, as if she did not care. This was out of the question, of course. Block One was reserved for Class I workers only.

  “Maybe later. The food is fresh, and you receive double rations.” I didn’t mention that t
he food in the elite barracks did not contain the drug they put in the regular soup to kill the prisoners’ sex drive and cease menses.

  After two more sessions, Halina completed my portrait, covered it with translucent white paper, and left it for me in my office. I lifted the paper and was taken aback. The level of detail was astonishing. No one had captured me so perfectly before, a woman doctor of the Reich in my lab coat, strong and focused. Mutti would frame it.

  It took a few days to get Halina transferred from the bookbindery to the Revier. The infirmary was technically not an SS operation but an offshoot, so bureaucratic matters took extra time.

  Jowly, square-jawed Nurse Marschall was the only one not happy with the arrangement. She lumbered to my office, where she squawked like a goose the day we moved her out of her seat at the Revier front desk and replaced her with Halina. I transferred Nurse Marschall to a perfectly good office in the rear of the building, a former supply closet.

  From the first hour Halina took charge, the Revier improved. The patients responded to her efficient manner, no doubt a result of her German ancestry. By the end of the day, most beds were emptied, the work-shy back at work, and the entire building disinfected. There was no need to babysit Halina, since her decision-making skills were almost equal to mine, and this allowed me to tackle my backlog of paperwork. Finally I had a partner I could rely on. The commandant would surely notice the change in no time.

  —

  LATER THAT MONTH, Binz came up with a plan she considered brilliant.

  For weeks the male staff had planned a trip to Berlin to coincide with Commandant Koegel’s absence while he was in Bonn. It was to be a “special mission,” which they thought was secret. But the female staff knew the details of this mission, thanks to several of Binz’s Aufseherinnen who regularly slept with the male guards. It was to be a trip to Salon Kitty, a high-class brothel in a wealthy part of Berlin. Fritz, home visiting his mother in Cologne, had escaped the trip, but almost all the other male staff members emptied out of the camp into buses and motored off, looking like naughty schoolboys on holiday.

  This left the following people in charge of the camp: Binz and her Aufseherinnen, three older male SS tower guards who patrolled the wall, one poor gate guard who had drawn the short straw, and me.

  “I hope there is no escape attempt while you are gone,” I had said to Adolf Winkelmann as he prepared to leave.

  “It has all been approved, Dr. Oberheuser. You are the ranking officer in charge tonight. Extra postenkette have been arranged as a precaution.” I was glad for the extra tower guards, expert marksmen all, but they were not allowed to leave their posts.

  Winkelmann shuffled off toward the bus as several of our esteemed colleagues called out the windows, threatening to leave him behind.

  In their absence, Binz suggested a party at one of the Aufseherinnen’s houses, a snug chalet-like home at the far end of the staff compound, outside the camp walls. They’d planned the celebration with great pains. There was to be a drinking relay, dancing, and card games. They had even had some Polish Häftlings snip their famous paper cuttings from scarlet tissue paper and then strung them like garlands about the house.

  I decided to forgo this party and stay at my office with Halina to finish some work. This was not a hardship, because for the first time since I’d come to camp, I had an intelligent friend, someone whose company I enjoyed, instead of just Binz, who told filthy stories. Not only had Halina cleaned up the Revier and reduced by three quarters the number of patients awaiting treatment; she also still completed important projects for the commandant in the bookbindery. She showed me the books she was assembling for Himmler himself. They chronicled the Angora rabbit fur operation at each camp, complete with detailed photos. Ravensbrück’s was one of the best fur producers, with twice the number of cages as Dachau. Halina bound the books by hand, wrapping each cover with soft angora fabric.

  “You have so much paperwork, Madame Doctor,” Halina said. “How can I help?”

  How quick she was with that, my favorite phrase. What a pleasure to spend time with a competent prisoner who was not afraid of me. Halina had no hunted-animal look, none of that contagious terror that sent me looking at the clouds or at a beetle in the yard. At anything but them.

  “Address the envelopes, and I will insert the cards,” I said.

  We mailed condolence cards, also known as comfort cards, to the families of prisoners who died at the camp by any number of means. Those chosen as special-handling cases and terminated. Those shot trying to escape. Those who died by natural causes. In my terrible doctor handwriting, I wrote, Body cannot be inspected due to hygienic considerations on most cards in case the family wanted to view the body. It was a ridiculous charade and added at least ten extra hours of work to my already busy week, but the commandant required it for appearances’ sake. Halina addressed envelopes whenever she had a spare moment, until her piles far outnumbered my completed cards.

  “It must be hard for a family to receive such a note,” Halina said, addressing an envelope in her flowing script. Had tears come to her eyes?

  With the condolence card was included an official form so the family could apply for that prisoner’s ashes. Four pounds of generic ashes were sent per female prisoner, in a tin canister, if a request was approved. At least I was not responsible for coordinating all that.

  “We can take a break from this,” I said.

  Halina sat up straighter. “Oh no, Madame Doctor, I’m fine. But I do have a favor to ask of you. Please tell me if—”

  “Yes? Get on with it.” Halina had been a great help to me. Didn’t I owe it to her to at least listen to her request?

  She pulled a letter from her pocket. “I wonder if you could post this. Just a letter to my friend.” It appeared to be written on camp stationery.

  “Post it yourself. You’re allowed.”

  Halina rested one hand on the sleeve of my lab coat. There was a piece of blue string knotted on her ring finger. “But the censors cut them to pieces, take out even remarks about the weather or one’s digestion.”

  I took the letter from her. It was addressed to Herr Lennart Fleischer at a Lublin address.

  What harm was there in sending such a letter? After all, Halina had been valuable to the Reich. There was plenty harm in it, though. If I was caught, the punishment could be severe. I would be reprimanded at best.

  “I will think about it,” I said and slipped it in my desk drawer.

  Halina bent her head back over her task.

  “Thank you, Madame Doctor.”

  From my office in the Revier, I could hear music and laughter coming from Binz’s party at the staff quarters at the far end of the camp in the woods. I chafed at the thought that almost every man in the camp had to leave before I was considered highest in rank.

  Less than one hour into the evening, Halina and I were making excellent progress when a great bang was heard and the vibration from it shook the ground. Halina and I just looked at each other and then went about our work. Had it been a car backfiring? Loud noises were not uncommon at the camp and were often amplified by the lake.

  Seconds later, Binz and others could be heard shouting from the direction of the party.

  “Dr. Oberheuser, come! Irma has been hurt.”

  Halina and I looked at each other, struck dumb.

  In such situations, the instinct of a medical professional takes over. Halina stood and ran out. I followed close behind. We came to the main camp gate and could hear a great many cries from the direction of the house in the distant wood.

  “Open the gate,” I said to the guard.

  “But—” His gaze went to Halina. No prisoner was allowed to leave through that gate unless accompanied by an Aufseherin.

  “Do it. You know I outrank you.” Why does a woman’s voice so often not command the respect it deserves?

  After more stalling, the guard finally opened the gate.

  Halina hesitated.

  “Come
,” I said. I needed an assistant, but would I be reprimanded for this?

  Halina hurried with me toward the house, the sound of her heavy clogs muffled as we ran from cobblestone road to the soft pine needles of the woods. Abundant moonlight allowed us to see the house at the end of the pine grove, all light extinguished within.

  Binz came running from the direction of the house. “The kitchen collapsed, and Irma’s down,” Binz called.

  Irma Grese was one of Binz’s most fervent disciples and, some argued, more severe in her punishments than Binz. What would the commandant say?

  Halina and I ran toward the house and Binz followed. “For God’s sake, Binz. How did this happen?” I asked.

  “The gas stove—she lit her cigarette there, and the damned thing just went up. I told her not to smoke—”

  Halina and I entered the house and found Irma unresponsive on the living room floor. The electricity had been knocked out by the blast, and the room smelled of gas. The kitchen wall behind the stove had been blown clear off, and above the stove a mangled piece of metal swayed, making a strangely human groaning sound. Even the wall calendar near us was knocked askew.

  Halina and I knelt beside Irma. Even in the near darkness, I could see her accelerated breathing. Shock. Blood soaked the shoulder of her dress.

  “Someone get a blanket,” I said.

  “And a candle,” Binz said.

  “There is still gas in the air,” Halina said. “Get a battery-powered flashlight. A good strong one.”

  Binz paused a second. Take orders from a prisoner?

  “A flashlight,” Binz called over her shoulder.

  I tried to apply direct pressure to Irma’s shoulder but it was difficult to see in the darkness. The metallic smell of human blood was unmistakable, though. In seconds, I felt the rug become wet, turning into a sticky pool.

  “Need to move her back to the Revier,” I said.

  “She won’t make it,” Halina said. “Have to work here.”

  Was she mad? “We have nothing…”

  Binz’s guards huddled around us, quiet. Halina hesitated a long moment. Reluctant to save the life of an Aufseherin? She then reached over and ripped the sleeve off Irma’s dress.