by Tricia Goyer
Helene noticed Katharina had said nothing of her SS husband and the part he’d played in this new life. Had she heard any news from him? Or had he been killed, like Friedrich? Helene was afraid to ask.
Katharina lowered her voice. “We will come for you tomorrow and—”
“Nein.” Helene stood. “I can’t leave my father again either.”
“Helene, you haven’t talked to him in years. At least think about it. Sleep on it.”
“I will. I promise.” Helene walked back into the kitchen. She found Anika asleep on a small rug in front of the fire. She lifted her daughter into her arms and carried her to the entrance.
Katharina opened the door. “I’ll be by in the morning,” she said as Helene headed into the night.
But even as she walked as quietly as she could—her ears attuned to the slightest noise—Helene knew her decision would not change. She would stay. She had to.
For once she’d think of them.
Thirty minutes after leaving the farmhouse, Helene eased Anika’s sleeping body onto Helene’s own childhood bed. She unfolded the downy white comforter and tucked it around the girl’s shoulders. Anika’s soft blonde hair feathered across the pillow like a halo of fluff.
Was she doing the right thing? Was she putting her children in danger by not leaving this place?
There’s too much to consider, Helene thought, settling into a chair by the window. She lifted her apron to her face. The smell of the camp still clung to her.
With a sigh, Helene pulled the shoes off her swollen feet. She felt pressure on her rounded stomach as she bent down, and she rubbed the spot where her baby rested.
When standing, it was still easy to hide her pregnancy. With her long torso, she hadn’t shown with Anika until her seventh month. Even now she simply looked plump, like many of the women in the village.
Helene pulled the pins from her hair. It tumbled across her shoulders as she leaned forward to rub her aching arches. But their pain could not compare to the hurt she carried within her heart.
Friedrich is dead, she reminded herself. She had wanted to tell Katharina, but couldn’t. She knew the emotions she’d been damming up would break through if she had.
Throughout the day, images of her husband had filled her mind. Not memories of the man he had become, but of their first few months of marriage, when laughter filled their home and humor lit up his eyes. For that man she mourned.
Helene straightened in her chair. She found a handkerchief in her apron pocket to wipe the tears dripping from her chin. In that same pocket was the photo she had found on the desk and the letter she’d been putting off reading all day.
Anika stirred on the bed, then settled down again. Outside, Helene heard her father venturing to the outhouse. She had to admit she did miss the modern comforts of the SS housing. But even that made her feel guilty. The two women lying in the next room had survived in utter filth, while she lived in a comfortable home provided by their captors.
Helene rubbed the back of her neck. There was nothing she could do about that now. She must move on. And moving on meant reading the letter from her husband—the last words he had ever penned.
She pulled open the envelope flap and slid out the single sheet of paper inside, trying to ignore the blood and dirt that stained it. Her heart pounded upon seeing the small print that was uniquely Friedrich’s. She wondered how many hands it had passed through on its long journey to her.
Unfolding the letter slowly, she noticed it was dated April 30, just two days after his departure. Was that really only a week ago? Whoever had brought the envelope had done so quickly.
Dear Helene,
As I write this letter, I am in the high hills of Austria, trying to cross the border into Italy. I know I promised to bring you to this place someday, where the edelweiss grows in the crevasses of the highest peaks. Perhaps someday I will. But until that time, remember my love. I promise to find a safe place for us all. A place where we can be the family you’ve always dreamed of.
As you wait, speak nothing of the things I have told you about my work. THIS IS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE. Many, including the Americans and the Russians, may seek this information. They might be winning the war, but they can never take away our honor.
It would also be wise to destroy all the items I brought out of the camp. You will not want to be found with those things in your possession. I should have attempted to do that myself before leaving, but as you know, I did not have time.
Tell Anika her papi loves her and will come for her soon.
With love,
Friedrich
Helene lay the letter across her lap. What would he say if he knew about the things she had brought out of the camp? Surely these women were an even greater testimony than the watches and jewelry tucked away in a desk drawer.
In her mind’s eye, Helene was back at home, peeking at Friedrich from under the feather comforter. His jaw locked in determination. His brows knitted in hatred of the never-ending mass of prisoners. No, he would not be happy with what she’d done.
Despite the fact that Helene would never again have to seek his approval, she hated him for succumbing to the darkness. And this hatred was rooted deeper than any mourning could go.
As she snuggled next to her daughter and drifted off to sleep, Helene again thought of the women from the camp. More than anything, she needed to stay and help them survive.
For this was her chance to make up, in a small way, for all that her husband had achieved for evil.
Eight
MAY 7, 1945
ARMY BASE CAMP
ST. GEORGEN, AUSTRIA
Peter bolted upright in his cot. His heart pounded as a nightmare chased him into wakefulness. He tried to push the skeletal images out of his mind, but the dream had been almost tangible. That’s because the images are real, he thought, remembering where he was.
Peter had seen many hideous things. Buddies blown to pieces. American paratroopers hung up in trees, their bellies split open by Nazi bayonets. Yet those men had been trained. They’d advanced through Europe knowing full well the horrors that happened to their buddies could be their destiny too.
With the camps it was different. These people did not choose to be drawn into the fight. They were defenseless. Helpless.
Gentle breathing and an occasional snore issued from the men bunked around him. In the darkness, a lone cigarette glowed from across the room. Peter knew it was Clifton by the way his cigarette swept back and forth in the darkness, as if the university music major were using it to lead an invisible orchestra.
Peter lay back on his cot, his heartbeat still echoing in his ears. He attempted to concentrate on the noises around him. Anything to take his mind off the images. He easily distinguished Josef’s snore, Banion’s gentle wheezing, and Murphy’s deep exhalations that blew like a hurricane. Still, it was not enough of a distraction.
It was the boy we buried, Peter realized, partially sitting up. In the dream, the skeletal figure had tried to escape his rocky grave, his fingers attempting to scratch their way to the surface. Not knowing what to do, Peter had piled more bodies on top of the grave in hopes of trapping the figure. Still the scratch, scratch, scratch had continued.
Peter pulled the wool blanket to his cheek and flopped onto his side. In a far window, he saw the first golden rays of sunrise frosting tall evergreens. He thought of the fragile bodies he’d carried out of camp the day before. Had those two women survived to first light? He couldn’t remember their names and didn’t want to. The more detached he stayed, the better.
And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking of how weary that one woman’s face had been as he laid her on the bed. And the younger one—it wouldn’t be fair for her to die so soon after liberation. Then again, when had this war been fair?
Peter heard Clifton flick his cigarette to the ground and squash it with his boot. Josef’s snores increased in volume, meaning he would be waking soon.
Outside, the scratching o
f shovels started again. More graves were being dug for those who hadn’t lived to see dawn.
Something burned against Michaela’s eyelids. She covered her face with a thin hand and tried to open her eyes. It was the sun that caused so much pain this new morning. Bright rays streamed through the fluttering curtains, and for a moment she forgot where she was.
Slowly she stretched her aching arms above her head. Then she remembered the blonde woman, Helene, and the bath she’d given her the night before. She rubbed her hand over an arm, awed at the feeling of clean skin.
And the food. For so many months, she’d hungered for that gray soup in the camp, wishing for more and dreaming of just one small chunk of potato. Last night she’d had broth with real flavor. And although she’d only taken a few mouthfuls, it had burned in her shrunken stomach, causing her to fall into a fitful sleep.
Michaela took a deep breath, relishing the scents of a home. The blankets around her smelled of soap and wind. The aroma of eggs frying drifted in from the kitchen.
She noticed another sweet smell too. A vase of flowers rested on a small table beside her bed. Next to the table was the chair where the old man had sat until she fell asleep. Beyond that was Lelia’s bed. Michaela clasped a hand over her mouth when she noticed the empty, rumpled sheets. Lelia was gone.
Michaela reached toward the bed. A cry rose from her chest and echoed in the room. Footsteps drew near. Within seconds the door flew open and the blonde woman burst in.
Michaela pointed at the bed. “Is she dead?”
The woman, Helene, knelt beside Michaela and took her hand. “Shh, now. Don’t worry. She’s asleep on the floor. See?”
With Helene’s help, Michaela sat up slightly. She looked over the woman’s shoulder and saw Lelia curled in a ball on the floor at the foot of the beds. The girl’s head rested on a small rug and a red blanket covered her. A pillow had been pushed to the side. Michaela watched closely to ensure the rise and fall of her chest. She’s still breathing. She’s alive.
Helene settled Michaela back against the mattress. Then she rose and opened the window farther, letting in more of the fresh, clean air. “My father told me Lelia moaned through the night. It reminded him of his time in the first war. After so many days of sleeping on the ground, he said a bed was difficult to get used to.”
Helene poured water from a porcelain pitcher into a tin cup and brought the drink to Michaela’s lips. The water was clean and sweet, and after a few sips she felt satisfied. She returned her head to her pillow and took a deep breath.
“After my father laid her on the floor,” Helene continued, “Lelia went right to sleep.” She started toward the door. “I have some warm milk for you. I’ll bring it right in.”
Michaela stretched out her hand. Helene paused in the doorway.
“Thank you,” Michaela said softly. “You saved our lives.”
“You’re welcome, of course.” Helene’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I’ll be back with the milk.”
As Michaela lay there, she wondered what the woman’s story was. Had she too lost family members? A husband? A mother?
Michaela’s mother’s words came to her. Only a tender heart can touch others in such a gentle way.
Michaela knew Helene’s heart was tender. Her touch, a gentle reminder that God had not abandoned them after all.
Peter strode to the mess hall. The flap of the white-walled tent whipped in the breeze, fanning the scents of breakfast toward the line of approaching soldiers.
He was thankful for the fresh, hot food that filled his stomach. After months of K rations, he was sure everyone in his company would quickly fill out their uniforms.
Peter entered the tent and assessed the new faces. The personnel changed day by day. Some had returned from reconnaissance. Others were brought in to help with cleanup. Medics arrived to assist the ill prisoners. Peter spotted a few of his men sitting at a far table. He got his food and joined them, placing his cup of strong coffee and his plate of sausages and eggs on the table.
Metal forks scraped the plates as they ate. Some men talked about meeting up with the Russians. Others commented about the Austrian girls who were all too willing to show their appreciation to the GIs. A few discussed the war in the Atlantic. Many placed bets on when the Allies’ victory in Europe would finally be declared. Only Josef remained silent.
As the men cleared the table, Peter stayed put and motioned for Josef to do the same.
“What’s up?” Peter asked, sloshing the last drops of coffee in the bottom of his cup. “How are you?”
Josef glanced up from beneath heavy eyebrows. “Okay, I guess. Kinda tired. Mainly thinking of home.”
“Home. Seems like a dream, doesn’t it?”
“I’d give anything for a Coney Island hot dog.”
“You live near there?”
“Near enough to hit the beaches in search of pretty girls.”
“Didn’t you used to live here in Austria?” Peter asked.
“Yep.” Josef ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “I was raised just a few hours north of here. I remember driving through this area once on our way to Vienna. Man, that seems like ages ago.” Josef’s gaze seemed to focus on an image in the distant past. “It was pretty much the same then … except for the camps, of course. And the roads weren’t as well maintained.”
“I guess we can thank the Nazis for something,” Peter scoffed. “I bet Vienna used to be a beautiful place. It’s pretty bombed out now, from what I hear.”
“I used to love Vienna. I studied there when I was a kid. I wanted to be an actor.”
“It must be hard, coming back. Seeing what’s happened to your country.”
“America is my country.” Josef’s chin jutted out with pride. “She took me in, and now I fight for her.”
“Of course.” Peter tapped his fork on the edge of his plate, trying to work up the courage to ask the question that had plagued him since they’d first approached the camps. “How can you stand it?” he finally asked. “How can you face the death of so many who are … like you?”
“Jews, you mean?”
Peter nodded.
Josef’s voice softened. “When I see them, I see the faces of my mother, my father, myself. It could have been us out there.” He stared out the flap doors, his shoulders sagging under an unseen weight.
Peter rubbed his neck, unsure of what to say.
A new group of men entered the tent, their voices loud and jovial. “Mail’s arrived, Scotty,” one man called. “Could be a note from your sweetie back home.”
Peter cringed. There was no one back home, and they knew it. He waved an acknowledgment and turned to Josef. The young man’s tormented eyes were the only giveaway to the raging emotions inside.
“I’ll see you later,” Josef said, rising quickly. “A few of us are checking out the armament tunnels. I’ve heard they’re a couple miles long, and I guess there were tons of explosives inside, enough to blow it all.”
Peter knew about the tunnels. The Germans had used slave labor to manufacture plane parts there. They’d rigged them with explosives, not only to destroy the evidence, but also to destroy the witnesses of their madness: the people in the camps and the nearby towns.
“Be careful. I hear they still haven’t explored all the outlets. Who knows, maybe there’s even SS hiding inside.”
“Yes, sir,” Josef said with a salute. Then, with a quick step, he left the tent.
Peter exited the mess hall as well and headed for the mail outpost. Excitement and apprehension battled inside him as he crossed the compound. While Peter always enjoyed hearing from his sister, Annie, he hated reading news about the boys from his hometown—those he’d grown up with who were now scattered across the globe. Some served here in Europe; others fought a different type of war in the Pacific. Some were already home … six feet under.
At the outpost, three letters awaited him. He quickly checked the return addresses. One was from his sister. A
nother came from his high school English teacher, Mrs. McHenry, who faithfully kept in touch with each of “her boys.” Peter didn’t recognize the address on the third envelope, but the name made his heart sting: Andrea Gold. He tucked all three letters into his pocket, hoping to find a quiet moment later to read them.
Peter ambled toward town, attempting to focus on the duties at hand. Still, the name would not leave him. Andrea Gold. Wife of his best friend, Donnie Gold—“Goldie.”
Peter thought of the last time he’d seen his friend. It was near the Belgian town of Bastogne. Jumping into his tank, Goldie had smiled brightly and called out, “Let’s kill some Nazis, Pete. Let’s kill some Nazis!” Goldie and Andrea had been the only ones who called him Pete. The only ones allowed to.
Peter thought back to the days at Camp Cooke, when Andrea would bring the car and a friend, and Peter would supply enough gas rations to get the four of them to the Paramount in Las Vegas for a night of dancing and fun. They never drank and didn’t need to. Goldie’s quick wit was enough entertainment.
Andrea’s friends, although nice and fun to hang out with, had never become lifelong companions. Still, Peter rarely refused an invitation. Being around the Golds was like being with family. Andrea was the kid sister Peter missed from back home. And Donnie Gold the brother he never had.
He thought about their trips back to the base. Goldie always loved being first. First to check in and first to make it back to their barracks. “I’ll beat you home, Pete,” he’d say, jogging away. Only Goldie called training camp “home.”
Peter reminisced about the long conversations they’d had during their rides through the desert. Their talks had often focused on spiritual matters. Discussions of God’s plan for their lives. Talks of faith and trust, or of the spiritual battles that were even more threatening than the physical ones.