From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  One of the two German officers approached Peter across a carpet of ash. His stride was long and powerful. Peter met him halfway, matching the strut. The officer gave an American salute. Peter kept his arm stiff at his side, wishing for nothing more than to finish him off. But a bullet was too clean, too easy.

  Peter glared at the officers. “Hör zu! Listen! I’m taking this camp. All Germans must surrender.”

  The Nazi straightened his shoulders, then barked the command. A siren blared from the towers. Guards scurried from various corners of the camp and lined up in front of Peter, their gun barrels pointed to the ground. Each guard gave an American salute.

  Peter had never thought he would witness a day like this. Yet even the scene before him could not quiet his mounting apprehension.

  “Secure the Germans,” he ordered for the second time that day. “Round them up.”

  Peter’s eyes darted from his men to the Germans to the camp, assessing the situation. When he saw his men easily restraining the enemy, officers included, he allowed his attention to focus on the prisoners.

  Crowded behind a wire fence strung on cement poles, wasted figures streamed from the dim buildings. Hundreds of them cried out with joy and tears. Though still alive, their emaciated bodies only vaguely resembled human beings. Some trembled beneath thin blankets or tattered clothing. Others stood completely nude, men and women alike.

  Women? This was no prisoner-of-war camp. These people had been chosen for eradication.

  Peter and a half dozen of his men marched through the gates of the camp. A wild ovation of cheers rose for the liberators. Hands, bloody and frail, reached out for the slightest touch of freedom.

  Peter’s legs quivered as if he’d just run a marathon. The thrill of freedom and the anguish of what man could do to man intertwined like cords of light and darkness.

  Thin arms punched the air in exhilaration. Bony knees sank into the ground as many collapsed. Trembling fingers covered faces. Peter and his men found themselves surrounded by a sea of skeletal bodies.

  Peter sucked in sharply as his gaze stopped on one woman. While most shoulders slumped under the invisible weight of oppression, she stood erect. Her face was unmoving, her eyes fixed on his. Blue eyes, he noted. As blue as the sky above him. Her hair, gray with dirt, was cropped short. She wore a man’s striped shirt, which hung to her knees like a cloak, hiding her arms and hands in its sleeves. Something in her gaze drew him. Her mouth moved, but her words were lost in the noise of the crowd. Still, Peter sensed what she was saying. Thank you. Thank you.

  Peter felt his chest tighten. He stalked back to the half-track. “Jackson, get the CO on the radio. Now!”

  Within seconds the commanding officer’s voice broke through. “What’s happening, Scotty?”

  “Sir, this isn’t a prisoner-of-war camp. These people aren’t soldiers. They’re civilians. Thousands of dying people. Far more than sixteen hundred.”

  “And the bridge?”

  “Sir, the bridge is intact and secure. But many of these prisoners will be dead before they’re able to leave the gates.”

  He wanted to say more. He ached to tell his captain about the hands, the faces. The smell. The terror. But no words came.

  “Do what you can,” Captain Standart answered, “until we get there.”

  Peter handed the radio back and returned to his men at the gates. “Jones, get the keys and release those who are still locked up. Murphy, find clothing. Anything to cover these people.”

  “And food,” Josef added, his voice shaky.

  “You’re right. Banion, see what kind of food you can find.” His men took off to follow his orders.

  “Scotty …” Josef’s voice trembled even more than before.

  Peter followed his driver’s gaze to a log pile along the side of a building. Then he realized they weren’t logs at all, but bodies. Mouths gaped open in silent screams. Arms crossed over legs. Hair, like cheap wigs, fell over frozen faces.

  Josef took two steps, then fell onto his hands and knees, his body convulsing as nausea overtook him.

  Peter pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and handed it to Josef. Before he could muster the courage to approach the pile, a commotion drew his attention back to the crowd.

  Something had changed. The cries of celebration had transformed into screams of outrage as the prisoners neared the rows of guards lined up outside the wire fencing. Eyes that had shed tears of joy just moments before were narrowed into wicked glares. The prisoners wanted more than deliverance. They wanted vengeance. Now an angry mob, the victims surged toward the gates.

  Despite his own feelings of outrage, Peter knew he had to take control. It was obvious that if order was not restored, many lives would be lost—prisoners, guards, and GIs alike.

  His men guarding the gates awaited Peter’s command, peering grimly down the sights of their M1s. Some weapons were fixed on the guards, others on the prisoners.

  Peter fired a round into the air. The commotion stilled.

  “Step back,” he shouted to the crowd. “We will remove the German guards, and then you will be set free. We are not leaving. We will stay until all is in order.” The message was translated throughout the crowd, and the mass of humanity slowly pulled away from the fence.

  Peter caught movement from the corner of his eye. Spinning around, gun ready, he found a frail prisoner who had dared to step from the ranks. The man’s eyes were fixed on Peter. The man’s trembling hands reached upward as he collapsed at Peter’s feet. He gripped Peter’s leg like a vise. His chest shook and his eyes fixated on a distant vision as one last breath rattled from his body.

  The hold on Peter’s leg gave way. Peter lowered his gun.

  “Sir?” The Red Cross worker hurried to Peter’s side. “You cannot stay here. This is only a subcamp.” His hands motioned to the mountains toward the east. “The main camp is four kilometers away, on the hill.”

  Peter’s mouth went dry. “Repeat that.”

  “Mauthausen, the main camp, is up ahead. There are many more guards ready to surrender. More prisoners to free.”

  Three

  MAY 5, 1945

  GUSEN

  CATEGORY I DEATH CAMP

  Sirens shrilled through the air. Michaela’s eyelids fluttered open. She peered through the dim interior and tried to clear her jumbled mind. What was that noise? A bomb siren? After all these months of struggle, would her final resting place be among bomb fragments?

  Splinters dug into her fingertips as she struggled to rise from the wooden bunk. The room was filled with the odor of urine and feces too strong to ignore.

  A loud commotion drifted in from outside. Michaela pulled herself onto tender feet. Her bare legs, which were once lean and muscular from hikes in the hills near home, were thin and covered with sores. Her hands, which had danced over piano keys and written vivid poetry, were unrecognizable.

  She inched across the room. It had been days since she’d eaten, and before that only starvation rations. Michaela struggled to keep her balance. Her mind refused to clear.

  Most of the others in the room remained motionless on their bunks, too ill to move. Some were already dead.

  Michaela tried not to stare at Hilde’s face as she stepped around her friend’s rigid body. For months, Hilde had spoken of a reunion with her husband and sons and had sung Polish folk songs to encourage her bunkmates. Now her flesh, stretched over her body’s frail bones, littered the floor. Refuse waiting to be burned.

  Coming up to a small window, Michaela peeked through its filthy glass. She saw trucks. Not Nazi trucks but brown ones with white stars. A white car led them around the bend. It made no sense.

  “Amerikaner!” someone screamed from outside.

  “Americans,” Michaela repeated. “The Americans are here.”

  Strength she didn’t know she possessed surged through her veins. She lumbered to the door and poked her head out. The sun felt warm on her forehead and cheeks. The bright rays bur
ned her eyes like acid.

  After a few minutes, Michaela’s eyes adjusted to the bright light. She straightened her foul-smelling prisoner’s shirt, three sizes too big. In the darkness not many nights ago she had stripped it from a man who lay dead outside her barracks. He had no shoes to take, and as an act of dignity she’d left his pants. Before returning inside, Michaela had closed his nonseeing eyes and offered a silent prayer.

  Now, as the sunlight splashed upon her, she noticed that vomit and blood stained the front of the shirt. Still, this was better than the thin, torn one she’d worn before. That thing hadn’t even covered her buttocks.

  As Michaela moved out cautiously, she noticed the guards weren’t at their usual posts. The fog in her mind lifted and she remembered many had left days ago, leaving the prisoners to fend for themselves.

  The siren ceased. Crowds gathered. A river of gaunt bodies brushed against her, pulling her into its flow. Gravel dug into the bottoms of her feet with each clumsy step. She felt caught up in something bigger than herself as the crowd pressed toward the front gates. Her eyes darted to the boundaries that had kept them caged for so long.

  Don’t go there. Turn back! her mind cried as the crowd crossed into restricted areas that before would have brought instant death. She knew those boundaries well.

  But she couldn’t turn back. The river propelled her along. Her heart pounded in her chest. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was heading for her demise. It must be a trap, leading them all to their final destruction.

  Then Michaela lifted her eyes and looked beyond the gates. The trucks stopped. And she saw them. The long-awaited saviors. Whispered rumors of their impending arrival had been circulating for days. She had not believed. Yet there they were, before her.

  A sob caught in her throat. A weight shuddered from her heart. Michaela tried to remember a prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven. They were the only words that came. She repeated them. Our Father. Our Father. Her thin fingers pressed together in the position of prayer.

  Around her, chanting arose in Polish, German, Italian, and other languages Michaela couldn’t distinguish.

  “Americans. We are free!”

  “Home!”

  “Nach Hause!”

  “Ospizio!”

  “Domowy!”

  “Domácí.”

  “Patrie!”

  “Free!”

  Her hands joined others in the air, and she waved to her liberators as they stepped out of their vehicles. They were young men. Healthy, handsome, and strong. If she had a brush, she would paint them. If a pen, she could fill pages with descriptions of their beauty.

  Despite the jumble of people, a man beside her broke out in an awkward dance. His bony elbow jarred her shoulder, and she clung to another man to keep her balance. That man kissed her cheek.

  A kiss. If she survived this, she would never forget that kiss.

  More screams of “Home, home” filled her ears. Michaela gasped as German guards spilled forward from their hidden holes with American salutes. Only then did she truly believe. This is real! We are free! A thousand thoughts filled her mind. Ten thousand memories, both bad and good. She pushed aside those musings and focused on her liberators.

  “Free!” Her voice joined the others, only to be interrupted by the tears she’d stored for months, for years. She felt their warmness pour over her sunken cheeks, spilling into the hollow of her neck.

  Home. The word stuck in her throat, unwilling to break free. Her eyes moved to those around her.

  Home? Did they understand what they were saying?

  She looked past the gates to the surrounding hillsides. Such a contrast to the dirt and rough wood quarters in which she’d lived. Lush vegetation covered the hills, recently awakened from a deep winter’s sleep. And somewhere over those hills, and the mountains beyond, was a place called Poland.

  But Michaela knew even in her home country there was no place to rest her head, to pull up a chair, to warm herself by a fire.

  “What home?” she found herself yelling among the cries. “We no longer have a home!” Yes, they were free, but free to go where? She thought of her parents, her beloved Georg, her friends. No one was waiting for her return. Their home in Bielsko, the beautiful city spread over twenty hills, probably no longer existed and never would again. What good was freedom now? What was she free to do? Lament for the rest of her life?

  Michaela clung to a man next to her to keep from dropping to the ground. He supported her for a moment before moving closer to the gates, to the Americans. The GIs marched into the prison compound, and a wild cheer rose.

  Michaela wiped her tears. No, these were not for now. The Americans had fought hard to get here. Should she greet them with weeping?

  She struggled to the front of the crowd with straight shoulders and lifted chin. Despite her inner turmoil, she would show them her gratitude in the most dignified way possible.

  One American stepped forward as if drawn to the crowd. His hair was the color of the dull red apples that had hung on the tree beside her childhood home. His green eyes were wide, his jaw set firm as if trying to keep his emotions under control. He surveyed the group with disbelief. His gaze rested on her.

  “Danke,” she said, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her above the crowd. “Danke sehr. Thank you very much. And may Father God bless you.”

  The man’s eyes flickered with compassion.

  The crowd continued to surge around her, and the ground swayed under her feet. Michaela knew she had to get out of their midst. The tight presence of the odorous bodies reminded her of days spent in the cattle cars. Memories she wished forever severed from her mind.

  With those memories, a face came to mind … Lelia. The teenager had been so full of life when her Jewish family had come to them, seeking a hiding place. Had it really been only four years ago? Then just last winter the two had been transported to this camp together. For months, for years, Michaela had made sure Lelia had remained by her side. Until last week. The influx of prisoners, the final massacres of desperate Nazis, and their weakened condition had made that impossible. Michaela remembered the last time she’d seen Lelia’s face as they were herded in opposite directions after roll call. Was Lelia still alive? Michaela had to find out.

  She spun around and pushed back through the crowd toward the barracks.

  “Excuse me,” she said in German to a woman. “Lelia Kubale. Do you know her?”

  “Nein,” said the woman, pressing on.

  “Lelia Kubale? Lelia Kubale?” Michaela asked over and over. Every head shook. Each body pushed her aside in an effort to surge forward.

  Just as Michaela was about to give up, one woman stopped. “Lelia Kubale?” she asked.

  “Ja, ja. Do you know where she is?”

  “The typhus barracks. Not doing well. I saw her two days ago. Perhaps dead by now.”

  Michaela couldn’t bear the thought of the girl coming this far only to die so close to liberation.

  “Thank you,” Michaela said as she painstakingly hobbled toward the distant barracks. She knew it would be a miracle if anyone came out of there alive.

  Michaela paused before the door. She covered her mouth, then pushed the door open. Unlike the other barracks, which had mostly cleared out, this one brimmed with people scarcely alive.

  She staggered past the rows of invalids, searching each face. Many eyes were closed. More stared straight ahead, unseeing.

  “The Americans are here,” she told anyone she believed could understand. “We are liberated.” A few of the prisoners uttered words of rejoicing. But most were unable to comprehend her message.

  She came to the end of the barracks, with still no sign of Lelia. As she drifted back to the doorway in despair, she noticed a heap on the floor, partially hidden by another invalid.

  “Lelia!” Michaela rushed to her.

  The girl’s eyes were closed, her body folded in an awkward curl.

  “Please, God,” Michaela c
ried, collapsing to her gaunt knees. “Please let her be alive!”

  Michaela placed her face near Lelia’s lips. She felt the softest puff of air caress her cheek.

  “Help! Somebody help!” Michaela called. But who could help? The Americans. Struggling to her feet, she ventured back into the sunshine.

  Yet as she headed for the gates, she noticed the crowds were returning. The jumble of foreign words made little sense as people passed on what little information they had.

  She stopped one man she recognized. “What has happened? Where are the Americans?”

  “Gone.” He shrugged. “But with promises to return.”

  Michaela’s strength gave out. She sank to the ground. How could they leave? Perhaps it was a wicked trick after all.

  Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sun, allowing the stored-up tears to resume their flow.

  Four

  MAY 6, 1945

  Helene slid her trembling fingers through Anika’s shoulder-length hair, amazed at the feather lightness of the silken strands. Golden hair. Just like her own.

  Helene considered weaving the hair into tiny braids, but she knew it wouldn’t stay. The slightest touch, even a gentle breeze, would unfurl it until it flapped like flaxen banners across the girl’s cherubic face.

  Anika remained motionless as Helene tied her hair back with a pink ribbon.

  “There you go.” Helene set the soft-bristled brush on the table. As she rose from the kitchen chair, apprehension in her chest made breathing a chore. Try as she might, she couldn’t fool herself into pretending today was just another day and their outing simply more errands.

  “Come, love.” Helene lifted the pot of milk she had thickened with stale bread. She placed it into a large picnic basket along with some bowls and spoons. “The hungry need food … and your smile.” Yet even as Helene said the words, she didn’t want to consider where they were actually going.