by Ellen Butler
Soldiers looked on with disgust and disbelief.
But I knew.
I knew they knew something wasn’t right with the camps. Hitler had done his best to hide the depravity from the general population. But even in Oberndorf, workers had been escorted through the town to the factory under guard. A kind person who was caught offering them food could find himself beaten in the street or hauled off by the SS. I remember one distressing incident when Dagobert laughed and pointed at one of the poor souls digging in the trash for food. I ached to smack him and probably would have had there not been an SS officer watching and grinning at the child’s cruelty. Rumors had run rampant through intelligence divisions about the concentration camps, but unless you were standing here, looking at the destruction, you couldn’t imagine the real truth.
By the afternoon, my stomach had turned into a greasy lump of distress, and I worked my way over to the commandant’s office, a two-story, dark wooden edifice. The air was slightly less putrid over here, and I let myself into the building. Sunlight shafted into the room from the open door to reveal two soldiers at a large mahogany desk piled with ledgers. A safe to my right stood open, its heavy door hanging crookedly by a single hinge. The men squinted at me as I entered. The door shut behind me and I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the murkiness.
“Who are you?” a lieutenant asked.
His name tag came into focus and read Wentworth. “Press.” I held up the camera. “I was directed to take some photographs. What have you got there?”
“Records of the poor bastards who came through.”
The sergeant to his left grunted. “You’ve got to give the Krauts credit, they sure do know how to maintain good documentation.”
“Yes, they’re sticklers for the paperwork,” I murmured as I set up a shot of the two soldiers. The sergeant shifted and I read his name tag, Lowenfeldt.
“Well, it’s enough to hang this old bastard, Pister, for war crimes,” Lowenfeldt replied, his features drawn and a look in his eye that made me glad I wasn’t Hermann Pister, the commandant of Buchenwald.
“If he makes it to trial,” Wentworth muttered. “Prisoners are scouring the countryside for SS guards as we speak.”
“And finding them. I saw a pair shoot one by the side of the road this morning.” The sergeant flipped through one of the black ledgers.
“Will the military allow the ... vigilante justice to continue? Will the men not stand for trial?”
Lowenfeldt glared at me, his jaw set and brows crunched together. “You think it’s wrong? That these men shouldn’t get their revenge? You think it’s okay what the Krauts did to them? The POWs, the Poles, the Jews? You know this isn’t the first camp we’ve found. Are you some sort of Nazi sympathizer?” He stuck his chest out and laid a hand on his M1 sitting on the desk.
“Lowenfeldt.” Wentworth laid a hand on the sergeant’s arm.
It took all my willpower to remain calm after his unfair attack, and my answer came out in a low voice that, to my displeasure, held a slight tremor. “No, of course not. There is nothing acceptable with the horror story that is Buchenwald. I think ... public trials can reach much further into the collective psyche of a nation ... and the world, for that matter, than the instant gratification of shooting a monster on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I would hope some of the top Nazis are caught alive and held up as an example of the depravity of Hitler’s rantings. The world will watch while they hang.”
My hand had fisted so tightly my fingernails bit into the flesh on my palm. “But it is not up to me, and I can certainly understand why the prisoners are pursuing their tormentors.” Lars, bleeding out on the floor, rose to mind. Would I have allowed Glassman and Tank to arrest him with the rest of the German POWs that day? “Trust me, Staff Sergeant, I understand far better than you realize.”
Lowenfeldt’s posture relaxed as I spoke, and he released the weapon. “Well, you might have a point. But it’s not as though we can do much to stop them. They’ve already lived in the worst prison man ever erected.”
“I suppose not.” Twisting the lens, I brought the safe into focus, the shutter clicked, and in the flare of light, something caught my eye. I went over to investigate. The corner of a black frame jutted up from behind the safe. It must have fallen off the wall and gotten jammed in there. My efforts to remove it were futile.
“Has anyone a knife?” I asked.
“What did you find?” The sergeant removed his knife, flipped the blade into his hand, and offered me the handle.
“I’m not sure.” I jimmied the metal between the wall and the safe and worked the frame free of the crack. The sound of broken glass tinkled onto the floor as it came loose, and I took it over to the window.
“The Fuhrer and Commandant Pister taken March 1944.” I translated the caption for Lowenfeldt, who’d followed me to the window to peer over my shoulder at the photograph of Adolf Hitler, Hermann Pister, and eighteen other SS officers standing tall and proud. Behind them rose the gates of Buchenwald, identifiable by the words within the metalwork “Jedem Das Seine,” which, translated literally, means “to each his own.” However, in the English vernacular, it would be closer to the meaning “everyone gets what he deserves.” An appalling sentiment considering the conditions we’d just found. I’d photographed a line of civilians entering through those gates earlier in the day.
It took every ounce of control not to deface the picture with the knife I still held. Instead, I turned it over. The brown paper backing showed no further inscription, but on a hunch, I dug my nails through and pulled it aside. Sure enough, on the back of the photograph, listed by order of rank, every man’s name in the photo.
“I’ll be damned,” Lowenfeldt breathed.
“I believe there is a Chinese proverb about a picture being worth ten thousand words.”
Wentworth joined us and let out a low whistle between his teeth. “This should make identification easy. It looks like they’ve created their own police lineup. The captain is going to want to see this.”
“Indeed.” I passed the picture into his hands.
“What did you mean?” Lowenfeldt asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said you understood more than most.”
I fiddled with my camera. “It’s not something I can talk about.”
“I apologize for calling you a Nazi sympathizer. It’s just ... this place ...” A golden Star of David hung around his neck, its chain intertwined with his dog tags.
My gaze raked the room, taking in the stacks of paperwork. “You realize this is what the war is really about. Not just the maneuvering to depose an insane dictator but to put an end to the murder of innocent civilians whose only crime was to be considered undesirable to their own countrymen. This is why the generals invited all the press outlets to come here. We are witnesses. You, me, him.” I pointed at each of us. “We are here to make sure this never again happens in human history.”
My little speech silenced the two men.
I returned behind the camera, taking photos of the office and ledgers, half-empty drawers of filing cabinets, and papers strewn across the floor. One of the ledgers lay at my feet. I crouched down, flipping it open to a random page. Rows and rows of numbers with names, birthdates, and deaths lined the columns. All terminated here in this camp. The page I flipped to had an entire column listing the same date under death for each person. More pages revealed the same, and my finger ran down random names that meant nothing to me ... until one did—Friederich Dantzig, violinist from Berlin, Religion—Jewish. The birth year was three years prior to mine and the date under death was listed as January 17, 1945. I sucked in a breath and my knees thunked to the hardwood floor.
Poor Camilla. What would I tell her? Should I tell her?
Of course, I knew would have to write to Camilla so she could stop wondering. It’s what I would want if something happened to Charlie. It would be better for her to find out from a friend, but I hated to be th
e one to snuff out that candle of hope she held on to.
Who else did I know who might be listed on one of the ledgers? My girlhood friends, Sacha? Elijah? Was Magda’s name on a list here, or another camp?
The appalling thoughts washed over me unbidden and unwanted. I dropped the ledger and stumbled out the door into the bright sunlight.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Trouble Ahead
I stretched, pressing a hand against my stiff back. I’d been on my feet for days, resting only to sleep and eat what little I could force down. Occasionally, in the evenings, I played cards and drank with other journalists while we listened to the radio broadcasts. Every morning, I religiously read the newspapers, searching the killed-in-action list. So far, Charlie’s name hadn’t appeared.
By April twenty-fifth, Buchenwald was inundated with press answering Patton’s requests to send their brightest stars to cover the Nazi atrocities. I’d made deals with reporters from the Boston Globe, Iowa Dispatch, Milwaukee Evening Post, and a few smaller newspapers, who couldn’t afford or didn’t have the ability to get their own photographers into Europe, to provide photos of Buchenwald and surrounding camps. In exchange, the Globe supplied me with film and materials to process it, and the rest paid me outright. Lodging had been arranged for the press in surrounding towns, and I bunked with another female journalist named Marguerite, Maggie for short, from the New York Tribune.
Clouds drifted across the late-afternoon sun, and I paused from photographing the locals digging graves to change my lens.
“Hello, there.” A man dressed as a fellow photojournalist—two cameras hung from his neck and a large pocketed bag off his shoulder—approached me.
I didn’t recognize him, but there were so many of us now it didn’t surprise me.
“You are Lily, right?” His rolled-up sleeves revealed sinewy muscles, and he walked with a stiff, upright bearing.
I focused the camera on him. “Yes?” The lens clicked.
“Fleur-di-lis? The company is not pleased with your abrupt departure.”
I lowered the camera. “I was informed my mission had been cancelled. I believe my resignation explained my reasons for leaving.”
He glanced at the workers. “Let’s take a walk.”
We wandered uphill to a grassy hummock overlooking the gravesite, away from listening ears.
“I don’t think you understand, you cannot simply quit the OSS.”
“Actually, as a civilian agent, I’ve never been contractually obligated to remain.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Unlike you military agents.”
His eyes flickered but he didn’t acknowledge the hit. “The director isn’t pleased, and you’re lucky you’re a civilian and not military, or you would be brought up on charges,” he said in a low voice. “As it is, we’d been warned that you were prone to impulsivity.”
“Forgive me. What are you implying?”
“Your country still needs you.”
“My country needs to see this.” I flicked a hand at the diggers. “What can I do for the OSS besides sit behind a desk and analyze intelligence, receiving the occasional pat on the head like a favored family pet?”
“There are other missions. The war isn’t over yet.”
“It will be soon. The Russians will be in Berlin within the week. What other missions are there for a woman like me?”
“We’ll be hunting Nazis for years to come. You have the capability of identifying many of them.”
“I’m not a Nazi hunter, and you will have hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent civilians willing to help in the arrests. There’s already a strong contingent right here in Buchenwald, ready to provide testimony.” I raised a brow. “Though I’m not sure the enemy will make it as far as the courtroom, much less the hangman’s noose. Besides, you know where I am. Show me a picture when you find someone I should know. I will verify their complicity.”
“There will be negotiations with the Russians. Soon enough, Berlin will be the place to be.”
“You realize I don’t speak Russian. I can’t be of help in that quarter. The peace talks in Berlin will be up to politicians, not spies like us.” I kicked a stone in my path.
“You’re wrong, and there will be other nations at the table besides Russia.”
“Oh? Sure, there will be machinations on all fronts with whispered backroom conversations, but I am no politician. Besides, I’ve spent too much time in the company of politicians to know how my opinion will be valued.” I pursed my lips remembering the senator’s dismissiveness. “Minimal, to say the least.”
“We still need people on the ground to gather intelligence.”
“I am sure you do. However, I am not up for listening in corners or sweet-talking drunk attachés with wandering hands to find out what Russia plans for Eastern Europe. I am fairly certain Churchill, and Truman if he’s listening to his advisors, know exactly what kind of devil they were getting into bed with when they made the pact with Stalin. My intelligence gathering is in here.” I held up the camera. “My pictures will be circulated to thousands of Americans. My work is no longer secret. I am providing important information directly to the public. They deserve to know what we’ve known, or guessed, for years.”
“There are protocols, a debriefing is in order.”
I sent him an arch look.
“All right then, the head office in Bern would like a report on what you’ve found here.”
“Fine, I’ll prepare one tonight.”
He sighed and scratched his neck as if realizing he’d taken the wrong tactic with me. “If another mission came up, would you take it?”
I gazed past him and watched an elderly man and woman carry another withered body to the grave. Baby leaves, new in the rebirth of spring, rustled in the breeze behind them, and I lifted the camera to photograph the juxtaposition of life and death. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”
A soldier approached us. I twisted the lens and his features came into focus. Lowenfeldt hiked up to our knoll. “Good afternoon, Sergeant.”
“Ma’am.” He tipped his hat and nodded at my companion. “I wanted to let you know, that picture you found ... it was used to identify some prisoners.”
“Pister?”
He nodded. “He and four others created false identities. They were found at a detainee camp outside Munich.”
“Thank you for telling me. I’m pleased to know they’ll stand trial.”
The sergeant glanced over his shoulder at the workers as he slipped a cigarette between his lips. “What a fuckin’ mess.” He lit the fag and sucked in a deep breath.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” my companion replied.
I did not introduce the men.
Lowenfeldt surveyed the two of us and must have realized he’d interrupted something. He took his leave, and I felt the agent watching me as I focused the camera on the soldier’s retreating back.
“Sounds like you’re already hunting Nazis.”
“Contact me again ... if there is an actual mission. Otherwise, the OSS can consider me on vacation. I think I’ve earned it.”
“Funny place to take a vacation,” he said to my retreating back.
♠♠♠♠
The next morning, I packed my bag and caught a ride out of town with a pair of Czechoslovakian POWs from Buchenwald, Ludvik and Jiri. Ludvik spoke broken German, and from what I gathered, they’d acquired some German rifles and “borrowed” the American Army jeep to hunt down another camp guard. They’d heard about a farm that might be housing an SS guard in the countryside south of Buchenwald. Initially, the men seemed hesitant to take me with them. However, after I showed them my photography equipment and offered them some of the cash in my pocket, they welcomed me.
I didn’t have much of a plan, but I knew I had to get away from the hoary cloud of Buchenwald for a few days. The compass hung heavy around my neck, and I had a vague notion of catching up with the 101st.
Jiri, the driver, wore a black beret
and an olive American Army coat over a pair of black trousers. His square face and bushy brown eyebrows remained intent on watching the road. Ludvik wore a black knit cap, wool coat, and his black-and-white-striped trousers. Occasionally, he would turn to ask me a question in his broken German such as, “Where from?” or “How get here you?” A telltale tic had his left eye blinking and cheek twitching so much he would subconsciously place a hand to it when he spoke. Over all, the two men were in better condition than many of their comrades, and I gleaned they had been part of the camp rebellion launched two days before the Americans arrived.
We headed south on one of the major autobahns reserved only for Allied military traffic; Jiri had no problem entering the convoy in our commandeered jeep. The three of us watched in astonishment as blocks of surrendered German foot soldiers marched north along the grassy median; some still carried their weapons. American and British military trucks, tanks, and jeeps crowded the highway and made for slow going. The disintegration of the German Army was happening right in front of me. I’d never seen anything like it and spent half a roll of film capturing it. Jiri remained on the autobahn for an hour before taking an exit, my compass showed, turning southeast. Three transport trucks, filled with troops, took the same turning.
We’d only been on the road for a few minutes when the rumbling squeak of a tank had Jiri pulling us up short. I barely had enough time to throw my hands up to keep from slamming into the back of Ludvik’s seat. Jiri shifted into reverse, but when he glanced back, we realized there was nowhere to go, as the three transport trucks stopped immediately behind us. I didn’t recognize the style of tank, but it was surely German and grinding straight for us.
“Enemy tank!” went up the cry.
Jiri, Ludvik, and I hopped out, abandoning the jeep. The Czechs took to the surrounding woods while I hotfooted it behind the larger truck, where soldiers were dismounting. Two men set up a machine gun in the gully next to the road while the rest exited and scrambled for cover. I hunkered down behind the machine gunners as the weapon let out a whap-whap-whap. Bullets spanged against the front of the tank, setting off sparks as they hit, doing little damage. The tank rolled to a halt. I think we all drew in a collective breath.