From Dust and Ashes: A Story of Liberation

by Tricia Goyer

  “Okay, let’s head up,” Peter called in German to the guide. His fingers pressed into the rock, searching for a hold as he continued to scale the mountain wall. Trust the guide, his mind kept reminding him. Trust the guide.

  His legs ached as he continued upward. Then, for a moment, Peter was sure he caught sight of the glimmer of white amidst the brush.

  “Up. Keep going up,” he coached himself, feeling the rope pull as his guide continued to climb. “Up, up, we go.”

  Sure enough, Peter caught sight of it again. The dainty alpine flower. Edelweiss.

  She’s worth it, he told himself, remembering the Austrian ritual. Soon, Peter knew, he’d be leaving for the States. And maybe someday he would be sure of her feelings. Perhaps before too long she would find a way to let him know. But for now, he’d continue to travel the paths laid out before him. He’d wait. Wait until it was time to show proof of his devotion.

  Forty-Two

  SEPTEMBER 17, 1947

  NEW YORK CITY

  Helene called in English to the boy toddling behind her. “Hurry, Petar, or we will miss your sister at the bus.” She swung open the front door of her tailor shop and adjusted the hands on the little plastic clock. “Back in 15 minutes,” it read.

  Petar ran into her arms, and she swung the boy onto her hip. Although he was only two, he was almost too big to carry.

  “We have to put you on a diet,” she muttered, poking his belly with her finger. “Too much apple pie.”

  Petar laughed, and Helene joined in.

  “What that?” Petar asked, patting her front apron pocket. Stuffed in with pins and a measuring tape, three envelopes poked out.

  “Letters for Mutti,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said with his mouth in a circle.

  Helene mimicked the face, which made him giggle.

  In addition to the monthly letters from Michaela and Lelia, for the first time in over a year and a half, she had received a note from her father. He was well. Busy feeding the Russians, he said. Though it was not written, Helene was sure he was equally busy resisting anything that threatened the good of his neighbors. And in a few years she hoped he’d consider joining her.

  “Bus,” Petar called, as clearly as if English was his first language. Actually, it was.

  The school bus was just pulling away. Anika stood on the curb, waving. Helene waved back, then paused as she noticed a man approaching her daughter. She couldn’t see his face, but she recognized his familiar gait.

  Helene’s chest filled with warmth at the sight of him. She kissed Petar’s blond head and grinned to herself. Peter had come. He had not forgotten her, had not moved on.

  Helene hurried her steps. Anika took the man’s hand. Peter approached Helene with long strides.

  “Cowboy,” little Petar said, pointing.

  Helene chuckled as Peter neared her. He did look like a cowboy in his Levi’s and cotton shirt. Then she noted his “horse” parked on the street. “That dusty old jalopy made it all the way here from Montana?” she asked. Her heart did a double beat at the sight of his smile. She had tried to picture his face many times during her months of healing and waiting on God. But now he was here.

  “You’re worth every second on the road,” Peter said, his voice husky.

  Helene gave Peter a hug, then pulled away. “It’s so good to see you. But what are you doing here?” And how long can you stay? she wanted to add.

  He laughed. “My sister kicked me out. Annie told me to quit moping around and find you.” He held up a slim silver watch. “And when I received this in the mail, I figured you were giving me a hint. Perhaps you were saying the time was right?” Peter chuckled at his pun.

  Helene felt heat rising to her face. She’d mailed the watch with the dimmest of hopes. But he’d received it and had understood. She lifted her arm, and Peter wrapped the watch around her wrist for the second time.

  “How did you get my address?” he asked, his big hands struggling a bit with the tiny clasp.

  Helene thought back to that night on the train, and Captain Standart’s note. “Oh, I have people in high places looking out for me.” She pressed her lips together, holding back the grin. “So it looks like you figured out my clue and decided to follow it to me.”

  “Well, you’re no Swiss bank account, but—”

  She gently punched his arm.

  “What I meant to say is that you’re worth far more.” He pulled a small Bible from his pocket and opened it. A petite white flower was pressed between the thin pages.

  “Edelweiss,” she whispered, her hands covering her mouth. “You remembered.”

  “I’m yours, Helene.” Peter placed a hand over his heart. “If you’ll have me.”

  Helene tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ja,” she said simply.

  Anika squealed and Petar clapped his hands, although Helene was sure the young boy didn’t quite understand what all the excitement was about.

  Peter took the toddler in one arm and lifted Anika into the other. “That way?” he asked, tilting his head in the direction Helene had come from.

  “Around the corner and straight to home,” Helene answered with a playful grin.

  Helene lagged a step behind, soaking in the sight of Peter carrying her children. He had come back, and she had no doubt that soon they would be a family.

  Helene sighed. During the dark days in St. Georgen, she never could have imagined this. She lowered her head, thinking back to the camp. To those horrible days past. Things were so different now. Better. She was free to live and to love. But she’d promised herself to never forget.

  Helene caught up and draped her arm over Peter’s shoulder. “I can’t keep up with your long stride.”

  “Don’t worry, pretty lady,” Peter said, slowing. “I’m learning to adjust my pace.”

  Helene stared into Peter’s deep-green eyes. They were the same eyes she’d looked into when she first entered the death camp. Now, she was certain she could see new life in their depths.

  The love she saw there reminded Helene of the love Michaela had first given her a glimpse of so long ago. An eternal love. One that would be in Helene’s and Peter’s hearts forever. A love that reached far beyond the dust and ashes.

  A love that had saved her. Saved them both.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks go to the following people:

  There are two special people I’d like to thank-first and foremost, my husband, John Goyer, for loving me and believing in my dreams. And my best friend, Cindy Martinusen, who introduced me to writing, to Europe, and to World War II history. This book would not be here without you both!

  To my children, Cory, Leslie, and Nathan. You are great (and very patient) kids!

  To my family, Ron Waddell, Linda and Billy Martin, my brother Ronnie, and my grandmother Dolores Coulter. I can always count on your love. Thanks to my brother-in-law, Tim Goyer, for working with me on my website to get the true narratives of the WWII veterans available to all. Also to John and Darlyne Goyer. Thanks for the numerous days you provided me with quiet time to write!

  To Anne de Graaf for driving Cindy and me around Europe (road trip!), and for believing in this story. And to Jennifer Harmon (a.k.a. Kiki) and Lorie Popp for joining us on the second research trip.

  Thanks to Annie Von Trapp for sharing the beautiful message of the edelweiss.

  To my One Heart and Blessed Hope Sisters, always praying, forever faithful. And for my special friends, Tara Norick, Twyla Klundt, and Jamie Spaulding—your friendship is precious.

  To my friends at Easthaven Baptist Church for your encouragement and your help with my kids.

  To my writing buddies who read through the many stages of this manuscript, especially to Ocieanna Fleiss, Bob Burdick, Sharie Bonura, Marlo Schalesky, my fellow sojourners from Dennis Foley’s critical scenes class. Your input was great! And to Robin Gunn who took time to care after that first writer’s conference and has been a long-distance inspiration t
o me in so many ways.

  To my agent-extraordinare, Janet Grant, and my editors Michele Straubel, Kathy Ide, and Lisa Bergren. You make me look good.

  To Marta Gammer who first shared the true stories that inspired this book and who continued to help with information during the writing process. May God bless the work you do to preserve the history of the Gusen and Mauthausen camps!

  To Willy Nowy. Thank you for sharing your experiences of growing up near a death camp. You are fantastic. And to Heidi Mahr, my wonderful translator.

  To others who helped with my research, Gregg A. Urda, Mararet Gerace, Vera Zanardelli, Bob Pfeiffer, and Art Venzin. Thanks again.

  And a special thanks to the men of the 11th Armored Division who have found a special place in my heart. LeRoy Woychik, LeRoy “Pete” Petersohn, Charlie White, Thomas Nicolla, Ross Snowdon, Arthur Jacobson, David Wofsey, Charles Torluccio, Bill Mann, Al Dunn, Bert Heinold, Joseph Lawolki, Tony Petrelli, Ray Stordahl, Roy Ferlazzo, Tarmo Holma, Calvin Caughey, Alfred Ferrari, Lester Freeman, Darrell E. Romjue, John Slatton, Ivan Goldstein, Harry Saunders, Leonard Kyle, Barrington Beutell, and Wilfred McCarthy. I feel honored to share your stories.

  Also, to George Brown, holocaust survivor. Thank you.

  And, finally, may all glory go to God, who birthed this story in my heart and showed me the truth about His true, eternal libertation. In Christ there is freedom indeed.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE