Soon Zuzanna and I reported to the Strickerei to knit, but we listened all afternoon, hoping not to hear the shots. Maybe Binz was right, and the girls were being released? Sent to a subcamp?
Later that day we heard a truck drive toward the lake and four muffled shots, one after the other, and we prayed silently to ourselves, for praying was a punishable offense. Later, Anise told me she’d heard from the girls working in the kitchen, which was adjacent to the shooting wall, that Binz had taken all four of the Rabbits there for execution. One had to be carried, her wounds not healed enough for her leg to support her.
“We wept,” they told her, “when all four of them cried, ‘Long live Poland!’ at the end.”
After that, I could no longer just be angry and not act. Would we be the next to go to the wall? Who would be left to tell the world? Even if it got me killed, I would launch my plan.
—
THAT SUNDAY, WHILE ZUZANNA slept trying to shake a nasty case of dysentery, I loosened the boards above an upper bunk and shimmied up into what we called the Annex, an attic of sorts, where girls went to smoke cigarettes sometimes. With my bad leg, just getting up into the Annex was an ordeal. There was little light up there to see, and my eyes adjusted to the dark as I assembled my tools for the secret mission.
1. A letter I’d written in German on a single page of camp stationery in which the first letter of each line spelled out “letter written in urine.”
2. The toothpick I’d paid half a bread ration for.
3. My water cup, into which I sent my warm secret ink.
My first tries left puddles on the page, but I soon grew better at writing between the lines and wrote of the operations and the names of the Rabbits who’d been executed. Regina first, then Romana Sekula, Irena Poborcówna, Henryka Dembowska. It felt good to tell Papa about the firing squads and the operations and ask him to send word to everyone he could. By then seventy of us had been operated on. It would take many more letters to get Papa all the names. I asked him to send back a spool of red thread as a signal he had received and understood our secret letter.
—
THE NEXT MORNING WE WOKE to a cold drizzle and lined up ten abreast at Appell, waiting for letter collection before we went to the Strickerei for work. I kept my letter dry under the sleeve of my jacket. As Marzenka came down my row to collect letters, I took it out and ran my finger over it. It was just a bit warped from where urine met paper. Would Marzenka see? The censors?
Marzenka stepped closer and stretched out her arm, her palm up. My hand shook as I placed the letter on her palm. A gasp caught in my throat as the letter slid off and fluttered toward the ground.
“Clumsy,” she said.
I lunged to catch it as it fell, but it ended up on its back in the mud.
“I’m not touching that,” Marzenka said.
I picked the letter up and wiped the mud off with the hem of my dress and handed it to her. “Please, Madame Blockova.”
She took it with two fingers and squinted one eye. “Why so worried about one little letter?” She held the letter up to the spotlight overhead.
I could barely breathe.
She handed it back. “You addressed it to the Lublin post office. Take it back—”
I kept my hands clasped behind me. “In care of Adalbert Kuzmerick. My father works there, Madame Blockova.”
“Oh,” Marzenka said. She slapped it onto her pile and moved on.
I wished that letter safe travels on its way. Be careful with it, Marzenka. It’s our only chance.
CHRISTMAS 1943
Come Christmas of 1943, morale among Ravensbrück staff hit a new low. Earlier that year German troops had fought hard at Stalingrad, despite being underclothed and underarmed, but in the end capitulated. We also faced increased Allied bombing in Berlin, but our troops retaliated in Great Britain, and we seized control of northern Italy and rescued Mussolini, who’d been arrested by the Italian military. So there were still things to celebrate.
As the war dragged on, though, life at Ravensbrück grew more difficult. Fresh transports arrived around the clock, loaded with infected prisoners from the Führer’s conquered territories.
Without Halina the Revier was a madhouse, teeming with disease carriers from every country. There was little time to spend missing Fritz or Mutti. I stayed in my office most days, but the place had to be managed. The camp doctors in particular needed a break, and we received one in the form of an especially fine Yuletide celebration. Across Germany, citizens suffered with reduced rations, but the camp staff still enjoyed real coffee, salami, Polish vodka, and good champagne.
Our party began with a pageant. Binz and her guards shuffled into the canteen dressed as angels, in white satin robes tied at the waist with golden ropes. She’d even convinced me to wear one such outfit, which was good, because the bell sleeves covered the few cuts on my arms and helped me avoid embarrassing stares and questions. This cutting of mine was a phase, a typical tensional outlet, not surprising given the stress of my duties.
Binz and each angel on her staff wore a foil headpiece with a cross rising from the forehead and carried a tall pole topped with a gold-painted swastika that almost scraped the low ceiling. As they filed in, each lit a candle on the tree in the corner, which was fitted with candles on every branch and strewn with the usual silver tinsel threads. Then SS men entered, dressed as shepherds in costumes of robes and long headpieces made of shimmering blue material. Bringing up the rear of the procession was Commandant Suhren, our Father Christmas on stilts. He wore a long red felt robe trimmed with white fur and carried a rod in one hand. He tipped his pointy cap forward to enter the doorway.
“Who’s been naughty or disobedient?” he shouted, a twinkle in his eye.
Soon Father Christmas threw down the rod and opened his sack of sweets. Where was he getting such treats in wartime? Beer, the chosen beverage of the group, flowed freely. Even Father Christmas had a mug.
When the new religion ushered in by national socialism first appeared, it had seemed strange, but one adjusted. According to the Führer, one could be a German or a Christian but not both. He suggested we be Christ ourselves, which seemed a practical solution.
Many German people resisted this change, but all members of the SS converted to this new religion. Gradually, religious aspects of Christmas were replaced with symbols of nationalistic pride, and we celebrated the winter solstice instead of Christ’s birth. Soon even Father Christmas was replaced by Odin the Solstice Man. Mutti chafed at all this, for she was raised a devout Protestant and my father a Catholic, but eventually even Mutti had both a “People’s Tree” topped with a Germanic sun wheel and a traditional Christmas tree. This new religion suited me, for it freed me from troublesome theological issues.
I sat alone and watched the angels and shepherds enjoy their dancing.
Commandant Suhren approached my table, his Kris Kringle pillow belly bouncing as he walked. “You’re not eating, Fräulein Oberheuser.”
He slid his plate of meat and buttered potatoes onto the table.
I turned my face away from the smell of the bloody beef. “It’s ‘doctor,’ Herr Commandant.”
“You must keep your strength up. Meat has protein and iron, you know.” Why did it never occur to him not to lecture a doctor on nutrition?
“We’re counting on you. I know it isn’t easy with Fritz gone and Dr. Gebhardt off lecturing so much. And with the incident—”
Why did everyone refer to what happened with Halina as “the incident”? “I’m fine, Herr Commandant.” It was true. Chronic insomnia was common among concentration camp staffers.
As Suhren shook at least a jigger of salt onto his potatoes, Binz and her boyfriend Edmund kissed in the corner. It looked like an angel giving a shepherd mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Binz, recently promoted to deputy chief wardress at the camp, was not letting her new position disrupt her love life.
“I’d be better if we could manage the situation of the Rabbits
, Commandant,” I said.
“I have a lot to deal with right now. Seventy subcamps, all with their own problems. Siemens complaining the prisoners are dying at their benches. Besides, my hands are tied on the Rabbits situation, Fräulein. Since Berlin slapped my wrist, I don’t even receive reports about what’s happening at my own camp. And Gebhardt doesn’t communicate.”
Suhren had protested the sulfa operations, claiming he needed the Polish girls as workers. Gebhardt appealed to his friends in high places, and Suhren was overruled. He was forced to apologize to Gebhardt face-to-face, a humiliating blow to his ego by all indications.
“So what is the latest?” Suhren asked, rolling a potato with his fork. He’d seen it all from his office no doubt. Why did he need my version?
“Well, after the Rabbits marched in protest—”
“Marched? Half of them can’t walk.”
“They were carried to the square and demanded to see Binz.”
“I heard some of this part.”
“They handed her their manifesto, demanded in writing a halt to future operations.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t incite a scuffle. So you operated anyway?”
“In the bunker this time. Couldn’t use anesthesia down there but we needed the extra security. The whole camp has become very protective of them.”
“How can I help?”
“Berlin heard about the protest, and they are reviewing the situation. Gebhardt says there’ll be no more Rabbits at the shooting wall until further notice.”
“So?”
Suhren watched Binz and Edmund in their corner. I was losing him.
“If we can’t make the results of this experiment go away, we may be the ones left holding the sack. Fritz is gone. Gebhardt’s traveling.”
That got his attention. “I can’t overrule Gebhardt, I’m afraid. He speaks to Himmler himself every day.”
“Well, something must be done soon. If this leaks…”
Suhren waved that thought away. “Our security is near perfect. Only three escapes, and two of the escapees apprehended. Himmler himself complimented our censors. They do not allow leaks.”
This was a blatant falsehood. I’d heard all sorts of things got through our censors. Binz found evidence of this daily. A bottle of hair dye in a box of rolled oats. Antibiotics in a toothpaste tube.
“Besides, the surgeries were performed in secret with the patients blindfolded. None of them can identify you.”
“But—”
“Patience, my dear. I’ll see to it the problem is addressed. Leave this to me.”
Suhren wandered off leaving his napkin wadded up on his plate, beef blood seeping into the linen. As Binz’s chorus of misshapen angels gathered to sing a medley of German folk songs, I felt my first shiver of fear about it all. I knew too well that loose ends tend to unravel.
CHRISTMAS 1943
Any spare time I had that December I spent chasing commuters at Grand Central Terminal, selling war bonds. Seemingly overnight, a 125-foot war-themed photo mural had sprung up on the station’s eastern wall. Warships and fighter planes loomed over the sea of commuters, many of whom were in uniform themselves. The caption left no ambiguity as to the mission: BUY DEFENSE BONDS AND STAMPS NOW!
One afternoon, one of the station’s organists, Mary Lee Read of Denver, who volunteered to play each holiday season, launched into a rousing version of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” This brought the main concourse to a standstill, all commuters holding hands to their hearts as they stood to listen, causing legions of missed trains. The stationmaster asked Mary not to play that song again, and she became the only organist in New York ever barred from playing the United States national anthem.
Security at Grand Central was tight, since two German spies had been caught trying to sabotage the station, but a small corps of volunteers, including Mother and me, were allowed in to sell bonds. All agreed Mother had missed her calling, for she was quite the rainmaker. Woe to the weary traveler who refused to part with at least ten cents for a war stamp, for once in her thrall, they all ended up forcing additional funds on her, which she happily accepted.
There were large numbers of women commuting through the station then. With so many men at war, women joined the workforce in droves. Even Betty had a job typing reports at the armory. Not exactly Rosie the Riveter, but it was a big step for her.
Mother and I spent Christmas morning of 1943 at Saint Thomas Church, not far from Grand Central Terminal at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street. We listened to Rector Brooks at his magnificent carved-oak lectern, resplendent in his Christmas finery, as he did his best to lift our spirits. The war weighed heavily on the congregation, mostly women and older men at that point. There were a few uniformed servicemen in the pews, but most had been deployed to Europe or the Pacific theater by then, including our elevator boy, Cuddy. Every one of us knew someone who’d been impacted by the war. I said a prayer for those aboard the French ship Roger had been forced to turn away the day before, thousands of Europe’s displaced seeking asylum, still waiting off the coast.
I couldn’t bear to count the months since I’d heard from Paul. Roger’s best guess was that he was still at Natzweiler concentration camp. From what information I could gather, many French men had ended up there in the Vosges Mountains doing hard labor in extreme cold. Could anyone survive two years at such a place?
That year another development had surfaced, troubling and ominous. It was clear not only from the scanty reports we got from the Swiss Red Cross but also from New York and London papers that Hitler was moving ahead with his plan to annihilate Jews, Slavs, Gypsies, and any other people he considered Untermenschen, subhumans, in order to make room for his Lebensraum. Reports of gas vans at Chelmno, Poland, and mass exterminations had surfaced. Hitler even stated his plan openly in his ranting speeches, yet Roosevelt was slow to react and kept immigration at a bare minimum.
Saint Thomas was our life raft of hope. Kneeling there in that great church, the air perfumed with frankincense, the magnificent stone altarpiece behind the altar, I felt the world might just untangle itself after all. When I was a child, Father and I began memorizing all sixty saints and famous figures carved in stone there. Saint Polycarp. Saint Ignatius. Saint Cyprian. We’d made it to number forty-six, George Washington, when Father died, so I’d never learned the rest. Being there made me feel close to him, especially when the organist got all 1,551 of the organ’s pipes playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” Father’s favorite Christmas song. Just hearing the flush-cheeked choirboys sing of God’s glory renewed one’s sense of positivity.
As Rector Brooks told us of his plans to enlist in the military and join “the old Seventh Regiment” of New York as chaplain, I read the names cut into the wall of those who served in World War I. Twenty of those, their names painted in gold, gave their lives for their country. How many more would we lose to this second world war? Our parish had more than four hundred members in uniform, and we had already surpassed World War I in the number of those mortally wounded.
I’d snuck one of Paul’s letters into my hymnal, a straggler that had arrived well after France had been invaded. I’d read and reread it so many times it had become thin as facial tissue. I read as Rector Brooks continued:
Thank you, my love, for the packets of Ovaltine. Believe me, this is a welcome change from the hot beverage Rena’s father makes from ground acorns. Do not be alarmed if this letter is my last for a short while. Every newspaper is predicting an invasion soon. But in the meantime know that I miss you and you are not outside my thoughts for more than a few minutes and that is when I am asleep. Please keep us in your prayers and sleep soundly on your pink satin sheets, knowing we will be at H&H Automat soon, enjoying the air conditioning and the apple—
I felt someone’s gaze and turned to find David Stockwell across the aisle from me one pew back. He stared openly at me. What was that on his face? Curiosity? A bit of sadness? I closed my hymnal as Sally Stockwell, who eve
n in the chill of the great hall appeared to be perspiring in earnest, leaned forward and smiled in my direction. Betty leaned forward as well and rolled her eyes for my benefit, a commentary on Rector Brooks’s lengthy sermon.
At the end of the service, Rector Brooks left the altar and followed a sparse procession of choirboys and old men. As they made their way down the center aisle, it was clear their ranks had been decimated, since many had gone off to war, trading their scarlet cassocks and white surplices for military uniforms. Once they made it to the rear of the church and back to the sacristy, the congregation began filtering out.
Mother and I caught up with Betty, David, and Sally in the narthex of the church, the exquisite entryway with its lovely coffered ceiling. All three stood out in the crowd, Betty since she wore a suit of pure white under her Denmark mink coat; Sally since she was about to burst with twins, her crimson coat fighting a losing battle trying to cover her belly; and David because he was practically the only man in Manhattan not in a uniform. He claimed his job at the State Department was an equal sacrifice, but compared to going to war, long lunches at “21” didn’t seem a hardship.
Mother and I reached the three as Sally fanned herself with a church program.
“Oh, hello, Caroline,” said Sally with a tremulous smile.
“Looks like we’ll have two Christmas babies?” Mother said.
“Three,” Betty said. “Now it’s triplets. Mother’s having fits. She has to have three baby nurses lined up.” It wasn’t enough that the Dionne quintuplets were on every billboard, reminding me of my own childlessness. Sally Stockwell had to be an overachiever as well.
I took David by the elbow. “Can I speak to you? Privately?”
David looked startled. Afraid I wanted to discuss our past? Despite my still-bruised feelings, I couldn’t help but notice he seemed to be getting better looking with age.