From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  Escape has now come—

  Or has it?

  Rhonda turned to Helene.

  Helene nodded. “Please keep reading.”

  Why do chains still bind?

  Why do memories again draw tears?

  I seek God, and He answers,

  “Forgive him.”

  Pain shot through Helene’s heart. She lifted her hand.

  Rhonda hesitated. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry.” Helene stood. “Can I just read these alone?”

  “Sure.” Rhonda handed them back, her eyes filled with compassion. “Why don’t I watch the kids for a while?”

  “Thank you.” Helene fled to the bedroom and sank onto the bed. Her fingers shook as she reread the lines Rhonda had just read, then continued on.

  But if I forgive, will wrongs become right?

  If I forgive, will I then forget?

  So I cling to my pain

  Until the heaviness grows too great.

  And I give it to my Lord.

  As He lifts the burden off my shoulders,

  I look into my Savior’s eyes

  And see my enemy reflected in Christ’s gaze.

  He sits in darkness, hurting, alone.

  “Now, go to him,” Jesus whispers. “Go to him.”

  Helene lowered the page, knowing the sacrifice she was being asked to make. Yet how had Michaela known?

  She read the other poems. One was about a woman and a girl escaping from the ash of the camp. Another was about two women—former enemies—sitting side by side as friends. These poems were about her … about them.

  She wiped her eyes again, then opened the letter.

  Dear Helene,

  I hope this package arrives before you leave for the States. I’ve already filled two blank books with poems such as these. I’m no professional, but the words come from my heart.

  You may wonder about the poem about forgiveness. Do you remember me mentioning how someone reported my family? Well, I discovered he was one of my father’s dear friends. Someone who acted nice to me and Lelia when we returned to my parents’ home. I wanted to scream at him. I hated him for what he did. I clung to my pain.

  Then I felt God telling me not only to forgive, but also to love. To go to him. Helene, this will be the hardest thing I will ever have to do. Please pray for me. As I am also praying for your journey.

  I am sorry this letter is so short. I must run to make sure it will be delivered on time. Please write, and send me your address when you get to the States. I love you, dear friend!

  Forever,

  Michaela

  Helene pressed the letter and the poems to her chest. How did Michaela know I would need these words?

  Then Helene realized … perhaps Michaela didn’t know, but God did.

  Thirty-Nine

  SEPTEMBER 12, 1945

  It took less than three weeks for Captain Standart to cancel Helene’s travel visa and find her a small place in Dachau. Like St. Georgen, Dachau was a quaint town that had been transformed into a final hell for many of the Nazis’ “enemies of the state.” SS barracks were now being used as housing for U.S. troops. And in a worn-out apartment not a mile from the prison, Helene and her children found a temporary home.

  Helene did her best with what little she had. She made some money by mending, sewing, and doing laundry for the U.S. occupational soldiers. Her children kept her busy too, and she always tried to take time for games and songs.

  She made friends with some of the army wives, most of whom were war brides from various parts of Europe. One day, as the summer sun lost out to the autumn rains, Helene left Anika and Petar with one of her friends and trudged toward the prison. She needed to let Friedrich know that though she never approved of his decisions, she was staying by him through the trial.

  Friedrich sat on a chair in his cell, equally gloomy. Helene entered and cast him a pleasant smile. He swatted the air as if she was of no consequence.

  Helene ignored his gesture and sat on his wrinkled blanket, which smelled of sweat. She could imagine him tossing and turning through the night, perspiration beading on his body as he considered his fate.

  After a few minutes, Friedrich turned to her, his face tight with rage. She was about to call a guard, but the look disappeared and impassive disregard returned.

  “You took too long. It’s been three weeks. Why do you despise me so?” He leaned forward in his chair and took her hands. She immediately pulled away.

  “Don’t you know how I long to see you?” he said. “To hear news of my children? To know that you are safe and well?”

  “It’s been difficult. I’m sorry.” Helene looked away. His gaze was too intense.

  “I hear you have been cooperating with the U.S. authorities. Speaking lies about my comrades.” His voice was sharp.

  Helene raised her hands in defense. “I had no choice. It was for my safety, for the children’s safety. Besides, I only shared the truth.”

  “You didn’t have to. You could have taken the money from those accounts. That money could have saved me. You want me here, don’t you?” Friedrich drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Are you sleeping with the enemy too?”

  Helene sat up straighter. “Of course not. I would never—”

  “Never?” Friedrich lifted an eyebrow. He folded his hands and rested his chin on them. “Even for the sake of your children?”

  Helene noticed the guard was watching Friedrich as closely as she was.

  “I promise, that has not happened.”

  “Good.” He sat back in his chair and smiled as if they’d just been discussing the weather.

  An eerie feeling crept up the nape of Helene’s neck. Who is this man?

  “The trial is in six months. Will you be there?”

  “Yes,” Helene said softly.

  “What?”

  She’d caught him by surprise. She sat taller. “I changed my mind about leaving. I have a place in Dachau now.”

  He stared at her for a moment, as if trying to comprehend her words. “I don’t think that is a good idea. Maybe you should go. Escape.” He took her hand again, only this time without the cocky attitude. “They are going to say horrible things about me, like they said about my comrades in other trials. But you understand, don’t you? You know the reasons I joined. The SS was different then. I was just nineteen. They were the Schutz Staffel—the Protection Squad.”

  Helene used her thumb to wipe away a tear that was collecting in his eye.

  “Four hundred boys in my village were prepared to volunteer for the SS. I was one of only twelve who were selected. It was a great honor.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me.”

  “We received the best uniforms. Top-notch training. Then they sent me to St. Georgen. Why not the front lines? Why, Helene?” His eyes seemed to delve directly into her soul. “You’re the only good that happened there.” His voice quivered. “And you’re with me now. How many other men can say that? Promise me you’ll be there. I need your support.”

  “Like I said, Friedrich, I will be there.”

  Friedrich slumped to the floor near her feet. The guard started to open the cell door, but Helene waved him away.

  Friedrich rested his head on her lap. “I have been trying to remember my mother’s prayers,” he said faintly. “Do you know them?”

  Although Helene did not know a specific prayer his mother had spoken, she recited, “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

  Forty

  MARCH 29, 1946

  Helene managed to survive the difficult fall and winter, despite the harsh weather, rationed food, and lonely days. She visited Friedrich twice a month to talk and pray. His soul struggled so. How would she ever get through to him?

  The time had co
me. The trial was about to begin. Helene arrived early and found a spot along the rough maple bench near the window—one of six that lined both sides of the room. Bright sunshine poured into the chambers but did little to warm her. She could not shake the foreboding chill that caused her arms to tremble.

  The courtroom was standing room only. Men in American uniforms circled the room. The defendants were all dressed in dark suits and white shirts. They looked like respectable gentlemen, people you’d do business with or sit next to at church. Except for the white cards around their necks that numbered them like cattle and reminded all present who they really were.

  A wooden rail separated the observers from the participants. In the center of the room stood a small platform, crudely made of wood and covered with a thin carpet. A single empty chair awaited the first witness.

  In the front of the room, facing the chair and the observers, a panel of uniformed American officers sat, acting as both judges and jury. A large American flag adorned the wall behind them.

  Friedrich sat in the back row, third from the left. Number 55. Even months of worry and inadequate nutrition could not diminish his powerful presence.

  Bright lights and a movie camera pointed at the defendants. Films of the trial would be watched all over the world. And Helene realized her husband’s face would forever be associated with death and horror.

  He sat tall and proud in the chair, boldly facing the American officers. There had been times in his cell when he had broken down trembling like a child. But here, Helene knew, he would show no weakness, seek no mercy. He’d been an officer of the Reich. His job had been his honor.

  Arno was there too, his arm still bandaged. Number 14. Unlike Friedrich, Arno seemed terrified of what awaited him. For a moment his dark eyes bore into Helene’s. She quickly looked away.

  Even more numerous than the sixty-one men on trial were the camp survivors who filled the witness benches. Frail, distraught, dressed in ill-fitted clothing, each one prepared to testify. Yearning to finally see some measure of justice.

  Helene felt the hatred that seethed through the survivors as they stared at the lineup. She wondered what images went through their minds, which faces of those on trial tormented their sleep. She wondered what Michaela would say if she’d been forced to testify. Who haunted her dreams?

  Helene squinted out the window at the rows of administration buildings. If she looked at just the right angle she could make out the large smokestacks beyond. Officially, Dachau had been selected as the trial site due to the abundant former-SS housing. But many also believed it was chosen because death still hung in the air. American prosecutors could easily point out the high walls, prisoner barracks, and human ovens. The place itself seemed to cry for vengeance.

  The proceedings started in German. The prosecutors listed the crimes of the men.

  “High casuality figures due to mass extermination.”

  “Gas chambers.”

  “Criminal enterprise.”

  The words swirled in her head.

  One at a time the men took the stand to testify.

  “We were only under orders,” one officer claimed.

  “Did you realize these were human beings?” a prosecutor asked, pointing a finger toward the man’s chest.

  The man, a former doctor at Mauthausen, shrugged. “When animals are no longer of use, they are killed. Why not the same for people? Why should the state support such worthless creatures?”

  Helene scowled and looked away. Many in the courtroom grumbled. The man beside her wrung his gaunt hands.

  She held her breath when Friedrich was called to the witness stand. His casual indifference remained intact as he approached the chair.

  “So, Mr. Völkner, you were a guard at Camp Gusen, correct?”

  “Ja.” He stuck out his jaw. “That is correct.”

  “It has been documented by former prisoners that numerous cases of severe ill-treatment, excessive beatings, and starvation of prisoners took place inside those walls. A great number of prisoners were murdered by SS personnel, were they not?”

  Friedrich said nothing.

  “You are required to answer, Mr. Völkner.”

  “We took appropriate action.”

  “Is that what you call it? Appropriate action? We have testimony that you personally beat a prisoner nearly to death for fainting during roll call. Do you remember that man, Mr. Völkner? Do you recall how he screamed for mercy? Cried for his wife and his children? Or was he merely one of hundreds of worthless creatures?”

  Friedrich’s jaw clenched.

  “You remember the sick, don’t you? The ones you loaded into a mobile gas van, and later unloaded their dead bodies? Do you remember their ashes falling from the sky? Those were human ashes, Mr. Völkner!”

  Friedrich’s chest rose and fell. “I was a loyal soldier,” he spouted in anger. “I obeyed my orders. If you want someone to blame, try Himmler. Or the Central Security Office in Berlin.”

  “Are you saying that you should not be held responsible for your own actions? For killing men … and women?” The prosecutor held up a piece of paper. “Yes, Mr. Völkner, a transport of women was brought to Gusen in January of 1945. The entire transport disappeared.” He glared at Friedrich. “Or maybe you’d rather talk about the children. Were there ever children in the camp, Mr. Völkner?”

  Friedrich hesitated, then nodded slightly.

  “Yet there were no children when the Americans liberated Camp Gusen. Where did they go?” The prosecutor stared at Friedrich, challenging him to give an answer. Sweat glistened on Friedrich’s brow, yet his gaze never wavered. He opened his mouth to speak, then paused as if reconsidering his words.

  Helene tightened her grip on the chair arm, haunted afresh by the memory of those cries from the cattle cars that cold winter night.

  Friedrich’s voice was calm. “They were vermin, sir. We exterminated vermin.”

  Helene could not hold back the sob that escaped from her chest. She rose from her chair and scrambled out of the room. The door closed behind her, and she ran down the empty hall, then out a side door.

  Once outside, Helene leaned against a brick wall. Her body shook as she mourned for those who could no longer testify. Particularly for those whose murders her husband had played a part in.

  The door opened and a man emerged. She caught a glimpse of his U.S. military uniform out of the corner of her eye. Helene wiped her face, her hands and shoulders still trembling. She faced the wall, hoping the man would keep walking. Instead he stopped beside her.

  She glanced up. Peter.

  It was really him, standing before her, his green eyes full of compassion.

  “I knew you’d be here,” he said plainly, “despite what it would do to you.”

  “Hello, Peter.” It had been seven months since their uncertain parting, but not a day had passed that she didn’t think of him.

  A cloud passed over the sun, casting a shadow upon them. A cool wind blew. Helene felt her throat tighten, and her words came out strained. “I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t do it.”

  “You don’t need to be in there, to hear all that.”

  “But I do.” The wind ruffled the hair on the nape of her neck. “Don’t you understand? I lived it.”

  He reached a hand toward her. She pulled away. Peter backed off, and she felt ashamed for hurting him again.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked gently. “I thought you were leaving.”

  “I knew you’d come. I thought maybe you could use some support. Besides … I always seem to end up near Landsberg.”

  She studied his face. “And?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

  Peter kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. “And even though the visa fell through the first time, I found someone to sponsor you in the States. If you’re willing, you can still leave.”

  Helene’s throat tightened. “If I could, I would have left months ago.”

  Peter shook his head. “I don’t get you,
Helene. Why would you want to stay in this depressed country? To mend officers’ clothing for the rest of your life? Getting by on potatoes and bread? Is that the life you want?”

  Helene didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I wish you could understand. I’m supposed to stay here. As much as I’d rather be anywhere else.” She paused, the implication of his words suddenly sinking in. “How do you know about the mending and the potatoes? Do you have spies watching me?”

  “Call them that if you want. I call them friends. But I know these things for the same reason I know Petar is nearly walking and Anika is learning to read.”

  “And what reason is that?”

  “Because I care about you.”

  Helene didn’t know what to say. She had nothing to offer. “Friedrich’s still alive,” she stammered.

  “I know,” Peter crossed his arms and tipped his chin to a soldier passing by. He leaned toward her ear. “I know you don’t want to leave until you hear his fate. But you have to think of your children. The United States has so much to offer. But I can’t guarantee the passage beyond a month’s time. I know it’s hard, but you have to let go. You must move on.”

  She placed her hand on his arm. “I appreciate you being here. I really do. But until I hear otherwise from God, I’m staying. I made a vow to follow Him wherever He leads, and right now, this is it.”

  Peter’s eyes reflected reluctant acceptance of her decision … and perhaps a little admiration. “I understand. Who knows? Maybe I can work something else out with your visa. Just let me know when the time is right.”