From Dust and Ashes (12 page)

Helene searched the street through the lengthening shadows. Clouds gathered in the distant horizon.
Where are they? What could have happened? Why can’t my father find them?

She realized now how foolish she’d been for giving Michaela so much responsibility. The woman wasn’t well. What if she’d collapsed or lost her way? Would Anika know how to get home? They were only supposed to go to the end of the street, which was within view of the house.
That was over an hour ago
.

Helene sank onto the sparse grass in front of the gate.
It will be all right. They’ll come walking around the corner any minute
.

Helene’s father had come home thirty minutes earlier and had tried to calm her fears, but it hadn’t worked. Especially after he shared the day’s events. She listened breathlessly as he relayed the death of Franz Ziereis and the hanging of his body just inside the camp gates. Her father had urged her to stay at the house in case they returned. Then he left again to search for the two.

The commandant’s death had been no surprise to Helene. News had come days ago that Ziereis had been found in the Alps and was shot while trying to escape. Helene had also heard he’d given a confession before his death. Perhaps his confession pointed to other Nazi families still in the area. Maybe that had something to do with Michaela and Anika’s disappearance.

She was just about to head into the house to get her sweater and pocketbook when four figures appeared in the distance. Michaela was limping, her father and an American GI helping her along. Anika toddled closest to the houses, holding her opa’s hand.

“Thank God,” Helene cried out. But as she jogged toward them she could tell something was wrong. When she neared, Helene noticed Michaela’s sober expression and Anika’s tearstained face. Her father refused to look at her. The dread of his disapproval fell upon her afresh.

Helene slowed, partly because of the awkwardnes of jogging and partly because of the look on the GI’s face. A tight knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She felt vulnerable and ashamed. He knew. They all did.

“Anika,” she cried, ignoring the stares of the others. The girl released her grandfather’s hand and ran to her. Helene bent down and embraced her daughter. Then she looked up at her father, silently pleading for an explanation.

He continued on to the house without a word. Josef waved to the others, then left. His contemptuous frown as he left stung as sharply as any physical strike could.

The group shuffled into the house in silence. Anika occupied herself with a slice of buttered bread. Michaela sat on the sofa and took off her tattered shoes.

Helene’s father pulled her aside and spoke in a low voice. “Your daughter saw an SS officer and thought it was your husband.” His gray eyes searched hers. “You have caused a lot of unnecessary pain, Helene. Did you not tell her he’s dead?”

“I started to explain, but it was too difficult,” Helene said softly.

“I’m so sorry.” Michaela’s voice was thick with emotion. “I tried to stop her, but she was too quick for me.” Helene expected to see repulsion and disgust in the woman’s blue eyes. Her expression was questioning but not hateful. A weight seemed to lift from Helene’s chest.
Does she really know who I am?

Helene took a deep breath. She knew she had to tell her. Had to confess what she should have revealed in the beginning. She stepped forward.

“It’s not your fault. Really. It’s mine. I—” Though she wished more than anything to divert her gaze, to hide her shame, Helene looked into Michaela’s eyes. “I should have told you sooner. You need to understand why Anika thought that man was her father. Her father, my husband Friedrich, was an SS guard.”

Michaela looked away, but not before Helene caught a glimpse of betrayal. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t say I understand your choices. I don’t know what happened then. But from the first moment I saw you I knew you cared. It makes no sense….”

Helene knelt before Michaela and placed a hand on her knee. Michaela took it and gave it a gentle squeeze. If only she were the person Michaela had believed her to be.

“I’m afraid the Americans won’t be as understanding,” her father said sternly. “I’m sure even now Josef’s trying to locate Peter.”

Peter
. At the mention of his name, heat rose to the base of Helene’s neck. She sat on the sofa. “Will they come after me? Will they punish me for my husband’s actions?”

“I doubt that.” Her father ran a hand over his mustache. “The Americans usually try to listen first. Now, if it was the Russian army …” His voice trailed off. “Besides,” he added, “you have no crimes to pay for.”

Deep down Helene felt otherwise.

Anika straggled in from the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Can I have a nap now?” She climbed onto her mother’s lap.

Helene carried her to the bedroom. She felt her father and Michaela watching her. Now more than ever, she wished she could take it all back.

Yet, as she tucked Anika under the handmade quilt she had snuggled under as a child, Helene felt freer somehow. The secret was out. They could either accept her or hate her. Either way, she was tired of pretending. Tired of hurting alone.

Twelve

MAY 26, 1945

P
eter had enjoyed reminiscing with Goldie again. Once he’d overcome the shock of his friend’s physical appearance, it was easy to connect with the man inside. The man who’d survived while so many other POWs had not.

Goldie had soberly shared about starvation rations, inadequate living quarters, and the punishments brought on by minor infractions. Peter, in turn, discussed the camps and the survivors, but he didn’t broach the subject of Michaela and Helene. One word about them and Goldie would have him pegged. Peter couldn’t pull off a nonchalant attitude with the person who knew him best. So he didn’t even try.

Instead, Peter told Goldie about their group of twenty-three men freeing the prisoners of Gusen. He talked about the camp orchestra playing the American anthem as he and his men entered the gates of Mauthausen. The group was made up of the finest musicians in the world, reduced to rags, now living as displaced persons. He related the story of how he found an American prisoner inside the camp. Though frail, the lieutenant had been strong of will and heart.

What brought the most pleasure to Goldie’s face was the description of the SS guards upon their capture. Even before the U.S. entered the war, every American was aware of the mighty SS. Black-and-white newsreels played before every movie and showed rows of fit, handsome men marching as one.

Goldie had sat in silent admiration as Peter described what it was like to have the SS under his control. It was a far different group of men that had straggled back to the American outpost on May 5 under the guard of Peter’s twenty-three GIs. Two thousand Germans had trudged along, five deep, as the rain poured from the sky. With shoulders slumped and heads bowed, they looked more like bedraggled puppies than seasoned soldiers.

Although the two could have shared a dozen more tales, the stories eventually had to stop. Peter wished his friend another goodbye. Only this time, before parting ways, there were no theological discussions, no long talks of God and faith. All Peter needed to know was that Goldie would be okay—and he saw that by the faith and hope in his friend’s eyes.

“I’ll race you home, Pete,” Goldie said. “And when my feet touch home soil, I’ll say a special prayer for your safe return.”

Peter knew his friend wasn’t just talking about returning to America. He was sure Goldie saw his spiritual wanderings too.

Yes, Peter might be able to fool everyone else, but not his friend. Never Goldie.

Peter was on the road again. This time in Czechoslovakia, with a line of trucks following behind his. He’d gone back to Austria, but not for long. Close to St. Georgen, but not close enough.

When he’d arrived at Linz, he found the ten two-and-a-half-ton trucks he’d requested to carry medical supplies. A driver and assistant for each truck waited with them. Peter quickly rounded up German prisoners from the POW camp for extra help, although he was sure they would never have volunteered had they known they would soon be entering the Russian zone.

Now the worst part of the trip was over. The warehouses had been found, the supplies loaded. And the trucks were winding through the tree-lined country roads of lower Czechoslovakia. It was their third day on the road. So far there had been no problems. Warm sunshine fell upon the convoys, and Peter scratched the place where his Red Cross armband encircled his uniform sleeve. All the men on this trip wore these now. It was safer that way.

Yet unlike any official Red Cross representative, at Peter’s side was a .30 caliber pistol. He prayed he wouldn’t have to use it. Another few hours and they’d be back in the American zone. Back to safety, and perhaps back to St. Georgen.

Peter glanced into the mirror, keeping an eye on the last truck, in which the German volunteers were hiding between boxes of bandages and blankets.

“Do you know where those POWs are from?” Peter asked his driver, who was resting his arm on the back of the seat.

“Cap says they’re from the Lake District in Germany. Too bad, though. I would have loved to rub it in to that one obnoxious fellow that I’m sleeping in his bed.”

Peter raised one eyebrow.

“Not like that.” The driver laughed. “I’m staying in one of the SS houses we cleared out a few weeks ago.”

“Really?” Peter cocked his head.

“Right in St. Georgen. I’m just sorry the lady of the house didn’t come with it.” He let out a low whistle. “She sure was a pretty thing, all blonde and curvy. Kinda reminded me of Ingrid Bergman, only with lighter hair. Her man must have abandoned her or was killed, ’cause he wasn’t around to help her pack. She had a little girl, though, I know that.”

“A little girl?” Peter repeated.

“One room had a tiny pink bed.” He chuckled. “You should have seen my buddy climbing into it. He …”

Peter didn’t hear the rest of the story. A hollow ache hit the pit of his stomach.
Blonde woman? Little girl?
Peter wanted it to be a coincidence, but deep down he knew it wasn’t. St. Georgen was a very small village.

It had to be Helene. She was an SS wife. He’d suspected it all along, but he’d forced himself to ignore the signs. He’d let her get close, catching him with his defenses down.

Then a new thought hit him. Did Michaela know? He hated to think about what such knowledge would do to her. He had to get back soon. Had to find some way to tell Michaela himself, before she suffered anymore.

The driver started a new story about finding a boat loaded with accordions on the Danube, but Peter wasn’t listening. He rolled the window down to get some fresh air.

He opened the map again, and a warm breeze ruffled the corners. Captain Standart had outlined their route in red. The captain had also highlighted a second road just a bit to the west that seemed a lot shorter.
Perhaps, if we shave a couple hours off the return trip, we could be back in Linz by late afternoon, and maybe to St. Georgen by morning
.

“How ’bout we try a shortcut?” Peter held the map up for the driver to see. “It looks like this turnoff should be within the next few miles. Want to try it?”

The man grinned. “Anything to get out of this truck sooner. I’ve got one aching back.”

Within five miles they found the turnoff. The area was heavily wooded. Their convoy was the only traffic. Peter stared off into the distance and tried to imagine what Helene would say when he confronted her with the truth. He could almost feel Michaela’s hand in his own.

The truck jerked. “What the—” The driver slammed on his brakes. The tires skidded to a stop. The trucks behind did the same.

A Russian soldier had appeared out of nowhere, pointing a burp gun directly at their cab. Peter glanced at the pistol on the seat beside him, then pushed it behind his back, out of view. He lifted his hands in the air.

“No sudden moves,” Peter whispered to the driver, hoping a platoon of the man’s friends wasn’t hiding in the woods behind him.

“What does he want?” the driver mumbled, also lifting his hands.

“Looks like we’ll soon find out.”

The Russian approached the open passenger window and pointed the small submachine gun at Peter’s face.

“Hello, comrade,” Peter said first in English, then in German.

The man held the gun steady and rattled off something in Russian. His volume rose with every word. His dark eyes flashed with contempt.

“I don’t understand. Do you speak German?” Sweat trickled down Peter’s brow. He willed himself to keep his eyes off the end of that barrel.

“Give him something,” the driver muttered. “Bribe him.”

Peter motioned to his musette bag. “Chocolate? Would you like some food?”

The Russian nodded him on. Peter opened the bag slowly. He grabbed a candy bar and held it out.

The Russian’s gaze softened. But he wasn’t paying any attention to the chocolate. Instead he focused on Peter’s watch, glistening in the sunlight. Before Peter knew what has happening, the watch was off his wrist and in the man’s hand. The candy was tossed into the dirt.

The man slipped the watch into his pocket. While he was distracted, Peter touched the pistol behind him. His finger wrapped around the trigger.

The Russian scratched his head with his free hand, then raised his gun into the air. Peter released the breath he’d been holding. The Russian shot a single round, then lowered the rifle with a sarcastic smile. His teeth were yellow, and one was missing altogether. Then, as quickly as he came, the man disappeared into the woods.

The driver let out a sigh. Peter released his gun. The two stared at each other for a moment; then Peter shook his head and laughed.

“That was close,” the driver muttered, stepping on the gas. The other trucks followed. “I swear I could hear my heart hammering. Sorry about the watch.”

“It’s no big deal. I can get another.” Peter relaxed into his seat. “Can you believe they’re on our side?”

“Who knows? He might be the one sleeping in that Nazi’s bed soon.”

Peter glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard? A portion of Austria is going to be annexed to Russia. And if my sources are right, the Muehlviertel region will be included.”

Peter sat up straighter. “St. Georgen?”

“St. Georgen, Gusen, Mauthausen. Everything from the Danube to the Czech border.”

Peter thought of Helene. If she really was an SS wife, the Russians would take revenge without asking questions.

Peter rubbed the spot on his wrist where his watch used to be. “Rumors. If I had a nickel for every rumor that never amounted to anything, I’d make Rockefeller look like a hobo in comparison.”

The driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You don’t have to believe me. But taxiing you around hasn’t been my only gig during this war, if you know what I mean.”

Peter tried to ignore the disturbing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Now that he knew she could be in danger, Peter’s harsh feelings for Helene softened. Perhaps she wasn’t a traitor after all. He thought about all the time she spent helping the former prisoners. She certainly seemed trustworthy. And she could be in trouble. Along with everyone in her house.