From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  She examined it more closely. Though the girl in the photo was smiling, her eyes told another story. Although supposedly in love, Helene knew the young woman was just starting to realize what she’d left behind.

  Michaela tilted the photo toward the lamp to get a better view. Helene studied the image of Friedrich. Though not dressed in uniform, his power could not be denied. He was proud of his country and of the Aryan beauty by his side.

  “I’m just trying to understand,” Michaela said finally. “Understand how people can be so different. How some can be drawn to good and others to evil. If I had seen him on the street, I would never have guessed …”

  “He was a handsome man,” Michaela said again, handing the photos back. “Anika has his eyes and his chin.” She laughed quietly to herself, then glanced away as if deep in thought. “My mother always did that,” she finally said.

  Helene placed the photos on the floor in front of her. “Did what?”

  “Pointed out features. When we’d visit friends with new babies she’d go on about ‘his father’s nose’ or ‘her great-uncle Holder’s hairline.’ I always thought she was making it up. A baby just looked like a baby to me.” Michaela gave a slight smile. “Now listen to me. I’m doing the same.”

  Helene moved to Michaela’s side. “Tell me more about your mother. Did she look like you?”

  Michaela chuckled again. “Not much. She was short … and round. A true Polish mother. I remember getting lost once at the market and approaching four women before I found the right one.”

  Helene laughed. “And your father?”

  A smile curled on Michaela’s lips. “My father was German. Blond hair, blue eyes. Similar to your Friedrich. He was a pastor. As a young man, he visited our town to evangelize the Catholic population. Rumor had it he was leaving town when a farmer’s daughter caught his fancy, and he retraced his steps and took up residence as if that had been his intention all along.”

  Helene could barely utter her next question, although she was sure she already knew. “Are your parents dead?”

  Michaela stared at her lap. “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Michaela’s voice softened. “In the summer of 1941, four Jews arrived from Germany and asked my father for shelter and help.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if relating someone else’s story. “Marian and Sarah and their daughters, Leah and Rebecca, stayed with us for three years. Their names were changed, as well as their identities. The girls became my cousins from Warsaw who had lost their parents. Since they were young and smart, my family taught them the Christian faith in order to hide their Jewishness. Only our closest friends knew that Leah and Rebecca’s real parents hid in our basement.”

  “So Lelia is Leah,” Helene said, putting the puzzle together.

  Michaela stared at her hands. Her voice was barely audible. “In 1944, Gestapo men arrived in the village. As they approached our home, my father told me to take Lelia and run. He assured us the family would be safe, but something in his eyes said different.”

  Helene rubbed the spot where the baby tussled.

  “Lelia’s parents and her sister were in extremely poor health. Thinking back now, I realize Lelia and I were the only strong ones. My father knew that. I believe he hoped we, at least, could make it.”

  Helene tried to picture what it must have been like for Michaela to have to leave her family behind. “Then what happened?”

  “When the Gestapo arrived, Lelia and I escaped out a back window. We hid in the woods until they were gone. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. The image of those men dragging my mother. It was awful.” Michaela gulped back a sob. “I was angry with my father for many months. Perhaps he could have made it if he’d tried. My mother too. But they didn’t even attempt it.”

  “Did you ever find out what happened to them?”

  Michaela took a steadying breath. “I found out days later that they were all arrested. They were being transported to a concentration camp with a large group of people when, without explanation, they were all taken off the train and shot. Men from our town were rounded up to bury the bodies.”

  Helene couldn’t begin to imagine such horror.

  “After hearing of my family’s death, I returned home to retrieve some of their things.” Michaela’s eyes teared. Helene felt hers doing the same. She patted Michaela’s hand, not knowing what else to do.

  “Then, not knowing where to turn, Lelia and I went to the home of my father’s dear friends, Jacek and Lidia. They welcomed us and fed us. But the next day someone reported us.” Michaela shook her head. “The rest is just a blur. The transport, the camps. Nothing was right again until you brought us here to care for us. And for that I’m forever grateful.”

  Helene took Michaela into her arms, surprised at how thin she still was. Yet deep inside that delicate body was a strength Helene envied.

  Sixteen

  MAY 29, 1945

  I can take you to the top so you can get a better view.” The GI’s voice held a note of pride, like a zoo-keeper showing off his prized animals.

  Peter shielded his eyes from the bright sun and squinted at the four towers. One stood at each corner, with a high barbed-wire fence strung between them. There were no buildings or vehicles inside the fence. Only men and dirt. It reminded him of the steer corrals back in Montana. Across the field stood the large brick prison of Landsberg.

  If ever there was a time when Peter had wanted to disobey orders it was when his commander sent him to this prison in Germany instead of allowing him to return to St. Georgen. Trying to get this continent in order sure is inconvenient at times, Peter thought. One minute, the officers and men seemed almost free to move as they pleased, and other times—like now—their work and movements were more restricted.

  Peter followed the soldier up the wooden steps to the guard tower. When they reached the top, he saw that the walkway completely encircled the caged area. Two soldiers, one on each side, stood at attention with rifles in hand and watched over the men inside the stockade.

  “So that’s the mighty SS?” Peter said with a low whistle.

  “The best of the best.”

  He studied the men below. Waffen SS, Hitler’s elite. Gone were the lightning bolt runes on their right collar tabs. Gone were their silver SS eagles and field-gray wool tunics. These men were dressed in tattered, filthy street clothes. And it was clear they’d spent weeks exposed to the elements.

  In an area the size of a football field, the prisoners had dug small caves out of the soft dirt in an effort to stay out of the weather. Their hair was shaggy and tangled. Those recently brought in were easy to spot. They showed a slight trace of cleanliness.

  Many of the prisoners shifted in groups, smoking cigarettes and talking. The once-elite now appeared as the animals they really were. The corners of Peter’s mouth lifted in a smirk.

  The soldier giving Peter the tour called out to a man, then leaned over the tower’s railing and spit. The spittle landed on the head of a prisoner below. The man didn’t even flinch.

  “Look at that,” the GI boasted. “The guards who manned the concentration camps make excellent prisoners.”

  “Are any of them from Austria?” Peter asked, thinking of Helene. If her husband hadn’t already been killed, he likely would have ended up here.

  “Yeah, a few guards. And a couple of commandants are in the big prison next door.”

  “Did you hear about Ziereis?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, yeah. I heard they strung him up after he croaked … but not before he had a chance to hang his own guys out to dry.” The soldier laughed. “So, you think you can handle the job?”

  “Transporting more men here? Not a problem.”

  Peter followed his guide back down the stairs, glancing occasionally at some of the prisoners. He wondered if any had been in Gusen. Perhaps some of these men had even contributed to the horror Michaela had faced.

  “So, where’s the next pickup?” Peter asked when
they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “They found a small group in the mountains close to where Ziereis was hiding.”

  “That’s back in Austria, right?” Peter’s heart leapt.

  “Yeah. Have a problem with that?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I was hoping to get back soon. I’m due for some leave.”

  “Sounds like you have a girl there. Tsk, tsk. No fraternization, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s Polish,” Peter bantered.

  The soldier stopped. “A displaced person?”

  “Actually, she is.”

  The GI chuckled. “Yeah, right. That’s what they all say.”

  Peter didn’t argue. He would have come to the same conclusion himself. While all soldiers were ordered against fraternizing with German or Austrian women, there was no rule against being friendly with children or displaced persons. Peter had been to more than one dance where grown women swore they were only twelve, or wore borrowed DP armbands.

  Peter knew no one would understand his concern for a frail prisoner. He didn’t understand it himself. Yet he found thoughts of Michaela swirling through his head more each day.

  Of course, he often thought of Helene too. Her generosity. Her beauty. But it was easier, safer, to dwell on the thoughts of Michaela. Helene had been married to a powerful man. She had strength and … no, it was Michaela who needed him most.

  Peter toured the medical tent and the soldiers’ quarters, then returned to his jeep, where a driver waited.

  “Where to?”

  “Why don’t you take me back to my quarters.”

  “Sure thing.” The jeep rumbled away, stirring up a cloud of dirt. Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw the dust descend on the prisoners, just as ash had done not too many weeks before.

  His body jolted with each pothole the vehicle hit, but he barely noticed. How much should I reveal to Michaela? What if she has no idea of my feelings? He was a soldier. He needed a plan.

  I’ll write about what life in America is like, he finally decided. Michaela needed to start thinking about the idea. Imagining what life would be like in a different country. Realizing how much he could offer—if things someday progressed that far.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he called, jumping from the jeep. Dear Michaela, his mind was already composing as he strode to his barracks. I hope this letter finds you well and happy.

  “Michaela, Michaela,” he sang before noticing that Bing Crosby’s song “Accentuate” was playing over the compound’s loudspeakers.

  Peter changed his tune, and his voice rose in harmony as he crooned along with Bing.

  Peter shrugged off the stares he received as he waltzed into his office. He flung his cap onto a hook on the wall and sang all the way to the desk.

  “I guess seeing Krauts caged up really brightened Scotty’s day,” one GI called from down the hall.

  “What turnip truck did you fall off of?” another quipped. “No one acts that goofy unless they’re in love.”

  Peter tapped his pencil on his lower lip. “In love,” he muttered to himself. So this is what it feels like.

  Seventeen

  JUNE 19, 1945

  Helene plucked a white-haired dandelion from the green grass and blew on it. The tiny parachutes fluttered on the breeze and floated over the pasture where she sat with Anika. As she lost sight of them on the wind, she imagined them lifting over the cottonwood trees and the rippling waters of the Danube.

  The shadows of the trees swayed gently over the ground. Anika plucked her own dandelion. She blew at it, but the parachutes didn’t budge.

  “Try this.” Helene picked another dandelion and shook it. The seeds scattered.

  Anika tried. “It works!” She jumped to her feet and chased the seeds.

  “Don’t go too far,” Helene called as her daughter disappeared over a small hill. She waited for Anika’s sun-kissed head to reappear. When a minute passed, Helene awkwardly rose from her blanket. She stood on her toes to see if she could spot her daughter but saw only two things from her place in the quiet hollow: the church’s steeple and the chimney of the crematorium.

  Helene shook out her blanket and folded it. The trek home would take at least thirty minutes. They should start home now if they hoped to make it back in time for dinner. Along the way, Helene decided, she’d finally tell her daughter about Friedrich. The girl needed to know her father wasn’t coming back.

  “Anika!” Helene called, moving toward the hill where the girl had disappeared. Helene mumbled under her breath at Anika’s increased disobedience. Friedrich had seemed harsh at times, but he had been successful in raising a child who obeyed.

  Helene rounded the crest of the hill and stopped. Anika sat under the shade of a large oak tree with a man. Helene quickened her steps. As she neared, she recognized the dark shaggy hair and disturbing profile. Arno! Helene suddenly felt foolish for taking her daughter so far from home. What if they needed help? Who would hear Helene’s cries?

  Heat rose to Helene’s cheeks as she approached them. Arno was lying on his side, talking to Anika in low tones. He glanced Helene’s way as she approached.

  “Finally, there’s your mother.”

  Helene tucked the blanket under her arm and took Anika’s hand, pulling her to a standing position. “What are you doing with my daughter?”

  “Talking to her. Protecting her. Entertaining her with stories of her father. Really, what type of mother would let a little girl wander like that?” Arno twirled a blade of grass between his fingers. “Would you like to hear some of the stories too, Helene?”

  “Thank you, no. We have to get home.” She turned in the direction of town.

  Arno jumped to his feet and snatched the blanket from her arm. “I’ll walk you.”

  Helene grabbed the blanket back. “There’s no need.” She continued with a quickened pace, yanking Anika along.

  He fell into step beside her. “Really, it would be my pleasure. I need to talk to you.”

  Helene kept her vision straight ahead, the steeple as her guide.

  “I know things about him. Where he was going. What he was up to. Things he kept secret from you. Things that could change your life.”

  Helene didn’t respond.

  His stride matched hers. “Wouldn’t you like to know what happened after he left? The promises he made? I was there. I can tell you—”

  Anika cried out, and Helene realized she’d been squeezing her daughter’s hand much too tightly. She loosened her grip, but only slightly.

  Arno stepped in front of her and cursed. Helene stopped abruptly.

  “Just tell me one thing,” he growled. “Did you find anything he left behind? A piece of paper, maybe?”

  Helene knew what Arno spoke of. The map. The address. But if it did mean something, Arno was the last person she’d tell.

  “Friedrich left a lot behind,” she said gruffly. “He left piles of dead bodies. He left his family and his home, just to save his own life.”

  “Is that all?” Arno grabbed her arm. “There has to be something else.”

  Helene glared at him in disbelief. “Isn’t that enough?” Her voice shook. “Why don’t you leave us alone? That part of my life is over.”

  Arno’s fingers tightened. Helene winced. “You are being very foolish, especially if you think I believe you. You’re a smart one, bringing those camp filth into your home, befriending the enemy. You know how to play this game better than most.” He released his grip on her arm. “But I’ll be watching your every move.”

  Arno began to leave, then stopped. “One more thing. It’s not over. It will never be over. You know too much. So do I.”

  Helene refused to watch him walk away. Refused to give in to the panic his words stirred inside. Instead she turned her attention to Anika, grasping her hand gently. The girl seemed close to tears.

  “Just remember, Helene,” Arno’s voice carried on the wind. “It was you who refused to listen.”

&n
bsp; Michaela sat on the front porch and swatted the air, attempting to shoo away the fly that buzzed close to her ear. White clouds streaked across a sky as blue as the jay that hopped along the fence.

  “Really, I should be doing that,” she called to Helene, who was attacking the debris in her father’s flower beds. Dry leaves, weeds, even bits of newspaper had entangled themselves among the new sprouts climbing toward the warm June sun.

  “Not a chance.” Helene scratched her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of dirt. “My rear aches from sitting. Besides, I’ve always liked the feel of my fingers in the dirt.”

  Helene had been quiet and moody ever since returning from a walk with Anika the previous day. But today, Michaela noticed, she rolled up her sleeves and toiled with vigor.

  Michaela shook her head. “You can hardly bend over with that stomach of yours.”

  Helene rubbed her belly. “The baby is growing, isn’t it?”

  “Like a weed.” Michaela chuckled. She drew a long breath, taking in the scent of rich, moist soil. The smell stirred images of her mother repotting geraniums that she’d purchased from the farmer’s market. In a child’s eyes those robust flowers had appeared as tiny blooming trees. Mother. She sighed. Home.

  Michaela was stirred from her thoughts when, in the distance, she saw Papa Katz, Lelia, and Anika coming back from town.

  “Mail call,” Papa Katz called as they neared. While civilian mail was sporadic at best, military mail—especially between the army stations in Germany and Austria-took no more than a week.

  Anika ran through the front gate, waving an envelope. Her red-and-white-checkered dress and blonde curls swung as she ran.

  Anika paused at the front steps and held out the envelope to Michaela. She took it, running her fingers over the blue-and-red stripes on the flap. She felt her face growing warm but told herself it was from too much sun.