From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  Helene stood at the basin scrubbing her daughter’s hands between hers. She rubbed at the dirt and dipped the small fingers into the cool water, noticing how Anika’s slim hands were so similar to her own.

  She knew she had to tell Anika about Friedrich’s death. But how could they mourn without giving themselves away?

  While her memories of Friedrich involved more bad than good, Anika seemed to find a decency in her father that no one else could. Once, early in her second pregnancy, when she’d been sick, Helene had watched her husband and daughter in the backyard sharing stories and songs from Friedrich’s childhood. Stories of kings and castles. And songs. She couldn’t remember the lyrics, but the tunes came to her often.

  Helene shook the water off their fingers, then gently dried the small girl’s hands with a dish towel still warm from the clothesline.

  Anika’s voice interrupted her musing. “Mutti, why those people so bad?”

  Helene released Anika’s hands. “What people?”

  “The ones in that place Michaela was.”

  Helene scooted a wooden chair away from the table and sat down. She pulled Anika into her lap. “What makes you think they’re bad?”

  “They look scary. Some don’t got clothes. And they sleep in piles.”

  Helene pulled her daughter close. What have I done? I should never have taken her there. She stroked Anika’s silky hair. “Those people aren’t bad. They look that way because they didn’t have food for a long time. Some are extremely sick. That’s why we’re trying to help.” Helene hesitated, not knowing what to say about the piles of bodies.

  Anika caressed her mother’s cheek. “Who put them there?”

  Your father helped do that, Helene thought as all her tender musings vanished. She tried to ignore the new images Anika’s question stirred—the marches through town … the raised clubs ready to strike … the gunfire. Memories she wished to forget.

  “Why not they go home?” Anika asked.

  Helene patted the little girl’s hand. “Michaela and Lelia are trying to get home, but they live far away. So we will care for them until they’re ready to go back.”

  “Will Papi come home too?”

  The kitchen door opened, and Helene’s father entered.

  “Let’s talk about that another time, shall we?”

  Without protest, Anika picked up her favorite doll and scampered into the bedroom.

  Helene’s father said nothing as he unburdened himself of the large burlap sack he was carrying. His other hand grasped the handle of a pail. Fresh milk, still frothy and thick, reached the rim.

  Helene wondered if he’d overheard.

  “I thought we’d make more soup to take to the camps.” He set down the pail. “The Americans are still so overwhelmed with the dead they can’t do enough for the living.”

  “It’s understandable.” Helene took a few small potatoes from the top of the sack. Her eyes fixed on the man in front of her. She had watched him so often from afar she hardly remembered what he looked like up close. His hair, once brown, was a crown of white. Tired wrinkles curled around his eyes and mouth. His thin lips were tight as he pulled a large pot off the shelf and carried it outside to the waterspout.

  Helene took a sharp knife from a drawer and began the tedious work of peeling the small red potatoes. Sounds of Anika’s imaginative play lilted from her room and blended with soft conversation coming out of the door across the hall where Michaela’s voice rose and fell.

  As she peeled, Helene tried to understand Michaela’s words, but she soon realized it was a conversation of one.

  She’s praying.

  Helene thought about how different this prayer was compared to the boisterous, shouted prayers of the Nazi youth. “Adolf Hitler, you are our great führer,” boys barely school age had chanted. “Thy name makes the enemy tremble. Thy Third Reich comes; thy will alone is law upon earth. Let us hear daily thy voice, and order us by thy leadership, for we will obey to the end and even with our lives. We praise thee. Heil Hitler!”

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she remembered the straight-armed salute that accompanied that chant. Helene rinsed the dirt from the last of the peeled potatoes and wished she could as easily rinse those words and images out of her mind.

  She listened more closely to Michaela’s prayer, only making out a few of the Polish words. She dropped the potato into a bowl, wiped her hands, and tiptoed toward the room.

  Helene stopped a few feet from the doorway and eased her frame onto the floor. Leaning against the wall, she allowed the overheard words to flow over her like a wave of warm bathwater.

  What would it be like to pray?

  A few minutes later her father found her sitting there. She glanced up at him. He motioned for her to stay where she was, then went back to fill another pot with water.

  Helene knew she should get back to work. But her body refused to comply. There was something welcoming and familiar about the prayers. Then Helene remembered.

  Her mother had often prayed in such a manner in the early mornings. A vague memory emerged as through a fog, and Helene recalled being a young girl curled at her mother’s bare feet.

  Helene ran her fingers through her hair, just as her mother had done. Just as she did with Anika. She hadn’t thought of that in years.

  Mutti, she mouthed. It had been difficult raising a child without her father around, but even harder without her mother.

  After a few more minutes, Helene contemplated another similarity between her mother and Michaela. There was something about their eyes. Not the color. Her mother’s eyes had been brown like her own. It wasn’t the shape either. It was something deeper. Helene couldn’t put her finger on it, but that something had made her want to help Michaela.

  Michaela’s prayers stopped, and Helene rose. As she strode back to the kitchen, Helene knew what she needed to do. She would pray for the words to tell Anika about Friedrich. She would also pray for those people in the camps—pray for a way to help them that would make up for her years of silence. Though never one to give any thought to religion, at this moment it seemed right and good.

  “I’ll ask her to teach me how to pray,” Helene muttered, picking up the knife and another potato.

  But for the present, she had work to do. She knew her father wouldn’t rest until the two pots were filled with food and taken to the people in Gusen. And for that, Helene was thankful.

  Ten

  MAY 7, 1945

  The camps. She would never get used to them.

  Helene had been relieved when her father offered to take the two empty pots and Anika back to his house while she stopped for flour and sugar from the grocery. They’d just finished feeding a large group of men, some as young as fourteen. For the healthier prisoners, the U.S. trucked in dark brown bread. But there were many who could barely swallow a few spoonfuls of weak broth.

  While she and her father fed the men, they listened to them share stories of their families and homes. One older man had seen Helene coming as soon as she approached the gates. He followed her, then plopped beside her on the ground when she stopped. He talked about his three sons and the clothing store they owned in Berlin. He had big plans to find his boys and reopen their business. Helene didn’t have the heart to discourage him with reality.

  When Helene finally left for the day, her feet throbbed and her lower back was stiff, but her heart ached even more.

  Now, in town, something didn’t feel right. She did her shopping, then hurried toward her father’s house, weaving through the crowds.

  Suddenly, shouts filled the air. A dozen American servicemen with angry expressions lined the street, rifles in hand. They pointed in the direction of the camp. They yelled in English, and Helene couldn’t understand.

  Before she could get out of the way, Helene felt herself being pushed along. She searched the soldiers’ faces for a familiar one but found none. Arms pushed against her. Bodies surrounded her. Neighbors and friends cried o
ut in confusion. With the forceful urging of the Americans, they poured through the gates of the camp.

  A woman beside Helene sobbed. An old man stumbled. Helene protected her stomach with her hands, realizing she must have dropped her groceries somewhere along the way.

  Helene managed to push herself away from the crowd as they muddled through the courtyard. She approached one soldier and tried to question him. His mouth curved downward in a deep frown. He shook his head, his dark eyes refusing to meet hers, and pointed toward the rest of the group.

  Helene’s head throbbed as she was led to a section of the camp she’d never seen before. A hill of bodies, piled in a tangled mass, lay beside a spacious shed. She covered her nose with her hand, attempting to block the odor of flesh rotting in the heat of the sun. It did little good.

  To her right, an army chaplain prayed over a mass grave as a bulldozer dug more channels. Hundreds of corpses were stacked on top of one another in the ditch. An American soldier stood next to the chaplain. When the prayer ended, the soldier waved toward the bulldozer. The huge machine rumbled toward the dirt pile and pushed the brown mound over the bodies, covering them with mechanical efficiency.

  Helene’s stomach lurched. The sun glared down upon her, and she wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow. This couldn’t be happening.

  A soldier approached their group and spoke in German. “All of you, go to that pile and bring those corpses to the ditch. Two of you on each body.” The soldier cursed under his breath.

  Suddenly Helene realized what was happening. This was their punishment. Chastisement for their silence. For allowing Hitler to return to Austria. For ignoring the cries from beyond the razor wire.

  A young woman next to Helene let out a mournful cry. Others around her joined in.

  Helene followed the soldier, shocked by what she’d been asked to do. The pile of bodies stood shoulder-high. She refused to look into the face of the man who lay on the top. But she couldn’t tear her gaze from his hand. The fingers were curled into a fist. Burgundy numbers were tattooed on his arm.

  Helene reached for his hand. It was warm from the sun. The skin was soft, the fingers rigid. The sky seemed to spin.

  “Are you all right?” A man next to Helene tilted back his hat. “You’re shaking. Perhaps you’d better sit down.”

  Helene released the dead man’s stiff hand. The buildings, bodies, and guards started to fade, as if all color was being drained from her vision.

  Helene leaned on the man beside her for support. The gray landscape swirled around her and vanished, and she was overwhelmed with a flood of black.

  Nausea overtook Helene as she came to. A crowd had gathered around her. A soldier she vaguely recognized leaned in close and said something she couldn’t understand. Then he stood and cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting something in English. Helene picked out Peter’s name among his words.

  Within minutes, Peter was leaning over her, his face red. He yelled at the soldiers, then leaned down and helped her from the ground.

  “They said they didn’t realize you were pregnant,” he muttered in German, leading her to the nearest building. “They have to find a better system. This is inexcusable.”

  Before long, Peter had set up a makeshift cot for her in the former commandant’s office. As she lay down, she noticed a faded outline on the wall, hinting where a Nazi eagle had once hung.

  A medic entered and placed a cool, damp cloth on Helene’s forehead. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, and she willed them to stop trembling.

  “Rest a minute more,” Peter said. “You’ll feel better soon.”

  “I was on my way home when I was rounded up,” she muttered. “I must have fainted in the heat.” She didn’t mention the body or the feel of the dead man’s hand in her own.

  The medic pressed on her stomach to check its size. He said something to Peter in English.

  “He says they never should have had you out there,” Peter said, “especially in your … condition. He also says you’re due in less than three months.”

  A sob escaped Helene’s lips, though she wasn’t sure why. She knew the baby would be fine. It was her heart she was worried about. She had to do something, had to make a difference. She couldn’t just sit at home and do nothing.

  “Your husband …” Peter said gently. “Was he in the German army?”

  Helene glanced away. “He was.”

  “Is he gone?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Peter took her hand. “You’ve been doing too much. You need to rest. I’m sure you’ve hardly slept with caring for the women and your daughter.”

  The medic spoke again, and Peter translated. “He wants to know if you’ve been having any pains. Signs that anything’s wrong.”

  Helene rubbed her round belly. “Nein. Everything’s been fine… until today.”

  Peter interpreted her answer for the medic, then addressed her again. “He wants to examine you, and then he says I can take you home.”

  After Peter left the room, the medic felt her stomach, listened to the baby, and checked her pulse. When he was finished, Peter was brought back in.

  “Easy does it.” Peter helped Helene to her feet, his arm around her shoulders.

  “Really,” Helene protested, “I can walk on my own.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. The medic said you’re underweight. The baby’s healthy but small. You need to start paying more attention to your health.”

  Deciding not to fight him, Helene wrapped her arm around his waist as they shuffled through the courtyard. The sun had dipped into the horizon by the time they exited the gates.

  Peter helped her into the first available jeep, then drove toward town. The car wove in and out of wagons, soldiers, and civilians as it rumbled toward her father’s house.

  Several men stared as they drove by. Peter kept his focus straight ahead. Either he didn’t notice the stares or he simply ignored them. With her free hand, Helene tucked her knee-length skirt tight around her legs. The wind whipped her hair.

  She was glad her father’s home wasn’t far. And glad that he wasn’t waiting by the door when she arrived with no groceries.

  Peter helped her out of the jeep and into the house. Inside, all was quiet. Anika was curled into a ball on the sofa, taking a nap. Voices from beyond the back door told Helene that her father was in the backyard talking with neighbors.

  Peter led Helene to her room and watched her climb into bed. Helene pretended to be absorbed with arranging the blankets around her. She couldn’t look into those green eyes of his. They asked too many questions.

  “I’m going to check in often to see if you’re resting,” Peter said, forcing sternness.

  “But the people, the food—”

  He held up his hand, cutting her off. “If you’d like to continue cooking, I’ll send some men to pick up the food. You don’t need to be going out. A new commander has jurisdiction now, and he will continue to round up villagers to help bury the dead. I’ve heard that tomorrow all townspeople over twelve will be forced to attend a mass funeral.”

  Peter sighed. “The commanding officers are overwhelmed with the tasks of caring for the people. They try to do their best, but they have little understanding of the situation here. They blame the townspeople for not doing more for the prisoners, for not stopping the horror. And they feel the villagers should help deal with what they didn’t stop.”

  More than anything, Helene wanted to tell Peter she had tried to speak out. She’d wanted to help but couldn’t. She was as much to blame as the rest.

  Peter stepped toward the bedroom door. “I’m going to see how Michaela and Lelia are doing before I leave.”

  “Thank you so much … for helping me.” Helene pulled the blanket up to her chin and noticed her hands still smelled of the camp. She told herself she would get up and wash as soon as he left. But she settled deeper into the bed as her body relaxed. She yawned, and her eyelids grew heavy.
<
br />   “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Peter said. Then he headed into the room across the hall. Was it Helene’s imagination, or did he comb his hair and straighten his uniform before entering?

  Helene pictured how Michaela had looked that morning. Even in her frail state, her peaceful smile hinted at her former beauty.

  Helene drifted into a fitful sleep. As she was dozing off, she could hear Michaela’s laughter joined by Peter’s. Their laughter and talking carried on as the shadows moved across the wall, finally encompassing the entire room with night.

  Helene wasn’t sure when their true conversations ended and the ones in her dreams began.

  MAY 8, 1945

  ST. GEORGEN, AUSTRIA

  An air of celebration replaced the somber attitude when the end of the war in Europe was announced. Victory in Europe, V-E Day at last!

  “We need a photo to commemorate,” Murphy called out. “Can you snap us?” He tossed Peter his camera.

  A dozen or so soldiers gathered around. Three of them hunched down in front. Two more stooped over behind them with hats in hand. The rest lined up in a long row, faces beaming. Peter peeked through the eyepiece and noticed Banion with his hand tucked in his shirt, imitating Napoleon. Josef held his hand up, his fingers V’d for victory.

  Peter couldn’t help but chuckle. “Okay, on the count of three.” The camera clicked and the group dispersed.

  All available liquor had been rounded up from town. Music poured from the radios late into the night. Peter celebrated with the rest. But he caught himself glancing often in the direction of the yellow house. Were those women celebrating tonight?

  In the midst of the carousing, Peter knew the same questions raced through every man’s mind: Do I have enough points to be sent home, or will I have to remain with the occupational forces? Or worse, will I be sent to the Pacific now?

  Peter’s mind wandered to thoughts of Goldie and the letter he had received from Andrea. While the other letters had brought news of home in an effort to cheer him up, the one from Andrea was different. Blurry spots, which Peter knew were caused by teardrops, dotted the page. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the questions were even more troublesome. “Have you heard any news? Can you find my husband?” she’d asked. Then, “What do you know about the treatment of American prisoners of war? I saw a photo of a POW in Life magazine. Surely that’s not how they’re all treated.” Peter did what he had to. He lied. “No news is good news,” he’d answered. “Under the Geneva Convention all prisoners must be treated well.” He didn’t dare tell her the kind of treatment the prisoners he helped had received.