From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  What brought the most pleasure to Goldie’s face was the description of the SS guards upon their capture. Even before the U.S. entered the war, every American was aware of the mighty SS. Black-and-white newsreels played before every movie and showed rows of fit, handsome men marching as one.

  Goldie had sat in silent admiration as Peter described what it was like to have the SS under his control. It was a far different group of men that had straggled back to the American outpost on May 5 under the guard of Peter’s twenty-three GIs. Two thousand Germans had trudged along, five deep, as the rain poured from the sky. With shoulders slumped and heads bowed, they looked more like bedraggled puppies than seasoned soldiers.

  Although the two could have shared a dozen more tales, the stories eventually had to stop. Peter wished his friend another good-bye. Only this time, before parting ways, there were no theological discussions, no long talks of God and faith. All Peter needed to know was that Goldie would be okay—and he saw that by the faith and hope in his friend’s eyes.

  “I’ll race you home, Pete,” Goldie said. “And when my feet touch home soil, I’ll say a special prayer for your safe return.”

  Peter knew his friend wasn’t just talking about returning to America. He was sure Goldie saw his spiritual wanderings too.

  Yes, Peter might be able to fool everyone else, but not his friend. Never Goldie.

  Peter was on the road again. This time in Czechoslovakia, with a line of trucks following behind his. He’d gone back to Austria, but not for long. Close to St. Georgen, but not close enough.

  When he’d arrived at Linz, he found the ten two-and-a-half-ton trucks he’d requested to carry medical supplies. A driver and assistant for each truck waited with them. Peter quickly rounded up German prisoners from the POW camp for extra help, although he was sure they would never have volunteered had they known they would soon be entering the Russian zone.

  Now the worst part of the trip was over. The warehouses had been found, the supplies loaded. And the trucks were winding through the tree-lined country roads of lower Czechoslovakia. It was their third day on the road. So far there had been no problems. Warm sunshine fell upon the convoys, and Peter scratched the place where his Red Cross armband encircled his uniform sleeve. All the men on this trip wore these now. It was safer that way.

  Yet unlike any official Red Cross representative, at Peter’s side was a .30 caliber pistol. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use it. Another few hours and they’d be back in the American zone. Back to safety, and perhaps back to St. Georgen.

  Peter glanced into the mirror, keeping an eye on the last truck, in which the German volunteers were hiding between boxes of bandages and blankets.

  “Do you know where those POWs are from?” Peter asked his driver, who was resting his arm on the back of the seat.

  “Cap says they’re from the Lake District in Germany. Too bad, though. I would have loved to rub it in to that one obnoxious fellow that I’m sleeping in his bed.”

  Peter raised one eyebrow.

  “Not like that.” The driver laughed. “I’m staying in one of the SS houses we cleared out a few weeks ago.”

  “Really?” Peter cocked his head.

  “Right in St. Georgen. I’m just sorry the lady of the house didn’t come with it.” He let out a low whistle. “She sure was a pretty thing, all blonde and curvy. Kinda reminded me of Ingrid Bergman, only with lighter hair. Her man must have abandoned her or was killed, ’cause he wasn’t around to help her pack. She had a little girl, though, I know that.”

  “A little girl?” Peter repeated.

  “One room had a tiny pink bed.” He chuckled. “You should have seen my buddy climbing into it. He …”

  Peter didn’t hear the rest of the story. A hollow ache hit the pit of his stomach. Blonde woman? Little girl? Peter wanted it to be a coincidence, but deep down he knew it wasn’t. St. Georgen was a very small village.

  It had to be Helene. She was an SS wife. He’d suspected it all along, but he’d forced himself to ignore the signs. He’d let her get close, catching him with his defenses down.

  Then a new thought hit him. Did Michaela know? He hated to think about what such knowledge would do to her. He had to get back soon. Had to find some way to tell Michaela himself, before she suffered anymore.

  The driver started a new story about finding a boat loaded with accordions on the Danube, but Peter wasn’t listening. He rolled the window down to get some fresh air.

  He opened the map again, and a warm breeze ruffled the corners. Captain Standart had outlined their route in red. The captain had also highlighted a second road just a bit to the west that seemed a lot shorter. Perhaps, if we shave a couple hours off the return trip, we could be back in Linz by late afternoon, and maybe to St. Georgen by morning.

  “How ’bout we try a shortcut?” Peter held the map up for the driver to see. “It looks like this turnoff should be within the next few miles. Want to try it?”

  The man grinned. “Anything to get out of this truck sooner. I’ve got one aching back.”

  Within five miles they found the turnoff. The area was heavily wooded. Their convoy was the only traffic. Peter stared off into the distance and tried to imagine what Helene would say when he confronted her with the truth. He could almost feel Michaela’s hand in his own.

  The truck jerked. “What the—” The driver slammed on his brakes. The tires skidded to a stop. The trucks behind did the same.

  A Russian soldier had appeared out of nowhere, pointing a burp gun directly at their cab. Peter glanced at the pistol on the seat beside him, then pushed it behind his back, out of view. He lifted his hands in the air.

  “No sudden moves,” Peter whispered to the driver, hoping a platoon of the man’s friends wasn’t hiding in the woods behind him.

  “What does he want?” the driver mumbled, also lifting his hands.

  “Looks like we’ll soon find out.”

  The Russian approached the open passenger window and pointed the small submachine gun at Peter’s face.

  “Hello, comrade,” Peter said first in English, then in German.

  The man held the gun steady and rattled off something in Russian. His volume rose with every word. His dark eyes flashed with contempt.

  “I don’t understand. Do you speak German?” Sweat trickled down Peter’s brow. He willed himself to keep his eyes off the end of that barrel.

  “Give him something,” the driver muttered. “Bribe him.”

  Peter motioned to his musette bag. “Chocolate? Would you like some food?”

  The Russian nodded him on. Peter opened the bag slowly. He grabbed a candy bar and held it out.

  The Russian’s gaze softened. But he wasn’t paying any attention to the chocolate. Instead he focused on Peter’s watch, glistening in the sunlight. Before Peter knew what has happening, the watch was off his wrist and in the man’s hand. The candy was tossed into the dirt.

  The man slipped the watch into his pocket. While he was distracted, Peter touched the pistol behind him. His finger wrapped around the trigger.

  The Russian scratched his head with his free hand, then raised his gun into the air. Peter released the breath he’d been holding. The Russian shot a single round, then lowered the rifle with a sarcastic smile. His teeth were yellow, and one was missing altogether. Then, as quickly as he came, the man disappeared into the woods.

  The driver let out a sigh. Peter released his gun. The two stared at each other for a moment; then Peter shook his head and laughed.

  “That was close,” the driver muttered, stepping on the gas. The other trucks followed. “I swear I could hear my heart hammering. Sorry about the watch.”

  “It’s no big deal. I can get another.” Peter relaxed into his seat. “Can you believe they’re on our side?”

  “Who knows? He might be the one sleeping in that Nazi’s bed soon.”

  Peter glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you heard? A portion
of Austria is going to be annexed to Russia. And if my sources are right, the Muehlviertel region will be included.”

  Peter sat up straighter. “St. Georgen?”

  “St. Georgen, Gusen, Mauthausen. Everything from the Danube to the Czech border.”

  Peter thought of Helene. If she really was an SS wife, the Russians would take revenge without asking questions.

  Peter rubbed the spot on his wrist where his watch used to be. “Rumors. If I had a nickel for every rumor that never amounted to anything, I’d make Rockefeller look like a hobo in comparison.”

  The driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You don’t have to believe me. But taxiing you around hasn’t been my only gig during this war, if you know what I mean.”

  Peter tried to ignore the disturbing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Now that he knew she could be in danger, Peter’s harsh feelings for Helene softened. Perhaps she wasn’t a traitor after all. He thought about all the time she spent helping the former prisoners. She certainly seemed trustworthy. And she could be in trouble. Along with everyone in her house.

  Thirteen

  MAY 27, 1945

  After Michaela’s discovery, Helene tried to keep as low a profile as possible. It wasn’t that Michaela did or said anything to make her uncomfortable. But Helene sensed the awkwardness as easily as she felt the cold winds that blew in from the east. Michaela was polite, and Lelia had even started getting up and around more. Still, Helene wondered if things would ever be right again.

  On the second day, Helene went for an evening stroll by the Danube. When she returned, her father and Anika were playing in the backyard. And inside, she discovered Michaela sitting on the sofa alone, her eyes red and puffy. Helene stepped closer, concerned that the woman’s fever had returned. Yet when Helene neared, she realized Michaela had been crying.

  The woman’s frail legs were stretched in front of her, covered with a blanket Helene’s mother had crocheted. Michaela’s eyes were still sunken in and her cheekbones hollow. Yet there was something about her that made Helene want to risk breaking down the walls she’d so carefully built around her emotions.

  Michaela patted the space beside her. Helene felt a chill pass through her. She moved to the sofa with awkward steps, then sat, straightening her blouse over her round stomach.

  “I won’t say I’m not sorry to discover who you are.” Michaela’s voice broke the silence. “I have to admit I wanted you to say it wasn’t true. That our conclusions were mistaken.”

  “I wish I could say they were.” Helene lowered her gaze. “I am what they say.”

  “Can you tell me the whole story?” Michaela asked. “Help me understand why you would marry an SS camp guard?”

  The words caused Helene’s heart to pound. She wet her lips and inhaled deeply, summoning the courage to relive her past.

  “I was young and stupid,” she began. “Just seventeen when I met Friedrich.”

  “Lelia’s age now,” Michaela whispered.

  “My mother died years earlier, and my father seemed like an old man who didn’t understand me. We had to work hard to keep the inn going, and I resented him for it. It was busy in those days—before the Nazis came. There was always someone to cook and clean for. On weekends, when my friends went to the cinema in Linz, I had to stay behind to work.”

  “It must have been difficult,” Michaela said.

  “Ja. But I didn’t see it as hard, just constricting. I wanted freedom, and Friedrich offered that. Or so I thought.”

  “Did you meet him here at the inn?”

  “No, in town. At the beginning of the war. I was doing the daily shopping, and he and some friends were sitting on the front steps of the store. Our eyes met as I climbed the stairs. He was so handsome. Tall, with blond hair and a contagious smile. That is what drew me most, his smile.”

  Michaela tilted her head, obviously intrigued. “Did he say anything when he saw you?”

  “Not then, but later—on the walk home. He offered to carry my groceries. He asked my name, about my family, and a million other questions. It wasn’t until we arrived at my walkway that I realized I’d been talking the whole time.”

  “When did you find out who he was?”

  Helene tapped a finger against her lower lip. “Friedrich told me right away that he’d come to town with the Waffen SS. The war had already begun, and Hitler was building a work camp for prisoners of war. Friedrich guarded the construction site during the evening hours.”

  Helene twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “The main camp, Mauthausen, had been on the hill for a few years at that point, but I really didn’t know much about it. I’d seen some prisoners as they journeyed from the work details back to the camp. At that time I thought a subcamp would be better for the prisoners because they would be closer to their work.” She shook her head. “How foolish I was.”

  Michaela’s gaze was intent.

  Helene took a minute, trying to decide how much to share. Finally she began again. “We started seeing each other every day after that. Friedrich would wait by the tree near the road and walk me to the store. Then he’d take me home again. None of my friends nor I knew much about the Waffen-SS or how it compared to the regular German army. He wore a uniform, was proud of his nation and willing to fight for its honor. He’d traveled in Germany and Belgium. I’d hardly left St. Georgen. I was stunned that he’d be so interested in me, and honestly, I felt an incredible need to have someone love me after so many years of just me and my father.”

  Helene gauged Michaela’s expression but could not determine what emotion stirred in her eyes as she waited to hear more.

  “The townspeople adored Friedrich,” Helene continued. “What they didn’t see, hidden behind the charming facade, was a haunted soul that could attack at any moment.” She paused, trying to quench the flood of memories. “Friedrich was like a pup you instinctively want to pet, yet if you stroke the wrong way, he’ll turn on you.”

  Michaela pulled the blanket tighter around her.

  “Of course, I was fooled in the beginning. I was sure he was my perfect match. But my father didn’t feel the same.”

  “What did he do?” Michaela asked.

  “One day he caught Friedrich sneaking me a kiss behind the apple tree. Father was furious. He dragged me inside the house. He said no daughter of his was allowed to find comfort in the arms of a Nazi! That took me by surprise. I didn’t know my father’s beliefs before then. At that time it was dangerous to go against Nazi ideals, so he thought it better I not know.”

  Helene took a deep breath, amazed at all she’d just shared. The darkness outside and the lamplight within the room had transformed the window into a mirror, perfectly reflecting the two of them. Weeks ago they had resided on opposite sides of a literal fence. Today they sat together physically, but the barrier between them was thick.

  Look at us, sharing the same sofa, a prisoner listening to the cares of a Nazi wife. Helene only wished she had a more heroic story to tell.

  “I left home and stayed with a friend. I swore I’d never come back. A few months later, when my Aryan heritage had been proven, Friedrich and I were married before a Nazi magistrate. Those first few weeks of marriage were everything I’d ever hoped for. Then one night…”

  “One night?” Michaela’s gaze met Helene’s in the reflection.

  Helene wrapped her arms around herself. Michaela placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “The cattle cars couldn’t make it into camp. It had been snowing all day. I’d seen the cars before but never gave them much thought. They went in, they went out. I knew prisoners were loaded on them, and I just assumed they were enemy soldiers. But that night—”

  Her voice caught and the words refused to budge. Michaela’s touch moved from her shoulder to her hand.

  “I heard their voices,” Helene said finally. “Women and children.” Her voice faltered. Helene glanced at Michaela and noticed tears in her eyes. She felt ill.

  �
��I’m so sorry,” Helene blurted out. “I didn’t mean to cause you to hurt all over again.”

  Michaela brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t be silly. The hurt is there. It always will be. But crying is a good thing. My mother always said tears water the garden of your heart. If there were no tears, there would be no life.”

  Helene thought about Friedrich’s lack of emotion in the last few years. His smile had vanished, and so had his tears.

  “Friedrich pretended to sleep.” Helene rubbed her stomach. “But I could tell he was awake. I begged him to do something, but he refused. I put on my boots to try myself, but he wouldn’t let me leave. He pulled me away from the door and threw me across the room.”

  Helene choked back a sob. “My husband died that night. The next morning a new man took his place. A man who didn’t flinch over the cries of dying children. One who could ruin lives without batting an eye.”

  Helene’s fingers clenched into fists. “But I kept listening, kept seeing, kept living with the ache. I knew the moment I stopped weeping for the suffering, my heart would die along with Friedrich’s … and my soul with it.”

  Helene turned to Michaela. “When Friedrich left for good, I—”

  “You came to the camp,” Michaela said. “To us.”

  “Yes. I finally had a chance to do something, to put into action what my heart had felt all along. Unfortunately, for many, it was too late.”

  “You are brave.” Michaela wrapped a thin arm around Helene’s shoulder the way an older sister would. “And for that I owe you my life.”

  “If I could have found a way to help sooner, maybe others would have been saved.”

  “The Lord knows, Helene. He knew when the time was right. He knew when you were ready. He knows your heart. Trust in that.”