by Tricia Goyer
“You got it, Sarge.”
Peter wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The burial of that beloved brother still haunted the fringes of his mind. The boy’s tears seemed to burn through his uniform to his skin.
“Have you seen the two women today?” The blonde surveyed the area.
“They were near the back this morning.” He led the way for a while, then stopped. “I’m sorry, I should have asked sooner, but what is your name?”
“My name is Helene—” She stopped before giving her last name.
“And where will we be going?”
She pointed toward the town. “To a large yellow house on the west side of the main street.”
“I know the one you’re talking about,” Peter said. “Find the women and wait with them. I’ll get a truck ready.” He tried to keep his voice steady. “I’ll be right back.”
The woman, Helene, nodded. Her face looked haunted and weary. Very weary.
Everyone has a story, Peter thought as he scanned the entrance. I wonder what hers is. He was curious, but too often the people’s stories weighed more heavily upon his heart than the dead bodies. The stories put voice to the horror, where bodies refused to speak.
Peter headed toward the gates. New troops were arriving daily, attempting to bring order to the chaos. Officers moved from building to building, confiscating Nazi documents that had somehow survived the purging. Other troops searched the miles of underground tunnels used to assemble aircraft parts and German weapons. Bergkirstall, the tunnels were called. He’d been amazed at how the sand dug from the tunnels had created a man-made mountain just outside the camp.
Peter noted that even reporters and photographers had made their way into the camp, shocking the world with news of survivors, ovens, and mounds of bodies.
Clifton waited at the camp gate, hat in hand. “Sorry, Scotty. The jeeps are blocked by wagons. They’re all over the place. Local farmers are using them to haul bodies to a potato field down the road.”
Peter watched two men sling a corpse onto a wagon bed. “Never mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Yes, Sarge.” Clifton headed back toward the graves.
Peter considered his options. He knew he could carry the women if he had to. Each of them probably weighed less than ninety pounds. Lightweight compared to the packs he’d been trained to carry.
No, he had to find some other way. He’d hauled enough bodies in this war, both alive and dead, to know he never wanted to do it again.
Peter circled around a large truck and spotted a wooden wheelbarrow, carelessly tipped onto its side. He righted it, then lined it with a dirty blanket he found along the fence line. Peter’s jaw tensed as he realized that both women’s emaciated bodies could fit within the small bucket. Still, he would not let them travel like baggage. He would take them one at a time—through the gates, to freedom, to life.
Peter pushed the creaky wheelbarrow back into the camp, where American soldiers were herding a stream of townspeople. They were mostly older men and boys. A few women were scattered among them. Many wore Sunday attire.
“What’s going on?” he asked the soldier leading the citizens.
“Gravediggers on special assignment,” the young GI said with mock authority. “Rounded up from the town.”
Peter recognized a few townspeople who’d brought food, clothing, and blankets into the camp. “Under whose orders?” he asked, knowing the chain of command varied depending on who’d left and who’d arrived.
“All the way from the top.”
“Patton?”
“Yes. Patton.”
Peter watched as shovels and picks were handed out. It wasn’t right. These were decent people.
Peter maneuvered the wheelbarrow in front of the GI, stopping him. “Who can I talk to about this, Soldier?”
The man pointed to a colonel Peter had seen a few times when they were stationed in France. He started toward the man, then remembered Helene was waiting.
Glancing one last time at the group of villagers moving toward the gravesite, Peter headed in the direction he’d sent her. The townspeople would have to fend for themselves.
“One thing at a time,” he reminded himself, spotting the blonde hair and navy-blue dress in the distance. “One thing at a time.”
Michaela’s body tensed as a hand touched her shoulder. Where was she? Was she safe? She opened her eyes, wondering whose shadow fell upon her. A man and woman stood over her. A halo of sunlight circled the woman’s golden hair, and Michaela wondered if she was peering into the face of an angel.
Then she remembered. She was outside the barracks in the fading sunshine. This woman and the GI beside her were here to help.
Lelia lay crumpled at her side. Dirt streaked the girl’s gaunt face. Sores covered her arms. Yet they had made it.
Michaela urged a smile to her lips despite the weakness of her limbs and the pain in her stomach that never seemed to cease.
“We are taking you to my home,” the woman said in German, speaking slowly and clearly. “I will care for you there.”
Michaela noticed a wheelbarrow in the hands of the soldier—apparently, her ride out of this place. She chuckled to herself before sharing her thoughts with the others. “You are familiar with the German fairy tale about the cinder girl?” she asked the American GI.
“Of course. It’s a classic.” His voice held a note of surprise. “We call her Cinderella.”
After months of captivity, this was one thing Michaela hadn’t lost. The stories of her childhood had remained locked away where no human hands could strangle their power. Fairy tales, poetry, parables. Recalling them had kept her mind clear during the endless days and nights.
Michaela stretched out a finger toward the wheelbarrow. “So this carriage will carry me out of the cinders?”
The GI didn’t seem to know how to respond. His eyebrows raised, and he eyed her with curiosity.
Michaela stared at her gaunt feet. “Forgive my lack of a fancy slipper.”
The man’s face brightened. He gently lifted her into his arms. “Your highness.”
“Ah!” She winced at his touch. He’d tried to be gentle, but the contact caused a thousand protests.
He cautiously set her on the blanket inside the wheelbarrow, and Michaela suddenly felt embarrassed for her filthy shirt, naked limbs, and matted hair. A cinder girl, indeed.
A moan replaced the lightheartedness of the moment before. A simple memory of a previous wagon ride, with her hair done in bows and her plump hands clinging to the rails, caused a gentle whimper she could not hold in. Was that another girl during another lifetime? A girl as fanciful as the tales she’d read?
The wheelbarrow jostled as the American lifted the handles and pushed. The front wheel sank into the ground slightly, then rolled forward.
“Gedulden Sie sich bitte einen Augenblick!” Michaela called out. “Wait, please!” The wheelbarrow stopped. She tried to look over her shoulder, but shooting pains in her neck prevented her. “What about Lelia?”
“Don’t worry.” The blonde woman squatted at Michaela’s side and rubbed her hand. “We’ll come back for her.”
“Nein,” Michaela insisted. “She must not be left alone.” A promise from long ago stirred to the surface. “We were separated once. I cannot leave her again.”
“We’ll get her next, don’t worry.” The American pushed forward again.
Sobs erupted from deep in Michaela’s chest. Leaving the girl was like leaving her family all over again.
“Wait,” the blonde said to the American. The wheelbarrow stopped again, and she leaned over Michaela, a few loose curls falling around her face. “I will stay. Don’t cry. I will stay.” She turned to the American. Her brown eyes looked so weary that Michaela felt ashamed.
“My father will be waiting for you,” the woman said to the American. “There should be a cushion on the front porch. Ask him to keep her company there until I can co
me and bathe them both.”
The GI nodded and resumed the journey. The blonde angel turned back the way they’d come, her steps heavy.
“Danke,” Michaela mumbled, suddenly exhausted. She leaned her head back and rested it on the side of the wheelbarrow. The wood cut into her scalp, and she tried not to wince. A home, she thought. After so long, a real home.
Many eyes followed her as she was rolled out of the camp gates. The prisoners, those she felt a common bond with, appeared both envious and gratified. Though many she knew were young like she was, they all looked so very old.
What a pathetic picture I must appear to them. Like they were to her. Yet we are the lucky ones. The ones who still breathe.
Michaela closed her eyes, and her lids turned pink from the sunlight. Still the image of the watching prisoners stayed with her. And as she was wheeled through the gates, those images somehow transformed in her mind. The unfamiliar faces were replaced by familiar ones. She pictured her mother, father, and Georg watching her. Their last prayers now answered.
Michaela suddenly realized that the air around her smelled sweeter than any she’d breathed in a long time. She opened her eyes and noticed she was traveling through town. She stared at the storefronts and homes, amazed that life beyond the gates appeared so normal.
“Goodbye,” she whispered to those long lost.
A page in her life story was turning. The nightmare she’d lived for the past few years would be left behind. The thought both thrilled and horrified her. Michaela knew that by leaving the camp, she stepped into a new life without those she loved. And what she feared most was that her newfound freedom would never compare to the memories locked deep inside.
Seven
MAY 6, 1945
Peter pushed the creaky wheelbarrow through the village, amazed at how even children looked away when they recognized his human cargo. Shame covered their faces. Conversations halted as he passed. Although many of the townspeople denied knowing the happenings inside the camp, he was certain now that they knew more than they admitted. How could they not hear? How could they not see, not smell?
Outrage at their denial caused his grip to tighten on the wheelbarrow handles. Then he thought of Helene. Obviously she had not agreed with the Nazi annihilation. She’d been the first from town to offer help. Had others felt such compassion? Perhaps some, but not enough. Not enough to make a difference.
Peter neared the street with the yellow house. He glanced down at the woman, suddenly humiliated for her. The filth, the stench from her body, became more evident the farther he moved away from the camp. Yet she held her chin high. Her wide blue eyes perused the buildings they passed as if she had never witnessed such things. Yet Peter knew she had. She was a normal person just like him. A person who read fairy tales. Who had once lived free.
He rounded the last corner, moving into a residential neighborhood. The large yellow house, partially hidden by tall oak trees, dominated the block. A white-haired man with a thin mustache waited on the porch.
Peter lifted the woman from the wheelbarrow and carried her through the front gate. Softly she uttered what sounded like prayers. Tears dampened her face.
“Your castle awaits, my lady,” he announced. The elderly man patted a cushion on the porch, and Peter carefully laid her on it. As he did, she lifted her hands to her face and sobbed.
Curse the Nazis. Every one of them. What they did to these people was something he would never forgive.
After briefly introducing himself to the elderly man, and promising to return with the teenage girl, he left the yellow house. Anger burned within him, and he quickened his pace. The empty wheelbarrow clattered noisily on the streets as he traveled back to Camp Gusen.
The sun was setting over a distant hill. Its rays lighted the clouds with pink and cast shadows over the countryside. Peter’s gaze was drawn to a huge cloud of dark smoke rising in the distance. Gusen’s large crematorium stacks stood silent, but barracks near the sandy hillside were being burned in an effort to control the disease and stench.
Prisoners who had nowhere else to go burrowed inside makeshift tents just a few yards beyond the camp gates. Peter slowed as he passed and wondered how long they would survive. Wondered how they would start their lives over if they did.
He entered the front gates and spotted Helene sitting on the ground. The teenage girl’s head rested on her lap, her eyes open. As he approached, fear radiated from the girl’s gaze.
“American GI,” Helene assured her, leaning close. The girl seemed to calm, but she did not speak. She clung to Helene’s hand as Peter hoisted her into the wheelbarrow. “We are going to my father’s house.” Helene stroked the teenager’s fingers. “Michaela is there. And my daughter, Anika, will soon be there too. Do you remember Anika from this morning?”
Lelia stared at Helene but said nothing. Her eyes glazed over as they exited through the gates.
As they continued on, Helene kept up the casual chatter. This time the entourage received several stares. Men, women, and children peeked out of doorways. Some pointed. Others spoke to each other in low voices. It was not he or the fragile girl who drew their attention, but Helene. Many, Peter noticed, cast hateful glares in her direction. He was sure he knew why. She was helping while they refused. She dared to enter the camps. She was making a difference.
Too bad the town doesn’t have more like her. People of character. People who stand up for what’s right.
Helene hurried along the narrow lane leading to the small farmhouse on the edge of town. Her shoulders ached, her feet were sore and swollen, but she still had one more task. She had to pick up Anika from the farm where Katharina now stayed.
She was late, but it couldn’t be helped. The women from the camp had needed much attention. After bringing Lelia to the house, Helene had bathed both women and dressed them in her old nightgowns. Her father worked with her. And as she washed each one, he gently deloused the other. Helene marveled at the way he’d performed the task without causing them embarrassment or shame. After applying a powder to kill the hundreds of lice, her father had sat there picking them off, telling stories of his childhood as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The American had returned after his evening meal and carried the women to beds in a guest room across the hall from Helene’s bedroom. He brought leftovers with him. Ham and potatoes for Helene and her father, and watery soup for the others’ tender stomachs.
With a clean body and full belly, Michaela had beamed appreciatively as her head rested on the pillow. Lelia, on the other hand, worried Helene. The girl, whom she now knew was seventeen, had simply stared blankly, not once moving of her own volition. Does Lelia even realize she’s free? Can she understand what’s happening?
Helene’s father had agreed to stay with the women while she retrieved Anika, and even offered to keep watch over them through the night. Helene had gratefully accepted his assistance.
Now the sun had set. The American GI had offered to accompany Helene to get Anika, but she’d refused. He hadn’t asked any questions about Helene’s life, and she liked it that way. She was certain he’d hate her if he knew. Perhaps he might even find a way to bring charges against her.
As she approached the farmhouse, Helene rubbed her arms, willing the strength for one more task. She spotted a lantern still burning inside Frau Schulmacher’s kitchen window. Hopefully someone was still awake.
Helene approached the small stoop and tapped on the door. It cracked slightly. “Go away,” the old woman screeched.
Helene stepped back, startled. “Frau Schulmacher, it’s me, Helene Völkner. I’m here for my daughter, Anika.” She heard movement behind the door, as if a large piece of furniture was being pushed out of the way. Then the door swung open, revealing the two women, Katharina’s three small boys, and Anika all huddled around the small kitchen.
“Get in here, girl. Are you crazy?” The woman pulled Helene’s arm, quickly shutting the door behind her. “What are y
ou doing out on a night such as this?”
Helene stared at Katharina, silently begging for an explanation.
“It’s been horrible.” Katharina pulled Helene into the living room, out of earshot of the children. “Prisoners showed up earlier looking for food,” she whispered. “They swarmed the place, and we were afraid they’d hurt us. They were so horrible, so grotesque! I can’t wait to leave.”
“Leave?” Helene wrapped an arm around her friend’s trembling shoulders. The light from the kitchen cast shadows into the dim room. “Where are you going?”
“I have received news from Mother and Father. They’re sending my older brothers to get the boys and me. They’ve been living in the countryside in France. Things are better there, they say. Father has connections with the government, you know. He pulled some strings, and he said you could come with us. We’ll be safe, Helene. We can leave this horrible place behind.”
“I can go too?” Helene released Katharina’s shoulders. It had been all she’d wanted since she first realized what the camp was about. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Father promised my brothers would be here by then. We won’t be able to take much with us, but we won’t need to. My parents will make sure we have everything we need.”
Helene’s heartbeat quickened as she thought about a new life in France. A chance to start over. An opportunity to leave the horrors behind. Then she remembered the women. She couldn’t bring them this far only to leave now. Helene let out a low moan and sank into a small chair.
“What’s wrong?” Katharina asked. “It’s what we’ve been wanting.”
“I can’t do it.” Helene recalled the expression on Michaela’s face as her head rested on a pillow for the first time in years.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I have obligations. I’ve promised to help some women.”
Katharina crossed her arms over her chest. “Just tell them you can’t do it. I’m talking about leaving. Starting a new life. I don’t care if I never set foot in this terrible place again.”