by Tricia Goyer
Helene hugged her friend, careful not to squish the baby on Michaela’s lap. “Of course. What was I thinking?” She leaned back. “I’m just happy that you have someone as wonderful as Peter; I really am.”
Michaela kissed baby Petar’s head. “Ja, so am I.” Her words sounded flat even to herself.
Helene rolled over in her bed for the hundredth time that night. The blankets were too warm, the air too cool. Anika’s gentle snoring, usually a source of joy, seemed loud and obnoxious. Just like her father, Helene thought as she flipped the pillow over.
Helene tried counting, but that didn’t help. The lack of sleep reminded her of the long nights she’d waited for Friedrich to come home. Her shoulders tensed, and she tried to push those thoughts away. If only she could find someone like Peter … but she didn’t want to think about that either.
The sound of iron pans clanging together carried in from the kitchen. Someone else was having problems sleeping. Probably Michaela or Lelia, excited about boyfriends, weddings, and new lives in America.
Helene pushed back the covers and stood, the cool floor causing her toes to curl. Careful not to bump the cradle, she grabbed her robe from the chair back and slipped it on. Then she tiptoed into the kitchen.
As she entered, a warm lantern’s glow greeted her, along with her father’s wink. He stood by the stove, stirring a pan of milk with a wooden spoon. Yesterday’s bread waited on the counter.
Helene sat in the rickety old kitchen chair. “I feel ten years old again. How did you know I would need milk toast tonight?”
“You always need it on days like today, whether it be good news or bad.” His voice was soothing. “Remember the time your name was announced as the finalist for the school spelling bee? Or the day we received news that your mother was down to her final days? Milk toast was the only thing that got you to sleep.”
Helene traced the wood grain of the table with her finger. Within minutes, a bowl of bread soaked in warm milk and sprinkled with a hint of sugar was set before her. She took a bite, appreciating the softness and comfort of the food.
“So, which do you think today was?” Helene asked when her bowl was half empty. “Good news or bad?”
“Well, that depends whether we’re considering the future of our friends or ourselves. It seems their joy will ultimately lead to our loss.”
“I didn’t think I’d feel this way until my own children were grown.” Helene swirled the milk toast with her spoon, forming the shape of a heart. “I don’t think they’re ready for serious relationships. They’re just beginning to get well.”
She licked the spoon. “Take Lelia, for example. A month ago she could hardly speak and now she’s to be married? And how long has Josef been coming around? She’s too young, and she doesn’t really know him.”
Helene’s father chuckled, and the realization of her words hit her. Not too many years before he’d felt the same about her. She’d been young. She’d hardly known Friedrich. Yet no one could have told her not to marry him.
Helene considered how difficult it must have been for her father to let her go. Not that he’d had a choice. She had been a determined young woman. Nothing could have stopped her from being with the man she loved.
“The world is changing, my daughter. Good changes and not-so-good. I’ve been to meetings in town, talked to key people. Just when the war is over, it seems we’ll soon be under a new government.”
Helene focused on his face. All humor was gone.
“I didn’t want to ruin the glorious announcements earlier, but U.S. troops will be leaving sooner than I imagined. Austria will again have her own borders, but we will be divided into four occupational zones.”
He swept his hand toward the window. “This whole area, from the river to the northern border, will be Russian territory.”
“The Russians?” Helene had heard rumors of their brutality, especially to anyone associated with the Nazis. Tens of thousands of Russian men had been killed without a trial in the camps near her home. And what of the Americans? She’d found comfort in their presence. The brown jeeps with white stars, the tent hospitals and sprightly nurses, the jazz music and gum-chewing soldiers.
“How many days do the Americans have left?”
“From what I’ve heard, less than a week.”
“And Peter?”
“He hasn’t said. But I imagine that’s why these relationships are moving along so quickly. The men won’t be able to come back after their military forces leave the area.”
“Not ever?”
“Nein.” Her father leaned against the counter. “Not unless they get special permission or come on government business. Courting a young lady won’t fall under those terms.” He paused. “So I’m sure, even now, Peter’s thinking of a way to get Michaela out.”
Helene’s head pounded, and the milk seemed to curdle in her stomach. She pushed the bowl away.
The baby’s cry sounded from the other room. Helene stood, then decided to ask one more question. “How far will the Americans go?”
“To the other side of the river. The banks we can see on the other side will be in the American zone.”
Her heart filled with a grief she’d come to know all too well. “So they’ll be close.”
Her father stroked the white stubble on his chin. A strand of hair as fine as spider’s silk fell across his high forehead. He raked it back with a finger. “Close, but not close enough.”
As Helene returned to her room, the darkness of the situation seemed blacker than the night outside. A wide, watery chasm would soon separate her from those she cared for.
Helene lifted Petar from his cradle. The small wooden bed rocked, but her thoughts seemed to rock with an even greater force. She nestled into her own bed and held the baby to her chest to nurse.
“At least I’ll still have you,” she murmured to the infant. “You and your sister and your grandfather.”
It will be enough, she decided. It had to be. Helene leaned against the plaster wall. The baby was cradled between her thighs and her chest, protected and loved. Helene rocked back and forth. Not to soothe her infant but to calm the shaking of her shoulders.
Oh, God, will it be enough?
Twenty-Two
JULY 21, 1945
A knock at the front door woke Michaela from her fitful sleep. She rubbed her eyes. From the light that filled the room, she knew it had to be after 9 A.M. When was the last time she had slept so late? It had been years, she was sure. But after the tossing and turning with a million thoughts of life and love, Peter and Georg, she’d finally drifted off.
The knock sounded again, and she wondered where everyone could be. She climbed out of bed, pulled on her cotton wrap, and hurried to the door. She swung it open just as three visitors started to leave.
Michaela stepped out onto the porch. “If you need a room,” she called, “we’ll have some available in a week.”
The three turned, and she noticed a Red Cross armband on one woman’s arm. Michaela glanced at the frail man and woman standing beside her. Their heads were lowered, and their bodies moved with strange effort. While they appeared to be young, both were dressed in ill-fitting clothes and showed the effects of malnutrition and suffering.
The Red Cross worker shook Michaela’s hand. “I’m from the DP camp in Linz,” she spoke in Polish, “and I’m looking for a Michaela Perl.”
“I’m Michaela.”
The frail woman standing next to the Red Cross worker grinned. Michaela recognized that smile. “Kasia?” She peered closely at the man. Her heart leapt. “Marek!”
“Michaela!” Marek cried.
Michaela wrapped her arms around the two ghosts from her past and pulled them into her embrace. “These are dear friends from my father’s church in Bielsko,” she explained to the Red Cross worker. “Come in, all of you!”
The Red Cross worker helped Marek and Kasia climb the porch steps. “They arrived last night on the train. You should have seen their fac
es when they saw your name on the list of survivors. I brought them over as soon as possible.”
“Michaela, it is a miracle you’re alive.” Marek grabbed her face and kissed both cheeks.
Tears streamed down Kasia’s gaunt face. Michaela felt her knees grow weak. These were her friends. The beloved ones her father had worked so hard for. Two of his Jewish friends, converts to the Christian faith.
Michaela led them to the couch in the living room. “Have you heard news of anyone else? Where have you been? What has happened to you, to our other friends?” she rattled in Polish.
Marek grabbed her hands. “So much has taken place since you were captured. Many from the church were rounded up. Several Jews were found in hiding. Someone reported us all, but I will not go into that now.”
“Did Jacek and Lidia survive?” Michaela dared to ask. They had been her parents’ close friends and had graciously welcomed her and Lelia into their home after their families had been murdered by the Nazis. Michaela could hardly imagine life without them.
“I am afraid not.” Marek shook his head. “They were killed, along with their whole family.”
Michaela gasped. “And their children?”
Marek released his grip. “The baby, Sabine, was at a friend’s house. She alone survived.”
Michaela’s heart went out to the toddler who, like so many others in this time of war, would grow up without ever really knowing her parents.
Kasia placed a hand on Michaela’s knee. “The last I heard, Rahel was alive, but that was months ago.”
The mention of Georg’s younger sister quickened Michaela’s heartbeat. That was one memory she was still not ready to delve into. “Jacek and Lidia had a neighbor named Filip. He was very nice to Lelia and me when we returned to my parents’ house. Do you know if—”
“I do not know. Marek and I were taken by transport to many camps,” Kasia said, looking uncomfortable. “We finally ended up at Ebense—not far from here. It is a miracle my brother and I survived.”
“Kasia is still not well.” Marek took his sister’s hand. “We are only traveling on her insistence. Poland is calling us home.”
“You’re returning?”
“How could we not? It is our home. I miss the scent of the air, the food, the ways of the homeland.” He lowered his head. “I would like to visit the graves to say good-bye. I know many were simply thrown into the ground with no one to pray or remember. It meant so much to us years ago when your father performed that ceremony for our mother. His words of eternal life and heavenly rewards gave us such hope. I would like to share that hope with others.”
Michaela studied his face, so familiar yet so different. His head was shaven and covered with sores. Sharp cheekbones jutted out. Even more noticeable were the dark circles under his eyes. Yet, looking into their depths, Michaela saw the hope her friend spoke of. She took Marek’s slim hand in her own.
“My father would be proud.” She rubbed his rough hand in her soft ones. “He always said God’s calling was on your life.”
“As on yours,” Marek responded.
Michaela released his grasp. Like the memory of a dream that resurfaced through fog, her father’s words spun through her mind.
“Share the gospel with these dear people,” he had said. “Protect Lelia. Never leave her side. Without you she is like a lamb to the slaughter. Promise me you will care for her and those who remain.”
“I promise, Papa,” she’d said during their last embrace. It was that promise to protect Lelia that had kept her strong through the capture, through transports, through the camps. And she had done her best, keeping the girl with her as long as it was humanly possible. But had the whole promise been fulfilled? What about the others?
The Red Cross worker interrupted her thoughts. “I’ve asked these two to stay in the hospital at St. Georgen for a few days to get some much-needed rest before moving on. I was hoping you could help convince them. But a few days is all we have. Even now the hospital is preparing to relocate.”
Michaela didn’t understand this talk of relocation. She would ask Papa Katz about that later. And it was obvious more than a few days of rest was needed. “Yes, please stay. Rest would be good. And—” She paused for full effect. “You must be here for the wedding.”
“Wedding?” Marek asked.
“Is it someone we know?” Kasia’s eyes lit up.
Michaela grinned. “Lelia is marrying an American GI next week.”
“Lelia survived?” Kasia asked in a low voice. “Praise the Most High.”
“How wonderful it would be to attend a wedding again,” Marek said. “Tak, yes, we will stay.”
Michaela rose and gave each of her friends another hug. “I will get dressed, then prepare breakfast. I have so much to tell you.”
As she hurried to her room, Michaela realized she hadn’t shared what should have been the most exciting news of all—her own budding relationship with Peter. The thought of his handsome face and the care in his eyes should have been enough to chase away any doubts. But still, that unsettling feeling refused to subside.
She pulled her nightgown over her head and slipped into the light green dress Helene had given her. She washed her face with cool water from the basin, then ran a comb through her short dark hair.
As Michaela prepared to rejoin her friends, she knew the path she’d agreed to the day before needed further consideration. Perhaps she should go back to Poland. Back to the people her father had loved and given his life for.
Peter’s face flashed in her mind. His kind eyes. His smile. His caring heart. How would she ever tell him?
Helene and the children returned just as Michaela was finishing the breakfast dishes. After introductions were made, Helene begged the Red Cross worker to leave Marek and Kasia in her care. There was, she insisted, plenty of room, and she was quite experienced in looking after camp survivors. The Red Cross worker agreed and left with a promise to come back in a few days to check on the pair.
When Lelia returned from her outing with Josef, she found them all in the kitchen, enjoying tea. The sight of Marek and Kasia seemed to stir even more excitement in Lelia. With laughter and hugs, she embraced each of them and chattered in Polish about their time with Helene.
Michaela watched the exchange with elation. Would anyone have believed this was the same girl who rarely spoke and who had been so close to death just months before?
“Oh, and did Michaela tell you her good news?” Lelia asked. “She has a new beau. He’s a handsome American, and he’s quite smitten with her.”
Marek and Kasia blinked at Michaela. Helene rose and turned her attention to a ball of bread dough that had been rising on the counter.
“No, we did not hear.” Marek’s brow furrowed. Michaela knew he was thinking about Georg. She suddenly felt like a traitor in the presence of her friends.
“It’s not that serious yet,” Michaela said hurriedly. “In fact, I must talk to Peter. I’m unsure—” She paused. “I’m not sure what will happen now.” Michaela took a sip of her hot tea, trying to hide behind her teacup.
Helene stopped kneading the bread dough.
“You aren’t breaking it off with him, are you?” Lelia asked in German.
Helene wiped off her hands on her apron, then placed them on Lelia’s shoulders. “I’m sure Michaela has a lot to think about and a lot to discuss with Peter. Come, I want to show you some fabric I found. I believe it would make a perfect dress for your wedding.”
Lelia shot Michaela one more glance, then did as she was told. The room fell silent. Marek and Kasia continued to sip their tea. Michaela rose and started kneading Helene’s bread dough.
A knock at the door punctured the silence. “That must be Peter.” Michaela wiped her hands on a towel. “He promised to come by today.” She headed for the door. “Come, you must meet him,” she called back to Marek and Kasia.
Michaela opened the door. Peter stood there with his arms open wide. His olive uniform was p
erfectly pressed. His reddish hair was slicked back. He smelled wonderful.
Peter took her into his arms and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
Michaela took a step back. “I have some people I’d like you to meet. Old friends from Bielsko.”
Marek extended his hand. “I am Marek. This is my sister, Kasia,” he said in rough German. “We are friends with Michaela. We too survived the camps.”
“It’s a miracle,” Peter said. He lifted Michaela’s chin. “Another reason to celebrate.”
She led him into the kitchen. “Would you like to join us for tea?”
“Of course.” He followed the others to the table. “Then I was hoping we could talk. There is a lot happening in this area soon, and I have some things I need to discuss with you.”
“Tea first.” She placed a white china cup in front of him. She needed time alone. Time to formulate her thoughts and words.
As they sat around the table, Marek and Kasia entertained Peter with stories about Michaela’s childhood.
Marek tapped the side of his head, as if trying to stir a memory. “Remember when you visited—how you say it—the place with the animals and acrobatics?”
“Der Zirkus,” Michaela said.
“Tak, yes, the circus.” Marek smiled. “The whole school went to the circus, and the next day Michaela was so enchanted by the tricks she tried to control the zwierze—”
“Zwierze?” Peter asked.
“It means ‘beast’ in Polish. He was a neighborhood dog that frightened all the children.” Michaela’s face flushed.
“She took one of her mother’s chairs and marched down the street.” Marek chuckled. “We didn’t notice until after she opened the gate. I rushed in and scared the dog with a stick. Georg swept her up and raced out of the yard.”
“He was my hero from the age of eight.” Even now Michaela could see the way his dark hair flopped over his determined face as he ran. “He saved me from certain death. Or so I thought.”
“Do you still have the scar?” Marek asked.
“Among many others.” Michaela rubbed the spot on her arm without lifting her sleeve. Mere inches below the dog’s mark were the numbers imprinted by beasts equally as vicious. The atmosphere of the room instantly sobered.