by Ellen Keith
A low growl knocked him out of his stupor, but the bears were asleep. His pulse spiked as he got up and flashed the torch in all directions. His hands grew clammy, but he forced himself to cross the camp complex at a controlled pace. Plenty of running awaited him.
BACK in his villa, he deliberated over the luggage that lay on his bed: a sturdy, old suitcase that his father had picked out for his graduation, which had seen him through many trips around Germany and all his years with the SS. But instead, he rummaged in the wardrobe for a rucksack. Taking one of the cars from the SS garage would be too risky with all the reconnaissance patrols that were bound to be out; he would have to travel on foot. He tossed two spare shirts into the rucksack, along with a pair of trousers, his torch, a water canteen, a blanket, a flask, an extra Luger with bullets, and a few emergency provisions he’d filched from the officers’ mess. The brass vial was still in his pocket. He unscrewed the lid, trying to imagine himself biting into the capsule as he sat in solitary confinement in some Allied prison. With a shudder, he packed the vial in the rucksack, but then changed his mind and slipped it back into his pocket, safely within reach.
Five minutes later, he was packed and left to consider his fate. He poured himself a shot of Dutch gin, which he slammed back while picturing Marijke walking down the aisle of the church, his parents beaming in the front pew, not a uniform in sight.
Once he’d emptied a third of the gin, he capped the bottle. From his nightstand he took out an unopened wooden cigar box. He lit a cigar and tossed the lighter into the rucksack. Long, deep puffs to settle his nerves. The tobacco had a rich flavour, with a hint of something nutty, walnut or almond. When the cigar started burning his fingertips, he stubbed it out on the headline of a month-old newspaper: “Offensive in Hungary: Hope for a Comeback on the Eastern Front.”
The clock read 3:30 a.m. He held back a yawn and rummaged through his things in search of a map, but the only one he could think of was pinned to the wall in his office. Leaving the rucksack in his room, he made his way back to the office, keeping a careful watch for Hoffmann or anyone who might report his departure. He lowered the window shade to block out the office light. The map showed only the vicinity but contained topography markings, and he’d used it to plot the American advance. He slumped as he turned to look at his desk. A small picture frame sat on the corner, a Christmas photo of his parents. For a moment, the idea of bringing it along tempted him, but he couldn’t leave any sign of his disappearance. A pile of files also sat there, all mentioning his name and rank. He started to shred them but gave up after a handful. The camp had no shortage of proof of his existence.
On his way out, he stopped at the clothing depot. He picked out something from the prisoners’ garb, trousers and a shirt marked with a painted X. When he returned to his villa, he spread out the map in an attempt to formulate a plan. By then the gin had caught up to him. He studied the forest surrounding the camp and crossed off the no-go zones, but the pencil felt like rubber between his fingers, and he kept nodding off, so he rested his head on the desk for a few minutes of sleep.
He woke up at five thirty. The sun would appear within an hour, and the Americans wouldn’t be far behind. He pulled the rucksack over his shoulders, turned off the lights and left the bedroom without looking back. When he locked the front door, he pocketed the key. If nothing else, it would keep those Allied paws off his things for an extra few minutes.
Outside, he made his way down the lane along the dark, mossy edge of the forest. He stopped to listen. The first morning birds were chirping, and somewhere a squirrel chattered. Once he felt certain that nobody was around, he turned on the torch and ducked into the underbrush.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
LUCIANO
JULY 21, 1977
BUENOS AIRES
FOR WEEKS, LUCIANO SECRETLY MADE AN EXTRA COPY of each of the files he was converting. He couldn’t hide his actions from Gabriel, but Gabriel was eager to take part, and together they developed a system for hiding their work, tucking the microfilm into a ridge on the underside of a table at the end of each day.
While Gabriel worked at the microfilmer, Luciano would act as a lookout, but the guards were often busy with a newspaper or the television and paid little attention to the labourers. The two of them proceeded without a solid plan. They had no clue how they could conceal the files long-term or how they would get the information past ESMA’s walls, but Luciano was soothed by the simple knowledge that his collaboration with the oppressors could turn into sabotage.
The air in the basement grew colder, a sign of winter, the weeks that had passed since his arrival. The navy men kept a small radiator near the TV, but the lab lacked heating. During a particularly chilly shift, Luciano had to keep rubbing his hands together to stop his fingers from going numb. When their guard stepped into the doorway to chat with one of the others, Gabriel motioned Luciano to come close. He leaned over the microfilmer as he positioned the file.
“Can you realign this for me?” he asked. Once Luciano had crouched down, Gabriel continued in a whisper. “That girl with the new clothes? We call her Lashes. She’s sharp as an arrow, got captured at the same time as me.”
At first, Luciano had no idea who Gabriel meant, but he remembered he’d noticed a change in one of the other workers in the lab, a busty girl a few years older than him. Her auburn hair looked fuller and glossier, like it was being washed, and her cheeks had taken on a rosy tinge. He glanced around for movement. “Why are you telling me this?”
“They’re planning to release her, trying to reintegrate her into society, part of this recovery program.”
Luciano didn’t ask how Gabriel knew so much. “You trust her?”
“As much as you can trust anyone here.” Gabriel adjusted the focus on the microfilmer and clicked the shutter. “She’s committed to the cause.”
Luciano thought of the girl’s angled features, the high cheekbones that made her resemble his mother. “She could be perfect.”
The machine made a strange noise, and Gabriel leaned back to investigate. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
THREE days later, Lashes smiled at Luciano when they entered the photo lab, flashing him a subtle thumbs-up.
But in the darkroom, Luciano couldn’t focus. He kept staring into the red safelights, fiddling with a paper clip. Gabriel winked, which only made him more anxious. Strange smells floated through the basement: fried wires, coffee, a guard’s musky aftershave. Luciano flipped through the files—all marked “Transferred.” He spotted a familiar name, a girl his mother babysat when he was little. María Josefa used to wear her hair in pigtails and would ask his mother for fried pickle sandwiches. Her mug shot looked nothing like the girl he remembered. He prepared her file for processing and moved on.
When he returned to the main area of the lab to fetch a binder, he noticed the guard slip away from his post for a bathroom break. They had two minutes to act. After signalling to Lashes, he hurried back to the darkroom. Gabriel started to ask something, but trailed off and shifted to block the view of another worker while Luciano reached for the microfilm he’d hidden. He tucked the rolls into the waistband of his pants and returned to the area where Lashes waited, photographs of navy officials fanned out in front of her. She seemed conscious of his every movement. He walked over to the filing cabinet, where he splayed his legs to keep his knees from knocking, and listened for the guard before opening the drawer to slip the microfilm between two folders. Then he returned to the darkroom with a random file.
Once shrouded by shadows, he shifted the black curtain that covered the entrance to spy. The guard had returned to his post. Lashes held up a photograph, pretended to study it and brought it over to the cabinet, where she retrieved the files containing the microfilm. But they dropped from her hand. Luciano cringed and let go of the curtain, certain they were screwed. He felt blood coursing through his veins like rapids. But when he peeked out again, Lashes was casually picking up the files. She restore
d them to the cabinet with the trace of a smile, angling her body toward the darkroom to reveal the bulge beneath her right breast.
LUCIANO lay awake thinking. He thought about his deteriorating body, about the chances of seeing his family and Fabián ever again. About risk, the meaning of the word, what it had meant to different men across time. Ordinary men, heroes. Argentina, he decided, had been wounded so many times, its gashes so deep, that time could no longer guarantee recovery. In the middle of the battle, Argentina called for help, but any comrade who hoped to save her faced a shower of bullets.
Dear Papá,
You think I have no courage. Dear Papá, maybe I was a coward before, but you can’t judge me anymore after what I’ve lived through. Horrendous things, impossible things. And even though when I joined the JUP, even though I joined only because Fabián convinced me, I’m ready now. I’m ready to place my own branch on the fire.
Papá, tomorrow they’re releasing someone. A girl. She’s . . . she’ll carry the truth Argentinians need to hear. She carries answers, answers to the question everyone is asking: Where is my son? Where is my daughter? Where is my husband, my wife?
I’m sure you don’t—well, maybe you believe my role is minor, not enough to feel redeemed. You probably think I’m scared shitless. You’re right. I’m terrified. Terrified of pain, of the darkness, of death, but more than anything, terrified I’ll live out the rest of my life in shame. Shame that in trying to save myself, I somehow played a role in someone else’s suffering.
I need to be honest. With you, with myself. I need to be honest about who I am. I’ve hid the truth for so many years, out of fear, out of the sense that what I’ve been feeling is wrong. That you’d hate me for it. I hoped to be the son you’ve always wanted: a strong, brave man. But I’m not that. Maybe you already can see this, but you have to hear it from me—Papá, I’m in love with Fabián.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MARIJKE
APRIL 11, 1945
BUCHENWALD
I KEPT WATCH FOR THE DOCTOR AS I LAY IN THE INFIRMARY, determined to stay awake. My stomach was back to tossing on high seas. Years earlier, my mother told me that while I was in her womb, she’d sung to me every day while preparing breakfast. She believed it stopped the kicking, that she could feel my tiny legs relax. I wasn’t about to sing, not in the middle of hundreds of prisoners and a handful of Nazis, and not to a baby that was probably no bigger than a pea. Instead, I closed my eyes and imagined picking up that beautiful Italian violin. Lifting it to my chin, the polished wood of the neck against my fingers. The bow began to glide—careful, elongated movements. The notes pooled around me, rising higher and higher until the music pulled me under. I dove deep, searching for the bottom until I found a concert hall floating amid fog, a stage set with a single chair. In the pit, the orchestra awaited my signal. Then it joined in, faceless musicians raising their instruments to back me in a soft adagio movement. The flutter of the flute, chasing birds over autumn trees. The pluck of the harp, moss-covered trails running along a brook. The scales of the piano, climbing up a snowy mountainside. The music built, peaked to a crescendo, and then the orchestra cut away, leaving only my violin to fill the theatre. I played on. Somehow, I felt that child in my belly, guiding my bow. I played until my hand grew sore, and when I lowered my instrument and stepped over to bow, the lights flickered on. The theatre was empty, save for a pair of seats in the front row. Two men: one in a pressed SS uniform, the other in tattered stripes and glasses. I began to shout.
A noise jolted me back, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. A guard burst into the infirmary. His hair stuck up all over, and even from across the hall, I could see the sweat on his forehead. “They’re coming!”
The doctor tossed his clipboard on a gurney and ran out after the guard, the nurses flocking close behind. I heard a surge of confused, frightened yells, muffled commands. Inside the infirmary, all the moaning seemed to stop. Dozens of heads turned to the entrance, as if we expected to hear “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing in the distance, the clatter of machine-gun fire. But there was no sign of them, and even the yells of the medical staff subsided, leaving only the sound of the breeze that flowed in through the entrance, scattering loose sheets from the doctor’s clipboard across the bunks.
Fifteen minutes passed. Mouths began to open, and whispers filled the hall. A few people struggled out of bed, but most could walk only a few metres before reaching out for help. Two boys made it as far as the door. They peered out and gestured that there was no one in sight. I watched them take three steps outside before passing beyond a white wall of sunlight.
When they returned, the shorter of the two knocked on a bedpost for attention, but he already had a captive audience. At first, his words came out as a croak.
“Speak louder,” I called out.
“The camp is empty,” the boy said.
“Empty?” a man asked.
“The guards have disappeared.”
“And the prisoners?”
“They must be out at work or hiding in the blocks.”
A siren sounded and an announcement rang out over the camp loudspeakers. “All SS officers, evacuate the camp.”
We waited. I gripped the edge of the bed, my stomach somersaulting in a mixture of euphoria and fear. Nobody wanted to venture out into camp, to be shot down at the brink of liberation. Soon, the medical staff returned. The doctor flitted around the hospital, making no effort to hide his dour mood as the staff collected their tools, broke test tubes filled with fluids and shredded stacks of paper. He left with a small box of belongings, and three of the nurses followed. One turned to us, hesitating. For the rest of the afternoon, she stayed in the infirmary, wandering between the rows of beds and handing out water and what meagre rations were left. I ate cold soup like everyone else. It did nothing to ease my hunger, but I felt better than I had in days, so I sat on the edge of the bed and tested out my feet. They tingled as they brushed the floor. The nurse came over and guided me as if I were a toddler, but within a minute I could walk to the end of the hall and back without pause.
“Didn’t the Schutzhaftlagerführer bring you here himself?” she asked, as I pivoted for a second lap.
The surprise made me pause, as I tried to hide my smile. But if he had brought me here, why hadn’t he returned to check on me? The nurse looked at me for an answer, making me wary. She was a plain woman, with thick, unbecoming eyebrows. Her chewed nails looked raw at the corners.
“Yes.” I noted the curtness in my tone, and lowered my voice. “Are you frightened?”
She took a seat on my bed, slowly nodded and began biting her nails. I sat down on the far end, but we both looked straight ahead at the entrance to the infirmary.
“So am I,” I said.
“Why? This is your happy ending.”
“Is it that simple?”
“The Americans will kill us.”
“You’re just a nurse. They’ll be more worried about the SS men at the top.”
The remark rushed out before I had a chance to understand its meaning, and the thought of a gun at Karl’s head made my chest ache.
“If I were one of them,” she said, “I’d run while I still had the chance.”
My mouth tasted sour. The nurse and I sat quietly until a raspy cough broke out nearby. I brought the man some water. He tried to pat my arm, but I barely felt his touch. His sallow skin had clusters of scars and inflamed sores. When he returned the cup, the men next to him stretched out. I tracked down a sink. The nurse joined me, and we ferried water to beds for much of the afternoon. Some men had the strength to thank us; others couldn’t even lift the cup to their lips, so we had to pour for them, a stream trickling down their chins as they tried to swallow.
The nurse stopped to wipe her bangs from her sticky brow. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Emma.”
“Marijke.”
We continued on down the rows, and I stopped a few times to hold men’s hands or sit
by their sides. I was serving Row 7 when the Americans arrived. Outside, people shouted. Someone fired a shot. English, the first I’d heard in two years, since late nights huddled around the secret radio in our bedroom.
Two soldiers opened the door. Americans. Their eyes bulged and their faces paled in astonishment and disgust. They lowered their guns. “Holy fuck.”
One of them spun around to wave someone in. An older man in a well-decorated uniform pushed through the soldiers and strode into the centre of the infirmary. He stopped to survey the room and looked at Emma. “You speak English?”
She pinched two fingers together. “A little.”
“Where are the doctors? Who is in charge of this place?”
“They are gone.”
Up until that point, I had stood on the spot, too stunned to think. But when Emma had to grab on to a bed frame for support, I stepped forward. “The staff fled. This woman stayed out of her own goodwill.”
The officer turned to the group of soldiers that had gathered behind him, and flicked his head in our direction. They fanned out, wrinkling their noses at the stench as they approached, their eyes round as guilder coins as they picked their way through the swamp of prisoners. The strongest of the patients climbed off the bunks to launch a wave of feeble cheers, while one teetered forward and opened his arms to embrace an astonished soldier. A handful crowded together and tried to lift a young private into the air, but they couldn’t raise him above their shoulders and he tumbled back onto his feet, shaken and embarrassed.
The man in charge came over to me, the first officer in two years to address me without any hint of desire. A broad, muscular soldier. He took off his helmet and held it under his arm while surveying the beds around me. His mouth hung open as he stared at half-dressed patients whose jutting ribs shuddered with their coughs. Men with purple hollows around their eyes weeping with joy. “Christ almighty.” He turned back to me, reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and withdrew a thick bar wrapped in paper, “Hershey’s Tropical Chocolate” stamped on the front. “Take this. It tastes like shit, but it’ll do you some good.”