by Sharon Maas
‘And now, to all of you: goodnight. I’m off to bed. I need to think. I need to be alone. All this is too much for me.’
Fifty-Three
Marie-Claire
‘Bonjour, Marie-Claire. It’s Victoire.’
‘Oh… Oh, bonjour, Victoire. To what do I owe this honour?’
Sarcasm dripped from her words. A whole year had passed since Victoire’s last visit. A year, and two more miscarriages, and countless nightly violations, and bottomless despair over a situation from which there was no escape; her heart had hardened. But it was a fragile hardness; she knew it. The hardness of an eggshell on the brink of cracking open. Yet still, she clung to it.
‘I just wanted to speak to you… I—’
‘And ask for another favour?’
‘No! No, Marie-Claire. I’m not asking you for anything – I just wanted to say I’m sorry, so sorry. I’ve handled it all so badly and I just wanted to make amends. Marie-Claire, all I want is to be your sister again! I want to be there for you – I want you to know I’m here if you need me. I made a mess of our last meeting. I’m sorry, truly sorry. Can we start again?’
‘Victoire, it’s been over a year! Not a word from you in that time. Radio silence. And now suddenly, this? There must be some reason. Why are you ringing me, now, of all times? What do you want me to do for you?’
‘Nothing, Marie-Claire, nothing, I promise! I just want to repair things, mend things. I know you’re hurt, and…’
‘Hurt, me? Of course not. I won’t let myself be hurt by the likes of you!’
‘Don’t be like that, Marie-Claire. Let me come and visit you again. No strings attached. No motive. Just to be your sister.’
Marie-Claire said nothing. A tidal wave of injured pride rose up within her, preventing speech, rejecting the outstretched hand. Her dignity rode on that wave. It protected the so fragile remains of whatever it was that made her herself, of which there really was very little left. Pride, dignity, self-awareness, confidence – it had all been eroded by the years under Dietrich Kurtz’s thumb. And so the tidal wave had no substance, no reality. Pride had all crumbled away, and the tidal wave was a mirage, a sleight of hand, an act. It collapsed into itself.
She sighed. ‘Very well. Come. Come during the week, any time, just let me know the day before. Just come!’ Before Victoire could respond she slammed down the receiver. She fell to the floor, crumpled into herself, dissolved in sobs. ‘I can’t go on! I can’t! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!’ she wailed to the empty room.
* * *
Victoire came two days later. This time, there was no awkwardness, no pretence, no playacting. Marie-Claire spoke her heart, truthfully and without subterfuge, and Victoire listened, consoled, hugged, wiped away tears, offered a shoulder to cry on; and Marie-Claire cried. She wept in Victoire’s arms, and it was good.
Weeping like this, withholding nothing, was cleansing, healing, a letting-go of all the trappings she had clung to, the image of herself as Marie-Claire, that beautiful being, exalted above all others, looked up to and admired; she could just be herself, a woman, a sister, a friend, no shameful secrets withheld, no hurt concealed, all pain exposed and received into Victoire’s huge receiving heart. Marie-Claire had always known it, but now she experienced it: a heart wide and unjudgemental, like a deep warm bath she, Marie-Claire, could simply sink into and let go. Let go of the pain and the humiliation and the despair. How could such a young person – Victoire was only eighteen – hold such power to contain and absorb and heal another? Marie-Claire couldn’t understand it, and didn’t try to – she only knew it was true, and let it happen.
‘You’re an angel!’ she whispered, enclosed by Victoire’s arms. Strong arms, arms that had schlepped endless logs and chopped them into firewood, mucked out endless stables, dug endless beds of stone-hard earth, stirred endless pots of soup, wiped many tears away; and now hers.
Victoire laughed. ‘No, I’m not! I’m just a sister discovering what a marvellous thing it is to be a sister!’
Marie-Claire managed a giggle. ‘I know! I can’t believe I didn’t know, all these years! I think I could have avoided a lot of the mess I’m in if—’
‘Shhh!’ said Victoire, placing a finger on Marie-Claire’s lips. ‘Don’t rake over the past. It only brings guilt and shame and self-recriminations. That’s no help.’
‘But I was the eldest. I had a duty. To you, and the boys – Leon. I never got to say goodbye…’ Once again, the tears began to flow. Victoire had told her about Leon’s death. Marie-Claire had not even known her brothers were fighting on the Eastern Front.
‘I locked myself out of the family. I thought I was better than you all. That I deserved better. And look where I landed. In the biggest mess ever.’
‘And we’ll get you out, somehow. The tide has turned in the war, Marie-Claire. I don’t know what will happen, but it’s not looking good for your husband and his ilk. He’s a war criminal, the Allies won’t be happy with him.’
It was then that Marie-Claire uttered the magic words: ‘What can I do to help?’
For Marie-Claire it was the turning point. She watched and waited. Watched who came and went, asked innocent questions of her husband and waited for her chance. Played the role of the dutiful wife, but this time not as a subservient chattel but as a cat after a prey: watchful and yielding on the outside, hard as nails on the inside, stripped of self-pity. Victoire had lent her a new confidence, a new strength, and now it was all different. Yes, the weekends, those dreadful nights, were still an endurance test, but now, in the third year of her marriage, Marie-Claire was adept at playing her role: the passive wife and hostess to Kurtz’s friends during the day, the internally numb recipient of his lust, receptacle of his seed, during the night. All while waiting and watching, listening to conversations she had previously blocked out, all with the intent of discovery. There had to be something.
Another miscarriage came in early 1944, but this time it left her unmoved. She no longer mourned the loss of those unborn children, three to date. As she told Victoire, who now came to visit regularly: ‘I think his very seed is poisoned. I think my body knows it’s poisoned and rejects it. Every atom of my being rejects him. I don’t want his child.’
‘But you would love it if one came?’
‘I think so. Yes, of course; the child is not to blame for its father. But I would prefer for it not to happen.’
Victoire had nodded. ‘Yes. But, Marie-Claire, if it’s too much for you come home, don’t let him destroy you.’
But Marie-Claire was adamant. ‘I won’t. He almost did, but I caught myself in time. And now there’s work to do. I can do it.’
She watched and waited. Observed his friends, the husbands of her own friends. Pater Pius, the Catholic priest who often dropped by on Sunday afternoons after Mass. Robert Wagner, the Gauleiter of Alsace. Once, even, Heinrich Himmler, Hitler’s right hand, came to Strasbourg and she and Kurtz were invited to a formal dinner. She watched and waited and listened. But there was nothing to report. These men were careful, hiding their iniquities behind an outer façade of jovial complacency. It was if they truly believed they were winning the war.
Beyond that little clique of Nazi colleagues, tension in the city became palpable. The girls no longer giggled. Fear engraved itself on the faces, people spoke in hushed tones and nobody trusted anybody else. The Allies were closing in.
Fifty-Four
Victoire
In the late summer of 1944 Jacques called another meeting at the chateau. Victoire took one look at his face as she entered the room and her heart crashed to earth: she knew.
She took her seat next to Grandma Hélène – formerly Tante Hélène – on the chaise-longue and took her freezing cold hand. Victoire knew that her own hand was just as cold. Kneading her grandmother’s hand brought a modicum of warmth to them both. Opposite them, on two adjoining settees but hands joined, were Maxence and Margaux. Everyone’s face was grim: they all knew.
> ‘Yes, I have news, and it’s bad,’ said Jacques. ‘We must all be strong. I’m not going to waste words or use euphemisms. You all deserve the truth, as ugly as it might be. Because only in facing reality, knowing the full truth, can we be strong.’
He took a deep breath. ‘There’s been another escape from the camp – four prisoners managed to hijack a jeep, disguised as Nazi officers. One of them worked in the camp laundry and had managed to get hold of uniforms. Three of the escapees headed south, through France to Spain. One of them stayed in Alsace and has been de-briefed by French Intelligence. I have his full report. Right here.’
He tapped a wad of papers. ‘I think I’ll just read it out to you, in his own words.’ He rustled the papers, took a deep and audible breath and began.
My name is Hervé Leroi. I was a political prisoner in the Natzweiler-Struthof camp since January 1942. I am 25 years old and French. I worked at first in the granite quarry and later I was promoted to work in the kitchen. The camp is built on wide terraces down the mountainside, like a giant’s staircase. On the last level there is a prison block and next to it a crematorium. The crematorium has a high chimney. After a cremation it billows black smoke.
There are only males in the camp but in July of this year four female prisoners were brought in at around 4 p.m. one day. Some were carrying suitcases. As it was unusual to see women in the camp many of the men stared at them. Two of them had blond hair. One had very black shiny hair, shoulder-length. She looked Jewish.
Jacques looked up. The pain in his eyes was palpable. ‘We thought this woman might be Juliette, so we showed him a photo of her. He scrutinised it for a while and confirmed that it was her.’
Jacques cleared his throat and shuddered, as if ridding himself of a cloak. He continued.
There was a rumour going around the camp that the women were sent there for ‘special treatment’. Everyone knows that that means execution. This normally happened by hanging, and usually we were all forced to watch the hangings on the uppermost terrace. But some were killed by gunshot or by gas. The bodies were then cremated. You could see the smoke coming out of the crematorium after someone was killed. There was a high chimney which would spill the smoke.
These women were led down to the cell-block at the bottom of the camp by SS guards. At first they were together in a cell but then placed in individual cells, and managed to communicate with each other and other prisoners. One male prisoner who was later released said he was able to pass cigarettes to them through the cell window. This prisoner said that he later saw the women dragged one by one to the crematorium, which was just a few yards away.
It was my job to deliver food from the kitchen, which was on the topmost terrace, near the camp entrance, to the prisoners on the bottom terrace. But on that day I was not allowed inside the prison block where the women were being kept.
I later spoke to the German prisoner in charge of the crematorium. He stoked the fire that night before being sent back to his own barrack, higher up on the terraces. He was on the highest bunk and he could see out of a small window above the door. He said that each time the door of the oven was opened, the flames came out of the chimney and that meant a body had been put in the oven. This happened four times.
Here, Jacques fell silent. Dusk had fallen but nobody switched on the light, nobody lit a lamp or a candle. It was as if a spell had been cast upon the room. Nobody moved. Nobody took a breath. And then Jacques sniffed, and continued.
The next day the rumour spread quickly that the four women had all been executed by being put into the oven alive. Everybody was talking about it. There were several witnesses. One prisoner said he had heard low voices the night before and the sound of a body being dragged along the floor, and also the sound of heavy breathing and low groaning. This happened four times, but the fourth time, there were sounds of resistance. The prisoner said he heard a woman’s voice say ‘Pourquoi?’ and then the noise of a struggle and muffled cries, as if someone was holding a hand over her mouth. This woman too was dragged away, and she was groaning louder than the others.
The prisoner could hear the crematorium oven doors opening, and in each case the groaning women were shoved immediately into the crematorium oven. Alive.
By this time there was no more silence in the room. Grandma Hélène was weeping openly. Victoire, trying to withhold her own tears, failed and broke into a crying fit. Maxence was bent over, his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving. Margaux sat stock-still, her face stony and apparently unmoved.
‘I think I’ll stop here,’ said Jacques, his own voice cracking.
‘No! Go on!’ cried Margaux.
‘Grandma? Victoire? Papa?’ Jacques addressed each one of them, and each nodded assent. Jacques continued, but his voice trembled.
I spoke the next day with the cleaner who works in the crematorium. He said that he opened the door later that night and saw four blackened bodies within. The next morning his duty was to clear the ashes out of the crematorium oven.
There had been many SS officials in the crematorium building the night of the execution, as well as the French prisoner who worked there. He did not speak German but said the officers were all discussing the women. One of them was the camp doctor and another was a medical orderly. Also present was the Schutzhaftlagerführer, Dietrich Kurtz. We all knew him by sight and feared him; we called him Dr Death. It was clear that he was giving orders. The women had all been sedated before being put in the oven, feet first. But the final prisoner came to her senses at the last minute and struggled. There were enough men who were able to push her down and into the oven, but she was able to reach out in defence and scratched Kurtz’s face. The next day we were all able to see the scratches on Kurtz’s face.
By the time Jacques finished speaking his voice could hardly be heard above the weeping. Hélène kept repeating No. No. No. No. No. Margaux’s face had crumpled. Maxence’s was buried in his hands, and his shoulders heaved. Victoire was a silent stone.
Jacques threw aside the wad of papers and kneeled before his grandmother, who leaned forward to embrace him, her back trembling with the force of her sobs.
Jacques stood up. ‘Brandy,’ he said, ‘we all need brandy. Wine won’t do it tonight.’
The next day, Victoire dialled Marie-Claire’s number. ‘I’m coming, today,’ she said. ‘Something’s happened.’
Fifty-Five
Marie-Claire
A telephone ringing in the middle of the night was always bad news, and when she heard the voice screaming down the receiver Marie-Claire knew that this was very bad. It was shrill, panicked, so loud that Marie-Claire had to hold it away from her ear. Silke, in hysterics.
‘He’s dead, he’s dead!’ Silke screamed into the phone. ‘It’s over, it’s over, it’s over! Es ist vorbei! Ich bin am Ende! I’m at my end!’
It took a further few minutes before Marie-Claire could extract a coherent story from Silke. Apparently, she’d been woken in her sleep by a loud bang. She’d jolted upright, found the space next to her where Klaus usually lay empty, and rushed into the living room, then his study, then the bathroom. She found him in the bathtub, limp, covered in blood, blood-splatter on all the tiled walls. His pistol lay limp in his hand: he had shot himself in the heart.
‘You’re my only friend, Marie-Claire, the only one who understands! What am I to do? Where am I to go?’
‘I’m coming,’ said Marie-Claire, ‘at once. But ring the police.’
‘You can’t come! The curfew!’
‘I don’t care about the curfew. I’m coming.’
Silke was still in hysterics when Marie-Claire arrived, collapsed into Marie-Claire’s arms the moment she opened the door. Marie-Claire led her, weeping, to the bedroom. Through the open bathroom door, she could see the bathtub, the top of Klaus’s head, the splatter on the walls. She shuddered.
Silke had had the presence of mind to call the police, and her nanny to take the two toddlers away. Two officers arrived half an hour
later. They went about their routine procedures, called for an ambulance, arranged for the removal of the body, interviewed Silke. Both officers were native Alsatians. Both had an air almost of approval.
‘A Nazi officer, eh? That’s the third Nazi suicide we’ve had this week. They’re dropping like flies.’ He spoke in French, to Marie-Claire. He smirked, and mouthed some words that, Marie-Claire was certain, were good riddance.
‘Did he leave a suicide note? They usually do, when they go like this.’
They found one, on his writing pad in his study: a letter of apology advising Silke to return to her parents with the children. That was all.
‘You can come and stay with me for a while, if you like,’ said Marie-Claire. ‘You can’t stay here!’
But Silke ran off that very day, back to her childhood home in Hamburg, taking the twins with her. ‘I can’t deal with this. Let the Nazis bury the body!’ she said as she threw her clothes into a suitcase. Marie-Claire helped her carry luggage and twins down to the taxi, helped them all onto the train and waved goodbye to her only friend in Strasbourg.
If only, if only, she thought to herself. If only her own husband would do the same… she’d be free. In spite of the horror involved in finding a body in a bathtub full of blood, she envied Silke.
* * *
But Kurtz remained remarkably sanguine. Discussion of ‘work’ continued to be taboo at home, though now Marie-Claire tried repeatedly to raise the subject. After all, it was all everyone was talking about. He appeased her with virtual pats on the head. ‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ he’d say, ‘Hitler is almighty and we will win in the end. Your friend’s husband was a coward. A true patriot does not kill himself, he fights to the end and dies standing. We must be strong and trust that God is on our side. At the last moment there will be a miracle that will save us all.’