From Dust and Ashes (6 page)

The wheelbarrow jostled as the American lifted the handles and pushed. The front wheel sank into the ground slightly, then rolled forward.

“Gedulden Sie sich bitte einen Augenblick!”
Michaela called out. “Wait, please!” The wheelbarrow stopped. She tried to look over her shoulder, but shooting pains in her neck prevented her. “What about Lelia?”

“Don’t worry.” The blonde woman squatted at Michaela’s side and rubbed her hand. “We’ll come back for her.”

“Nein,” Michaela insisted. “She must not be left alone.” A promise from long ago stirred to the surface. “We were separated once. I cannot leave her again.”

“We’ll get her next, don’t worry.” The American pushed forward again.

Sobs erupted from deep in Michaela’s chest. Leaving the girl was like leaving her family all over again.

“Wait,” the blonde said to the American. The wheelbarrow stopped again, and she leaned over Michaela, a few loose curls falling around her face. “I will stay. Don’t cry. I will stay.” She turned to the American. Her brown eyes looked so weary that Michaela felt ashamed.

“My father will be waiting for you,” the woman said to the American. “There should be a cushion on the front porch. Ask him to keep her company there until I can come and bathe them both.”

The GI nodded and resumed the journey. The blonde angel turned back the way they’d come, her steps heavy.

“Danke,” Michaela mumbled, suddenly exhausted. She leaned her head back and rested it on the side of the wheelbarrow. The wood cut into her scalp, and she tried not to wince.
A home
, she thought.
After so long, a real home
.

Many eyes followed her as she was rolled out of the camp gates. The prisoners, those she felt a common bond with, appeared both envious and gratified. Though many she knew were young like she was, they all looked so very old.

What a pathetic picture I must appear to them
. Like they were to her.
Yet we are the lucky ones. The ones who still breathe
.

Michaela closed her eyes, and her lids turned pink from the sunlight. Still the image of the watching prisoners stayed with her. And as she was wheeled through the gates, those images somehow transformed in her mind. The unfamiliar faces were replaced by familiar ones. She pictured her mother, father, and Georg watching her. Their last prayers now answered.

Michaela suddenly realized that the air around her smelled sweeter than any she’d breathed in a long time. She opened her eyes and noticed she was traveling through town. She stared at the storefronts and homes, amazed that life beyond the gates appeared so normal.

“Goodbye,” she whispered to those long lost.

A page in her life story was turning. The nightmare she’d lived for the past few years would be left behind. The thought both thrilled and horrified her. Michaela knew that by leaving the camp, she stepped into a new life without those she loved. And what she feared most was that her newfound freedom would never compare to the memories locked deep inside.

Seven

MAY 6, 1945

P
eter pushed the creaky wheelbarrow through the village, amazed at how even children looked away when they recognized his human cargo. Shame covered their faces. Conversations halted as he passed. Although many of the townspeople denied knowing the happenings inside the camp, he was certain now that they knew more than they admitted. How could they not hear? How could they not see, not smell?

Outrage at their denial caused his grip to tighten on the wheelbarrow handles. Then he thought of Helene. Obviously she had not agreed with the Nazi annihilation. She’d been the first from town to offer help. Had others felt such compassion? Perhaps some, but not enough. Not enough to make a difference.

Peter neared the street with the yellow house. He glanced down at the woman, suddenly humiliated for her. The filth, the stench from her body, became more evident the farther he moved away from the camp. Yet she held her chin high. Her wide blue eyes perused the buildings they passed as if she had never witnessed such things. Yet Peter knew she had. She was a normal person just like him. A person who read fairy tales. Who had once lived free.

He rounded the last corner, moving into a residential neighborhood. The large yellow house, partially hidden by tall oak trees, dominated the block. A white-haired man with a thin mustache waited on the porch.

Peter lifted the woman from the wheelbarrow and carried her through the front gate. Softly she uttered what sounded like prayers. Tears dampened her face.

“Your castle awaits, my lady,” he announced. The elderly man patted a cushion on the porch, and Peter carefully laid her on it. As he did, she lifted her hands to her face and sobbed.

Curse the Nazis. Every one of them
. What they did to these people was something he would never forgive.

After briefly introducing himself to the elderly man, and promising to return with the teenage girl, he left the yellow house. Anger burned within him, and he quickened his pace. The empty wheelbarrow clattered noisily on the streets as he traveled back to Camp Gusen.

The sun was setting over a distant hill. Its rays lighted the clouds with pink and cast shadows over the countryside. Peter’s gaze was drawn to a huge cloud of dark smoke rising in the distance. Gusen’s large crematorium stacks stood silent, but barracks near the sandy hillside were being burned in an effort to control the disease and stench.

Prisoners who had nowhere else to go burrowed inside makeshift tents just a few yards beyond the camp gates. Peter slowed as he passed and wondered how long they would survive. Wondered how they would start their lives over if they did.

He entered the front gates and spotted Helene sitting on the ground. The teenage girl’s head rested on her lap, her eyes open. As he approached, fear radiated from the girl’s gaze.

“American GI,” Helene assured her, leaning close. The girl seemed to calm, but she did not speak. She clung to Helene’s hand as Peter hoisted her into the wheelbarrow. “We are going to my father’s house.” Helene stroked the teenager’s fingers. “Michaela is there. And my daughter, Anika, will soon be there too. Do you remember Anika from this morning?”

Lelia stared at Helene but said nothing. Her eyes glazed over as they exited through the gates.

As they continued on, Helene kept up the casual chatter. This time the entourage received several stares. Men, women, and children peeked out of doorways. Some pointed. Others spoke to each other in low voices. It was not he or the fragile girl who drew their attention, but Helene. Many, Peter noticed, cast hateful glares in her direction. He was sure he knew why. She was helping while they refused. She dared to enter the camps. She was making a difference.

Too bad the town doesn’t have more like her. People of character. People who stand up for what’s right
.

Helene hurried along the narrow lane leading to the small farmhouse on the edge of town. Her shoulders ached, her feet were sore and swollen, but she still had one more task. She had to pick up Anika from the farm where Katharina now stayed.

She was late, but it couldn’t be helped. The women from the camp had needed much attention. After bringing Lelia to the house, Helene had bathed both women and dressed them in her old nightgowns. Her father worked with her. And as she washed each one, he gently deloused the other. Helene marveled at the way he’d performed the task without causing them embarrassment or shame. After applying a powder to kill the hundreds of lice, her father had sat there picking them off, telling stories of his childhood as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The American had returned after his evening meal and carried the women to beds in a guest room across the hall from Helene’s bedroom. He brought leftovers with him. Ham and potatoes for Helene and her father, and watery soup for the others’ tender stomachs.

With a clean body and full belly, Michaela had beamed appreciatively as her head rested on the pillow. Lelia, on the other hand, worried Helene. The girl, whom she now knew was seventeen, had simply stared blankly, not once moving of her own volition.
Does Lelia even realize she’s free? Can she understand what’s happening?

Helene’s father had agreed to stay with the women while she retrieved Anika, and even offered to keep watch over them through the night. Helene had gratefully accepted his assistance.

Now the sun had set. The American GI had offered to accompany Helene to get Anika, but she’d refused. He hadn’t asked any questions about Helene’s life, and she liked it that way. She was certain he’d hate her if he knew. Perhaps he might even find a way to bring charges against her.

As she approached the farmhouse, Helene rubbed her arms, willing the strength for one more task. She spotted a lantern still burning inside Frau Schulmacher’s kitchen window. Hopefully someone was still awake.

Helene approached the small stoop and tapped on the door. It cracked slightly. “Go away,” the old woman screeched.

Helene stepped back, startled. “Frau Schulmacher, it’s me, Helene Völkner. I’m here for my daughter, Anika.” She heard movement behind the door, as if a large piece of furniture was being pushed out of the way. Then the door swung open, revealing the two women, Katharina’s three small boys, and Anika all huddled around the small kitchen.

“Get in here, girl. Are you crazy?” The woman pulled Helene’s arm, quickly shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing out on a night such as this?”

Helene stared at Katharina, silently begging for an explanation.

“It’s been horrible.” Katharina pulled Helene into the living room, out of earshot of the children. “Prisoners showed up earlier looking for food,” she whispered. “They swarmed the place, and we were afraid they’d hurt us. They were so horrible, so grotesque! I can’t wait to leave.”

“Leave?” Helene wrapped an arm around her friend’s trembling shoulders. The light from the kitchen cast shadows into the dim room. “Where are you going?”

“I have received news from Mother and Father. They’re sending my older brothers to get the boys and me. They’ve been living in the countryside in France. Things are better there, they say. Father has connections with the government, you know. He pulled some strings, and he said you could come with us. We’ll be safe, Helene. We can leave this horrible place behind.”

“I can go too?” Helene released Katharina’s shoulders. It had been all she’d wanted since she first realized what the camp was about. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Father promised my brothers would be here by then. We won’t be able to take much with us, but we won’t need to. My parents will make sure we have everything we need.”

Helene’s heartbeat quickened as she thought about a new life in France. A chance to start over. An opportunity to leave the horrors behind. Then she remembered the women. She couldn’t bring them this far only to leave now. Helene let out a low moan and sank into a small chair.

“What’s wrong?” Katharina asked. “It’s what we’ve been wanting.”

“I can’t do it.” Helene recalled the expression on Michaela’s face as her head rested on a pillow for the first time in years.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I have obligations. I’ve promised to help some women.”

Katharina crossed her arms over her chest. “Just tell them you can’t do it. I’m talking about leaving. Starting a new life. I don’t care if I never set foot in this terrible place again.”

Helene noticed Katharina had said nothing of her SS husband and the part he’d played in this new life. Had she heard any news from him? Or had he been killed, like Friedrich? Helene was afraid to ask.

Katharina lowered her voice. “We will come for you tomorrow and—”

“Nein.” Helene stood. “I can’t leave my father again either.”

“Helene, you haven’t talked to him in years. At least think about it. Sleep on it.”

“I will. I promise.” Helene walked back into the kitchen. She found Anika asleep on a small rug in front of the fire. She lifted her daughter into her arms and carried her to the entrance.

Katharina opened the door. “I’ll be by in the morning,” she said as Helene headed into the night.

But even as she walked as quietly as she could—her ears attuned to the slightest noise—Helene knew her decision would not change. She would stay. She had to.

For once she’d think of them.

Thirty minutes after leaving the farmhouse, Helene eased Anika’s sleeping body onto Helene’s own childhood bed. She unfolded the downy white comforter and tucked it around the girl’s shoulders. Anika’s soft blonde hair feathered across the pillow like a halo of fluff.

Was she doing the right thing? Was she putting her children in danger by not leaving this place?

There’s too much to consider
, Helene thought, settling into a chair by the window. She lifted her apron to her face. The smell of the camp still clung to her.

With a sigh, Helene pulled the shoes off her swollen feet. She felt pressure on her rounded stomach as she bent down, and she rubbed the spot where her baby rested.

When standing, it was still easy to hide her pregnancy. With her long torso, she hadn’t shown with Anika until her seventh month. Even now she simply looked plump, like many of the women in the village.

Helene pulled the pins from her hair. It tumbled across her shoulders as she leaned forward to rub her aching arches. But their pain could not compare to the hurt she carried within her heart.

Friedrich is dead
, she reminded herself. She had wanted to tell Katharina, but couldn’t. She knew the emotions she’d been damming up would break through if she had.

Throughout the day, images of her husband had filled her mind. Not memories of the man he had become, but of their first few months of marriage, when laughter filled their home and humor lit up his eyes. For
that
man she mourned.

Helene straightened in her chair. She found a handkerchief in her apron pocket to wipe the tears dripping from her chin. In that same pocket was the photo she had found on the desk and the letter she’d been putting off reading all day.

Anika stirred on the bed, then settled down again. Outside, Helene heard her father venturing to the outhouse. She had to admit she did miss the modern comforts of the SS housing. But even that made her feel guilty. The two women lying in the next room had survived in utter filth, while she lived in a comfortable home provided by their captors.

Helene rubbed the back of her neck. There was nothing she could do about that now. She must move on. And moving on meant reading the letter from her husband—the last words he had ever penned.

She pulled open the envelope flap and slid out the single sheet of paper inside, trying to ignore the blood and dirt that stained it. Her heart pounded upon seeing the small print that was uniquely Friedrich’s. She wondered how many hands it had passed through on its long journey to her.

Unfolding the letter slowly, she noticed it was dated April 30, just two days after his departure. Was that really only a week ago? Whoever had brought the envelope had done so quickly.

Dear Helene
,