From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  Years ago Helene had ignored her father’s prattling, shrugging off his enthusiasm and his efforts. Now she stared at him in awe. He was, and always had been, a man of principle and action.

  “What next?” Her father raised his hands, palms up. “Who will they turn their weapons on now? The prisoners are angry and have every reason to be. The violence will continue if we do not help.”

  He crossed to the hallway and plucked a potato from the stack. “You should see the countryside. Prisoners from the camp have robbed the farms, killing animals for food. Two men came by this morning with Angora rabbits from a neighbor’s cages and wanted to cook them here. How could I say no? They were half starved. So we all had rabbit stew, ja? But this is only the beginning.”

  Helene watched him roll the potato in his hands, surprised at how thin and aged they had become. “I took some food to the camp this morning. I plan to take more later.” She searched his face for a response. “I never agreed with what they did. I tried to talk to Friedrich, but he wouldn’t—”

  Her father flinched at the sound of her husband’s name. “Ja, ja, good. We will work together now.” He pulled back the drapes to look outside.

  Helene picked up his blue jacket from the armrest. She rubbed its fabric between her thumb and fingers. The cloth was thin and worn. The past five years had been even harder on him than she’d imagined.

  She stood, weighing the tension that hung in the air between them. Yes, she was forgiven. Yes, they could move on and help others. But as Helene replaced the jacket, she considered what she and her father could have accomplished together.

  “How is my granddaughter?” His voice interrupted her thoughts. He turned from the window and beheld her face.

  “Anika is fine. Beautiful. Many people from town say she’s like me when I was her age.”

  “And how are you?” The gentle manner in which he spoke overwhelmed her. Gone was his humanitarian air. The man standing before her was simply her father. And she had hurt him deeply.

  “Mir geht es gut. I am well.” She noticed him staring at her stomach. “I am due to have my second child in a few months. Friedrich may be back by then, though I do not know what to do if …” She paused, ashamed for again mentioning his name in this place.

  “And until then?” He tossed the potato back onto the stack and limped to the coatrack, where he lifted his hat from the hook. “Until then you need to come home. I will help you get your things.”

  “Wait.” She touched his arm, taken aback for a moment at the strong emotion the brief contact produced. “There’s not just me. Not just Anika and the baby. I’ve offered … I’ve offered to care for two women prisoners from the camp.”

  Helene didn’t know what she expected from her admission. She knew her father would agree. He was that type of man. But she hadn’t expected the broad smile that crossed his face, causing the worry lines to disappear.

  “My daughter has indeed returned. Komm, let us get your things and then prepare the house. We will have many to feed and care for.”

  Helene hurried into her house and shut the door. Her father’s friend had brought a wagon around, and in an hour’s time they had loaded most of her things. There were only a few more items she needed. But she knew she didn’t have much time before the U.S. soldiers arrived to claim her house.

  She surveyed the nearly empty living room and kitchen. For years this had been her sanctuary. The first home that had been all hers. The windows, where bright white curtains had fluttered, were bare. The hardwood floors appeared naked without the colorful rugs scattered across them.

  Some items Helene refused to take. On the counter rested Friedrich’s radio, a gift from his captain when he became SS Untersturmführer. It was still tuned to the official Nazi station. Even now she could imagine Wagner, Hitler’s favorite composer, blaring over the airwaves.

  The high-backed white chairs remained assembled around the table, reminding her of the pale boys in Hitler’s Youth. Those chairs had been Friedrich’s too. She’d never cared for their modern style.

  An unsteady mixture of emotions swirled through Helene at the thought of leaving. She had become a lover and a mother in this place. It was also here where she’d experienced some of her darkest nights, waiting for her husband’s return from the camps.

  Helene walked to the window. She looked beyond the crisscross pattern of her fence to the long, metal railroad tracks and the town beyond that. Behind her, out of view, was the camp.

  Helene moved toward the desk. It would have to stay. Father’s inn had little room for extra furniture, and the shed in the backyard would fill up fast. Still, she needed to sort through the items inside. As Helene reached for the first drawer, she noticed a corner of a photo peeking from beneath the desk lamp.

  Lifting the lamp revealed a picture of a young boy in front of a small cottage. Helene picked up the photo. Behind the boy and the cottage, large mountains rose straight up from the fields. On one peak, the tower of a castle spiraled into the sky. Helene used her finger to wipe dust from the boy’s toothy grin.

  Helene recognized that smile. She turned the picture over, and a handwritten name confirmed her guess. Friedrich. Where had this photo come from? And why hadn’t she seen it before? Outside, trucks rumbled down the road. She couldn’t worry about that now.

  Helene slipped the photo into her apron pocket, then packed other pictures and several important-looking papers from the desk drawers into a small satchel. As she finished, she noticed a piece of paper on the floor where her rocking chair had sat. She picked it up, blew off the dust, and realized it was some sort of handwritten map. A pencil line was drawn from St. Georgen through Germany into Switzerland, then to Italy. Was this Friedrich’s escape route? Had he made it to Italy?

  Helene turned the paper over, noticing an address in the upper-right corner. PBC, 7002 Chur. Chur? That was a city in Switzerland. What would he be doing there?

  She stuffed the map in with the other papers, then left the desk, ignoring the bottom drawer altogether. She already knew what was inside: watches, pendants, and a pearl necklace. Trinkets Friedrich had acquired from the camp. Items she refused to wear. Just the thought of them made her stomach queasy.

  With hurried steps, Helene moved to the smaller bedroom on the second floor and rifled through Anika’s things. She put small garments for the baby into the satchel, then tried to think of what else she might need.

  It all seemed unreal. Helene had to remind herself this was actually happening. Life would never be the same.

  She moved on to the larger room. Friedrich’s uniform shirts still hung from hooks on the wall. She grabbed one and stared at the bed.

  When she’d announced her pregnancy with Anika, she thought things might be different. Friedrich had been overwhelmed and awed at the thought of being a father. He had discussed his own father’s death at an early age. He’d even shared stories about his kind mother.

  That night, he’d knelt before her, his head pressed to her stomach, and wept. “I want to be a good father. But I cannot bear to bring a child into this awful place. We will go away. We can start fresh somewhere else.”

  She’d been hopeful that night, and even in her dreams she’d imagined sailing away from the control of the Nazis.

  Yet when Friedrich awoke the next morning, it was as if those words had never been spoken. He climbed out of bed the same unfeeling guard he’d been the day before.

  On that day, the man Helene married disappeared. Her husband became cold, harsh, and bitter. He even yelled at her for yielding to morning sickness. Over time, Helene found herself shrinking back more and more from his quick temper, drunken rages, and sulky attitude.

  She sat on the bed and fingered the roughness of the shirt, then held it close to her face. Instead of the scent of him, the shirt stank of vodka. She threw it to the floor.

  What now? she wondered. What will happen when he returns for me and the children? Does any fragment of that devoted man remain?


  The baby kicked within Helene’s womb, and she massaged her ribs. Would the child look like Friedrich? Perhaps this time she carried the son her husband longed for.

  The sounds of more Allied vehicles filtered in through the windows. She didn’t have to check outside to know that soon it would be her house they parked in front of.

  Helene regarded the room one last time, then picked up her satchel and rose from the bed, kicking the shirt behind the door.

  She was on the bottom step when the knock came. But it didn’t sound like soldiers. Perhaps it’s Katharina bringing Anika back. She opened the door.

  Edda, a neighbor she didn’t know very well, stood there, filling the doorway with her presence. Her face was pale, and her hands fidgeted with an envelope.

  Helene took a step back. A chill settled over her. What did this woman want? Had she heard of Helene’s journey to the camp? Helene still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. That her every act against the Nazi Party was being recorded and reported.

  After a few seconds of awkward silence, Helene motioned Edda inside. “I was just leaving, but come in.”

  Edda did so, closing the door behind her. “I won’t stay long,” she said, her voice strained. “I have to finish packing. But I have news for you.” The large woman shuffled to the kitchen and slumped into one of the white kitchen chairs, pressing her forehead into her hand. Helene glanced at her plump, pink fingers that bore no calluses. Why, they’d probably never performed a stitch of manual labor.

  Helene’s own hands trembled as she sat, and she fingered a dish towel left on the table. The baby continued to tussle in her womb.

  “I’m sorry,” Edda said. “This is more difficult than I thought.” She fidgeted in her seat. “I’ve had word from my husband. Arno made it to safety.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Helene said.

  “I also have news for you.”

  “About Friedrich?” Helene asked.

  Edda lowered her gaze. “He did not make it to Bavaria. He was with a group a few hours behind my husband’s. I was told the Americans blocked their path, and when they attempted to escape, the men were captured and killed. Right on the spot. Without even a trial.”

  A cold sensation washed over Helene. She saw Edda’s full pink lips moving but couldn’t comprehend the words.

  Finally Edda paused. “Do you understand, Helene?” she asked. “He’s not coming back.”

  Helene nodded. Though she wanted to cry, no tears surfaced.

  Edda rose. “I have a letter here for you. From him.” She placed it on the table. Helene noticed a bloodstain on the corner.

  “My husband found it on his body,” Edda explained. “A messenger brought it to me. I’m sure he’d planned to send it upon his safe arrival.”

  Somehow Helene was able to mutter a word of thanks as Edda let herself out. The letter sat on the table. Helene remained on the kitchen chair, her half-packed things by her side, and stared at the envelope.

  She lost all track of the ticking clock until a heavy fist pounded on the door. It was time. Helene rose and straightened her hair. She tucked the envelope into her apron pocket next to the photo of Friedrich.

  The knock came again. The doorknob twisted.

  “Time’s up,” a voice shouted in German as two American soldiers burst into the room. “This building is now under the jurisdiction of the United States Army.” Helene grabbed her things and hurried out, refusing to look into their faces. The satchel dug into her shoulder as she left the gate and scurried down the street. Still heavier were the thoughts of what could have been. What never would be.

  Friedrich was dead.

  Six

  MAY 6, 1945

  Peter plodded through the gates of Gusen and leaned on the cold concrete pole for support. The sub-camp was small compared to the massive rock structure of the main camp, Mauthausen, where he’d spent part of the previous day. Here, thin wire separated the prisoners from freedom, whereas thick stone walls surrounded the perimeter of the mother camp. While Gusen adjoined the small town of St. Georgen, Mauthausen was a fortress set apart, covering the top of a high hill.

  But death was the same in both places. Thousands of bodies, and thousands more dying daily.

  Peter’s legs felt like lead, and he covered his face with his hands. He’d tried not to look. Had attempted to walk past the man without hesitation, but it hadn’t worked.

  He glanced back at the body that rested just twenty yards outside the camp gate. It lay there, face to the sky, mouth open. The knees were swollen and bloody, reminding Peter of two large knots on the limb of a branch. The man’s chest neither rose nor fell. Peter didn’t have to check his pulse to know he was dead.

  Peter guessed what had happened. The opportunity for freedom had arrived and the desire to escape had proved too strong. The weak man had crawled from prison into liberty, knowing eternity waited on the other side.

  Peter sank to the ground, his back against the pole. It made no sense. Why did this have to happen? How could God allow such suffering? He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to scrub away the deep ache inside.

  He placed his head between his knees and took a long breath. It was no use. All he managed to inhale was the scent of death. He’d been told the crematoriums had stopped weeks earlier, yet the stench still blanketed the camp. And even last night, as Peter had traveled back to his base, with thousands of German prisoners in tow, the wind had whistled around him and the driving rain had soaked him to the bone. Even so, he could not escape the foul smells of Gusen and Mauthausen. They had permeated his skin and remained through the night. Perhaps they would always be with him.

  Yet even with the mix of smells—human waste, foul body odors, and smoldering flesh—one scent angered him above all. German tobacco. He caught a whiff of it and pictured arrogant guards patrolling the grounds, judging the helpless with possessed eyes. He imagined them smoking their cigarettes while their boots sank into the sticky mud created by the trampling of a thousand bodies.

  Peter raised his head and surveyed the camp. His attention rested on one woman. She was too weak to stand. But with all her strength she propped herself onto one elbow. She caught his eye, and he glanced away. He was supposed to be the strong one.

  Peter rose and wandered through the crowd, inspecting the caricatures of human beings. Josef approached him, his face pale. “Scotty, we need your help at the graves.”

  Peter didn’t have the strength to ask why. His feet plodded toward the edge of the camp. As he approached the chasm of a mass grave, he noticed a few of his men bent over two people. One was still alive. A young boy—perhaps in his early teens—rested on his knees and leaned over the motionless form of the other.

  “He’s been here all day.” Banion rubbed a hand over his dirty face. “For hours he’s just stared at the body. He won’t let us take it.”

  “It’s his brother,” Josef explained. “He’s been begging us to bury him in an individual grave.”

  Murphy crouched at the boy’s side. “He won’t eat, he won’t sleep. He won’t let go.”

  “Then we’ll do it.” Peter picked up a shovel that was lying near an open ditch. “Let’s make a grave.”

  Peter’s shovel hit the ground and sank into the dirt with little effort. His men quickly followed suit. But soon the soft dirt gave way to stony soil. Rocks blocked every blow. Josef and Murphy gave up their shovels and worked on hands and knees, frantically pulling rocks from the earth. Banion and Peter continued on with shovels, inch by inch, until the hole was large enough.

  Peter wiped his brow, then examined the faces of his men. Murphy had been with him when they landed at Normandy. Banion and Josef joined them on other battlefields. But as they laid that frail body in the grave, with the man’s brother watching, Peter truly felt he knew them. Their faces expressed both accomplishment and agony as together they fulfilled the boy’s wish.

  Peter dropped his shovel and stood beside the boy. Tears s
treamed down the gaunt cheeks as he knelt beside the grave, watching the last clump of dirt fall over his brother.

  Josef stood over the grave and chanted the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, in Yiddish.

  Dropping to one knee, Peter lifted the boy’s chin with one finger and gazed deep into his mournful eyes. “It is finished. You must get up now.”

  The boy trembled, and Peter gently took his bony arm and helped him stand. He staggered a few steps, then fell back to the ground. Peter picked him up and carried him away from the grave.

  The boy’s face nestled into Peter’s shoulder. Peter tightened his grip, pulling him closer to his chest. Tears ran over his sergeant patch.

  This is what it’s all about, Peter sensed deep inside. This is what we’ve been fighting for.

  Peter carried the boy to the barracks. The others stayed at the gravesite, where thousands more awaited burial.

  Inside the barracks, a few rays of light fought their way through the slits in the walls. Peter gently set the boy on the nearest wooden bunk.

  Former prisoners, scattered around the room, watched him. What can I do? What can I say to them? Peter turned away from their distressed gazes. Nothing. He could say nothing.

  Peter stepped out of the dim barracks and headed toward the gates. He didn’t notice her until she was ten feet away. Then there she stood, a lone flower among a field of dead weeds. “Una donna bionda con due bambini,” one Italian survivor had called her when she’d brought food earlier. When Peter asked for a translation he discovered it meant “Beautiful blonde woman with child.” This time, though, no child accompanied her.

  A slight smile brightened her tired face. How hard this must be for her, Peter thought. How brave she is.

  “It is good to see you again,” he said in German.

  “I have come for the two women. Everything is arranged. Can you still help?”

  Peter grasped the arm of one of his men passing by. “Clifton, find me a truck and park it by the front gates.”