by Tricia Goyer
A breeze stirred the air, and Helene realized the window was still open. She heard the new leaves rustling on the aspen outside.
“Now I must admit something to you,” Michaela said. “There were many I should have helped. Whenever I see Lelia, I wonder if I could have done more for her family, or even mine. It’s easy to notice the faults of others while ignoring your own.” She squeezed Helene’s hand. “God brought us together. I know that.”
“I’ve never thought much about God,” Helene admitted. “Do you really think He had a part in bringing me to you?”
“I know He did.”
Helene rested her head against Michaela’s shoulder. “How?”
“You came during the darkest moment of my life. The Americans had too many prisoners to try to help, and Lelia and I were very sick. So I prayed. I prayed for an angel of deliverance to lift me out of hell.”
Helene’s heart stuck in her throat. The thought that she could be the answer to someone’s prayers astonished her.
“To be honest,” Michaela continued, “I was praying for death. Death surrounded me. In piles of bodies, in walking skeletons, in ash that fell on my head. I longed to become that ash, to be free from the pain. But instead, God sent you.”
“I’m far from an angel.” Helene rose. “You know that now.”
“God works in mysterious ways indeed.” Michaela smiled. “Perhaps He knew the prayer of your heart also. Maybe He knew you needed me as much as I needed you.”
Helene saw no pride in Michaela’s face. Yet it was true. Michaela had given her far more than she ever would have imagined. “I guess you can say we are each other’s answered prayers.” Helene closed the window. “An answer to a prayer I didn’t know I’d prayed.”
Helene gazed at the reflection. Their images shimmered through her unshed tears, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of the woman Michaela must have once been. Helene’s heartbeat quickened and a strange tingling shimmied down her arms.
Then Helene focused on her own reflection, and an even more amazing thing occurred. For through her tears, she saw not who she had been, nor who she was, but who she could be.
Arno stood on the edge of the woods, his hands clenching and unclenching. He’d seen the transport in the distance. This was his chance. His one shot. In the next few minutes he was either going to pull off the biggest ruse of his life, or he’d just signed his own death warrant.
Friedrich’s mother’s cottage was still visible from where he sat. Arno had to admit, he liked the old woman. She was everything her son was not. Kind, generous, witty.
After sending Henri to deliver Friedrich’s letter, Arno had stayed almost two weeks with Mrs. Völkner, saying he was Friedrich’s closest friend—which wasn’t far from the truth. The old woman had shared stories of Friedrich’s childhood and his time in service to his country. She even shared news about her daughter-in-law and granddaughter, although she hadn’t had the opportunity to meet either one.
“This terrible war keeps me from my grandchild,” she’d said in frustration.
He’d patiently listened to the woman’s prattling, then helped her with handyman’s work around the cottage. But Henri’s first assumption had been right. She knew nothing.
After the first week, the old woman began to show him Friedrich’s letters, starting back with his first SS training days at Dachau. The young, impressionable soldier had written of the inspiring Avenue of the SS, which faced Eike Plaza.
“It’s a wide two-lane road with a lawn down the middle,” Friedrich had written. “Massive administration buildings and barracks line the roads. Everything is neat and orderly and beautiful.”
As he read, Arno wondered why Friedrich hadn’t also mentioned the death camp and prison. Had he thought it too offensive for his venerable mother?
A stack of letters later, Arno learned Friedrich had indeed been stationed as a clerk in Vienna. “We SS soldiers are held to higher standards and are subjected to the strictest discipline,” Friedrich wrote during his first days in the service. “I strive to do my job well.”
Arno continued reading. A few months into Friedrich’s stay in Vienna, the news took on a more social nature as obviously the young man discovered that the life of a respected solider drew the favor of many.
“Last night, I was treated to an amazing performance of Richard Wagner’s ‘Götterdämmerung’ at the State Opera. 217 people were in attendance, but I was lucky enough to enjoy row 12.”
It was foolishness. The later letters were filled with even more descriptions of useless daily activities and boring stories. Tales only a mother could choke down.
So after two weeks, Arno left the place with a kiss on Mrs. Völkner’s wrinkled cheek and a promise to return . His visit had confirmed that Friedrich had been involved with something in Vienna. But what? Perhaps Friedrich’s wife will know more.
Arno thought of their last moments together. Friedrich had mentioned leaving something behind with Helene. Throughout that night Arno had weighed whether or not he should chance going back to St. Georgen. Not only was it dangerous, but he hated the thought of being there again. Hated the way the others had looked down upon him. He’d risen to the ranks of the mighty SS only to be treated like a simpleton by his comrades and superiors. Always passed up for promotion, always put on the gruesome jobs. Even Friedrich, Arno knew, had befriended him for his own benefit.
But he would show them. He would return. He’d find the treasure. And while the others still ran for their lives, he’d be living like a king.
Now the line of American trucks roared closer. Arno had watched the group from the castle ruins the night before and knew their plan was to deliver men from the regular German army—those the Americans now considered harmless—to their homes throughout Germany and Austria.
Arno decided to join them. Not only to obtain a ride, but also for the permission to return to St. Georgen. He was no fool, but he’d gladly act like one to get his way.
Arno waved, and the first truck slowed to a stop. The others in line did the same. Arno’s heart quickened. He ran his fingers through his overgrown hair.
The GI on the passenger side leaned out the open window, rifle pointed. Arno knelt on the ground.
“Get off the road,” the GI yelled in German.
“P-p-please,” Arno stuttered, wagging his head. “I s-s-surrender. A-all I ask is for a r-ride home.”
The GI glanced at his buddy, then back again. “You in the regular Germany army?”
“Ja, ja.” Arno bowed lower.
“Where you headed?”
“St. Georgen,” Arno answered, daring to lift his gaze.
At an order from the driver, the passenger climbed down from the rig. He glanced back at the driver and asked a question in English.
The driver looked at Arno and spoke again, rolling his eyes. The two GIs laughed.
Arno made the sign of the cross and crouched as low as he could.
The soldier stepped closer, kicking dirt into Arno’s face. “Get up, fool!” Arno rose slowly.
“Man, Hitler was getting desperate, wasn’t he?” The driver smirked.
The soldier patted Arno down, then motioned to the back of the truck.
“Danke,” Arno said, climbing over the tailgate. The back was already packed with men, all of them filthy and battle torn. Thankfully, none he recognized.
One man scooted over, making a narrow spot. “Danke.” Arno muttered again, sitting. The man didn’t respond.
PART TWO
He raises the poor from the dust
and lifts the needy from the ash heap.
Psalm 113:7 (NIV)
CONNECTED
I’ve heard it said
That only God, who made hearts,
Can join them.
Perhaps my broken heart, joined with yours,
Becomes more complete somehow.
I never should have called you friend.
For the world considered us enemies.
&
nbsp; Yet here we are,
Listening, understanding.
Knowing.
In our reflection I see
What compassion is all about.
It’s about sitting side by side,
And the only obstacle between us
Is the warm air we breathe in as we whisper.
Fourteen
MAY 29, 1945
Lelia laughed.
Outside the wind howled and a late spring storm showered the countryside with rain. But the girl’s laughter was enough to brighten the whole house.
Michaela had needed the feather bed that afternoon, her muscles still aching from her run to the camp a few days before.
Helene had visited the room with hot tea and biscuits. The awkward tension of the previous days was gone. Michaela’s heart felt as light as the feathers that fluffed the bed, and in a way she felt even closer to Helene than before. She had finally sought God and had put her relationship with Helene in His hands.
“Look at me!” Anika had called out as she scampered into the room dressed in her grandfather’s tattered gray-green coat and favorite alpine hat with braided trim. Her small face barely peeked out from under the brim, but it was the sight of her upper lip that caught everyone by surprise. Beneath her upturned nose was a mustache made of soot from the cookstove.
When Anika imitated her grandfather’s slow gait, Michaela’s laughter started as a trickle and grew into a roar. Then, without warning, Lelia’s laughter joined in. All eyes focused on her as she giggled like the teenager she was.
“What do we have here?” Helene asked, hands on her hips.
Something must have struck Lelia funny about Helene’s wide-legged stance and her stomach, which seemed to have doubled overnight, for the girl’s laughter grew even louder. Soon all of them were chuckling so hard that tears streaked their cheeks.
Helene struggled to catch her breath. “Lelia, thank you for that gift of laughter.” Michaela watched as Helene pulled a chair up beside the girl’s bed and grasped Lelia’s hands.
“You are welcome,” Lelia said quietly, smiling.
Michaela’s chest warmed. Her first laughter and her first words. Perhaps things will turn out all right after all. In God’s hands, it was just a matter of time.
The storm stopped late that afternoon, and Helene took it as her opportunity to make a trip to the store before it closed. She whistled as she strolled, searching for her father’s profile among the crowds.
Lately, he had been spending most of his time visiting friends, talking politics, and planning for their future. Everyone, it seemed, lived on rumors these days. Rumors of Russian occupation. Of the possible rebuilding of the Austrian government. Of who would rule when.
Part of the future, Helene knew, included reopening their home as an inn. They’d been living off the generosity of others. The “extra” rations from poor farmers, and meager offerings dropped off by those her father had somehow helped during the war. They also received bread passed out by the Americans. But soon they would need an income.
Her black leather shoes splashed in the shallow puddles dotting the street. The air smelled fresh. It had been ages since such a sweet scent had risen on the wind.
Rounding the street corner, Helene hesitated. Disbelieving what her eyes told her was true! A man from her past sat on the steps of the tailor shop smoking a cigarette. He was thinner than she remembered, but his disturbing grin was the same.
Arno Schroeder. Friedrich’s friend. The man who had found her husband’s letter on his dead body. What’s he doing here?
Helene’s fingers tightened around her metal shopping basket and for a moment their eyes met. She resumed her pace but could still feel him eyeing her. She smiled politely to a couple passing by, while everything within her told her to turn around and go back home. She refused. She would not to give in to those urges. Would not be intimidated by his stare.
Aren’t the Russians after him? Or the Americans? How could he so easily return to St. Georgen?
A smirk rested on Arno’s lips as he assessed her pregnant frame. His gaze traveled up her body, making her stomach churn. She stalked past without a word, nearly passing the grocery store altogether.
Her father’s call from the doorway drew her attention. He frowned when he saw her face. With three quick steps he was at her side, leading her up the store steps.
Her eyes shot to Arno, then back to her father. “What is he doing here?”
“The Americans found him in Bavaria and graciously gave him a ride home.” Her father’s voice sounded calm, but Helene detected anger in his tone.
“But don’t they know who he is?” Helene asked. They paced the aisles together, examining the near-empty store shelves.
“Nein. He most likely lied and said he was in the regular army. They’re taking all those soldiers home.” He jutted his chin into the air. “They are no threat now that the war is over.”
Her father spoke a little too loud, in Helene’s opinion. Perhaps she would never again be used to speaking one’s mind in public. Helene dropped the conversation but couldn’t shake the uneasiness of seeing that man.
“Maybe we should tell them,” Helene said. “We could go to Josef and—”
Her father rubbed his chin. “And do you really think Josef will listen to what you have to say?”
The words stung, but she knew he spoke the truth. No, she could not go to Josef.
“I don’t see anything here that interests me today.” Helene stopped perusing the store shelves. Her mind wasn’t clear enough to recall her shopping list anyway. “Will you walk me home?”
This time as they passed, Arno’s wife and two teenage daughters were with him. Helene quickened her steps, but not enough.
“Helene, Herr Katz, so good to see you,” Edda called from the doorway. “Did you see Arno has returned?”
Edda’s cheeks were red from the exertion of running to Helen’s side. Helene paused and attempted to smile. She looked into Edda’s face, refusing to even glance at her husband.
“Your family is indeed lucky,” Helene said in her most pleasant tone. Her father’s fingers tightened around her arm, and she knew he was warning her to watch her words. “How … how good for you.”
The woman’s eyes widened as she scanned Helene’s stomach. “Why, I didn’t know you were pregnant. You do know how to keep a secret, don’t you?”
Helene smiled stiffly. “Friedrich and I were waiting for a good time to announce it. But, as we all know, a good time never arrived.”
“How foolish of me. You’re right. I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten he’s gone.”
Her father lifted his hat as a farewell. “Please excuse us now. My daughter is needed at home,” he said curtly, then pulled her down the street.
“It makes no sense,” Helene said when they were out of earshot. “Anika has no father. And this baby won’t either. Our lives have been completely upturned, and others move on as if nothing happened.” Her basket hit her leg with every step, but she didn’t care.
When they were almost home, her father finally spoke. “And what do you think would have happened if Friedrich had returned? What would he think of where you live now and what you are doing?”
Michaela and Lelia’s faces flashed in Helene’s mind. Anika’s too. She thought of the laughter of that afternoon. “You’re right. I could never go back.”
Her father patted her shoulder. “Nor would you want to.”
They trudged through the gate and up the front steps.
“You’ve been given a second chance,” he said simply. His hand clung to the railing. “I won’t say it will be easy without a husband. Heaven knows how difficult it’s been without your mother. But you are becoming a woman of strength and courage. The evidence of both is now taking root from the seeds your dear mother planted deep in your soul.”
Strength and courage. Helene let those words roll over in her mind as she walked through the front door. They were the exact traits she’
d need with a man like Arno Schroeder back in town.
Fifteen
MAY 29, 1945
Do you have a photo of him?” Michaela asked Helene as they sat on the sofa reading.
Helene glanced up from her book. Michaela’s hair was now a cap of dark curls. In the light of the flickering oil lamp, her eyes appeared as dark as her hair.
“My husband, you mean?” Helene asked.
“Yes.”
Helene’s mind raced as she moved to her room. Why did she ask? What if she recognized him? How would it be for her to stare into the face of a captor?
Helene opened the door quietly and tiptoed to the bureau. Anika slept soundly on the bed. Helene knelt, then slid open the bottom drawer and pulled out a few shots. She chose the ones of her husband when they’d first met. Her heart pounded, and she held them to her chest. For a few minutes she remained there in the near-dark, holding the black-and-white images.
Did I do enough? she asked herself as she struggled to rise. Could I have done anything to make him love me more than the Nazi ideals?
Anika snored softly. Helene leaned over her, brushing a lock of blonde hair from her face. She saw him in her. Though she tried to ignore it, often an expression or a gesture would be all too familiar.
She wandered back to the living room, still unsure. Without a word, she stood before Michaela and handed over the photos. Michaela took the pictures and slowly thumbed through them. If Michaela recognized Friedrich, her expression didn’t let on. She appeared as natural as if she were looking at photos of a friend.
“Handsome,” Michaela said.
“Ja.” Helene wiped her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear, trying to hide the quivering of her fingers.
Michaela flipped through the photos again. The one on top was one of her and Friedrich together.
What a child I was, Helene thought, looking over Michaela’s shoulder. Her long hair, hanging down to her waist, was wavy due to the braids she wore back then. At Friedrich’s insistence she had let down her hair, allowing it to fall over her shoulders for the photo. She was dressed in a simple handmade frock. A ring of white daisies floated upon her golden hair.