Lilac Girls

How strange to be on a bus once again. How I had missed the pleasing pull of it: gears shifting then hesitating, gliding and pushing on, going somewhere. The road went from cobblestones to smooth paving made flat by the road crew’s concrete roller. What a fine job you did, ladies, I thought. If only you could feel the smoothness of it.

  A teakettle cried somewhere close, already at a boil.

  A bomb.

  The earth shook, rocking the bus, and the lake lit up like a camera flash.

  “It’s the Allies, bombing,” the nurse said. “They must think we are a German caravan.”

  The driver cut the lights, the engine too, as the Germans left us and buzzed back to camp, their taillights growing smaller and smaller in the darkness. The teakettle whined again, and we cried out as the ridge above us split and our faces lit up, as if around a campfire. At least the impact felt like something, like we were alive, and sent us to the rubber floor. I held my sister to me, bone on bone, and we fell against the others. Did she breathe? Did I? I pressed her to my chest, warm against me.

  Soon the bus engine came alive, and we lurched on toward Sweden, our two hearts one.

  1945

  By April of 1945, Germany had lost the war, though the news media would not admit this. They clung to their fairy-tale world until the end. I knew the war was lost from listening to foreign broadcasts in my quarters. According to the BBC, the western Allies had pushed past the Rhine, and German casualties soared. Suhren said it was only a matter of time before Germany reclaimed Paris, but I knew we were defeated. On April 18 we heard that American tanks rolled into my hometown of Düsseldorf and easily captured the city. The British and Americans were headed full speed toward Berlin.

  One afternoon I left camp and stole along the lakeshore, my steps muffled by humps of moss, suitcase handle slippery in my hand. The lake was angry, and whitecaps whipped across it. Was it stirred by the breeze or by those whose ashes were buried there, settled into silt? How could I be blamed? I had only taken the job of camp doctor out of necessity. It was too late for the lost to raise their bony fingers and give testament against me now.

  As I neared Fürstenberg, I met a sea of German men, women, and children walking, some with luggage, some with only the clothes on their backs. Half of Fürstenberg’s civilians had headed south months before, and it seemed the other half was evacuating that day to escape the Red Army. From their posture alone, one read the humiliation of defeat. I joined that great autobahn of the displaced and was swept up in the crowd, half-numb. It was hard to believe it was all over, that I was running away. The shame of it was near debilitating.

  “Where are you going?” I asked a German man in a tweed overcoat and mustard yellow hat. He carried a birdcage strapped to his back. The bird swayed, perched on its little wooden trapeze, as the man walked.

  “We are taking side roads to avoid Berlin, then south to Munich. There are American troops advancing from the west, Russians from the east.”

  I joined a group headed for Düsseldorf, and our passage on foot was long and unremarkable. We avoided main routes and followed wooded trails and field tracks, slept in abandoned cars, eating anything we could find to stay alive.

  I imagined how happy Mutti would be to see me. She had been living with a man named Gunther in a nice apartment upstairs from our old place, and I’d stayed with them one holiday break. He was a nice enough magazine salesman. Rich too by the looks of the apartment. I imagined the fried onions and mashed potatoes with applesauce she would make in that kitchen when I got home.

  It was drizzling when I reached Düsseldorf, and I had to be careful to keep a low profile, since there were American soldiers everywhere. Not that I was high on the authorities’ list of suspects. Did they even care about me? They had bigger fish to fry.

  The streets of Düsseldorf were littered with abandoned suitcases and horse and human corpses. I walked by the Düsseldorf train terminus, bombed to rubble. As I neared Mutti’s building, I passed a looted wagon tipped on its side as two elderly women tried to strip off its wheels. Along the street, people came and went, some with all their worldly possessions. I tried to blend in with them, to look like just another displaced person.

  Once I made it to Mutti’s doorstep, I was happy to see the apartment building not only still standing but in perfect order. All I could think of was her bathtub and a hot meal. The smell of fried onions hung in the lobby. Some lucky person had squirreled away some food.

  I made it to the third floor and rang Gunther’s apartment bell.

  “Who is there?” came a voice from behind the closed door. Gunther.

  “It is Herta.”

  He hesitated. What was that buzzing sound in my head? Was it due to dehydration?

  “Is my mother here?” I called through the door.

  The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

  “Quickly,” Gunther said. “Come in.” He grabbed me by the arm, pulled me inside, and relocked the door.

  The apartment was still well furnished, with thick carpets and chairs upholstered in velvet. Someone had removed a portrait of the Führer from the wall, exposing a rectangle of brighter wallpaper behind. That was fast.

  “Two looters tried to break the door down this morning. It’s anarchy out there.”

  “Really, Gunther—”

  “Everyone steals from everyone now. Goods belong to those who can hold on to them.”

  “I’m starving,” I said.

  “Everyone is starving, Herta.”

  “They were still cooking food at the camp—”

  “That’s not all you and your friends were doing there. The truth is getting out, you know.”

  I walked to the radio. “There must be rations. They will broadcast—”

  “No rations, Herta. No broadcasts. Women are prostituting themselves for a spoonful of sugar.”

  Gunther did not appear to have missed many meals. He’d lost a bit of weight, but his skin was still taut. Just a slight creping at the neck. How had he managed to stay out of military service? Things were not adding up, and the buzzing sound in my head grew louder.

  “I’m in need of a bath,” I said.

  Gunther lit a cigarette. How was he getting cigarettes? “You can’t stay here. They know what you’ve done, Herta.”

  “Where is Mutti?”

  “She had to go down to the station. They came looking for you.”

  “Me? What for?” I didn’t have to ask who.

  “Crimes against humanity, they said.”

  How could they be on my trail so quickly?

  “You are putting your mother at risk, Herta, just being here. Take your bath, but you need to find other—”

  “My mother may feel differently,” I said.

  “Take a bath, and then we’ll talk.”

  I set my suitcase on the sofa. “I may need Mutti’s help with some matters.”

  He tapped cigarette ash into the ashtray. “Money matters?”

  “Among other things. Legal fees maybe.”

  “Oh, really? If anything should happen to you, the state pays the fees.”

  “Happen?”

  Gunther strolled to the hall closet and came back with a towel. “Take your bath while we still have hot water. We’ll talk later.”

  I dropped my things in the guest room and ran the bath, one ear to the lavatory door, half-expecting Gunther to call the authorities. There was sure to be some sort of Allied military hierarchy set up. Gunther would never turn me in, I assured myself. Mutti would be livid. But Gunther had never been a real patriot, and the new power shift made almost everyone suspect.

  I locked the bathroom door and took my time running the water extra hot. I slipped into the tub, sliding down the enameled cast iron into that glorious burning sea.

  I felt every muscle slacken there in the hot water. Where was Fritz? I would ask for my old job back at the skin clinic. If it was still standing, not under a pile of stones. I rehearsed my talk with Mutti as I soaped my legs, feet black
with dirt from the walk. She would support me, no matter what Gunther said.

  “So what?” she would say when I told her about the camp. “You were doing your job, Herta.” Where was she? Probably out doing her best to find some bread.

  I closed my eyes and recalled Mutti’s breakfasts: hot rolls and fresh butter, her coffee—

  Were those footsteps in the living room?

  “Mutti?” I called. “Gunther?”

  A rap at the bathroom door.

  “Herta Oberheuser?” came the voice through the door. The speaker had a British accent.

  Shit. Goddamned Gunther. I had known he was not to be trusted. How much had they paid him to turn me in?

  “I am coming!” I said.

  I lost control of my limbs there in the tub. Could I make it out the window? Something hard hit the door, and it cracked open. I may have screamed as I reached for the towel. A British officer entered the bathroom, and I sat back in the tub, the diminishing soap bubbles my only protection.

  “Herta Oberheuser?” he asked.

  I tried to cover myself. “No.”

  “I hereby place you under arrest for war crimes against humanity.”

  “I am not she,” I said, in shock, like an imbecile. How could Gunther do this to me? Mutti would be furious. “I have done nothing.”

  “Step out of the tub, Fräulein,” said the man.

  Another British agent came to the bathroom with a canvas raincoat in hand. I motioned for the two to turn their backs.

  “I will leave for a moment,” said the first agent, red-faced. He handed me a towel, averting his eyes. “Wrap yourself in this.”

  I took the towel, and he left, pulling the door closed. I hoisted myself out of the tub. Goddamned Gunther, I thought as I stepped to the medicine cabinet. I found his razor blades and slid back into the tub, the water cooling.

  “Fräulein?” called the first man from outside the door.

  “Just a moment,” I said as I pulled a blade from the pack.

  I felt for the radial artery and found it easily, since my heart was pumping hard. I drew the blade down my wrist, deep into the artery, and watched it open like a peach. The water grew pink, and I lay back in it as it cooled, light-headed. Would Mutti cry when she saw what I’d done? At least I’d done it in the tub. Cleanup would be easy.

  Before I could get to the other wrist, the agent came back in.

  “Christ,” he said when he saw me, the water squid-inked with red by then. “Teddy!” he called to someone somewhere. “Christ,” he said again.

  After a great deal of shouting in English, they pulled me from the tub.

  So much for modesty.

  I was losing consciousness, not about to tell them how to treat me, but noted with satisfaction they were doing just fine without me, for some reason elevating my legs. A sure way to make me bleed out. My feet were still filthy black, in each toenail a crescent of dirt.

  I lost consciousness, but regained it as they carried me out on a stretcher, my wrist nicely bandaged. Someone knew what he was doing. There was a doctor among them? Was he surprised a German doctor had done such a poor job?

  Why did you turn me in? I tried to say to Gunther as the British agents carried me down the stairs to the street.

  They started to load me into an ambulance.

  I saw Gunther watching from a window above, his face impassive. More faces came to windows. Old men. Women. They brushed aside curtains and peered down.

  Just curious Germans. A girl with yellow braids came to the window, and her mother pushed her away and drew the shade.

  “She is only curious,” I said.

  “What?” said an Englishman.

  “She’s in shock,” said another.

  Unter schock? Incomplete diagnosis, English doctor. Hypovolemic shock. Rapid breathing. General weakness. Cool, clammy skin.

  More faces came to the windows. A full house.

  Something wet drifted down to my face. Was that rain?

  I hoped no one would mistake it for tears.

  APRIL 1945

  Mother, waylaid with the grippe, sent me off to Paris alone. She was terribly worried, of course, since the Allies may have helped liberate France, but the war was far from over. How many rogue U-boats were still out there in the Atlantic? I would not be deterred, however, on the eve of seeing Paul again after five long years. I’d taken a bit more silver to Mr. Snyder in order to make the trip. The petit four tongs. Butter knives. A few dinner forks.

  I docked at La Rochelle, north of Bordeaux, on April 12, 1945. When we disembarked, the first mate announced that President Roosevelt had died at his home in Warm Springs, Georgia, and a collective groan went up from all of us gathered there. The president died before he got to see the Germans surrender in France. He never knew Hitler took his own life.

  Roger had arranged for a car and driver to get me up to Paris, and I took in devastated France from the backseat. It’s one thing to read of war in newspapers and chart the action with pins, but it was quite another to see France ripped asunder. It had been more than seven months since the Allied forces helped liberate Paris, but the destruction was still fresh. Entire blocks were decimated, buildings imploded, and the walls of many apartment buildings had been sheared off, showing a cross section of still-furnished rooms. Our drive was repeatedly detoured since black craters and tank-sized sections of macadam blown off the roads were still not repaired. South of Paris, not a bridge over the Seine was left standing. Yet even with all the devastation, it was spring, and the city was still lovely rising from the ruins, the Arc de Triomphe untouched, five flags draped under the arch.

  Once in Paris, I borrowed our caretakers’ old Peugeot, which was powered by an improvised wood-burning stove fixed to the back. A wartime lack of gasoline had led to widespread use of these homemade gasogenes, wood gasification units mounted on the backs of buses, taxicabs, and private cars. It was quite a sight to see these vehicles on the streets, each with its own combustion tank fixed to the rear. Drivers stopped at filling stations to stoke the stove with firewood, not to get gasoline. Driving such a car in Paris was challenging, for the streets were choked with bicycles, and they owned the roads. As a result, the Métro was more popular than ever. Even the wealthiest counts were seen in its depths.

  I arrived at the crossroads of the boulevard Raspail and rue de Sèvres that night and choked back a sob at the sight of the Hôtel Lutetia, still there. Freed from her Nazi occupiers, the towering Belle Epoque hotel stood fearless, her name in lights above, the tricolor flying again.

  I pushed through the hotel entrance, past a tangle of the mothers, husbands, wives, and girlfriends of deportees, and who waved pictures of the missing and called out their names, hoping for news. The lobby, its black and white tiled floor strewn with trampled notices and lilac sprigs, was packed with journalists, Red Cross workers, and government officials, all jockeying for position at the front desk.

  A frail woman in black, her back hunched, seized my arm as I squeezed through the crowd.

  “Have you seen this man?” she said, as she thrust a photograph of a white-haired man in my face.

  “No, I’m so sorry,” I said.

  In the dining room, groups of dazed survivors, still in their striped camp uniforms, sat at tables under the crystal chandeliers as waitresses brought them the best of everything. Veal, champagne, cheese, and fresh bread, from the provisions the Nazis left behind. Many deportees sat and stared at the food, unable to eat. Some who ate more than a few bites headed for the lavatory.

  Searchers elbowed their way into the Great Gallery, to walls plastered with notices and photos of missing loved ones, many inked with black X’s, meaning those deportees would never return. That is where I found it.

  Paul Rodierre. Suite 515.

  I sprinted to the elevator but found it so choked with people the door would not close and ran on to the stairs. On the way, I passed men, skin stretched taut over their skulls, wandering the back halls, their
camp uniforms hanging from them. What would Paul look like? I prepared myself to find him in that state or worse. I didn’t care as long as I could be with him every day. I’d pay whatever it took to get him well.

  I passed guest rooms turned hospital wards, fitted with extra cots, the doors propped open. 511…513…In the hallway, two gendarmes chatted with a pretty nurse. Love was back, now that the war was over.

  I found the spacious fifth floor suite, tall windows open to the city below, the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a lovely French Louis Seize Beauvier cane bed against one wall. The royal treatment for the famous M. Rodierre.

  From the doorway I watched Paul as he sat in an overstuffed chair playing cards with three other men, the curtains on the windows stirring in the gentle breeze.

  Paul was dressed in a plain button-front shirt, and a nurse sat behind him, one arm across the back of his chair, the other hand on his pulse. It was so strange to see him in that lovely suite with the damask drapes and fine wool carpets. I stepped closer and looked over Paul’s shoulder at his cards.

  “I wouldn’t bet the farm on that hand,” I said.

  Paul turned his head and smiled. To my relief, he looked fine. Gaunt, and his head was newly shaved, but he was alive, awash in that white cotton shirt. I couldn’t wait to get him home to his own bed. I would spend every penny I had on doctors if I had to.

  “Have you brought no money for me to bet with?” Paul asked. “No Russian cigarettes? Come here and kiss me.”

  I stepped around the chair and saw, with a jolt, Paul’s legs extended out from the bottom of his shirt, long and thin, knobbed at the joints, like the legs of a cricket.

  “I won’t break, you know. And don’t believe a word the doctor says. If my winnings are any indication, I’m fine.”

  “I don’t know where to start,” I said as I knelt by the side of his chair, afraid to touch him. Was it painful to be so thin?

  A young doctor approached us, his orange hair piled atop his head like frizzled saffron.

  “You are a relative?” the doctor asked.

  “She’s a friend,” Paul said. “Miss Ferriday from New York.”