Those Who Save Us
They’re taking us into the woods, a woman wails, they’re going to kill us all!
At this, there are screams and prayers. Some of the Germans break and run. They are swiftly caught and corralled back into place by the Americans.
They’re going to shoot us, another treble voice insists, they’re going to line us up and shoot us—Shut up! somebody says. You’re not making it any easier.
But they’re going to—Shut up!
One of the Americans on the truck stands and unslings his weapon. There are further screams at the staccato stutter of machine-gun fire, and some of the children begin to cry. But when it is realized that the bullets have been aimed at the low-hanging clouds rather than human targets, the multitude settles. Eventually all is quiet but for the shuffle of feet along the slippery pavement and the prehistoric moan of a tank in the distance. An elderly man near Anna recites the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.
Trudie drags on Anna’s arm. She is silently weeping, as is her new habit.
Mama, my feet hurt, she whispers.
The girl is far too heavy to be carried. Nevertheless, Anna takes Trudie on her hip. She will continue this way as long as she is able. It may not be that much farther now, depending on where the Americans are taking them. Anna has her suspicions. They are trudging up a steep incline, dark walls of pine looming on either side. A clammy fog warps the passage of sound; the grind of the truck’s gears might be a meter or five meters away. It begins to rain. Anna registers her discomfort as if from a distance; she is thinking how strange it is to be traveling on this road rather than picking her way through the brambles alongside it, her usual path to the quarry. Surely this is where the Americans will take them if there is to be a mass execution. But when they pass the site of Mathilde’s death and, a little beyond it, the dirt turnoff to the quarry, Anna feels nothing, no joy, no relief. She has the sensation of hovering outside herself, observing.
The command to halt comes so abruptly that, in obeying, people bump into one another. The man who has been praying prods Anna’s foot with his crutch and apologizes. One of his legs is missing beneath the knee, his patched trousers pinned neatly over the stump. He is not as old as Anna first thought; he is probably in his thirties. The Weimarians mutter and jostle as the Americans herd them closer together. The soldiers leap from the truck, dark shapes coalescing in the gloom. Trudie shivers; it is cold here on the mountain. The girl’s braids have come undone and strands of wet hair curve like commas on her cheeks.
It is raining harder now, with an accompanying wind. The fog has lifted enough to show Anna that they have reached the camp entrance. She pulls hastily away from the wall she has been leaning on. Inscribed on its stucco is the legend RECHT ODER UNRECHT MEIN VATERLAND. My Country, Right or Wrong. The archway over the iron gates bears a different, more ominous motto: JEDEM DAS SEINE! To Each His Due! And what, Anna wonders, watching the Americans organize people into columns, is their due to be?
Two soldiers push the heavy gates open, then take up positions on either side. Another American, a barrel-shaped man with a checkerboard of bars pinned to his uniform, strides to the iron archway. Glaring at the fearful crowd, he makes a short speech. He gestures toward the crematorium, the chimney of which is just visible through the trees. Anna, trying to translate, has the feeling she has been here before. In a way, she has. She has often enough imagined the camp from the Obersturmführer ’s descriptions, pictured him patrolling its streets with his adjutant and dogs, envisioned the prisoners sprinting toward the flaming forest. Snaking through the fog is a most familiar odor, sickeningly fatty: that of a smoking campfire on which bacon is being cooked.
The American officer concludes his announcement, his mouth wincing in a tic of disgust. For a moment, Anna expects him to spit. He does not. Instead, he makes a chopping motion with one hand, and the soldiers begin forcing the Weimarians toward the gates.
Although it is not clear whether the Americans’ intent is to slaughter or incarcerate them, the Germans resist. Women balk, thrusting their children behind them; some try again to escape. The Americans are unimpressed, using their fists and rifle barrels to corral their captives. Anna, who is at the head of the crowd, struggles to maintain her balance. She shouts to Trudie to hold tight. The one-legged man is on the ground, reaching for the crutch kicked from beneath him. Somebody tramples on his hand and he shouts in pain.
A soldier drags the first woman toward the camp. She digs her heels into the mud; she clings to the bars of the gate, her head whipping from side to side. Then she spots Anna, who sees that it is Frau Hochmeier.
Wait, Frau Hochmeier screeches. She uses her free hand to claw at the soldier’s arm. Wait, look. Her, over there, look.
The startled soldier glances at her. The people nearest the gate, sensing a possible diversion, quiet somewhat, and Frau Hochmeier uses the pause to her advantage.
Why imprison us? she yells. We’ve done nothing wrong. We just did as we were told, like good citizens. It’s criminals like her you should lock up, that woman right there. She’s an SS whore!
Frau Hochmeier points at Anna.
While the rest of us suffered and starved to feed our children, she was sleeping with an SS officer. I saw it, we all saw it!
That’s true, that’s right, Frau Buchholtz calls. I saw it with my own eyes. Put her and her kind in the camp and leave the rest of us alone.
There are shouts of Whore! Whore! The soldier looks bewildered. Frau Hochmeier places a finger on her upper lip to mimic the Führer ’s mustache and marches in place; then she points again to Anna and pumps her hips back and forth.
That child she’s holding, that’s an SS bastard, she yells.
Somebody in the crowd whinnies hysterical laughter. A clod of mud hits Anna’s arm. The crippled man, having regained his footing, quickly crutches himself away.
Anna stands pressing her daughter’s face to her chest. She could attack Frau Hochmeier, defend herself by responding in kind. She too has only acted to protect her child. But she is paralyzed by the certainty that it will do no good to protest. She has simply awakened from one nightmare into another.
Two of the Americans shove through the mob to bracket Anna on either side. Initially, she thinks this is for her own protection. Then, to immense approval, they propel her with Trudie toward the gates. Frau Hochmeier draws back as Anna and Trudie are thrust past her; she cringes as if Anna were violent as well as morally bankrupt, as if Anna is going to hit her.
Anna doesn’t look in her direction. Nor does she resist the hands that grip her. She concentrates on holding Trudie and keeping her balance. She wishes she had enough mastery of the soldiers’ language to tell them that there is no need to force her. She is light-footed and clearheaded; she could sing with relief. She has been praying, in some secret part of her, for this moment of expiation, this penance.
As she steps beneath the archway, somebody else shoulders through the crowd, the Ami who put a stop to the attack of the day before. His forehead is creased in furrows beneath his helmet.
Trust me, he says to Anna in his pulpy German. Then he lifts Trudie from Anna’s arms.
The girl lets out a shrill scream and reaches for Anna. Anna lunges toward her daughter, but the soldiers restrain her. One of them shouts at Herr Lieutenant Schlemmer, who tightens his grip on the thrashing, shrieking child.
Hey, he says in his own language, this is nothing for a kid to see.
He turns toward Anna. You will not be hurt in there, he yells in German. But it is no place for your daughter. I will watch over her.
Despite his clumsy accent, Anna understands. She has a single second to convey her gratitude with her eyes. Then, as Trudie wails behind her, Anna is pushed along with Frau Hochmeier and all the others through the gates to Konzentra-tionslager Buchenwald.
50
LATE THAT NIGHT HERR LIEUTENANT SCHLEMMER BRINGS Trudie back to the bakery, where Anna is sitting on a stool behind the display case, staring at nothing.
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She’s fine, the Ami says, urging the girl forward for Anna’s inspection. She’s just fine—you see?
And indeed, though Trudie’s braids are undone and her face a streaky mess of what looks like dirt but is probably chocolate, she seems to have forgotten the events of the morning. In fact, she is more animated than she has been in months: she swings the Lieutenant’s hand in high arcs and hangs on it like a monkey, babbling something about tootsie pops.
Anna’s gaze wanders past her daughter to the window, the walls. Her filthy hands lie limp in her lap.
The Ami watches her, blinking.
Where does Trudie sleep? he asks finally. I will put her to bed.
At this Anna stirs. She doesn’t want him poking about upstairs, prying into their private quarters and seeing how she and the girl have been living. Entering Mathilde’s bedroom with its stained and sagging bed.
Thank you, I will do it, she says.
But Trudie is already pulling her new friend from the storefront.
This way, she says; this way, in Tante’s room, I’ll show you.
Anna follows the pair to the base of the steps and stands there, arms crossed, slit-eyed and listening. She hears nothing more than the Ami’s deep loud voice, mingling with the girl’s soprano chatter. And after a while, quiet; then a clank and the squeak of water being pumped in the WC; then the Lieutenant humming to himself as he jogs down the stairs. Anna hastily returns to her stool.
The Ami comes into the storefront and stops when he sees her expression. He ducks his head, rubbing a wrist bone over his shoe-brush hair.
Are you okay? he asks.
Okay? What is this okay? Anna gives a curt nod, wanting nothing more than for him to be gone, to be rid of his earnest, well-meaning presence.
If you please, Fräulein, he says. Come upstairs. I’ve—Whatever else he says is lost on Anna, who finds herself on her feet, hands clenched in fists. She is grateful, of course, for his taking care of the child, but this is going too far. So he too assumes she will express her appreciation in physical form, does he? He of all people, with his earnest, porridgy face, his sad bachelor’s eyes, now shining at her with such hope and such pity!
How dare you, she says, her voice low and quivering.
The Ami flushes.
No, no, you misunderstand, he says. My fault. I put it badly. I don’t— I don’t have much experience with women. It’s just that I have drawn you a bath. I thought you might like to wash, after . . .
He makes an awkward gesture in Anna’s direction, encompassing her ruined dress, the clots of mud on her shoes and her earth-smudged face.
Please, he says. It will do you good.
Anna stays where she is, measuring him. He is by now so red that it appears as though he has suffered a burn, but everything in his posture signifies quiet insistence. If she spurns his offering, he may turn ugly, like the rest. If she complies, he may leave her in peace. She brushes past him and up the stairs.
The tub is full almost to the brim, steam curling from the undulating skin of the water. Anna slaps it with the side of a hand, sending a wave across the room. That he should assume such familiarity, such proprietorship, should interfere to such a degree! Yet he has her trapped up here, and there is nothing else to do. Anna removes her soiled clothes and climbs in, hissing in pain at the temperature. She immerses herself fully and surfaces. She sits dripping and staring at the wall. There is no need to bother with soap. She will never rid herself of the stench of corpses she has buried no matter how hard she scrubs. It is inside her. It will coat her nostrils and the back of her throat as long as she lives.
After some time there comes an uncertain knock.
Fräulein? Fräulein Anna?
The door opens a centimeter.
Is everything all right? I thought perhaps you . . .
Herr Lieutenant Schlemmer sidles sideways into the room, eyes conspicuously averted from Anna’s nudity.
It’s just that you’ve been in here so long and I didn’t hear anything, he says. I was afraid you might have—
Anna turns on him, her face mottled and ferocious with shame.
Go away, she hisses. Go away and leave me alone.
The Ami ignores this. He steps around the puddles on the floor and comes to sit on the side of the tub, still looking anywhere but at her, heedless of the wet stain spreading on the seat of his Lieutenant’s trousers. He reaches past Anna for the soap.
Please, he says again. Allow me.
Tentatively at first, then with more assurance, he lathers Anna’s hair. He fetches the pitcher and rinses it once, twice. His touch is as gentle as a mother’s. Anna submits, head bowed. Tears slip from beneath her smarting lids and into the cooling bathwater. She keeps her eyes closed the entire time.
THEY ARE MARRIED A MONTH LATER, IN AN OFFICE IN THE Rathaus, which the Amis are using for administrative purposes. The ornate furniture of the former government seat has long since been hauled away by desperate Weimarians and chopped up for kindling; it has been replaced by filing cabinets and folding tables and chairs. The rooms are full of men in olive drab, their footsteps echoing in the denuded halls.
Jack wears his uniform; Anna, the June bride, a clean workday dress; Trudie, who watches the proceedings with acute interest from a corner chair, swinging her heels, her least-mended dirndl. The thick sunlight of a summer afternoon slants through the dirty windows onto the couple, making them squint at the army chaplain as he performs the ceremony. He tugs at his earlobe throughout. The hasty mumbled rites are punctuated by the shouts of soldiers outside—Hey, got a cigarette? Hey, Sarge, where do you want me to put this?—and the grinding of truck gears in the square.
Within minutes they are husband and wife. After a quick glass of beer at the base, Anna will pack what belongings she and Trudie have and move into lodgings near Jack’s barracks. He has already applied for discharge, he has told her; as a translator he is near the top of the list. They should have to wait no longer than four months, he promises Anna. Then they will board a ship for America.
51
AND WHAT DOES ANNA TAKE WITH HER FROM GERMANY? Nothing.
Except:
A week before leaving Weimar for her new homeland, Anna surrenders the child to the care of a Red Cross nurse and returns to the bakery. It is a day in early September yet hot as summer: the air still, the sky white, the trees resigned and drooping. A sad afternoon, somehow; abashed, as if the weather is aware that it is acting improperly but lacks the conviction to change seasons.
The door to the storefront is unlocked. Anna opens it and steps inside. She has not been here since moving to her new husband’s quarters three months ago. She walks through the rooms, rubbing her arms. It is cool inside these thick walls.
Crumbs, buttons, dust. Mouse droppings. Anna tries to feel something but cannot. In this place where she has spent the most important moments of her life! She lists each event under her breath as she revisits the site of its occurrence. Here I gave birth to my daughter. Here she was baptized. Mathilde sat here, on the side of this tub. Anna puts a hand on the porcelain. It is chilly; it gives nothing back. Here, in this cellar, Mathilde hid them, people far more desperate than I. Are any of them still alive? Anna looks at the abandoned pallet, the filthy sheets wrinkled as if somebody has just arisen from it, and marvels that she ever slept there. Here I lay awake and thought of Max. At some point he must have walked over these floors, perhaps leaned against the display case. Sat at the worktable and had a cup of tea.
Still she feels nothing.
Here I stood when he first came for me. And here in Mathilde’s bedroom the rocking chair where he deposited his tunic and trousers. Here the brushes with which he smoothed his dark hair, the mirror in which he smiled. Here the corner in which he made me stand, naked with my eyes closed while he walked toward me. His breath on my shoulderblades, stirring my hair. My back to him but still I knew he was grinning.
Here this bed.
Why has she come back?
What possible good can it do to try and remember, one last time, these things best forgotten? And if one must surrender the memory of the good along with the bad, well, perhaps this is not too high a price to pay. Better to remain so distant, a blessing to be so detached, as if all of this has happened to somebody else.
Anna gives the rocking chair a tentative push. It creaks wearily. The rush matting of its seat sags from years of carrying the baker’s weight; its back is missing a slat. Anna stops the chair in its track and bends forward to look through the window at the view Mathilde might have contemplated in happier times. The road, the winding stone wall alongside it. The light is brownish and sad.
It is time to go. Anna turns to leave the room. As she does, she passes the bureau, where Mathilde’s hapless Fritzi still smiles from amidst his shrine of dead flowers, now crumbled to dust. And next to it in a cracked china bowl in which Anna kept odds and ends, candle stubs and needles and earrings and some other jewelry the Obersturmführer brought her, is the small gold case with the swastika on its cover, containing the photograph snapped on her birthday. Anna takes this from the dish without thinking about it; it is as if her hand acts of its own accord. She slips it into the pocket of her skirt before she walks downstairs and away from the bakery for good, never suspecting that in the years to come her daughter will lift this sole relic of her mother’s past from among layers of lacy undergarments in another bedroom across the ocean; that again and again she will stare at this portrait of what could be a family with longing and horror and a species of awe.
Trudy, April 1997
52
TRUDY IS HAPPY. SHE HAS NEVER BEEN THIS HAPPY. SHE IS not sure that, prior to this, she has even known what happiness is; she is awed by the force of it. It is like coming in from the cold, cheeks red and tingling and thighs blushing beneath one’s clothes, and sitting down to a hot meal and suddenly discovering how ravenous one is, a hunger not recognized until this moment.