From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  MAY 15, 1945

  For a long, full week, Peter tried to ignore his nagging questions about Goldie by helping Helene care for Michaela and Lelia. Most of his help came after hours, when his work around Gusen and Mauthausen was finished. A few times he even stayed late into the night, monitoring a fever that had caught Michaela by surprise and pressing a cool cloth to her forehead. He’d told himself to stay uninvolved. That he had enough work to do with overseeing his men and dealing with the masses of prisoners. But something kept drawing him to that house. Especially to Michaela.

  He clearly remembered Michaela’s face that day when he’d first spotted her behind those locked gates. Though barely able to walk, she had stood tall. Despite her filthy appearance, he had seen beauty in her gaze. Beauty that grew deeper each moment he spent with her. What was it about her that drew him so?

  Peter thought back to two days ago when he made the trek to the large yellow house. That morning he heard a church bell chiming in the distance and realized it was Sunday. The market was closed, and he spotted some of his friends lounging on a front porch. They had playfully saluted as he passed.

  Even though horror had greeted him when he first entered this town, Peter now felt at home in St. Georgen. Obviously his friends did too. More so than anyplace they’d been in the last four years. As he made the same trek this evening, he knew that saying good-bye would be difficult.

  Peter rounded the last corner and paused. Two women sat on the porch in the shade of giant oaks. Helene and Michaela smiled broadly and waved. Peter jogged toward them, his boots pounding on the ground.

  “What a greeting!” He took the porch steps in one leap. “How did you get out here?” He took Michaela’s hand. Her soft dark hair had grown out some and now framed her face.

  She blushed. “Helene’s a patient woman.” Michaela smiled appreciatively at her friend. “She encouraged me on, step by step. I think it took an hour.”

  “Not quite.” Helene brushed a blonde curl from her cheek. “I’m glad you came tonight. It will be your job to get her back.” Her laughter danced on the night breeze.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Are you ready now?”

  “I think so.” Michaela’s voice betrayed her weariness.

  Peter dropped to a crouch and scooped Michaela into his arms. She looped her hands over his shoulders. Peter took a few steps, then pretended to stagger. “Whoa, maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. I think someone has put on a few pounds.”

  Two playful swats landed on his shoulders, and Michaela feigned a frown.

  “Just kidding.” He righted himself and carried Michaela back to her bed. After setting her down, he moved to the chair beside Lelia, who was reclining in a half-sitting, half-lying position, staring out the window.

  “Why, you sure are a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

  Lelia faced him but her expression was blank. She didn’t speak a word. Peter wondered if she was really there. Though her body was improving, her mind seemed to be someplace else.

  After carrying on a one-sided conversation with Lelia for a few minutes, Peter returned to Michaela. Helene arrived with a bowl of soup. Anika entered behind her and scampered to Peter’s side.

  He cleared his voice. “While you’re all here, there is something I must tell you.” Everyone turned his direction, even Lelia.

  He took off his cap and ran his fingers around the brim. “I’ve just been reassigned. I have to leave tomorrow.”

  Helene set the bowl of soup onto the table with a thud. Broth sloshed over the rim, leaving a large orange-brown spot on the white tablecloth.

  “Leaving?” Michaela rose to her elbows. “Are you going to the Pacific?”

  “No, I’ll be stationed in Germany. At an SS prison in Landsberg.”

  Helene took a corner of her apron and attempted to wipe up the mess she’d made. Her face looked pale.

  “I might make it back on leave. Maybe in a month or so—”

  “Will trucks take you? Will you be gone for long time too?” Anika asked with an odd expression that Peter could not decipher.

  Peter looked to Helene for an explanation, but her eyes were fixed on her daughter. Her intense gaze resembled the one Peter’s mother had given him when he was a child and his words had crossed the line.

  Anika said no more. She shuffled to her mother’s side.

  “I will write.” Peter took Michaela’s hand and glanced at Helene.

  “Of course you will.” Helene picked up the bowl and drifted toward the doorway. “And we’ll be able to get news to you too.” She padded to the kitchen, and he heard the metal spoon clang against the pot as she ladled more soup.

  “Thank you for all you’ve done,” Michaela whispered.

  Peter tried to smile at her. His attempt was as weak as hers.

  “I will write,” he said again.

  “Of course,” she answered.

  He patted her hand and waved to Lelia, realizing that if he didn’t go now, he probably wouldn’t be able to tear himself away until late in the night, and he still had packing to do.

  “Good-bye.” He waved one last time. Then he slipped out of the bedroom and joined Helene in the kitchen. She stood with her back to him, staring out the window into the darkening sky.

  “I’ll ask some of the guys to stop by and check on you.”

  “We’ll be fine.” Her voice held no emotion. “My father’s here.”

  “Well, just in case. You never know.”

  “No, you never know.” She picked up the full bowl of soup. “Lelia needs to eat too. I’d better get this in there.”

  “I won’t keep you,” he said, though his body blocked her passage.

  “Thanks again,” she murmered without looking up at him.

  “No, thank you.” He angled himself so she could get past him.

  Helene took a few steps down the hall. Then she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. “I’ll take care of Michaela for you. She’s a good woman.”

  Peter ran his fingers over his chin, thankful she understood. “Will it be okay to send my letters here for her?”

  “Ja, of course.”

  Then with one last farewell, Peter stepped out the door and into the cool evening.

  Dear Annie,

  A lone candle burned in the corner of the tent. The flickering light danced on the clean white sheet of paper. Peter had been writing a letter to his sister in his mind for the past few days. Now it was time to get those words on paper.

  Last week, the end of the war in Europe was declared. It was celebrated in small ways among the troops, but it’s hard to be too jubilant when we’re still trying to live with the aftereffects. A lot has happened since I wrote last, and I’ve seen and experienced things I’ll never be able to express in a letter. Perhaps soon I can tell you in person.

  My troop took part in freeing the prisoners of a concentration camp. It would take pages to describe the horror, the stench, the piles of bodies, the starving people.

  Although I’ve helped many, there are two prisoners I’ve been able to spend more time with. One of the townspeople, a young woman with one child and another on the way, has taken these prisoners into her home. One of them isn’t doing well. She is young—seventeen, I believe—and she refuses to speak. The other is a nice young woman named Michaela. She is Polish, but we are able to communicate in German.

  Helene, the woman caring for her, works tirelessly. It is quite the sight to see how much help she can offer in a day! She is a true saint. I’m enclosing her address. I hope you can find a way to help her. I don’t know what you could do, but perhaps you’ll think of something.

  I have to leave tomorrow, as I’m being stationed away. At least I’m not heading to the Pacific, like many I know. Not yet anyway. It’s hard to believe our boys are still fighting and dying, and that some of my friends might soon be among them.

  Please pray. Who knows, maybe it will work for you. These are difficult times, and things are not goin
g to get easier any time soon. The land is torn by the ravages of war, and so are the people. Those like Michaela have lost everything. Although she hasn’t said, I’m sure her whole family is gone. While many wait for news from loved ones, she never asks. Maybe because she already knows the answer.

  Please write soon. I expect the postal system to become more effective than it has been. I’ll write again once I get settled.

  With all my love,

  Your big brother,

  Peter

  Peter folded the sheet, slipped it into an envelope, and blew out the light. Then he climbed into the cot. “Good night, St. Georgen,” he whispered. Tomorrow he would be in another place. But at least it wasn’t another war.

  Although his mind should have been planning the movements of his men the next day, it concerned itself instead with only one thing. When will I see her again?

  MAY 16, 1945

  The first light of dawn was just breaking through the tent flap when Peter sensed a body moving toward him. His eyes opened to find Murphy reaching for his shoulder. He sat up with a start.

  “They found him.” His friend’s face was solemn. “Cap said to get you.”

  Peter stood and pulled on his pants. “Found who?”

  “Goldie. Somewhere in Germany.”

  Peter buttoned his pants and pulled on his shirt. “Is he dead or alive?”

  “The old man didn’t say. He just told me to get you quick.”

  As Peter finished dressing, he thought of his buddy. Let’s kill some Nazis, Goldie had said. As Peter followed Murphy to the captain’s quarters, he realized he had no greater desire than to do just that. Every last one of them.

  Captain Standart had set himself up in a house on the outskirts of town. It was a monstrous brick building with a porch running from one end to the other. Peter jogged up to the front gate, then took the porch steps two at a time.

  A soldier led Peter toward the front drawing room. The captain sat by a large picture window, sipping his morning coffee. Peter gave a full salute.

  “At ease, Soldier,” Captain Standart said. “Have a seat.”

  Peter did as he was told, choosing a chair across from the captain. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “Donald Gold is alive,” the captain said simply.

  Peter let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  “But barely.”

  Peter’s folded hands rested against his lips.

  “The First Army found him in Stalag Twelve. In Limburg, Germany.” The captain took a drink from the mug in his hand, the steam momentarily fogging his black-rimmed glasses. “You know those walking bones out there? Well, that’s what we found. Our men, thousands of them. Half starved and mostly dead. They were discovered weeks ago, but word is just now getting to this end of the occupational zone.”

  Peter peered into the seasoned warrior’s face. “And my orders, sir?”

  “I’m sending you to Limburg for a few days. Then I have an assignment for you in Czechoslovakia.”

  “Czechoslovakia instead of Landsberg, sir?”

  “I have a dozen guys who can take your place in Landsberg, but this trip to Czechoslovakia is vital. The camps are taxing us, and our supplies must be replenished. I’ve received information about a warehouse full of German medical supplies outside Prague. A medical officer is assembling trucks and men. They should be ready to head out as soon as you return from visiting your friend. They’ll need you along in case they face any opposition. I trust you, Scotty. Besides, that will give you a good three days to see Goldie. It will work better for everyone this way,”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Peter left with a salute, his thoughts on the way he and his buddy used to light up Las Vegas.

  Later that day, as a jeep carried Peter across the border of Germany, all of Europe seemed to be on the move. Frail-looking men and women struggled on as if in mass exodus—some coming, some going. A few with carts, others on foot, all cradling their meager possessions as if they were rare treasures. Each hoping a better place awaited them.

  How strange it was, Peter thought, that he had come through this war physically healthy and unscathed. Images flashed through his mind of young men who would never return home, and those who were still fighting in the Pacific.

  Why them? Peter wondered. Why not me?

  At the end of a long day’s travel, Peter’s driver announced their arrival at the town of Limburg. “Home of the famous cheese,” he proclaimed. Although wartorn, the town’s former beauty could not be denied. The half-timbered houses were still embellished with a wealth of carvings and sculptures.

  The driver pulled up to a hospital, and Peter disembarked quickly. A nurse, tall and lanky, greeted him at the front desk with a crooked smile.

  “Donald Gold?” Peter asked.

  She examined her charts. “Oh, yes, here he is. Nice fellow. Too bad.”

  “Too bad?” he echoed.

  She clucked her tongue. “Typhus. It’ll be a miracle if he makes it.”

  Peter felt his jaw tense.

  The nurse started down the hall. “Follow me.”

  The hospital, like almost everything else in Germany, had been “liberated” for use by the Americans. It was old, and one section had been destroyed by artillery fire. The area Peter was stumbling through seemed ready to crumble.

  He followed the nurse into a dim room where a decrepit old man lay on the bed with his eyes closed. Peter frowned at the nurse, certain she had made a mistake. He was about to inform her of her error when a gruff voice called from the bed.

  “What’s the name of Mickey Mouse’s girlfriend?”

  “Minnie,” Peter answered, smiling at the old password used to flush out Krauts trying to pass as Americans.

  One wrinkled eye popped open. “Hey, Pete.”

  Peter stared at the old man on the bed. “Goldie?”

  “Hard to believe, ain’t it?” Goldie’s voice sounded the same, but quieter, as if he strained to talk.

  Peter neared the cot. “Hearing you were alive made my day.”

  “Yeah, mine too.” Goldie laughed, but the laughter became a deep cough that rattled his body.

  Peter pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his friend. When the coughing ceased, Peter saw that blood stained the white fabric.

  Goldie’s body was as thin as any Peter had seen in the camps. His hair had receded and two frail arms poked out from the hospital gown. Had it only been four months since he’d last seen his friend?

  “They treated us worse than dogs, Pete.”

  Peter pulled up a chair, still in shock.

  “Eighty pounds. Can you believe it? Thank God Andrea doesn’t have to see me like this.” At the mention of his wife’s name, a moan tore from Goldie’s lips. His gnarled body trembled.

  “She’s been writing me,” Peter said, “asking if I’ve heard any news. She’s been sick with worry. All she can talk about is how much she loves you and misses you.”

  Goldie stretched out a thin hand and grasped Peter’s. “Whatever you do, don’t tell her you saw me like this. They’re sending me to England for a few months. Tell her I’m healthy, but they’re keeping me around for some rest.”

  Peter didn’t have the heart to tell his friend that not even two months of care in England would bring his life back to normal.

  When Peter didn’t answer, Goldie squeezed his hand tighter. “Promise me.”

  Peter patted his friend’s shoulder. “She’ll never be the wiser. Before you know it, you’ll be jitterbugging just like the good old days.”

  Goldie gave Peter a tired grin.

  Peter searched his mind for a light subject. “Hey, how did the Peabody go? I’ve been trying to remember in case I find a pretty girl to dance with.”

  Goldie moved two fingers along the mattress as if they were feet sliding across a dance floor. “Remember, you have to glide, not step. Glide, not step.”

  Peter laughed. It felt good to la
ugh with Goldie again. He stayed with him through the night and most of the next day. Later, they swapped stories, just like the old days. Only this time, Goldie talked about his time as a prisoner of war. Peter, too, shared about their final stand against the Germans, the day they crossed the Rhine, and, of course, the camps.

  But that first day, Peter joked with his buddy and they both laughed. More than anything, Peter needed to see his friend laugh. Somehow that seemed to guarantee Goldie would recover.

  Eleven

  MAY 25, 1945

  Warm wind, perfumed with the scent of apple blossoms, blew in through the open window of Michaela’s room. The calendar would soon flip from May to June, and she could think of only one thing: her father’s birthday. June 7 was less than two weeks away, and for as long as she could remember it had been the turning point of her year. June meant the end of school. It meant strawberries and cream. Lemon cake, three layers thick. It meant longer days and carefree sun-filled afternoons with her family. At least it used to.

  Michaela twisted a piece of thread between her fingers and broke it off with a jerk. Her hand shook slightly as she worked the needle through the small garment on her lap. She heard the front door open and wondered whether Helene was coming or going. Over the last few weeks Helene had brought in bags from the shed for Michaela to sift through. They were filled with clothes, shoes, silk stockings, and sewing supplies.