“Good morning, Asya,” he said, smiling at first, then frowning. “You look so pale today. Don’t you feel well?”
“Oh, I feel fine, but my leg hurts.”
“What happened?”
“This ss—” I suddenly remembered the people in the barrack saying that I would get them all thrown into the concentration camp. Herr Mueller was German, after all. “This ss guard caught me not working, not polishing the boots, and I was afraid he would get angry. So before he got to me, I tried to run up the steps, but I fell down.”
“Well, let me see.” He looked at the dirty rags that had by then stuck to the wound, then he jerked them off with such speed that I didn’t have time to think about how painful it would be to remove them.
“Hmm, it does not look good. How did you manage to tear off a piece of flesh? Let me wash it with some disinfectant. I have some bandages here, and we’ll try to fix that leg up. You know, Anastasia, that looks like a perfect rubber hose mark. I’ve seen too many wounds like that before.”
“And just because I gave my scarf to that poor boy, that ss swine—Oh, my God, it’s done. Now we will all rot in the concentration camp.” I stood there with my hand covering my mouth, staring at Herr Mueller, my eyes wide, not knowing what to expect.
“Hush, my child. You don’t have to tell me. I know. I know much more than any of you can guess. But soon, soon I hear . . . it shouldn’t last much longer. I pray my wife will come out of it all right. Oh, God, I wish I knew where she is, if she is alive.”
I sat there on a chair as he worked on my leg wound, trying to listen carefully to his words and to make sense out of them. I knew that this poor man carried an enormous burden and that he was no better off than we were, despite the fact that he was German. I wondered if he had heard the same rumors—that Allied troops were closing in and the German army was retreating. I didn’t understand anything, only that everyone around me suffered, living from day to day with foolish hopes locked in their hearts.
“Asya,” Herr Mueller said, “I think the wound will be all right, but we should have the doctor look at it. You wait here, and I’ll be right back.”
He returned in just a minute—the doctor’s office must have been in the same building—and was accompanied by a middle-aged woman whom he introduced as the doctor. I was amazed when the doctor addressed me in Russian. As she examined my leg, I peppered her with questions, and she explained that she was a Soviet military doctor. Her unit had been captured, she said, adding that there were other Soviet military prisoners in the slave labor camp section.
Speaking Russian, she told me that Herr Mueller had done an excellent job of cleaning the wound and that she was sure it would heal properly.
“But you must be very careful to keep it absolutely clean until it scabs over. We have no medicine available.”
She left, explaining to Herr Mueller what she had told me. I never saw her again, nor did I ever see any other Russian prisoners.
“Asya,” Herr Mueller said when the doctor had left, “tomorrow morning early, around 5:30, our weekly vegetable delivery will arrive. I hope they get here on time. It’s supposed to snow and be colder, but maybe that’s better because the ground will be frozen again. It’s so easy for these trucks to get stuck in the mud. Anyway, why don’t you come early, around 5:00, and I’ll be able to give you some potatoes and whatever other vegetables they deliver for the kitchen before they are all checked in and stored. Maybe we can pick out some of the nicest ones, and you can take back whatever is available. I’ll get you some butter, too, and your people can fix a nice meal. But don’t tell anybody. I’m not allowed to do that. You should bring your Papa with you to help carry them because your leg has been hurt.”
“Oh, I will, I will. I’ll come early. I’ll come even before they march the prisoners to the tunnel factory.”
“Yes, they usually march past about 6 a.m., but the truck would have been here already and we can get the vegetables before the guards show up. You should be here even before the truck comes. Now you should go back. Or would you like to help me here in the office?”
“Yes, I would, but they’ll bring all the boots for me to shine in a few minutes.”
“Well, then when they bring the boots, why don’t you bring them in here. At least it’s a little warmer. I’ll tell the guard that your leg is badly infected and you can do your work in here. Yeah, I’ll do that. No,” he continued thoughtfully, “it’s better if I tell them that I need you to work in the kitchen and they should bring the boots in here. That way no precious time is wasted. Progress, hard work—they like to hear that.”
Herr Mueller walked with me back to our barrack, just as the same motorcycle drove up with its side-car filled with dirty boots. I was glad that it was cold and the ground had frozen again. At least the boots wouldn’t be as muddy as they had been in the past several days. When a hint of spring was in the air, the ground began to thaw and the camp was surrounded by thick mud. How very different my attitude toward spring had been only a year earlier. Herr Mueller helped me to carry the boots back. I sat on the floor of the tiny office and began the chore I had truly learned to hate.
Herr Mueller went into the next room, which I knew was the supply room for the laborers’ kitchen, and returned in a moment with a piece of dark German bread with lots of butter on it and handed it to me without a word. I thanked him and ate eagerly, remembering that I had gone to sleep the night before without eating. It tasted so good that just for an instant I felt guilty because I wasn’t sharing it with the rest of the people in the barrack. Oh, well, I thought as I swallowed the last bite, it wouldn’t have been enough anyway.
“Why is your wife in a camp?” I asked innocently.
“Please whisper. Someone might hear you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Why did they take her away?”
“Because she is Jewish, and I did not want to divorce her.”
“If you did divorce her, would they still have taken her away?”
“Yes, but then I would be holding some important position in the army or in the party. You know, my brother is with the Gestapo and has a big job someplace.”
“If he’s so important, why doesn’t he help you?”
“Because, my child, he was the one who told the authorities that Hanna, my wife, is Jewish. He hates Jews.”
“Your own brother?”
“Yes, brother against brother. The whole world is upside down. Something must give. God must be watching all this insanity, and He must, He has to put a stop to all of it. You are Russian. You must know what would happen if the Russians suddenly came. Well, for you I suppose it wouldn’t make a difference. But just look at what my people have done to your people, and you are not even Jewish. Not even Jewish. You are just not German, and that’s what is so wrong. Only Germans, no, only Nazis have the right to survive, to rule the world. Do you hate me because I am German? I don’t hate you because you are not.” He paused and looked at me then, and I could see that tears filled his eyes.
“Oh, no, Herr Mueller,” I whispered. “I don’t hate you. I really don’t. You weren’t in Belgrade. You didn’t bomb our city. You didn’t kill our friends. You didn’t. They did.”
“But they is me, although I don’t feel the way they do,” he answered, still whispering, but now pacing the floor, holding his head with both hands. “They, you, me . . . Jews, Russians, French, Greeks. What gives them the right to crush nation after nation, to exterminate, eliminate, destroy? What right? God must see it all. Maybe God doesn’t exist.”
He continued pacing the floor in silence, still holding his head.
“Do you believe there is a God, Herr Mueller?”
“I don’t know, Asya. I just don’t know.”
“I don’t think so either. There used to be a God, but not anymore. I remember at home, whenever I was afraid or lonely or sad, I used to talk to God while looking at the clouds, or in church with Aunt ’Lyena. I always talked to Him, and I k
new He was there and that He listened. I always felt so good after the talk, but lately I’ve been talking to Him, calling Him ever since we fled Belgrade and on the train. He just doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t hear me anymore. So many people have died, people who I know believed in Him and loved Him, and yet He let them die. He let them die such horrible deaths, not just plain die of old age or illness, but let them be killed . . . horribly killed by Germans.”
“You see,” Herr Mueller whispered, “you must hate me. I am German.”
“No, not you, them.”
“Yes, them,” he whispered. He grew silent then and began working on some papers. I understood that the conversation had ended, and I returned to polishing the boots.
A bit later, when I had finished my task, I got up from the floor and reported to Herr Mueller. “The boots are finished.”
“Oh, well, just leave them here and go on back to your barrack. Here, Asya, here are some aspirins. Take them before you go to bed, and here is a piece of chocolate for you.”
He reached into his pocket and handed me a piece of chocolate with a bite already taken out of it.
“I’m sorry,” he added sheepishly. “I bit into it and then remembered that you were here, and I want you to have the rest. Go now and come back early in the morning for the vegetables. Thank you for listening, and don’t forget to bring your Papa,” he said and again immersed himself in his paperwork.
NINETEEN
Brutality and Murder
March 7, 1945: American forces captured the bridge at Remagen and quickly crossed the Rhine River to enter the German heartland.
The wound from the ss Guard’s rubber hose was still painful, and I limped slowly from Herr Mueller’s office back to our barrack, arriving before the others returned. The room was neat. The floor had been swept between the straw beds; old blankets covered the lumpy, uneven straw, and the rope stretched across the room held several damp shirts, socks, and rags. The wood stove was almost out, but still offered a little heat, and I moved closer trying to get as much of the warmth as I could.
“Britain is a Kingdom, America is not,” said a voice behind me. “If the British are victorious, then I could perhaps tutor the children. But what language would interest them? If America is victorious . . . oh, I just don’t know . . . how I long for the steppes and the wind across the fields back home . . . the balls . . .”
I turned and saw Mother crouched in a corner, her eyes wide open but not seeing me—a faraway look and that mysterious smile on her lips again.
“Mama, are you all right?”
She paused then, looking at me.
“You, on the other hand, you don’t know the steppes, the rush of the wind in your hair.” At first I thought there was a mocking tone in her voice, but it was simple sadness. “You never did become a lady. Look at you, dirty, your leg swollen, hair dirty, uncombed.” I saw tears in her eyes then. “You didn’t even want to play the piano. You always fought when the piano tutor came. I just don’t understand that. When I played, yes, I saw you many times, when I played, you sat as though in a trance. You love music. Why didn’t you ever want to learn how to play . . . how to glide through a room, not to walk or run like a peasant? You just wouldn’t listen to me, and look at you now. Even Kristina looked better.”
She shook her head sadly in disapproval and began to examine her own nails, seemingly unaware of how broken and discolored they had become.
“No,” she sighed, “you’ll never amount to anything. I must go into town tomorrow and listen to a radio. There are these rumors, you know, that the Germans are retreating rapidly . . . that we will soon be liberated. But they’re just rumors. People don’t know what they are talking about. Adolf Hitler’s birthday is coming very soon, and the German armies will be striving to present him with major victories on his birthday as they always do. Nobody is coming. We are just going to rot here and die. How sad that you may die without ever knowing what it means to be a lady, to be admired,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
“Mama,” I asked, “are you cold?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” She switched to French and glanced toward the door. “I do wish someone would bring tea now.”
“Mother?” I began. “Mama?” But no answer came as I sat down next to her. I wanted to hold her hand or embrace her, but she sat very stiffly then and erect. I didn’t dare reach for her. I knew that aloof look too well. For an instant, I was back in Belgrade, waiting for the sound of that old automobile horn, waiting for Mama to come back for me, trying so hard to remember her face and failing. All I could remember was the sound of that old horn. Suddenly I realized that the camp whistle was blowing. Perhaps that was the sound that triggered that old “memory.”
The whistle was signaling the end of another workday, the end of another shift in the tunnel. At least they were not air-raid sirens. The skies now seemed filled with American bombers flying overhead in what seemed like wave after wave. Thankfully they never paused over Blankenburg. Soon the room would fill with people exhausted from another day of ditch digging.
March 21, 1945: Allied bombers began four days of continuous bombing raids over Germany.
I told Father about Herr Mueller and the vegetables and that we had to be up very early to be at his office before the slave laborers marched past—even before the truck arrived. I just drank my cup of the usual soup and went to bed, while everyone sat around the stove, whispering about the latest rumors they had heard from the slave laborers. I fell asleep lulled by low, whispered murmurs.
“Asya, get up.” Father was shaking my shoulder gently. “Time to go to the office.” I dressed silently and quickly in the dark as Father shrugged into his coat and helped me to find my jacket. It was still very dark outside, only faint light visible to the east. Herr Mueller was already at work and cheerful.
“Good morning, Asya. Ah, good, you brought your Papa.” He turned to Father. “I was afraid this little girl couldn’t carry the vegetables—enough for all of you, I hope—not with her leg injured. I wouldn’t dare help her. You understand,” he said with an apologetic gesture.
Within minutes a large truck drove to the front of the office; two prisoners jumped down and brought two huge barrels from the storeroom. They began shoveling vegetables into them and then carried them back into the storeroom. From the storeroom they would be taken to the kitchen building as needed. The vegetables looked dirty, as though just dug from the fields.
The truck drove off, leaving several carrots and potatoes lying on the frozen ground, some pressed into the tracks left by the truck. Herr Mueller returned from the storeroom and handed us two large buckets full of muddy vegetables.
“You had better wait until the prisoner column walks by. They should be on their way now to the tunnel. I don’t want the guards to catch you with the vegetables.”
Father stood by the stove in the office, warming himself.
“Hope the spring will be here soon.”
“Yes,” Herr Mueller answered, “a couple more weeks and we’ll have warm weather coming. It’s pretty here in the spring. There is a certain breeze that comes down from the Harz bringing with it a wonderful scent of spring. You’ll see. It won’t be long.”
I stood by the window, concealed behind a worn curtain. The east was now light, and the new day looked clear. The sun hadn’t risen, but its first light illuminated the eastern sky. The gray dawn revealed a procession of slave laborers in their striped pajamas and black head coverings. They marched slowly past the office, harsh German voices yelling, “Hurry! Keep moving.” How shiny the boots of the guards were. I was ashamed at how hideous they looked alongside the tired, almost bare feet of the prisoners, ashamed that I had a part in the hideous comparison.
Suddenly, four of the prisoners broke from their line and threw themselves to the ground right in front of the office, grabbing at the vegetables pressed into the tire tracks, clutching them in their weak hands, trying to devour them dirt and all, des
perately trying to protect their find with their skinny bodies. As I watched in horror, shiny boots appeared, kicking the prisoners. Rubber hoses began swinging in the air, with more kicking as groans and screams began.
“Get up, swine!” a guard was yelling. “You haven’t worked yet. You haven’t earned any food. Up with you!”
The kicking and beating continued, and other prisoners started to move toward the guards to try to stop the beatings. Shots were fired. Those who had thrown themselves on the ground remained there. The others hurried back to the long line of human beings who seemed indifferent to the horror that had just taken place. The line was formed again, and rubber hoses and shiny boots appeared alongside the prisoners as they resumed their march to the tunnel.
The whole thing had taken only minutes—three or four at the most—but to me it had seemed an eternity, everything happening in slow motion. I stood there, staring in abject horror, unable to comprehend what I had just witnessed. My face was pressed against the window pane, unable to believe what I was looking at. The gray ground. Frozen vegetables now lying in pools of blood, steam slightly rising from them. Four bodies lay there, two still clutching a hideous frozen carrot.
Without thinking I ran quickly from the office and knelt on the ground, feeling the men, hoping that they had only been wounded, that perhaps I could help. None of the men moved. There were no more groans. Their horror had ended. They would never again wonder what the new day would bring for them. They never even saw the sunrise on their last day.
I knelt there on the ground, next to one of the bodies, clutching the cold hand of one of the men, holding it tightly against my chest, rocking back and forth and crying. I didn’t yell or scream. I cried quietly, tears pouring as though a dam in my soul had broken. Herr Mueller and Father came running from the office to drag me away from the bodies.
Ancient Furies Page 34