A Letter From Munich

by Meg Lelvis

  “I’m not certain where his division came from.” Sherk adjusted his glasses. “Possibly from the invasions on the Rhine crossings. Let’s see how it plays out according to Renate.”

  Several minutes later, Sherk ended the story, indicating Ariana ran off alone in the streets to check on her grandparents.

  “So these escaped prisoners, who were they? You said POW’s.”

  “They were slave laborers used in factories like BMW and work camps, the euphemism for concentration camps. There were different levels and classifications of workers, mainly Poles worked in the Munich factories. The last few days of the war, people recognized Germany was losing, and everything fell apart.”

  “Can’t imagine our lives like that, walking around on your city streets piled with debris from the bombs.” Jack stood and sauntered to the living room window overlooking the terrace and woods. A smattering of old folks sat around red-covered patio tables, silver hair and bald heads bobbing in conversation. How many of them remember? How many scars remain?

  He turned to Sherk. “Do you guess one more session tomorrow with Renate should finish the story?”

  “Let’s hope so,” Sherk said.

  Jack thought about going back to Chicago in another week. He was ready, even though he would miss Renate’s hospitality, along with Sherk’s family. And the biergartens, of course. Hard to beat the Hofbräuhaus. Still, he had no definite plans for his future. Just some vague ideas hovering around. Oh well, he’d land on his feet. Always did.

  Half an hour later, Renate bustled into the room, chattering to Sherk. She seemed to have a second wind.

  “We have over an hour until lunch time,” Sherk told Jack. “Renate can tell more of the story now, and then wait for the rest tomorrow. That means another night in Weimar. Our hotel room is available until the weekend, so we’re good.”

  Renate eased herself into her cushiony chair and waited until the men were comfortable.

  Surprisingly, Jack wasn’t bored from Renate’s long dialogue in a foreign tongue. Instead, he found her sparrow-like body and facial expressions interesting as she talked, and he understood an occasional German word. In spite of her frail appearance, he guessed she was one tough apple strudel. Based on what Sherk had told him so far, she’d have to be.

  Chapter 16

  Renate – 1945

  Thank you, Gentlemen, for allowing me to rest. Now, I’ll go on.

  Ariana made me promise never to tell a soul about what happened to her that day. But now I must.

  . . . . .

  Another hectic hour had passed in the hospital with no sign of Ariana. I was a wreck. Old men and women begged for medications to ease their pain, while children cried, some lying in their own waste. We tried to keep up, but with the shortage of doctors, nurses, and orderlies, it was hopeless. I grabbed Stefan’s arm. I’m going to hunt for Ariana. Something’s happened to her. She should’ve been back two hours ago.

  I could tell he was worried too, otherwise he would’ve argued. I’m coming with you, Renate. Let’s go.

  A frazzled nurse wondered where we were going, but we rushed past her and hurried outside. The smoky odor almost gagged us, but something else too. A putrid, rotting stench I later learned came from dead bodies buried beneath slabs of concrete. Bombed-out apartment buildings stood like skeletons, their windows hollow eye sockets gazing at the ruins. How could this be happening to our beautiful city? And where was Ariana?

  It was an unusually warm April day, but smog from the raids caused overcast skies. Distant sirens wailed as we ran down Parzivalstrasse beside the hospital, winding our way west. We turned onto the main street alongside Luitpold Park toward Opa’s place. Ariana had said she’d take a short cut that I guessed would go north through an alley behind some shops and a school on the opposite side of the park.

  We met several men riding bicycles, veering around piles of wreckage scattered on streets and sidewalks. A few gray-uniformed policemen wandered about looking as if they had a purpose, their black boots dingy. A young girl in a white blouse and plaid skirt strolled by walking her bicycle as if this were an ordinary day. I recall her white socks and brown shoes, loose laces trailing in their wake. Stefan warned her to find somewhere safe, but she didn’t seem worried. Foolish girl. I remember hoping she wouldn’t trip on her shoe laces.

  We hurried down a narrow passageway around a corner, then back on the street. We almost reached the 2R highway when we heard a man yelling from our right. Stefan’s hand darted out to stop me as we looked toward the voice.

  Oh, Gott, I squinted to make out a policeman holding onto someone, stepping their way around overfilled trash bins behind a shuttered down café. My stomach told me it was Ariana.

  From this point, my memory blurs into a watercolor of twilight and shadows. Voices, specters of people pop in my mind, and I can only tell what the officer, Ariana, and Stefan said. I must’ve run to Ariana and tried to hug her, the man telling me to let her go, she needed a doctor. Stefan’s calm voice. Take deep breaths, Renate. Look at me and breathe in and out slowly. I can still feel his hands on my arms as he held me up.

  I barely recall our stumbling back to the hospital with the policeman helping us, and bits of conversation from Ariana as she protested. No, no, not the hospital. I’m not hurt. Can’t let anyone see me. Don’t tell. Gott, don’t tell. I wondered who she was pleading with. All of us I’m sure. But her arm was bloody and bent like a red toothpick. And what was she wearing? Not her white aproned uniform. The policeman held a man’s brown, dirt-stained shirt around her shoulders, exposing her bare skin, her legs, no shoes, torn dirty stockings.

  At the hospital, we gathered around, helping Ariana sit on an examining table. Someone pulled curtains around us for privacy, and all the time, she babbled on. Can’t you see? Not clean. You want to get Tripper? It wasn’t until hours later I understood.

  We stayed overnight in hospital; I must’ve curled up on a chair. Memory fades. At one point Stefan made his way to Opa’s home. He told them Ariana and I were so busy we were staying at work for a couple days. I didn’t want our grandparents to wonder why we didn’t come back that night.

  Gradually, we found out what happened. Over the next three days, Ariana talked.

  . . . . .

  There were two of them, she said. They spotted her hurrying through an alleyway and called to her in broken German. She ran, and they started after her. The earlier warning pierced her brain. Escaped POW’s. She was no match for them. Nowhere to hide. She stumbled over a chunk of concrete. Skinned her knee. Kept running.

  Something crashed into her. On her knees. Screamed. Hit. Scratched. Kicked. Bit. Cloth ripping. Punching, slapping her face over and over. Obscenities. Fetid sweat. She smelled Jägermeister. Must’ve looted a liquor store.

  Later, she told me this in private. Oh, Renate, I had my monthly. They saw blood and got madder. Kicked. One on top of me. Then from a distance. Shouts.

  Halt! Geh weg. Gunfire. One. Two. Three. A ton of weight on me. Suffocating. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

  Her savior. A policeman named Alwin. His gray-green uniform loose on his body, tunic hanging over the black belt, his dusty boots. He’d been checking inside the café for looters when Ariana’s screams pierced his ears. He’d raced outside and around to the back. Then he saw.

  One man ran off and dodged the first bullet from Alwin’s gun. The one on top of Ariana got two in the back. Alwin managed to shove the dead body off her, grunting, cursing. She sat up, holding her throat.

  When he talked to us in the hospital, Alwin’s anger was palpable. The Scheisser’s shirt and pants were off, so I used the shirt to cover her up. Her clothes—He shook his head, looked down. At least he had the dece
ncy to appear uncomfortable.

  Alwin had found an ID printed with a Polish name lying on the ground near the body. I still remember his face, red with rage when he told us. Damn Scheisser, assaulting our women. Pardon my language, but that’s what he said.

  After Ariana settled back in the hospital, he left us to return to his job. We never saw Alwin again. I have no idea what happened, but in the turmoil, I’m sure he returned to deal with the body. Or not.

  . . . . .

  How much time passed? Two days flowed into three, and by then, Ariana had almost healed physically. I was sure her arm was broken, but the doctor said he couldn’t detect a fracture. She wore a sling for a couple days and kept the arm wrapped in a bandage.

  Seeming in a daze much of the time, Ariana asked twice where Alwin was. She wanted to thank him again for saving her life. I owe him so much, Renate. If he hadn’t been there right then, I would’ve been—Mein Gott, I would have died – he was strangling me. We had gotten wind of the rumors of the Red Army invading from the east, and what they did to women. I hated all men during those months.

  Later, another day or so, Stefan said we needed to see our grandparents for their peace of mind. The next morning, he walked with us, helping Ariana along the way, until we reached their apartment.

  Oma and Opa fussed over us, but they didn’t seem to suspect Ariana had been attacked, since her sling and bandages were gone. When they noticed the bruises on her face and arms, she joked about her clumsiness, claiming she’d tripped over a bedpan, or a child at the hospital had clung onto her arms tight enough to cause bruising. She poked fun at herself, but Oma and Opa pressed their lips in a straight line.

  Oma insisted we go to Mutti’s house to check on her and Kurt. A train still ran once a day to Dachau, so Opa talked a neighbor into driving us to the Hauptbahnhof. When we arrived at the station, a throng of mainly women and children pushed and shoved, bedraggled in loose drab clothes, carrying battered suitcases. Policemen tried to maintain order. Clear the way. No loitering. Check the schedules on the wall.

  Ariana and I plowed our way through and got in line to buy tickets, found the track to Dachau. We scrambled onto our car as we elbowed our way through the noisy, anxious crowd.

  Twenty minutes later, the locomotive shrieked. Plumes of steam rolled over the track. As we chugged along toward Dachau, Ariana kept insisting that I promise not to tell Mutti what happened to her. Renate, you can’t tell Mutti. She’ll have heart failure if she finds out.

  Don’t’ worry, I won’t. I said that over and over.

  But I’m afraid she’ll guess by looking at me.

  No, you look fine. The bruises barely show. I spoke the truth. Ariana was still a movie star, as lovely as ever, even though some cuts were visible on her neck and arms. Mute testimony of what she had endured.

  . . . . .

  In the days to come, Mutti either didn’t notice the pale welts on Ariana’s skin, or chose to remain silent. She was distraught over Kurt. He’d gone off with the Youth the week before, and he hadn’t returned. She had retrieved her rosary beads from hibernation, and was praying over them throughout the days.

  We stayed in the house with Frau Hilda, who would venture out each day to find food and listen to the news, mainly gossip about the expected end of the war. As you can imagine, things fell apart, the Allied armies marching toward Munich.

  We managed to eat watery cabbage soup and light fires in the back yard for makeshift cooking. The explosions, the sirens blared constantly until we became numb to them. We moved like robots, just surviving. And there was Ariana.

  I could tell she wasn’t the same. Something had changed, shifted, like a lamp growing dim inside her, leaving darkness in its wake. As the days, months, and years passed, she’d tell me bits and pieces, but carefully portioned out for me listen to and sit in silence.

  Chapter 17

  Weimar

  After the morning visit with Renate, Jack craved lunch and a pint. Sherk mentioned several restaurant options, but they ended up at the hotel bar. No annoying crowds or noise.

  The day was warm but cloudy as they drove away from Renate’s residential building. Young people rode bikes along the streets, dressed in black form-fitting sports clothes. Jack apparently was a dinosaur, and a poorly-dressed one at that. Was he the only person who still wore sweatpants?

  Antsy to discover what Renate had said, Jack looked at Sherk. “Just tell me the gist of the conversation. I don’t wanna wait till we eat.”

  Sherk seemed annoyed. “Jack, believe it or not, it’s sometimes difficult to translate and try and remember everything Renate said. So, I need to step back and relax before I begin.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll try and relax myself.” Fat chance of that.

  Fifteen minutes later, they sat in the lounge of the Hotel Leonardo, unwinding on vinyl-cushioned bar stools, beers in hand.

  Jack took a healthy swig of Warsteiner Dunkel, his recent brew of choice while in Germany. “Renate seemed drained this morning.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’m finding her story interesting, but I wonder what it all has to do with Pa. I wonder when he’ll come in.”

  “You need to be patient, Jack. Remember she said that you need to understand Ariana to get the full story with your dad. She should be fine after a day’s break. Sherk straightened his wire-rimmed glasses. “This last conversation was a tough one. I’ll update you up after we order.”

  “I get the idea you’re stalling. Must’ve been something bad.”

  Sherk looked around the room. “Here comes a waiter. Just hold your horses, Jack.”

  The Leonardo was the opposite of a traditional European hotel. Its trendy, understated decor showcased red, orange, and black splashes of geometric prints on the walls, the design repeated on the carpets. Trim-looking men and women in dark business suits strode about, seemingly with great purpose.

  A young red-haired bartender sidled over. “Have you decided?” His German accent not as pronounced as most, Jack noticed.

  Sherk handed him their menus and ordered a burger for Jack, a bratwurst sampler plate for himself.

  The redhead grinned, then hesitated, gazing at Jack. “Excuse me for staring, but you remind me of that American actor, ah—”

  Jack gave half an eye-roll. “Yeah, nothing new. But he’s Irish.”

  “Oh ya, right.” he nodded. “Your food should be ready in ten, fifteen minutes.” He turned and sauntered away.

  Jack took another gulp of beer. “So what did I miss this morning?”

  Sherk sighed. “Renate and Stefan, the medic at the hospital, decided to go hunt for Ariana since she’d been gone for several hours.” He spoke for a few minutes, slowing down as he summarized the attack on Ariana.

  Frowning, Jack said, “So these thugs were escaped POW’s. One ran away, and the other got shot. And the cop came just in time, to stop Ariana from getting strangled.”

  “That’s right. Renate said after a few days the details came out gradually, and Ariana told her she was having her period and—”

  “Whoa, man, too much information.” Jack was squeamish about women’s bodily functions, even after years as a cop and his marriage. Karen used to tease about a tough guy like him being such a prude. God, how he still missed her after all these years.

  Sherk shrugged. “Sorry, guess men your age don’t want to give ear to the curse of Eve.”

  “Just drop it for chrissakes. All I need is at least Ariana came out alive.” Even after his twenty-five-year experience as a cop, Jack’s blood pressure still rose from conversations or witnessing the aftermath of sexual assault.

  “Yeah, that was the important part, that she surviv
ed,” Sherk agreed.

  Sherk took another drink. “Well, after a few days, Renate and Ariana stayed at the grandparents’ place not far from the hospital. Guess they were okay, but much of the city was in ruins. Her Opa wanted them to take the train to Dachau to check on their mother and Kurt, the brother.”

  “I thought he was off serving in the Hitler Youth.”

  “He was, but they hadn’t gotten word about him for a while. That’s where Renate stopped the story. They were on the train heading for their mother’s place. Ariana was worried her mom would suspect that she’d been beaten up, and she made Renate promise never to tell.”

  Jack was so engrossed in the story, the bartender seemed to appear out of nowhere holding a tray of steaming sausages and a hamburger with German potato salad.

  “Here you are, guys.” He set the plates on the bar. “More beer for ya?”

  “Jawohl,” said Jack, impressed with his correct pronunciation, but still, the bartender gave him a patronizing smile. He took a bite from his thick, onion-laden burger. “Sehr gut.” Again, impressed with himself. Anything to keep from dwelling on Ariana’s ordeal.

  “You’ll be talking like a native soon, Jack.” Sherk took his knife and fork, sawed off a hunk of bratwurst and bit into it. “I agree. The food’s sehr gut.”

  Jack drained his mug and wiped his mouth. “That’s the end of Renate’s tale until tomorrow?”

  “Yes, except she also said Ariana was never the same after that. Like a light diminished in her.” Sherk shook his head and sighed. “Poor girl.”

  The bartender brought their beers and placed them beside the plates. “Anything else?”

  “Nein,” Jack told him.