by Cathy Gohlke
The woman’s gasp told me all I needed to know, but I asked anyway. “Do you recognize it?”
Color drained from her face, and rather than reach for the case, she glanced over her shoulder and pulled the door closed behind her, forcing us down a step and herself into the bitter March cold. “You must leave. I beg you to leave and not come back.”
“This is yours, isn’t it? It belonged to your family—perhaps to your mother or grandmother?”
“Nein, nein. You musn’t say that. Please . . . I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are or what you want. I don’t want to know.”
“I want only to return this—no strings attached. Truly.”
She frowned, and I realized my colloquialism was lost on her.
The door opened suddenly behind her. “Was ist passiert?”
Carl pulled the case from my hand, closing it.
“Amerikaner.” The woman paled, then said in English, “They were looking for directions. That is all.”
“Where are you going? Do you know your way?”
“Yes, danke schön. You have been most helpful, Frau.” Carl tipped his hat and pulled me by the arm down the stairs.
“But—” I began.
“We can find our way now. Danke schön!” Carl called, nearly pushing me into the car.
The woman turned, encouraging her husband through the door and into the house before we pulled from the curb.
“What on earth are you doing? Why didn’t you let me finish? She has no idea how I came by it. Even if she didn’t remember the necklace, I have three other rings—all probably more valuable than the pendant!”
“Did you see how frightened she was? She doesn’t want to talk with you.”
“But—”
“Did it ever occur to you why her married name is not Jewish? That perhaps she doesn’t want her husband or guests to know she is Jewish? That she may never have told them?”
“This isn’t the 1930s or ’40s. There’s nothing to be afraid—”
Carl’s color rose and he let loose an angry and frustrated tirade in German, which I could not understand . . . perhaps for the best.
By the time we reached Grandfather’s it was after seven. The silence in the car rang just as loud as Carl’s tirade had done.
“Would you like to come in? I could put something together for dinner.”
“Nein. Danke. I must go.”
“All right.” I opened the door to get out, then stopped. “I just don’t understand why she would still be afraid, or why you came so unglued.”
“That is right, Hannah. You do not understand. And what you do not understand can be frightening, even dangerous for others. Let me think. Let me think how we can best proceed. Above all, do not contact anyone else. There is a better way. There must be a better way.”
32
LIESELOTTE KIRCHMANN
SEPTEMBER 1944
I dreamed of a picnic beneath spreading linden trees, a lovely summer’s day on the banks of the Spree—a spot just outside Berlin that I’d visited once as a child, with Mutti and Vater and Rudy, where we ate plum cakes and watched the boats go up and down the river.
But in my dream, Lukas and I were the grown-ups and we fed one another Kuchen—our intended wedding cake, rich with raisins and sugar icing. Lukas took the last bite and licked my fingers. I licked his, and then he kissed my wrists, my arms, my neck.
A child—a toddler—called out, dancing too near the river, and Lukas left me to pull the little one back.
She reached up, laughing, and called, “Vati!”
The little boy beside her turned and ran, squealing, to me. The two children were our own. Lukas pulled us all into a circle on the picnic blanket, rolling, tumbling. The children, delighted, giggled with glee.
“Lieselotte,” Lukas whispered in my ear. I reached for his face, but he shook me—gently, urgently. “Wake up.”
“No.” I smiled. I wanted to dream this dream forever.
“We must get dressed. There are dogs in the street—raids.”
I opened my eyes. Barely dawn. The light through the attic transom streaked gray.
“No,” I whispered, closing my eyes again. “They will not come for us. They don’t know we’re here.”
I heard Lukas pull on his trousers, tuck his shirt, fasten his belt. “Come,” he whispered.
But I turned over, determined to shut out the world. They’ll never find us. Please, God, they can’t find us.
Lukas pulled me to a sitting position, tugged my dress over my head. “When they come,” he whispered, “you must have your shoes on. Don’t go without your shoes and coat.”
And then I, too, heard the barking dogs. As surely as I knew I would love Lukas until I died, I knew they would come. Every remnant of my dream gone, I pushed him away. I could dress myself. “Tell your parents,” I whispered.
With the library not yet open, our need for quiet evaporated. There was no one to hear our footsteps, our frantic scramble for clothing.
Mutter and Vater Kirchmann must have heard the approaching raid long before I did, for they appeared, dressed with coats and cases, just as I slipped into my coat.
“Marta’s gone,” Mutter Kirchmann whimpered. “We don’t know where.”
“Gone? Where could she have gone?”
Vater Kirchmann pushed his hands through his hair in fear. “She said nothing. She’s left everything here.”
“Which means she plans to come back,” Lukas assured them.
“If she can,” I whispered, as much to myself as to them.
Mutter Kirchmann sobbed, but clasped a hand to her mouth to stop the sound.
“We must hide her things,” I pleaded to Lukas, “so they’ll not think there’s another, so they won’t come back—”
That’s when the pounding began on the library door, three floors below—the bang, bang, bang of rifle butts striking wood, and then the thunder of boots upon the steep stairs, as if they knew exactly where to search.
“Say nothing of Marta,” Vater Kirchmann ordered.
The attic door burst open. How pitiful we must have looked, the four of us huddled, ready and waiting.
“Kirchmann!” the officer in charge barked, glancing at his orders. “Four. Convenient. You make our job easier.” Lukas and Vater Kirchmann straightened, each holding tight to his wife. “You’re under arrest.”
“On what charge?” Vater Kirchmann did his best to maintain dignity, but the men with guns, the snarling dog barely held at bay, made my heart race.
“Enemies of the Reich—aiding and abetting Jews.” He jerked his head toward those awaiting orders, and they sprang toward us. “Move!” The officer stepped back. His henchmen shoved us forward, all but throwing us down the dark and narrow winding stairs.
Through the front door we stumbled, into the deserted early-morning street, where a truck waited. Herded at gunpoint, we grabbed a suspended strap and climbed into the back of the open truck, its bed lined with rough plank seats. Our cases, so important at first, already became cumbersome. But we clung to them, as if they’d save us, as if they held the key to our identities—our past lives and our future beyond this burning time.
A guard slammed the tailgate closed. The motor gunned. We all jerked forward, then back. I glanced up, appealing to the windows of the street for help. The blackout curtain of a curious neighbor fell quickly into place.
Mutter Kirchmann scanned the streets through the cracks in the truck’s plank walls, searching, I knew, for any sign of Marta. Where could she have gone? What would become of her?
Lukas wrapped his arm around me, gluing us together for whatever lay ahead. I closed my eyes, wanting so much to shut out the nightmare, terrified that it was only beginning.
Vater Kirchmann leaned forward and whispered, “Lieselotte, when they realize who you are, they must let you go.”
“Shut up!” the guard who’d loaded prisoners aboard shouted. “No talking!”
I was glad for the order
. I didn’t want them—anyone—to realize who I was other than the wife of Lukas Kirchmann. Anything else might separate us and I could not, would never, let that happen.
Through the streets the truck jerked, screeching to a stop before what looked to be an abandoned ruin. Soldiers jumped from the truck and stormed the building. Mutter Kirchmann gasped as they dragged Anna and Jacob, even their baby, from their hiding place in the cellar. Who could have told? Who even knew?
Lukas reached for Anna, pulling her up into the truck bed. Her husband handed up their child, and Mutter Kirchmann pulled Anna and baby into her embrace as her husband climbed in behind.
Two more stops—one known to me and one not. But I could tell Vater Kirchmann knew them. So they were all from our routes. Someone had infiltrated, someone had followed or bribed or tortured for our secrets.
I knew Mutter Kirchmann worried for Marta, was thankful she’d not been found. I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been caught—beaten or tortured and . . . No. I must not think that. She would never tell.
But if we’d been arrested, and these from our routes, then did that mean everyone? Everyone in our church who helped? Everyone hidden by members of our church? Frau Ziegler and Herr Klietsman, both from church, were arrested next, dragged from their early-morning beds. Our church family—so strong—now crumpled like a house of cards. And yet from those familiar faces, pale and drawn, shone stalwart eyes. I was frightened and comforted to know others in our plight.
“Pastor Braun?” Vater Kirchmann whispered to Frau Ziegler.
Sadly, she shook her head. “Arrested earlier this morning.”
I closed my eyes and buried my head beneath Lukas’s strong arm.
Chaos reigned in the train yard. Gray-clad guards barking orders, shoving men, women, and children at gunpoint. Babies crying, children screaming for their fathers and mothers, for older siblings. Hollow-eyed women and pasty, gaunt-faced men—the ghosts of those hidden away for months—round-shouldered in defeat. Wide-eyed little girls clasping dolls made of rags and skinny-legged little boys in short pants—long since too short.
I clung the harder to Lukas, and Vater Kirchmann herded us close together.
Sharp whistle blasts pierced the air, and the dogs—large German shepherds—lunged against heavy chains, circling the crowd as if we were breakfast.
Ahead stretched a long row of railcars—cattle cars—their doors standing wide. With no attempt made to separate us into families or by gender, gun barrels prodded us forward, forcing us to climb aboard as quickly as possible. Stragglers, punched and kicked, all but fell headfirst into the cars, pushed up by those behind.
The car we neared was full, the occupants calling that there was no more room. But the guard paid no attention and shoved us forward, shouting obscenities. Lukas helped me up and scrambled in behind me, pulling up his mother. Vater Kirchmann made to climb aboard, but the guard pushed him back hard onto the platform.
“Helmeuth!” Mutter Kirchmann screamed. “Helmeuth!”
But her pleas only seemed to inspire the guard to evil, and he goaded the fallen older man, prodding him with the end of his rifle barrel. “What is it, Jew lover? Fallen on hard times, have we? Somebody reported your misdeeds, did they? What can we do to shorten your incarceration, eh?” He laughed, lifted his rifle, and pointed at Vater Kirchmann’s face.
Before I could stop him, Lukas jumped from the train and placed himself between his father and the rifle barrel, lifting his father from the platform.
“You! Get back in the car!” the guard shouted, shoving his rifle into Lukas’s chest. “Move!”
“Don’t shoot that man!” a higher-ranking officer barked, making his way down the platform. “We need every able-bodied man for digging ditches.”
“There’s no more room, sir.”
“Then make room! But don’t shoot workers. Is that understood?”
“Heil Hitler!” Then the guard barked, “Wait here,” and jerked two old people—a man and a woman—by their arms from the edge of the car, no matter that they cried out in pain as they hit the platform.
“Get in!” he shouted to Lukas and Vater Kirchmann.
“We can make room for—” Lukas pleaded.
“We can! We can make room!” Mutter Kirchmann called, barely able to stand for those jostling behind her, craning their necks to see.
“Get in, I said!” The guard raised his rifle and Lukas obeyed, pushing his father up before him.
Both men turned, ready to reach for the older couple, but the door was slammed and bolted. And then gunfire—two bullets, a pause, and one more.
A hush swept through the cattle car. A child whimpered. Lukas groaned, shuddering beneath his heavy coat.
The long whistle blast came again and the train jerked forward. Everyone fell sideways. Caught in a scramble to keep our feet beneath us, we groped and jostled one another until we stood like shoots of Spargel tied with twine.
“Dear God in heaven,” Vater Kirchmann prayed as his wife pulled his head—nearly a foot above hers—to her shoulder to comfort him. “I had no idea. I would never have—”
“Shh, shh,” Mutter Kirchmann crooned so softly I barely heard her. “God in heaven knows this. He knows and sees all.”
I wrapped my arms around Lukas’s waist, pulling him as close as possible, and looked up. Tears streamed down his face; his mouth set grim. Please, please, I begged in silence. But the nightmare kept on.
We rumbled down the tracks, seeing no more than our hands and the faces before us, for there was only one high and narrow window near one end of the car. Daylight streamed through it . . . first the morning sun, then bright white light.
At times the train swerved and lurched to a stop. Usually that meant we’d pulled to the side, and in time—perhaps minutes or half an hour—another train rumbled past. With all our stopping we couldn’t have gone far. At last we slowed to a stop and the sounds of the engine changed.
“Where are we?” The question passed from mouth to mouth.
A man lifted a child to his shoulders to peer out the high window. “What do you see?”
“Oranienburg!” the child cried. “The sign says Oranienburg.”
“Sachsenhausen.” The dreaded word came down the line. “That camp.”
I gripped Lukas’s hand and he held me up. “That camp” was known far and wide for its cruelties, its horrors, its tortures.
“They’ll separate us,” Mutter Kirchmann whispered.
“Nein!” I nearly screamed. “I will not leave you. Lukas, I will not leave you!”
“Stay together. Hold hands,” Lukas ordered our little group. “When the door opens it will be a madhouse. Hold tight to one another.”
But Vater Kirchmann’s eyes told a different story. “No matter what happens, it is our duty to remain strong—for each other, for ourselves, for Marta. Even if we are separated. Do you understand?”
I shook my head. “No, we can’t—we can’t be—”
Lukas gripped my hand tighter. “You can.” He lifted my face with his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You can do all things through Christ who strengthens you, Lieselotte—remember this! Say this over and over to yourself. Your strength is greater than your own.”
But I couldn’t say it.
“People come out of prison. The war has already turned. It won’t be long now. We’ll all come out and we’ll begin again. Do you hear me?” He shook me. “Do you hear me, Lieselotte?”
I wanted to be strong, to be all that Lukas wanted and needed in that hour. But I was afraid, so very afraid.
And then the doors slid open with as much vengeance as they’d closed. The sudden light felt blinding, though it was late afternoon and a steady drizzle had begun. We’d traveled but forty kilometers, but with all the stops and starts it had taken hours.
“Out! Out!” the guards shouted, pulling and shoving, not waiting for us to climb down. “Men to the left. Women to the right.”
“No, please, no,�
�� I begged as we staggered to the platform.
Lukas took my face in his hands again and kissed me, tender and deep, but I could not stop crying. “Wait for me, and I will find you. I swear I will find you when this is over.”
And then a cry as a rifle butt slammed against his ribs. “Move on!”
“Stay together!” Vater Kirchmann called to Mutter Kirchmann and me as he pulled Lukas with him.
Weeping, wailing—a din of anguish rose from the growing line of women until rifle fire split the air.
An officer spoke from a megaphone. “Women, return to your cars.”
Gasps and cries—more rifle fire—and silence . . . all except for the sound of soft rain hitting the pavement.
Mutter Kirchmann grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the train. I looked for Lukas, strained my eyes for him and craned my neck above the crowd of women. I scrambled back into the cattle car and pulled Mutter Kirchmann up, then swept the crowd, holding on to the door of the car to keep from being pushed back by the women climbing aboard. Look as I might, search as I did, I caught not one more glimpse of my husband.
The rain drove harder, in sheets and torrents, as though the sky and all the angels wept for us. The door slammed shut.
33
HANNAH STERLING
MARCH–APRIL 1973
A long night passed, a long day, and another long night. Carl did not phone and Grandfather did not improve. Geoffrey did everything needful except cook, and that took little of my time, given my limited skills and Grandfather’s limited ability to chew.
Daily—the highlight of each day—I bicycled to the outdoor market and strolled the stalls. March was nearly over, but vendors still wrapped in layers against the cold.
German diets focused on root vegetables and meats, especially pork products. I longed for more chicken and green and yellow vegetables in my diet. An occasional mountain-stream fish would be nice. But I might as well wish for the moon.
I’d just splurged on a jar of honey and turned from the stall when a woman in a brown woolen coat matched my stride. “Will you walk with me, meine Dame?”