From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  Peter hurried to the office. He had just jumped into his jeep, preparing to make another pickup of prisoners, when a soldier waved him down. “Scotty, you have a phone call. It’s urgent.”

  In his time in the military, Peter had come to learn that a telegram may be bad, but a phone call was life changing.

  Peter picked up the receiver, his heart pounding. “Hello? Peter Scott here.”

  He’d been so convinced it was Helene, calling to say that something had happened to one of the children, he was caught off guard when another female voice broke through the static.

  “Pete? Oh, Pete, is that you?” The woman sobbed over the line. “He’s gone, did you hear that he’s gone!”

  With the word Pete he realized who it was. “Andrea?”

  “I didn’t even get to see him. I should have found a way to get there.”

  Peter felt as if someone had just punched him in the ribs. He gripped the receiver with both hands.

  “Pete, are you there? Can you hear me?”

  “I’m here, Andrea.”

  “You saw him at the hospital, didn’t you? He wasn’t that bad, was he? He wrote and said he was fine.”

  Peter rubbed his eyes. What could he tell her? What words could he offer? His throat felt thick and tight. “Yes, I saw him. He couldn’t stop talking about you. About how much he loved you. How much he wanted to see you again.” He hated himself for not letting her know more sooner. “Oh, Andrea, I had hoped … I would have been there if I’d known. When did you find out?”

  “Just today. I was visiting my cousin in Minnesota for a month, and there was a package when I returned. A box of all his stuff. He’s been gone a couple of weeks, Pete.” He could hear her trying to maintain control, her breath coming in gasps. “Why didn’t I feel it? We loved each other so much; you’d think I’d know when his soul left the earth.”

  Peter pictured Goldie’s face and the wave of his hand the last time he saw his friend. Neither had known it was a final good-bye. The phone grew loud with static, then became clear again.

  “What can I do?” Peter asked. “Anything—just tell me.”

  “Visit his grave in Belgium. Can you do that? Pray over it for me. Tell him I love him.” Sobs overtook her. “I … I have to go, but I need to tell you one last thing. I don’t understand it, but maybe you will.” He heard the rustling of papers, then her voice again. “There’s a note here from the nurse. She wrote down his last words.”

  Peter held his breath.

  Andrea’s voice grew distant. “It says, ‘Tell Pete I beat him home.’” The static increased. Peter stared at the phone through a blur of tears, but she was gone. The connection was broken.

  “You always did have to win, didn’t you?” He sobbed into his hands.

  The sun had just begun to set when Peter pulled up to the Henri-Chapelle American Cemetery not far from Bastogne. Peter stopped near the chapel to read a plaque.

  1941–1945

  IN PROUD REMEMBRANCE

  OF THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF HER SONS

  AND IN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO THEIR SACRIFICES

  THIS MEMORIAL HAS BEEN ERECTED BY

  THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  A stoic soldier showed him to the grave of Lieutenant Donald Herbert Gold. He stood aside as Peter approached the marker alone. White crosses stretched as far as he could see in all directions. Goldie’s grave was just one of many. Peter was sure an ocean of tears had been cried over the men in this place.

  He wished he had the strength to cry out to God. To ask why. He’d spent the drive thinking about his time with Goldie, realizing that it was their mutual faith in God that had brought them together in the first place.

  Peter ran his fingers over the fresh mound of dirt and thought about their early days of digging foxholes. “When you dig in, always dig a hole large enough for two,” the instructor had shouted. Peter realized that, the last few years, he’d been digging for one. Just for himself. He’d left no place for God in this hellhole of a war.

  The cynicism, confusion, and anger he’d created had heaped even more pain on his broken soul. He sank to his knees in front of Goldie’s white cross, feeling the damp seep through his khakis. Peter knew he needed God. Needed to trust what Goldie believed, what he himself had believed long ago. He needed to have faith that Goldie had beat him to a better place. He now understood that, just like in a foxhole, God didn’t always make the bullets of life disappear. Instead He provided a place of shelter with Him, and the strength to climb out of the hole and carry on.

  Andrea had asked him to pray over Goldie’s grave. And Peter knew what he had to say wasn’t what she’d expect, but it was exactly what Goldie would want.

  Peter’s shoulders slumped as he collapsed on the mound. “I’ve really messed up this time, God,” he prayed out loud. “I’m losing them one by one. Everyone who’s meant something to me. Except You. I need You. I know that now.” His voice broke. “Tell Goldie he may have beat me, but I know now it’s my home too.”

  Thirty-Seven

  AUGUST 27, 1945

  Helene would visit Friedrich only once in Dachau before leaving for the States. She’d considered not bringing the children, but then changed her mind. Anika needed a chance to say good-bye, and Friedrich, she decided, should at least be able to see his son.

  The first few days after getting her visa papers, Helene had done nothing but worry about Friedrich’s trial. What if he had to hang for his crimes? What if he was released? What if he came to America, following her? Would she ever truly be free?

  The train ride from Gmunden to Munich hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected. Helene and her children had stayed in the city one night before catching a ride to Dachau the next morning.

  The prison here was different from the first one. Not only was it a real prison with walls and armed guards, it had previously been part of the former SS training camp.

  “See that building over there?” the GI driver pointed out as they pulled up in front of the prison. Across a broad expanse of brown lawn stood a massive brick building with white doors and tall multipaned windows.

  “That’s where the military tribunals will be conducted. Kind of ironic, don’t you think, that the guards will go to trial in the same building where they first swore allegiance to der Führer?”

  “Yes,” she said, thinking back to Friedrich’s early letters and remembering what he’d been like back then. “Thank you for the ride,” she added, climbing from the truck. A cold breeze hit her face. Helene tucked Petar’s blanket closer around his chubby body, then took Anika’s hand in her own.

  Inside the stark prison, Helene snuggled Anika against her leg as she spoke to the guard at the front desk. Then, with only the sound of their footsteps on the hard, polished floor, they made their way toward her husband’s cell.

  Friedrich occupied the only chair. He was dressed in a striped prisoner’s uniform. His blond hair was slicked back. He needed a haircut badly. Still, his face was clean-shaven, and he opened his arms at their arrival.

  “My family,” he called as they approached. The guard unlocked the prison door and let them in. “Anika, come to your papi!”

  Anika looked to her mother. Helene smiled slightly and nudged her forward. Anika approached her father, but remained stiff as he wrapped his arms around her. Tears rolled down Friedrich’s cheeks as he kissed his daughter’s head.

  “My son,” he called, stretching out his arms.

  Helene held Petar up for his father to see. Large blue eyes peered at Friedrich with uncertainty.

  Helene pulled the child back to her chest. “He doesn’t know you.”

  “Ja, of course,” Friedrich answered. She could see the pain in his eyes.

  Anika glanced at her mother again, then climbed onto Friedrich’s lap. He squeezed her close to his chest.

  “Are you well?” Helene asked, sitting on the hard cot.

  “As well as can be expected,” Friedrich muttered. “I wish I had more reading m
aterial—something to pass the time. It seems memories are the only things that occupy my mind. Many of which I’d rather forget.”

  Helene bounced Petar on her knee. “I think the baby takes after you, don’t you think?” she asked after a silent moment. “I wish I had brought that photo of you as a little boy in Füssen. You had the same pudgy nose when you were young.” Helene waited in silence for several moments, watching her husband rock Anika back and forth.

  “I received your letter,” he said finally. “With news about my mother.”

  “And about the accounts?” Helene’s heart pounded. She was certain she saw a flash of anger in his eyes.

  “I don’t understand why you did that.” His voice was low. “All the planning. All the work. Years of effort. It would have taken care of us for years—”

  “If it had been ours,” Helene interjected.

  Friedrich didn’t respond, but she could see his hand shaking. He changed the subject. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about my mother. Especially about her prayers. But I can’t remember the words.” He tipped his head as if trying to recall a distant rhythm.

  “I could write down some prayers if you’d like. I’ve been reading the Bible and—”

  “Nonsense!” His fist pounded the arm of the chair. “It’s foolishness. All of it. Religion is for the weak.”

  Startled by his outburst, Anika’s lips quivered. She attempted to climb down from his lap, but Friedrich pulled her closer.

  “Oh, forgive me,” he murmured. “There is too much troubling me these days. Pray for your father, my beautiful one. Promise me you’ll pray for your papi, won’t you?”

  “I promise,” Anika said, and she relaxed again into Friedrich’s lap.

  A guard peeked into the cell, then continued on. Friedrich leaned close to Helene. “The trial date is set. Did you know it begins in March? That’s still almost seven months away. Maybe it’ll be over in a week. Then I can leave.” He gently stroked Anika’s hair. “Then I can return to my family.”

  Helene caressed her son’s hands with her own, trying to hide her trembling. “Do you really think you’ll get out?”

  Friedrich spoke as if talking to a child. “Helene, have I not told you? I wasn’t a bad guard. I supervised, made sure the prisoners were in order, ensured that my men were safe. Nothing more. Besides,” he added, “I am a family man. That’s why I need you so. I need you to visit often. They will see that.”

  Friedrich held his hands out for Petar again. Helene gave him the baby, and Friedrich held both children, giving each a kiss on the forehead.

  “Don’t they have witnesses?” Helene asked. “Ex-prisoners who could say otherwise?”

  “As if any decent person would listen to the testimonies of half-crazed vermin. Nein. Besides …” A peaceful countenance swept over him. “I was a soldier. Trained. Loyal. What could they charge me with? I merely followed orders. It’s those from Berlin who will hang.”

  Helene could see Anika trying to follow the conversation, but to no avail. The girl climbed off her father’s lap and went to sit by her mother.

  “I wanna go,” she whined. “I’m cold.”

  Helene glanced at her watch. Only twenty minutes had passed since their arrival, but she felt it too. Not coldness, but oppression that overwhelmed her. She needed to leave this place.

  Mostly, she needed to get away from this man. She’d hoped his time in prison would have helped him to understand the pain he’d caused others, even his own family. But that was not the case. It was as if the man before her wore blinders that filtered out any moral objections that might arise within his soul.

  “We should get going,” Helene said. “They set our limit at thirty minutes today.”

  “You lie.” Friedrich pressed the baby’s cheek to his own. “You think I am a horrible father. You always have. That’s why you want to leave.” His eyes began to tear again. “Don’t you understand? You’re all I have. My family is all that remains.”

  Helene rose, despite his pleas. “This place is too much for them, Friedrich. I’ll try to come back alone before I leave. Then you can tell me everything. About your mother’s prayers, about your thoughts—”

  “Leave?” He stood, holding the baby tight to his chest. “What do you mean, leave?”

  Petar let our a loud wail. Helene reached for him, but Friedrich held the baby even tighter.

  “Tell me first.”

  “I have a visa to the United States.”

  Friedrich sank into the chair.

  Helene motioned to the soldier who guarded Friedrich’s cell, then lifted Petar from her husband’s grasp. Friedrich didn’t try to stop her.

  She took Anika’s hand and stepped through the cell door, trying to jog some memory of what she’d loved about him. But it was no longer there. The jovial smile, quick wit, handsome masculinity. All were gone.

  “Friedrich,” she said.

  His eyes lifted, meeting hers.

  “We are not all you have left. God is with you.” Her voice softened. “Remember your mother’s prayers. That’s where you will find relief from all that haunts you.”

  She could see in his eyes that he considered clutching the lifeline she offered. The barred door slammed shut and Friedrich looked away, refusing her a glimpse into his soul.

  As they shuffled back down the hall, Anika pulled on her hand. “Mutti?”

  “Hmmm?” Helene said, deep in thought.

  “That’s not my papi.”

  The hall opened into a small waiting area. “Sure, he is,” Helene said. “He just looks different. It’s hard for your papi to be here. Hard for all of us.”

  “No,” Anika said, shaking her head. “I want Peter. He was nice. I want him to be my papi.”

  Helene kneeled beside Anika and placed a finger over her mouth. “This is not the place to talk about that. Peter is gone. He was our friend, nothing more. We must be strong. We need to pray for your father. He has no one else now. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mutti.” Anika’s voice was a near whisper.

  Helene motioned to the guard behind her, who had followed her back down the hall. “Would it be possible to get a ride back to town? I know it’s earlier than expected.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  As they traveled back to Munich, Helene couldn’t help but feel sorry for Friedrich. He was so lost, so confused.

  What can I do for him, God?

  As quickly as she asked, a thought entered her mind. But she tossed it away. No, she couldn’t do that. She refused to do that. She needed to go to America. To be safe. To be free.

  Thirty-Eight

  SEPTEMBER 7, 1945

  A hint of chill autumn crept into the warm days. Before Helene knew it, the time had almost come for her to leave for the States. Although she’d promised Friedrich to return to the prison alone, she wasn’t anticipating the journey. She especially hated the thought of leaving her children behind again.

  As promised, she brought Friedrich’s cause before God every day in prayer. Yet each time, she couldn’t help thinking about her conversation with Anika at the prison. “He has no one else,” she had told her daughter. Helene also couldn’t shake the nagging feeling inside. The feeling that told her to stay.

  She purged that thought from her mind, and instead considered the voyage. Helene regretted not being able to see her father or Michaela before she left. The Russian zones were off-limits for personal visits, and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon. She had written both Lelia and Michaela twice, and she thought about writing Peter also. But as she held the pen, her lack of words stopped her. What could she say that wouldn’t cause him more pain?

  She allowed her mind to wander, visiting her home again. She imagined her father heading off to town with a quick step, and Michaela and Lelia on the front porch reading letters and sharing laughter. She pictured Peter stopping by for a visit. Why hadn’t she realized how special it was when they were together?

  Now th
at she couldn’t go back, Helene set her mind on moving forward. She examined the meager items she’d packed for the journey. On the top of the pile was the Bible Peter had given her. Ever since visiting Friedrich she’d put off reading it, afraid of what God might ask her to do.

  Someone knocked at the door. Helene opened it and was immediately pulled into Rhonda’s embrace.

  “Guess what?” the petite nurse shouted. “I’m going home too. I have my discharge papers. We’ll be traveling together.”

  Helene welcomed the excited woman inside.

  “So, I have this plan,” Rhonda continued. “I’ll travel to Dachau with you; then we’ll leave from there. I already checked out the train schedule and bought the tickets. It’s all arranged.”

  They sat in the kitchen together, making plans for the trip. Helene bit her lip as the woman chattered on. If it’s all arranged, Helene thought, why am I dreading it so?

  The next day, the army jeep was nearly packed when Rhonda arrived. “I have something for you,” she said, her red lips smiling. “It just came.”

  Helene took the large envelope, noticing the postmark from Poland. Plopping down onto the porch step, she tore open the package. “It’s a letter from Michaela.” She flipped through the other pages. “And poems.” Just seeing the handwriting made her ache for her friend. Helene’s eyes filled with tears before she could read a single word.

  Rhonda sat beside her. “Look, sweetie, there’s no way you can read through those tears. Would you like me to help?”

  Helene handed over the pages and wiped her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “Which would you like me to read first? The letter or the poems?”

  “The letter. No—wait—the poems.”

  Rhonda cleared her voice and read.

  In the shadow of the tower,

  I felt oppression, fear.

  In the shadow I longed for escape.