From Dust and Ashes (24 page)

The soldier pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket and handed it to Anika. Despite the flight for their lives, the young girl grinned.

“Danke,” Anika said.

The soldier left, and Helene and Anika collapsed onto the cot with Petar snuggled between them.

Helene took one look at Petar’s sweet baby face and Anika’s chocolate-stained lips and let out a deep sigh.

Through the wall, Helene could make out a radio broadcast. Though she couldn’t understand any of the words, the American jazz melodies lulled her to sleep.

Twenty-Seven

AUGUST 2, 1945

H
elene and the children slept through the day, and when she awoke the room was dim. Strains of American jazz still frolicked in the air, but softer than before. Every now and then she detected footsteps in the hall outside her door.

Somehow Anika had gotten Petar off the bed and onto a blanket on the floor. Helene shifted to her side on the cot and reached for the baby, stroking her fingers through his fine hair. When Petar spied his mother, his face brightened. Helene pulled him up beside her and held him tight, kissing his soft cheek.

“I’m hungry,” Anika said as she climbed on the bed.

“I have some bread.” Helene lay the baby on the cot and picked up her satchel. She rummaged through it and pulled out bread wrapped in wax paper.

“I’m tired of that.”

“I know.” Helene tore off a piece and handed it to her, then took a bite herself. “But this is all we have.”

Anika played with her bread, squishing it between her fingers. “Can we go to store?”

“Nein. We have to stay here till tomorrow.”

“I have to go potty.”

“I’ll take you in a minute. Let me nurse your brother first.”

Anika slumped onto the floor and crossed her arms. “I want to see
mein opa.”

“He’s not here.” Helene’s voice was strained as she pictured her father’s face. “Do you understand? We have only a little money, and we can’t go back.”

Helene heard heavy footsteps outside the door. She clicked on the electric light. “Come here, my lamb,” she said, trying to control her frustration. “You’ve been a good girl. I’m proud of you.” Helene pulled her daughter close. “How about a book?” She found one of her daughter’s favorite picture books in her bag and took it out. Anika squealed with delight and started quoting the book before Helene began reading.

When she’d finished the story, Helene held the girl’s face in her hands. “I know this is scary. You have to be a big girl now. Will you show Petar how to be a brave boy?”

Anika’s bright blue eyes grew solemn. She nodded, then quietly ate her bread.

Helene popped a piece of the bread into her mouth but couldn’t swallow. Like a torrent, last night’s events flooded her mind. The journey across the river. The man’s body slipping into the water. The long trek through the woods.

Helene knew she couldn’t dwell on those things now. She had to keep going. For her children. Petar gazed at her with curiosity as he nursed. Anika nibbled silently.

After the baby was fed and changed, Helene ran a comb through her hair and traded her wrinkled dress for a fresh one. She hid her paperwork under the cot mattress and tucked her satchel beneath the iron frame.

Helene’s arms ached as she lifted Petar to her shoulder. She stretched out her hand to Anika. “Come, let’s find the water closet, and maybe some food.”

The hallway was long and stark. Electric lights flickered from the ceiling. As Helene passed room after room, she pictured this place swarming with haughty SS guards, throwing their blood-splattered clothes down the laundry chute and perhaps remembering their victims in their dreams.

After using the water closet at the end of the hall, they followed the smell of food. Helene checked the coins and bills in her pocket, hoping she had enough.

She found the mess hall in the basement of the building. The scents of sausage and yeasty white rolls made her hungry stomach rumble.

A sea of male faces turned her direction as she and her children entered. Helene felt heat rising to her face and pretended to ignore their stares. Soon, their conversations resumed.

Helene squared her shoulders and strode toward the supper line. She approached a soldier who was ladling biscuits and gravy onto metal trays.

“Bitte
, may we purchase a meal?” she asked in German. She pulled out some money and offered it to him.

The soldier turned to his buddy as if unsure what to do. Obviously, they couldn’t understand her.

Helene searched for a familiar face among the room full of laughing soldiers. Finally she spotted the man who had shown her their room. She approached him cautiously.

“Excuse me for interrupting.” The man looked up with curiosity. Helene gulped. “I was wondering if I might purchase some food for my children.”

He laughed, then answered in German, “You’re kidding, right? You don’t have to pay. Just help yourself.” He waved her toward the line, then continued talking to his companions.

Helene’s cheeks burned as she returned to the line and stared at the stack of metal trays. She stood there for a moment, trying to figure out how she could balance the baby and a tray—even if she could pry her fingers from Anika’s—when a woman approached. She was shorter than Helene by a few inches and wore a crisp white nurse’s uniform. A pointed white cap perched atop her brown, styled hair, and her red lips offered Helene a warm smile.

“Men,” the nurse sighed, speaking in German. “Why do they not offer more help?” She grabbed two trays and signaled with a tilt of her chin for Helene to follow. Within minutes the trays were filled with ham, fried potatoes, sausage, and warm buttermilk biscuits.

“Follow me.” The woman found an empty table. She set the trays down, then took a seat. Helene sat beside her with Petar on her lap and Anika at her side.

“I’m Rhonda.” The nurse shook her hand. Rhonda pushed both trays in front of Helene and Anika. “Eat up, ja?”

“I thought one of those plates was for you.”

“Nein.” The woman waved a hand in the air. “I’ve already eaten. But, honey, you are so thin. This will put some meat on your bones.”

Compared to Lelia and Michaela, Helene thought she was doing well. Still, the food tasted delicious.

“Here, let me hold the little one.” Rhonda pulled Petar onto her lap and cooed at him. “What a cutie you are. Such a precious little button nose. And look at those cheeks. It just makes me want to squeeze them.” She tickled Petar’s nose with hers, and he attempted a smile.

“So I hear you’re a Nazi wife,” Rhonda said casually.

Helene nearly choked on a piece of sausage. “Yes.” She put her hand to her mouth and swallowed. “He’s—My husband … is dead now.”

“I understand, sweetie. I heard many young women were forced to marry and have babies against their will. Future soldiers for the one-thousand-year Reich and all.”

Helene didn’t argue, but she had a hard time swallowing.

“I hear you’re going to help us now,” the nurse said, cuddling Petar.

Helene wondered what else the woman knew.

“Do you need me to watch your children while you meet with Captain Standart? Tomorrow’s my day off.”

“Oh, if you could. That would help.” Helene had no choice but to trust this woman.

“Not a problem. I’ll be at your door at ten minutes to eight.” She checked her watch. “But right now I have to get back to work. My shift isn’t quite over.”

With a hasty goodbye and one last kiss on Petar’s cheek, Rhonda handed the baby back to Helene and hustled out, turning soldiers’ heads as she did. Helene was again alone amidst the mass of uniformed men.

“Where’s Peter?” Anika asked, standing on the chair. “I don’t see him.”

“He’s not here. He’s far away.”

“Opa’s not here, or Peter, or Papi.” Anika lifted her hands, palms up. “Who will take care of us?”

Helene squared her shoulders, attempting to appear confident for her daughter’s sake. “God will,” she said, taking another bite of buttery biscuit.
God will
.

Twenty-Eight

AUGUST 2, 1945

M
ichaela tucked the brown paper sack close to her chest and hurried through the predawn streets. Although the war was over, she knew from the hostile stares she’d received since returning home that prejudice and hatred had not ended with the Nazis’ defeat.

Many Polish townspeople expressed outrage when the camp survivors staggered back into their country. The Russian occupiers were even more incensed. Jews had been unwelcome in much of Poland for hundreds of years. Now, those associated with them were also despised.

Michaela’s initial welcome back into Bielsko was having a rotten apple thrown at her. It had hit her leg with a thud, splattering at her feet.

She shuffled past the bombed-out buildings to a small apartment that had somehow remained standing. She opened the basement door and crept in. Marek and Kasia still slept in the corner under threadbare blankets. Michaela pulled back the soiled curtain and searched the night sky, longing for morning’s first light. There was no chair or bench in the room, so she perched on the packed-earth floor.

Marek rolled onto his side, yanking on his thin blanket. He opened one eye. “You finished?” he whispered.

Michaela rubbed her aching fingers, sore from pushing a thick needle through even thicker fabric all day and into the night. “Ja. And look what payment I received.” She grinned, opening the bag.

He leaned on one elbow. “A loaf of brown bread and three hard-cooked eggs for two days of work?”

“And this.” Michaela reached into the sack again and brought out the treasure she’d worked extra hours to afford.

“A book?” Marek sat up and peered through the dark. “How will that fill our stomachs?” He took it from her, flipping through the pages. “It’s blank!”

Michaela took the book back and caressed the hard cover. “My mind is already filled with more words than these pages can hold. And my hand has been itching for pen and paper.”

Marek grunted and lay back down. “You’d better get some sleep. You’ll have more than your share of work tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Michaela said, curling up next to Kasia. “I’ve been waiting years for a chance to worship God with my old friends.”

She closed her eyes, but Michaela knew she wouldn’t sleep. Her mind was full of images that begged to be transposed into words on paper. As soon as the first morning light stretched its rays, she planned to do exactly that.

The summer sun shone hot on Michaela’s head. She shielded her eyes and tried not to stare as she passed the gutted shell of her father’s church and the cottage next door that once housed her family.
“The church burned not long after you were taken away,”
a friend had told her.
“And the house was turned over to Communist supporters.”

Oh, Father. What has this world come to?

During her captivity Michaela had imagined roaming these streets again. She’d pictured the snowcapped mountains in the distance. Thought of seeing the people she’d known all her life and chatting happily with them along the way. Yet, as she ambled past the church, an unexpected loneliness burned deep in her soul. True, she had Marek, Kasia, and other old friends. But friends were not the same as family. And her family was gone forever. Being here made that fact all the more real.

Tears trickled down Michaela’s cheeks. Maybe it would have been better to go to the States. Or to stay with Helene. Then she’d never have had to experience this emptiness.

No
, she told herself.
I can do this
. She wiped her damp cheeks and raised her chin.

When Michaela rounded the last corner, she saw the small crowd gathered in the park. Many faces peered at her, and she waved. Today they would sing, and they would cry. They would remember those who were gone and offer words of hope for their future.

She thought about a Scripture she had memorized when she was a child. The words of the prophet Isaiah, in chapter 61, had never been more appropriate than they were right now.

He hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted
, she recited in her mind,
to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound; to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all that mourn; to appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness
.

In the gospel of Luke, the Lord Jesus had spoken those same words at the synagogue. The promise from the Old Testament had been proclaimed again in the New, and she clung to that promise for them now.

Michaela whispered a prayer for wisdom and strength.
Jesus will be our gentle Shepherd
, she thought as she approached the faithful members of her father’s church.

Her chest tightened as she scanned the crowd. There were so many missing. Some were dead. Others had betrayed them, causing those deaths.

Arms opened to her, and Michaela received their hugs. Her eyes burned to see their tears. Her father’s sheep. Those he loved. They were her calling now. Her destiny and her future. She would share with them the love of the One who had guided her father—and had been her only comfort in the dark days in the camps.

Two old friends, Pawel and Rozalia, waited until last to approach her. Rozalia held in her arms a small girl with light brown hair and creamy ivory skin.

Michaela gazed at the little girl. “Is this…”

Pawel nodded. “Jacek and Lidia’s daughter, Sabine. She’ll be three next month.”

Michaela placed her hand over her mouth, realizing how much the girl resembled the friends she would never see again. She opened her arms to the girl. Amazingly, Sabine reached for her in return.

Michaela took the child into her embrace, pressing her face into the girl’s neck. Tears flowed freely as an amazing grief filled her again. Only this time it wasn’t those from Bielsko she cried for. But those in Austria she’d left behind. As she held Sabine she thought of Anika and the baby. She thought of Peter and Helene. She thought of Peter’s short note to her, saying that Helene planned to leave St. Georgen with her children.

Michaela knew Peter would help Helene and the children as he was able.
At least
, she thought,
they have each other
.