The Edelweiss Sisters: An epic, heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 novel

by Kate Hewitt

  But then she thought of what these men had endured, how much they were willing to risk for their freedom, and any flicker of fear or self-pity vanished. If they had been brave enough to break out of a camp guarded by armed men and electric fences, she could get herself back to safety.

  With this thought foremost in her mind, she let her head fall onto her knees, and the tension that had been banding her body began to ease as she was lulled to sleep by the cows’ rustling, the very sound that had first alarmed her.

  It took Johanna nearly a week to get to Aigen. She walked for much of it, having left the Soviets a little while after their night in the barn, all of them acknowledging it was safer if they did not travel together.

  She subsisted on potatoes scavenged secretly from people’s barns, melted snow, and hope. One night a widow came out to the barn where she was sleeping with a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread. Johanna fell on it ravenously, while the woman watched, grim-faced rather than sympathetic.

  “When the Allies come,” she said, “remember I helped you.”

  On the other side of Linz a farmer gave her a ride in his wagon for nearly fifty kilometers. He asked no questions, and he clearly didn’t want to hear any answers. Johanna was too exhausted to care. She was filthy, hungry, and scared, and she didn’t feel quite human anymore. By the time she reached Aigen, she thought she must look feral or mad, even though she’d done her best to tidy her hair and brush off her coat.

  But she was here, on Traunstrasse, half-staggering down the street as she looked for number 22. As she passed number 34, she paused; she knew the elegant yellow villa with its private park and wrought-iron railings had been the von Trapps’ family home, and was now the summer residence of Heinrich Himmler.

  She recalled meeting Maria von Trapp all those years ago, how simple and happy those days had seemed. Remembering the girl she’d been, so anxious to make something of her life, angry at her mother’s refusal to let her attend secretarial school… Johanna didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh at herself or give herself a good shake. You were a fool, she thought, but at least you had the luxury of being so. She walked on.

  Number 22 was a far more modest house but still elegant in its proportions, although the paint was peeling and one of the shutters was askew. Johanna hesitated only a moment before knocking.

  The man who shuffled to the door looked old and weary; his thinning hair was white and his shoulders were stooped. Still, Johanna saw something of Werner in his face, the hazel eyes, the look of amiability that had been whittled away by suffering and fear.

  “Ja?” he said warily, holding the door only half open.

  “Are you Georg Haas?” she asked, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Ja—”

  “You don’t know me,” Johanna said quickly, “but I have a message from your son, Werner.”

  He stiffened, his hand tightening on the doorknob. “How could you possibly have a message from my son?”

  “He’s in Mauthausen. I was there. I was working for Granitwerke, the company that manages the quarry.” She was still speaking quickly, glancing around the empty street as she did so. “Please, may I come in?”

  Georg Haas looked caught between shock and suspicion, but after a second’s pause he nodded wordlessly and stepped inside.

  The house was as shabby inside as it was outside, with bare patches on the wall where paintings once must have hung. The only furniture in the narrow, high-ceilinged sitting room was a moth-eaten velveteen chaise and a few armchairs, the silk shiny with wear.

  Johanna perched on the edge of one of the chairs while Georg Haas stood, his arms crossed as he frowned down at her. He was a frail man, the energy and interest sapped out of him, leaving him looking little more than a shell, his face heavily lined, his hair wispy.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Haltingly, overcome suddenly by exhaustion now that she was actually, possibly safe, Johanna explained how she’d spoken to Werner, and what he’d said.

  “He is helping in the camp,” she said carefully, for she realized suddenly that she did not actually know where this man’s sympathies lay, although she had hoped, based on what Werner had intimated, that they would not be with the current regime. God help her if that was not the case. She’d taken a risk, coming here, but she’d had no other choice. “He was helping the prisoners, limiting their suffering as much as he could. He said he hoped you were proud of him now.”

  Georg’s lips trembled and he wiped a tear that had leaked from his eye as he shook his head. “Poor boy. My poor boy.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “Did they hurt him… the Gestapo? I know he was arrested. Tortured.”

  “His hand,” Johanna said quietly. “It is mangled.”

  He nodded slowly, accepting. “And this was a year ago that you saw him?”

  “Yes, about.”

  Georg sank onto a chair opposite, his head in his hands. “God be praised. He might still be alive.”

  “I pray so, Herr Haas.”

  He lifted his head and looked at her critically. “You need food. Clothes. You have nowhere to go?”

  She shook her head, then bit her lip. “The SS… I have reason to believe they might be looking for me. I could be a danger to you. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged her words aside. “You will stay here.” It was a command. “The war will be over soon,” he said firmly, a new light in his tired eyes. “You will be safe here until it ends.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Birgit

  Ravensbrück, Germany, February 1945

  It had been four months since Birgit had been released from the infirmary and sent to knit socks for soldiers. Even here they were able to practice a form of sabotage, making the wool thinner in the heel and toe so the socks would wear out faster. It was a small act of defiance that felt necessary to life; a way to keep the fighting spirit now the end was so close. Still, Birgit could not help but feel a tiny, reluctant twinge of sympathy for the unsuspecting soldiers who would freeze in their faulty socks.

  This new sense of compassion had both surprised and displeased her, coming upon her unawares when she’d first been in the infirmary. For the first days she’d simply slept, grateful for the unimaginable luxury of a bed, such as it was, and time to sleep. Her fever had raged and her body had lain wasted, but with time, sleep, and a few paltry doses of medicine, she’d begun to recover.

  The woman lying next to her, Birgit couldn’t help but think, was not so fortunate. Her skin had resembled that of a waxwork, tinged with yellow, although her smile, when she bestowed it, had been beatific. As soon as Birgit had been able to sit up in bed, the woman had introduced herself.

  “You must be feeling better!” she’d said in German that though clearly not her native language was more than adequate. “I am so glad. I knew you would recover. You’re young, you have so much to live for.” She’d smiled, her elderly face shining with kindness, while Birgit had stared at her blankly. “My name is Betsie,” she’d told her. “Betsie ten Boom. My sister Corrie has visited me once—you have a sister, as well?”

  “Yes, but how do you know?”

  “You spoke her name in your sleep. I thought it must be a sister. Lotte? I am sure she’s all right.”

  Birgit had not known how to reply; Betsie ten Boom had spoken with the serene certainty of a prophetess. It had made Birgit feel alarmed, and yet she’d believed her.

  “How long have you been here?” she’d asked after a moment.

  “In the infirmary? Only since yesterday. It’s a miracle I was allowed in. God is so good, isn’t He?”

  Birgit had simply stared. How could this wasted woman say such a thing, when she was in a concentration camp, most likely for no good reason at all, and looked two-thirds of the way to death’s own door? She’d sounded like Lotte, but Birgit had thought she should have been older and wiser than that.

  “You know I have a dream,” Betsie had said after a moment, a complete change of subject that had mad
e Birgit stare some more. “Although it’s not really a dream, it’s more of a certainty. My sister and I are going to have a house when the war ends, a beautiful house.” Betsie had settled back against the thin pillow, a dreamy smile softening her lined features. “The most beautiful house—bigger than the Beje, that was our house back in Haarlem—with floors of inlaid wood, and statues set in the walls, and a sweeping staircase. I can see it all so perfectly.”

  “It sounds lovely,” Birgit had replied rather dutifully, although it had seemed strange to her that a woman like Betsie, clearly so elevated and spiritual, would delight in such materialistic aspirations.

  “It is lovely,” she’d enthused, her whole face alight. “I know it is. And it will be for all the people who have been so damaged by this war, by this life.” She’d nodded to those around them, and it had taken Birgit a stunned second to realize that Betsie ten Boom did not mean the poor, wasted creatures occupying the other beds on the ward, many of whom would most likely be dead in a few days, but the nurses tending to them, the guards outside. Their persecutors and tormentors.

  “What are you saying?” Birgit had demanded, appalled, and Betsie had given her a smile full of compassion and understanding.

  “They need to be shown that love is greater, don’t you see? Can you even imagine what harm doing such things causes a soul? They are broken people, far more broken than you or I. It is only love that will put them together again and make them whole.”

  Birgit’s mouth had dropped open and a sudden, icy rage flooded through her. “They’re evil. You’re condoning evil.”

  “Oh, no!” Betsie had smiled, but Birgit saw that she looked alarmed at the prospect of her thinking such a thing. “No, no, it is because they have done so much evil that they need help. One cannot do such things and not be scarred. I believe in forgiveness. I believe in healing, by God’s grace. That is what our house will be about. For everyone.” She had settled once more against the pillow. “A place for people to come together, to heal. There will be flowers, so many flowers. Imagine the good it will do them, to tend a garden…” As Betsie’s voice had trailed off, Birgit realized she was falling asleep.

  Birgit had turned her head away, a burning still in her gut. A house for concentration camp guards, so they could tend flowers? She’d see them rot in hell first. She’d hoped she would.

  “Hatred in your heart is like a poison you drink,” Betsie had murmured then, her eyes fluttering closed. “And yet you expect someone else to die from it.”

  As she’d fallen asleep, Birgit had stared at her, stricken, knowing it was true.

  A few days later, Betsie had gone from the infirmary, and Birgit wondered if she would ever see her again. Would she find her house, in the end? She had not known if she wanted her to or not. Forgiveness for people who had done so much wrong, caused so much pain? It seemed so unfair, and yet she could not deny the truth of Betsie’s words. In the end, her bitterness would hurt herself most of all.

  A few days after Betsie had gone, Birgit had stirred from sleep to see Lotte sitting next to her bed.

  “Lotte!” She’d struggled to sit up, overcome with fatigue even after a week in the infirmary. “What are you doing here? I thought there were no visitors allowed.”

  “There aren’t, but the nurse was kind.” Lotte had put her hand over hers. “I’m so glad to see you, Birgit.”

  As Birgit had blinked the sleep out of her eyes, she’d seen that Lotte had a black eye and livid red scratch marks down one cheek, marring her loveliness. It had looked so strange, so wrong, that she hadn’t been able to keep from gasping out loud. “Lotte, what happened to you?”

  Her sister had shaken her head, a quick, dismissive movement, her gaze lowered, pale lashes fanning her paler cheeks. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Was it a guard? Were you beaten?” Lotte had not replied and Birgit had stared at the scratches—fingernail marks, she’d realized, a woman’s, and hardly the kind of beating one received from a guard, even one of the Aufseherinnen. “It was another prisoner, wasn’t it?” she’d said slowly, and still Lotte would not answer.

  Why on earth would a prisoner fly at Lotte—Lotte, who was always so gentle and kind, who prayed with the women no one else would speak to—the Russian peasants, the feebleminded, the prostitutes and the abortionists? There was a pecking order in every barracks, revealing the depravity in every human soul, and yet somehow Lotte had risen above it all. But here she was, her face bloody and bruised.

  “Lotte—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Lotte had squeezed her hand. “The important thing is, you’re safe and getting well. And when you are released from here, you will go to the knitting brigade! We both will. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Birgit had simply stared, realization seeping slowly through her. A prisoner didn’t get seconded to the so-called knitting brigade without reason.

  “How has all this happened?” she’d asked. “The infirmary for over a week! And medicine.” Suddenly she’d felt as if she could choke. “And now the knitting.” It was too much kindness. “Lotte… Lotte… what have you done?” Birgit had stared at her despairingly, until Lotte had looked away.

  “I’d do it again, and gladly,” she had said quietly. Birgit had shaken her head as a tear slipped down her cheek, and Lotte had put her arms around her. “It’s fine,” she’d whispered as she’d pressed her cheek against hers. “It’s fine, I promise. Don’t think about it for a moment, Birgit, please. The war is almost over.”

  And yet Birgit had not been able to think about much else, knowing what her sister had sacrificed for her, and willingly. Not just the act itself, but also the shame and scorn that accompanied it. She’d received more than one black eye, especially after the other prisoners saw that both she and Birgit had been moved to the knitting brigade. One woman in their barracks in particular—Marta, a woman from Dresden who had been sent to Ravensbrück for theft—seemed to take every opportunity to harass Lotte, to trip her up or give her a push. It was like being in a schoolyard, only so much worse.

  Somehow still Lotte had retained her sense of cheer, her gentleness. She took the harassment and even the beatings as her due, never fighting back, until, dissatisfied, the women, even Marta, subsided. She was adept at knitting, and when she’d finished her daily quota of socks she’d help any other woman who was struggling, smiling and chatting easily as her fingers flew with the needles. The guards rarely came into the room, and so she was free to move about, chatting and praying as she could, always smiling.

  Birgit had been surprised to see someone else she knew in that room—Betsie ten Boom. Of course, she realized, Betsie was far too weak to do anything else, and she knitted as cheerfully as Lotte, and continued to tell Birgit about the house she’d have after the war.

  “And you still want to fill it with guards?” Birgit had asked with more incredulity than cynicism, and Betsie had laughed.

  “With everyone who has been damaged. We have to learn to live again, Birgit, to love again. People are capable of terrible things, but they are also capable of wonderful things. I don’t believe there is a soul alive who cannot learn to love, if given the opportunity and encouragement.”

  “Even Hitler?” Birgit had said, disbelief warring with curiosity, and Betsie had put down her knitting and looked at her seriously, her normally joyful expression suddenly turning somber. Birgit had realized she was thinking about the question seriously, giving it a weight that Birgit never would have been able to. Of course you couldn’t forgive Hitler.

  “Yes,” Betsie had said quietly, “even him.” And then she’d gone on knitting.

  As the weather grew colder, the mood in the camp had become even more tense and expectant. The ground was as hard as iron, with a brittle dusting of snow. Women who had become ill were turned away from the infirmary, and Birgit had seen the sick and frail from the beds she and Betsie had recently occupied being loaded on to a truck. She had known where they were going, and she’d felt sick
ened. How long would this go on? Dear God, how long?

  In the middle of December, Betsie did not appear in the knitting room. Birgit had asked about her, but no one knew where she had gone. Absence was never a good sign of anything, and Birgit had felt far more anxious than she’d expected to.

  “Her cough was getting bad again… her sister was worried for her,” one woman had finally admitted. “Hopefully she’s been taken to the infirmary.”

  The infirmary, Birgit had thought with a lurch of fear, was now nothing more than a place where people were taken to die and then be disposed of. That evening she’d slipped out of the barracks and had run all the way through the lightly falling snow, only to be sent away, as she’d known she would. Still, she’d persisted, sneaking around the back and climbing through a window into a stinking lavatory with overflowing toilets. When she’d come to the door, she’d seen a pile of bodies stacked against the wall like lumber, and her stomach had roiled.

  But she’d found Betsie—Betsie lying in a bed just as she’d been before, her skin as yellow as parchment, her eyes closed forever. Birgit had backed away, one fist to her mouth. She hadn’t been surprised, not really, not at all, and yet. And yet…

  What about their house, the lovely house she and her sister were going to have after the war, with the banister and the statues and the flowers? She’d realized, in that moment, that she’d believed in it almost as much as Betsie had. She’d needed to believe in it, and now, like so much else, it was gone.

  December gave way to January and then to February, and something shifted in Birgit that she hadn’t expected to. The burning resentment and hatred she felt for the guards, the anger that had felt like her only strength, burned out, leaving nothing but ash.