From Ashes Into Light: A Novel

by Gudrun Mouw

Nothing makes sense anymore. I can’t even look forward to talking things over with my former best friend, Helena. I don’t know what happened to her during the pogrom, and I pray she’s all right. I wish I could see Rolf smile again. I try to imagine his face, but I can’t recall it. I cherish his words, “Be brave, Ruthi.”

  The next morning my father says, very gently, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but your grandmother…is…dead.” He pauses for what seems like a long time before he continues. “I talked to one of our neighbors from Salzburg, Mrs. Gruenwald. She said it was probably Oma’s heart…and your uncle, your uncle, he…” Papa pulls at his beard. He isn’t able to go on with what he had planned to say.

  Tears burn my eyes. I suppress an outcry. I’m frightened, but I don’t want to add to papa’s troubles. At 45, papa has always seemed optimistic, youthful, yet today he looks different. I notice deep shadows and lines around his eyes.

  “Ruth,” he says after another long pause, during which he somewhat regains composure, “we still hope to be able to leave. We’ve had to start all over with the paperwork. We’re doing everything we can. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, papa.”

  “Help your mother. So many people live here, it’s very hard for her, especially since she has a headache. I need to leave for a while.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the emigration office.”

  “Please stay home, papa, please.” I can’t stop myself. I grab his hand. I have a bad feeling in my stomach. “I don’t think you should go. Please. Something bad might happen, I just know it.” Before I can take a breath, papa strokes my hair.

  “I don’t have a choice. Things have to get done. Don’t worry.” He gives me a hug before he leaves. With hawk eyes, I observe my father through the window by the front door. He steps down to the sidewalk and begins to walk briskly. His body leans slightly forward.

  Three burly men, much younger and bigger than papa, swagger towards him. They block his way. I have never seen such mean and hateful expressions. I open the door. I call, “Papa! You forgot something.” But he doesn’t turn around. He stands where he is and lifts his chin towards me slightly as if to say: don’t interfere, don’t get involved. I partly close the door.

  I hear one of the men call out to my father: “We’ve been watching you.” He is very stout and loud. “We see you coming out of that schlampe Jew house, strolling around at your leisure at all hours of the day and night. We’ll soon put a stop to that. What’s your profession?”

  “Carpenter.”

  “You’re no worker.” The second one sneers under his Hitler mustache. “You pretend to be one so you won’t have to pay the Jewish business tax.”

  “We are not allowed to have businesses,” my father says.

  “You dare to argue?”

  The third one, blond, short haired, so young he still wears Lederhosen, clasps my father’s beard.

  The stout older one doesn’t stop the youth and adds, “You verdammt heathen, how many children do you have?”

  “One.”

  “What’s this?” The younger one looks at his friends. “Is he bragging?”

  “Let’s make him admit,” the man with the mustache says, punching papa in the ribs, “which Jewish doctor does forbidden abortions on his so-called wife.”

  They shove my Papa here and there, surrounding him with insults and threats. Finally they let him go. Papa continues on his way, head bowed, shoulders hunched.

  Slowly, I close the door. For the next two hours I throw myself into English studies. I study until my brain exhausts itself.

  Several hours later papa returns. Blood runs down his face. Mutti screams. Auntie hurries to get her medicine kit, yelling at me over her shoulder, “I need hot water and a clean towel!”

  Mother brings father into the kitchen. I rush to heat a kettle of water and get a towel from the linen cupboard next to the pantry.

  The Brauns, a newlywed couple who were kicked out of their apartment and now live with us, headquartered in the parlor, sit at the kitchen with seven-year-old Heini who hasn’t talked since the recent, citywide violence. Heini is the youngest of another evicted family that resides in the attic of my aunt’s home. The Brauns get up, taking Heini with them so we can be alone with our misery. No one says anything, no longer needing to ask how or why such beatings are possible.

  I stare at papa. He looks terrible. All over his face and beard blood has crusted, giving him a blotched and eerie appearance like a fierce, alien creature. Papa pats my mother’s hand. “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he says. Mother shakes her head. Her lips quiver. She holds back anger.

  “I tried to get him to stay home,” I say.

  Mutti says, “No matter what we do, it’s wrong.”

  Aunt Lili arrives with a box of supplies. I hand her a towel and point to the kettle. Steam rises up from the spout. “Bring a bowl of water here,” she says. I pour the water and place the bowl on the table.

  Auntie wets the towel. She carefully dabs at her brother’s blood. Her hands move over papa’s face and head methodically. “You’re going to have a dreadful black eye,” she says in a quiet, almost relieved tone, seeing the injuries aren’t as bad as she had feared. She parts the hair on his crown and examines closely. “Here is the main trouble, I think, Josef. We must get Dr. Wollen to look at this.”

  “No. No…no, I’ll be all right.”

  “What happened?” Mother puts her hand on papa’s knee. Her gray eyes look so tired, so filled with pain, that I feel ashamed. I move to the other side of the table and stand there, staring at the kettle.

  Papa tells Mutti, “I went to the emigration office but it was shut. When I came out, one of the SS beat me with a stick because he said I was disrespectful, didn’t pull my hat off fast enough, and he is young enough to be my son. In the end, they’re determined to finish us off one way or another.”

  Papa looks up in my direction. He appears dazed, in shock. It takes him a moment to notice me. I’m standing next to Aunt Lili. “Ah, not studying English?” He tries to sound reassuring. “Don’t be scared, my green-eyed child. I’ll be good as new by tomorrow.”

  I nod my head, though I don’t feel encouraged at all. It’s awful to see him this way. He can’t even earn a living anymore because people are afraid to hire Jews or don’t want to, even ones who are master craftsmen like my papa, willing to work for practically nothing. Fortunately, Stefan Richert, at great risk to himself and his family, still sends us money. Once I even heard mother complaining to papa, “If things continue to get worse, we might be forced to go to the soup kitchens.”

  “We’re lucky to have a place to live,” my papa had said. “Thank God Lili owns the house. We won’t be kicked out. But who knows how much longer that will last? She might even lose her widow’s pension.”

  “But her husband was an Austrian diplomat, a Christian.”

  “Expect the worst, Esther, from this regime.”

  It hurts papa terribly, I know, to feel he isn’t able to help our deteriorating situation. More than once he’s said, “Only our faith can help us now.”

  After auntie and mother take papa to the bedroom to lie down, I overhear their conversation in the hall. Aunt Lili says, “I think he’ll be fine, don’t you? I’d like to take turns sitting with him just to make sure. There’s no point in taking chances.”

  “Yes,” my mother agrees. That night I have a dream. I see myself lucidly, as a baby lying in the snow in a northeastern country.

  The Phoenix

  East Prussia

  I watch over the Pulver and Pulver-Mai family and their newest member, Elfriede. I fly back and forth. Can there be any mercy in this sea of cruelty? East Prussians were forbidden to evacuate until late January 1945 and were threatened that defeatists would be shot. Still, many civilians flee as the Russian army arrives that same month. Estates, farms, villages, towns, and cities are emptied. Place names such as Quittainen, Schoenau, Einhofen, Land
wehr, Wehburg, and Koenigsberg would soon be erased.

  Russian soldiers are about to discover Fritz Pulver in the cellar where he’s been hiding from the Gestapo. Standing tall, thin and grave, his sparse, dark-haired head nearly touches the low ceiling. He carries a jacket on his arm and holds his hat in his hands. He’s been praying for days. He is ready. Soldiers pound down the cupboard that conceals the root cellar entrance.

  The commander has never seen anyone so composed, so arresting in the face of capture. He motions his soldiers off, indicating with a gesture that Fritz Pulver should climb up the stairs. In the kitchen, the taciturn commander sits down at the table, stretching his legs. Fritz stands before him. He turns his hat rim. Though he has made a resolution to accept whatever comes, fear crawls up the back of his neck and threatens to overtake him. God help me, he prays silently. Soldiers bar the entrance, and the deep-voiced commander asks Fritz in a heavy Russian accent, “You the Bürgermeister?”

  Fritz does not try to deny it. He nods. “I am the mayor.”

  “We shoot your kind,” says the commander, “want to say something?”

  “No.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Of course.” Fritz, however, does not seem afraid. He looks at the commander with a quizzical expression, wondering what form his remaining time would take. Give me courage, he silently continues to pray.

  “Please!” The agitated owner of the house pushes through the barricade of soldiers. “We hid Mr. Pulver from the Gestapo to save him from a Nazi concentration camp. He was against the government. Ask anyone.”

  “Witnesses,” the commander orders one of his soldiers. Quickly two neighbors are hauled in with a pistol at their backs. The commander interrogates them.

  “Yes, what you heard is true,” one neighbor says.

  “He was against the regime; that’s why we picked him. This place is not like other places,” says the other. Hairs on the men’s arms prickle with fear, but their eyes hold the commander’s penetrating glare without shrinking. A former butcher, the bull-shaped commander does not wish to believe these men, but he does.

  Mayor Pulver, Elfriede’s grandfather, becomes an exception. His life is spared. Instead, he is sent to a labor camp in Siberia.

  * * *

  A Russian soldier appears on the Pulver land pointing his bayonet. There’s no one in the house except Marta Pulver Mai and her daughter. I have been calling in vain.

  Elfriede Mai wakes up from a nap in her parlor crib to the sound of heavy boots pounding the wooden floor. The floor shakes. Marta rushes in from the kitchen. The mother cries out and runs upstairs to lead the soldier away from her five-month-old baby. His boots follow Marta, his harsh voice commands. Screams pierce the house, and a door slams shut.

  I see where Marta’s attacker pushes her into one of the bedrooms. Marta stumbles. She crumbles beyond horror to the floor. Marta has fallen outside herself into a realm of light, where mother and daughter connect.

  Upstairs, Marta slips through the torn weave of who she thought she was. The soldier does not notice how the woman, pinned beneath him, gains strength from outside herself. The union of mother and child creates space where there is no space. Marta slides away from the drunk who inflicts himself. She moves, slowly at first. Then she springs up. Her feet race downstairs.

  Marta grabs Elfriede and runs through wheat fields searching for a safe place. Other soldiers yell, shooting at mother and child. The horror pulsating through her mother’s body is familiar to Elfriede. A crow calls out and flies up overhead. Facing death, Elfriede suddenly remembers another death.

  * * *

  A Dachau SS guard pokes his bayonet right and left at bloody, naked bodies lying on the ground. He is looking to see if anything stirs, if anything glints. He curses for no particular reason. He doesn’t know why he does what he does. He doesn’t feel the hard shell of what he has become.

  “Damn, we ran out of gas, and now they’ve used too many bullets with some still alive.” He yells at the guards under his charge, “Burn this mess. Schnell. Quick! No time to lose. The Kommandant is having important visitors. Now!”

  * * *

  From the top of a willow tree, I watch Marta and Elfriede hiding between a small hill and long willow limbs. Marta pulls her baby close, covering her daughter’s mouth. “Hush,” she whispers, “we mustn’t be found. Darling, Elfriede. I shall call you Friede from now on, peace. Be peaceful, liebchen.”

  Book Two

  Saqapaya / The Phoenix

  Hew and I sit on our heels facing the open mouth of the estuary where clear mountain water reaches the Pacific Ocean. Shadows grow longer. We pull rabbit and fox capes around ourselves, dig our toes in the sand, and chew on acorn bread still warm from the pit. Though we savor our independence and competence, life has been hard these last five years. At fourteen years, we feel like we are much older than that.

  Sun journeys westward towards darkness, traveling fast. Sun takes with him the sight of sparrow, hawk, condor, mouse, mole, and wolf, until we can just see each other.

  I like the tangy taste and smell of the bread and chew slowly, enjoying its solid texture. My stomach begins to feel almost comfortably full. For once, I am not as overcome with sorrow as I have been since the deadly sickness struck down so many of our people, among them my parents, younger brother, and older sister.

  Softly, Hew says, “Look Saqapaya, the moon is hiding behind the clouds.”

  “Clouds that look like the wings of an eagle.”

  “Stretching his wings wide.”

  After a while we walk upstream to where the water is running more strongly. Hew drinks, I join him. Bending over the creek, I lean my head to the side and open my mouth. Water flows over my tongue, pure and sweet. When I am finished I spread my fingers out over the stream, repeating words of gratitude taught by my uncle.

  “I have heard,” Hew says, “the invaders do not know how to speak to the plants or animals.”

  “Maxiwo says they lack courtesy.” There is scorn in my voice. “Uncle tells me they foul the creeks. They spit in the water. They don’t know our ways and take things without asking.”

  “Why did chief Yanonalit show them the spring by the willows? Now they build ugly houses there with sharp points.” With youthful anger and restlessness, Hew breaks the stick he has been poking at the ground and throws it towards a tree trunk.

  “When the moon is six times full again, Uncle and I will go back to the cave.” I wish to distract Hew from his frustration. Hew and Uncle are my close family now. During this long time filled with the grief of maniwoch, many friends I grew up with are also gone. “Uncle says we must continue my apprenticeship. We cannot wait much longer.”

  Hew understands. He nods. He has lost family and friends too. “Father will want me to set traps in the mountains. Will Maxiwo let me go with the two of you as far as Lizard Tongue rock?”

  “I am sure he will.” Hew and I turn back towards the village.

  * * *

  A few yards behind, deep in shadow, Coyote follows. With my phoenix eyes, I see how Xuxaw follows the tracks of the First People of this land as though to make sure they do not disappear.

  Sometimes Coyote appears with a howling pack to awaken the sluggish. Sometimes Xuxaw steals food from the unwary. He doesn’t necessarily run away when he is spotted. Often he will stop and lift his long nose, to point at trouble he knows is coming.

  Xuxaw’s eyes dart with mischief as though to say to those who are arrogant in their ways: don’t be so certain you are right. Why do you think you are the only one who knows anything?

  Sun returns home. There are many stories of how the Sun carries people from this world into another. People have lived and died in the middle world for as long as the ancient ones can remember. Rattlesnakes, bears, and wildcats are all happy together in the house of the sun. Sun is also happy. Sun is like an uncle who fulfills his duty. Sun lights the day. And now today’s job is finished.

  Hew and I stop just
before we reach the village. To celebrate the final moments of twilight, I take a deer bone whistle from my belt and play a song. Hew chants: “Who has arrived? Who is still arriving?”

  Then we sit for a while enjoying silence and subtle shifts all around us.

  Coyote also stops. He sits behind a clump of bulrushes. He sniffs at damp air. There is a stench coming from far off only he can smell. Xuxaw listens to the song of the first humans and gives a knowing look, as if to say: I know who has arrived and is still arriving. I know who shoots and turns the first people upside down. I have seen many two-legged killers marching from the north with appetites worse than the most evil ‘ahashoosh.

  Coyote lifts his head high, shakes his bushy tail, and turns towards the east to greet the full moon. He follows the creek back to the mountains and to the horned toad, chief of the beasts, watching from a high bank. Kopkop observes all and does not judge. He handles opposing matters with equanimity.

  Hundreds of frogs croak a hoarse chorus among the reeds. Tension builds in the canyons and valleys. The mountain shakes and an invisible fear permeates the atmosphere, but Toad continues sitting for a long while. Later in the night he gathers food with his tongue and calls out from the mystery of his surroundings. Deep in his throat he carries a powerful sound.

  Hew is weaving a simple object from green shoots as darkness settles. It is as if he is not looking with his eyes but with his fingers. Quickly, he finishes his work with a sigh of satisfaction. “Please tell Uncle I shall stay here alone for a while,” I tell him. Hew stands; he leans over as if to embrace me, but instead shakes the washiko brush overhead. A shower of tiny dry leaves rain down on me. He grins, then turns to go. “Get out of here,” I call to his back, brushing myself off.

  I quiet down, absorbing the enveloping darkness. I hear soothing sounds from the village nearby. After a time, I remember what I have learned about Phoenix. With my eyes closed, I glimpse the unusual colored bird above me. Suddenly, it is as if he and I are flying together at great height under full moon light, bright and far-reaching.