Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque
Chapter Twelve: Hohne
On the morning of the fourth day, when Zussman left the barracks for breakfast, he saw a ship at the pier. Maybe that was his ship.
He was eating his eggs and hash browns, when Pierson suddenly sat down across from him. "You can't leave today."
Zussman felt his stomach drop. "Why?"
Pierson held his gaze. "I think I found someone."
Pierson pulled the lists from his pocket and opened one. Zussman could see he'd penciled some notes beside some names. He pointed to a name on his father's list, far down the page. "Johan Strauss, born 1928."
Zussman pulled the list close. Johan Straus was the son of Karl and Marta Strauss. Marta was one of the daughters of Johan Martin Zussman, his father's uncle. The notes beside the young man's parents included a date in 1944 and the name Auschwitz. The same date was written beside the boy's grandfather's name. And some of that man's other children and spouses. Even one near Johan's younger sister, born in 1934.
He had known that these family members were likely dead but it still hit him hard. He'd never met them, but they were people his father loved, some he'd grown up with. They were the people in the photos back in his box. All dead the same day in the same place.
Pierson pointed to the young man, Johan, again. "He reported the others. He's not dead. And right now, if he's this Johan, he thinks he's lost his entire family. But he hasn't because I'm sitting across from you."
Zussman's mind was reeling. He thought of everything that boy would have gone through for most of his life. The segregation, the intimidation, the laws that took away citizenship, livelihoods, possessions, schools, homes. Then the ghettos, the trains, the camps, the selections, the separations, the starvation, the slave labor, the brutality, the inhumanity. "Where is he?" Zussman breathed.
"Bergen-Belsen in Germany."
But hadn't he been told that one was liberated? He felt cold all the sudden. His thoughts solidified. "I can't go to Germany."
"I'll be with you. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."
The boy needed him, needed to know he still had family. But Germany. Going back there. The ship was there in the pier. His mother needed him home. He needed to be home. That boy had no home. "I don't even have a uniform; I don't have anything but a box and some letters."
"We'll get you a uniform. Both. 'Cause you're going to need to go home in your dress uniform like everyone else. I'll get you on the next ship. Colonel Davis gave me leave, and a jeep. We'll stock it up with food for the trip. We'll have guns and ammo. We'll go there and meet him, see if he's who we think he is, swap information and come back. You can do this."
Zussman wasn't so sure. He felt nauseous and his hands were clammy. Pierson put a hand on his arm. "Finish your breakfast. Take a walk and think about it. Meet me in your barracks in a half hour and let me know."
He left and Zussman rubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair. He took deep breaths to try and slow his breathing. Then he finished his hash browns. He wasn't going to leave food on the table.
When he returned to the barracks, his box was gone. In its place was a foot locker with his name on it. "Open it," Pierson said.
Zussman knelt down to open it. Inside he found his box of photos, his chocolate bars, and uniforms, a jacket, his ribbons, a canteen, and everything else he'd need to be kitted out for patrol. He dug through he box of photos and picked out a few to tuck into his satchel. "I should let my mother know I won't be home just yet."
Pierson smiled. "The jeep waiting outside is ours. Take your time. Then we'll go see Colonel Davis."
The uniform, it turned out, was a little big on him. He wondered if the Army even had anything small enough to fit his tall but thin frame. He thought it would feel strange to put one on again but it just felt familiar. Old hat. There was no rifle in the foot locker, but he had a knife and a pistol. He felt a little better knowing he wouldn't be defenseless.
"Are you sure about this, son?" Colonel Davis asked.
"No, sir," Zussman admitted. "But I think I need to do it anyway."
Davis watched him for a few seconds. Then he looked at Pierson. "You'll make sure he gets back here in one piece."
"Yes, sir," Pierson promised.
Davis looked back to Zussman. "I hope you find what you're looking for."
"Thank you, sir." Zussman and Pierson saluted again then left. The jeep was parked just outside.
Pierson handed him a key. "The crates have food in them, mostly MREs. Where were going, there are hungry people. People who would steal that food. You're in charge of it."
Zussman nodded and got in the passenger's seat. He noted two rifles there as he looked in back.
Pierson went on. "We're at the far western edge of France, so it'll take a while to cross the border. We'll stop at night at allied bases or at a hotel. Once in Germany, we'll need to be cautious. Stay near our troops as much as possible. There are reports of some guerilla resistance. Nazi holdouts who didn't honor the surrender. It's rare, but we need to keep our ears and eyes open."
Zussman nodded, and tried to tamp down the fear he felt. He wasn't even out of France yet. But the drive through France began to lull him out of that fear as it passed by the jeep. He saw some destruction and it reminded him of the fighting he and Daniels did here, racing against that train. This time, crossing France, he stayed awake.
They stopped at Bastogne for the night. Zussman remembered being here briefly before he was rushed off to Paris. Walking through the base with Pierson, he felt like he was very conspicuous. The only concentration camp survivor on base. But no one looked askance at him. Pierson got them a couple cots for the night, and they found dinner at a little café in town. They weren't the only soldiers there.
While they waited for their food, Zussman took a few photos from his satchel.
"Who's who?" Pierson asked.
Zussman checked the names on back. He showed Pierson the photo of an older pair of gentlemen with his father in 1922. "This is my father," he said, pointing to the younger man in the center. "A week before my parents left for America." He pointed to the man on the left side of the photo. He was wearing his First World War uniform. "My grandfather," he told Pierson, "and my great-uncle Martin Zussman." He said the name as Zoossmahn, the more German pronunciation, because that is what it would be to the brothers, Martin and Karl Zussman.
"My grandfather fought in 1918, here in France," Pierson commented.
Zussman sighed. "My grandfather was at the Austrian front, on the German side."
"I'd imagine so," Pierson agreed, "since he was German."
Zussman appreciated that Pierson wasn't holding that against him-or his grandfather. He thought about the letters from family before the war. "At first, his veteran status exempted him from some of the anti-Jewish laws. Papa said that was why he couldn't talk the rest of the family into leaving. By the time they realized Papa was right, it was too late. The Nazis wouldn't let them leave."
"It's going to hurt your dad when he finds out," Pierson warned.
Zussman nodded. "Yeah, but I think they already suspect it."
"It's different when you know for sure."
Zussman nodded again. He picked out the picture of Karl and Marta Strauss and their two children, dated 1936. The little girl was only a toddler. He pointed to the little boy. "This is Johan. He's only eight here. That's his little sister, Elsa." There was a little puppy between her legs.
"His parents then?" Pierson asked. "His mother was beautiful."
"She'd be my dad's cousin. She was the youngest of Martin Zussman's kids."
Pierson frowned. "Looking at their names on a list is one thing, seeing their faces is another. I'm glad your parents had those photos. Can't imagine any remain in Germany."
Their food arrived, and since it was a small table, Zussman put the photos away. They didn't talk much after that. Zussman concentrated on the food. He thought about the newspapers from those years. The pictures of synagogues burning and shop windows broken on Kristallnacht. The laws that took away schools and jobs and even that puppy in the photo. He just didn't understand how anyone could look at that little girl and hate her enough to kill her. Metz was one of those who would have. He was glad his parents left when they had.
They wanted an early start in the morning so they found their tent and went to bed.
Zussman was already awake when Pierson woke up. "You sleep okay?" he asked.
"Not for a long time," Zussman told him. "Not last night."
Pierson nodded. He got up and started gathering his gear so Zussman did the same. "Remember what I told you about Kasserine?"
Zussman was surprised by the question. "Yes."
"I still see them when I sleep sometimes."
Zussman nodded. They understood each other and that was all they could do to help. One couldn't change another's dreams.
They crossed the bridge at Remagen, and this time Zussman got to see it. He could see men repairing it under the watchful eyes of Army engineers. There were large holes in the roadbed but they were patched. Zussman looked at the high towers on each side and imagined them with MG42s in the windows, snipers on the roofs. It must have been a tough fight.
Pierson must have guessed what he was thinking. "We fought our way forward here, then took those first towers. Then we had to fight our way over to the AA guns. Daniels manned that one." He pointed off to his right. "Luftwaffe was trying to finish the job of destroying the bridge, but we held them off 'til our flyboys arrived. The bridge was ours, so the four of us ignored orders and went lookin' for you."
Zussman smiled faintly. That dereliction of duty had saved his life. "Glad you did," he said. Then his smile faded as he realized they were now in Germany. His body tensed and he tried to tell himself he was still safe. There war was won and Pierson wouldn't let the Nazis take him again. The Allied forces were all over, occupying the country. But the tenseness refused to go away.
The road took him past little towns and villages, most in ruin. Some of the populace still there openly glowered at them as they passed. Others approached the jeep when it had to slow down. They asked for food or supplies. But Zussman had been withheld those things. "Nein," he told each of them and batted away that hands that came too close.
Pierson didn't judge. "Show the pistol if you have to. Just don't shoot unless..."
Zussman understood, unless they actually threatened him or attacked.
Finally they were in open country again. But now he could see the railroad tracks beside the road. That might have been the track that had taken him to Bad Orb. He didn't think they were far enough east to be near Berga. The memories didn't make a distinction.
They were five days on the train from Bad Orb to Berga. The train alternated between slow movement and no movement at all. And yet, the doors remained closed and locked. The straw littered on the floor lasted only so long in those conditions. The men in his car tried to keep their refuse to one corner, then one end. The straw ran out and men with letters from home had to sacrifice those precious pages to their baser needs for toilet paper.
The stench was horrendous. Some of them men vomited, so there was that, too. By the last day, they were dry heaving. There had been no food delivered, no water. All were weakened by the ordeal, which didn't serve them well for the conditions in the camp.
The road turned away from the railroad, and the memories relented in favor of the new scenery as they turned north.
Again they spent the night in a US Army base. But the next day, they crossed into the British zone. There was a short holdup at the border but they were cleared quickly and allowed to pass. That night they stayed in a Private Zimmer, which left Zussman far more uneasy.
The home owner was gracious, especially once she realized Zussman could speak German. Still, she spoke a mixture of English and German words. She led them to a room with two beds, a chair, and a small table. Pierson told Zussman to get some sleep. He sat at the table and started to clean his rifle.
Zussman closed his eyes and tried to slow the beating of his heart. One trick he'd learned in Berga was to count backwards from one thousand, spelling out each number slowly. One letter per movement of breath. O in, N out, E in, out and in as the end of a word. It was three movements for the end of a number and one for the hyphen between ninety-nine and such. He rarely got into the nine hundred eighties before falling asleep. Handy when he got to the barracks late, and was woken up so early.
This time he wasn't exhausted from the work or beatings. So he passed the nine hundred eighties but sleep came in the mid-nine seventies.
He awoke some time later when the door to the barracks was shoved open violently. The guard shouted, "Raus, raus!"
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the wan light coming through the curtained windows. Pierson seemed startled, too. He sat up in the chair and gripped his rifle. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Zussman looked to the still closed door of the little room they were in. "I was back there," he said as his breath evened out. "Sorry. You didn't even get in bed."
Pierson stretched. "Not in a German house. Just in case."
There was a knock on that door. A woman's voice. "Frühstück in einer halben Stunde." Her footsteps moved away. Another knock. "Breakfast dreißig minuten." And again farther away. Three rooms.
The two of them ventured out ten minutes later. They found a line formed at the washroom. Three British soldiers were there before them. The door to the washroom opened and produced a fourth. "Good morning," the soldier said in greeting as he passed the line on his way back to his room.
"What brings you yanks up here?" one of the other two asked.
"I heard the Frau speaking German to your door," the other said, eyeing them suspiciously. He had more of a Scottish brogue. "Yet those are yank uniforms."
"I speak German," Zussman admitted.
"Do you now?" the Scot asked.
"I'm from Chicago," Zussman added. He had enough drama going on inside him. He didn't want to start anything with these allies. "And I'm Jewish."
The other elbowed the Scot rather hard in the ribs. "Oh!" the Scot exclaimed. "Meant nothing by it."
"No offense taken," Zussman offered.
The door opened again, and now it was just the three of them. The Scot took another look at Zussman. "Don't they feed you in the US Army?"
Pierson handled that one. "The Germans didn't, when he was a POW."
The Scot's face went red. "I just keep sticking my foot right in my mouth, don't I then?"
The door opened. "I swear he only has half a brain and no sense whatsoever before he's had his morning coffee." The Scot hurried into the washroom. "He'll likely be more civilized at breakfast. See you gents there."
After they each had their turn in the washroom, they returned and tidied up their room. They took their things down to breakfast with them and stowed them under their chairs. The woman and two children brought rolls and various toppings of jam, cheese, ham, and fried eggs to the table. The British soldiers dug in as they'd eaten here before. Zussman found the offerings familiar, though his mother never served ham, of course. Pierson seemed the odd man out but he caught on quick.
Breakfast was pleasant. Soon all six of them were swapping stories of daring do, farcical or harrowing fighting. Zussman found himself joining in. He even told them about working with British Intelligence to take down the armored train. They seemed jealous not to be in Paris when it was liberated.
Zussman managed to remember he was a soldier and leave Berga behind for a little while. Until he caught a glimpse of the children staring at him. He tried to ignore them but he heard them whispering before their mother shooed them out of the doorway. The whispers were in German, but, of course, Zussman had understood. "He looks like a Jew," the boy had said.
"So what brings you by?" the ranking Brit, a lieutenant, asked Pierson. "If this one's been a POW, you should be getting him home."
Pierson smiled. "We intend to. We're going to stop by Bergen-Belsen first."
The Scot made a face. "Sightseeing? Kind of grim, isn't it?"
Pierson shook his head. "We've already seen a couple camps. It's the DP camp we're interested in. His folks had family here in Germany."
"Oh dear," the young man who'd made excuses for the Scot spoke up. "Jewish? You think you might have a survivor?"
"We hope so," Pierson said.
"Oy, good luck with that!" the Scot said, sincerely this time. "Our unit helped liberate that camp. Horrendous what Jerry did to those poor people."
That brought the banter to a halt. They all had a haunted look to their eyes, remembering. Zussman could relate, though his camp hadn't been the hellhole Auschwitz or Bergen-Belson had been. It was hell enough.
"I could live to be a thousand," the lieutenant said, "and never forget the sights I saw, the smells." He paused a moment then raised his cup of tea. "I hope you find who you're looking for. Let one poor bastard know they've still family after all."
"Here, here," the others joined in. So Pierson and Zussman raised their mugs and nodded. Then they all took a drink.
Zussman admitted to himself that he would have liked to see one of those other camps. The ones worse than Berga. The civilian prisoners had been very thin for sure, but not walking skeletons. The Germans still killed a lot of them, but there were no gas chambers. And from what he'd heard, many of the death marches ended up in Bergen-Belsen. He knew the cruelty of the Nazis, had even lived some of it, but to see it on that scale, and then multiply that to millions of dead and dying prisoners... It was beyond his experience and even his imagination. Bergen-Belsen would have been more like Auschwitz, the camp that young man back in Berga had come from. A camp that made Berga seem like a step up.
Did his experience even count? To him, Berga had seemed hellish. People still died. Some of the civilians and nearly half of the POWs. Zussman himself had nearly died at least three times because of that camp and his treatment in it. And Metz had come to Bad Orb looking for Jewish prisoners to put to work. Did that make him part of this whole attempt to exterminate the Jews of Europe?
He kept those thoughts to himself at breakfast. He and Pierson left right after. It took hours still to get to Bergen-Belsen, now called Hohne, by the British. Enough hours that the soldiers providing security there suggested they come back in the morning.
This time they got a room in a hotel in a nearby town. It wasn't fancy but there were plenty of American and British people there so that Zussman didn't feel as nervous about staying as he might if the other clients had been German. After securing the rooms, they explored the town. Much of it was still damaged from the war. The Germans who were out looked down when they walked past. Some were picking up debris, loose bricks and pieces of buildings. Zussman and Pierson returned to the hotel before it got dark.
Some of the other patrons had warned that the restaurants in town didn't have much to offer. So they took their locked food crates up to their room and ate there. MREs weren't great, but they were a feast compared to the food in Berga, so Zussman didn't mind. They kept their door locked, which Zussman appreciated.
Pierson went to sleep early. He asked Zussman to wake him at midnight. Zussman appreciated his willingness to keep watch. It probably wasn't necessary. They were in a locked hotel room surrounded by rooms of other allies. It was very unlikely that anything would happen.
Zussman could tell himself logically that he was as safe as he could be in Germany now that the war was over. But no amount of logic was making him feel safe. He still feared a jackbooted Nazi soldier would bust down the door, gun drawn, and shoot him. Or that a sniper might sight him through the window. Or maybe the hotel staff has marked him as a Jew and would kidnap him so they could take him into the woods and shoot him.
To try to stop those thoughts, he pulled out his pictures, reread his letters. He wrote a letter first to Daniels to tell him what he was doing instead of heading home. Then he wrote another to his mother, though he figured he'd hand it to her himself when he got home. He told her all about Germany now, as he saw it from the jeep, in the Private Zimmer, here in the hotel. He wrote about the suspicious children, the defeated posture of those in town.
And he wrote her his story, on separate pages. He told her about Metz's visit to Bad Orb, the train, the work, the beatings, the food, the friends dying, the small ways the medics helped him, the burning of her letter. The separation as the camp was emptied. The shooting in the woods when he thought he'd died. His return to Bad Orb, waking up from surgery, the pneumonia, the long days in the hospital, and his walks with Pierson.
His dreams that night were milder than usual. He was still in Berga, but it was more the routine and less the beatings, the threats and insults of Metz. It was rising before dawn, drinking weak ersatz coffee, eating horrid bread, then marching in the cold, working in the dust, trudging back to the barracks, standing to be counted, then collapsing exhausted on the hard bunks in the barracks just to do it all over again the next day and the next day. When Pierson woke him with a hand on his arm, he didn't feel rested, but he didn't jump or get startled.
He yawned and Pierson asked, "Didn't sleep well?"
"Dreamt I was exhausted," Zussman replied, yawning again.
"Well, let's see if we can't find some breakfast then head to the camp. Maybe that'll wake you up."
There was a little café in the town. It was crowded with British soldiers. The staff went out of their way to be kind and gracious. When Pierson went to pay for the meal, the owner wouldn't have it. Zussman had seen him looking at him. Maybe he, too, had guessed he was Jewish, and, being this close to the notorious concentration camp, thought better of not giving a Jew in his shop preferential treatment. This one time, discrimination had worked to Zussman's advantage.
When they reached the camp they were directed to the Jewish leader of the Central Committee of Liberated Jews in the DP camp. Josef Rosensaft did not attempt to speak English but he had another young man beside him who did. Mr. Rosensaft did speak Yiddish, so Zussman was able to follow some of what he said. It was just easier to listen to the translation.
Pierson told them they were looking for a survivor named Johan Strauss.
After the translation, Rosensaft looked at them sternly and with suspicion.
"What do you want with him?" the translator relayed in a British accent.
"We think Private Zussman here may be related," Pierson told them.
Rosensaft relaxed. "Why do you think this?"
Pierson pulled his copy of the list from his pocket and showed them. "His parents left Stuttgart in '22. This is his father's extended family."
"My mother prepared the list," Zussman added.
Rosensaft looked over the list. Then he walked out from behind his desk. He led them out of this office into a side room with a table and chairs. He stepped to talk to a woman who was working as a secretary. She left and came back a minute later.
"Please," the translator said. "Wait here. We will bring him to you. Be sure before giving him a false hope in a family that's not dead."
"Of course," Zussman assured him.
"Do you need a translator?"
"I speak German," Zussman replied. "If he's from Stuttgart, so does he."
The man nodded. He turned to Pierson. "Mr. Rosensaft would like to speak with you further, Sergeant."
Pierson looked to Zussman then shrugged. Zussman nodded. Jewish survivors were not a security risk. He understood their initial trepidation. Soldiers were coming for one of their own, after the persecution they had suffered.
So Pierson left with the translator and Zussman waited. He opened his satchel and pulled out the pictures he'd brought and his own lists from his mother's letter. After about fifteen minutes, the door opened and a young man entered. Zussman stood and the boy eyed him warily, until he looked at the name on Zussman's uniform.
"Der Name meines Großvaters war Zussman."
Zussman indicated the next chair over. "Deshalb wollte ich mit dir reden."
Johan sat. Zussman asked if he knew his grandfather's first name. He didn't. He was a child before the war and only called him Opa.
"Der Name deiner Mutter?"
"Marta Zussman, bevor sie meinen Vater heiratete," Johan said. "Du kennst meinen Namen. Wie heißt du?"
"Robert Zussman," Zussman replied, "genau wie mein Vater. Der Name deines Vater?"
"Karl Strauss," Johan answered. "Ich hatte auch eine Schwester."
"Elsa?" Zussman asked.
When Johan nodded Zussman showed him a photo. The one that had his parents and his sister, and that little puppy.
Tears welled up in Johan's eyes. He held out a shaky hand. "Darf ich?"
"Natürlich." Zussman handed him the photo. Johan held it as if it were a precious gem. Tears fell down his cheeks.
"Wo hast du das gefunden?"
"Ihr Großvater hat es 1936 an meinen Vater geschickt."
Johan looked up from the picture. His eyes had gone wide. "Ihr Großvater und mein Großvater waren Brüder?"
Zussman smiled and nodded.
"Du bist americanisch."
Zussman nodded again. "Meine Eltern verließen Stuttgart im Jahr 1922. Sie leben in Chicago."
"Ich habe einen Onkel in Chicago?" Johan wiped his tears.
"Und einen Cousin genau hier. Zussman put the picture of his own family on the table. He pointed to himself as a little boy.
Johan stood up abruptly so Zussman stood, too. Johan pulled him into a bear hug and started crying in full. Zussman just held him. Johan was just a kid when he went through hell and lost just about everyone he ever knew. He was still a kid. Just seventeen.
After he had a good cry, he broke the hug and apologized as he wiped his eyes and sat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.
"Das ist nicht nötig," Zussman told him.
"Du bist schmal für einen Soldaten, nein?" Johan asked, changing the subject.
"Ich hatte meine eigenen Probleme mit den Nazis," Zussman replied. "Es war nicht Auschwitz, aber es hätte mich fast umgebracht."
Johan looked at him for a few moments. "Ich kann es in deinen Augen sehen. Ich bin auch schmal. Wir werden trotzdem wachsen."
Zussman nodded. "Ja wir werden. Meine Mutter wird sich darum kümmern, wenn ich nach Hause komme."
"Deine Eltern haben mehr Briefe von meinem Großvater?"
Zussman nodded again. "Mama hat sie alle behalten. Ich glaube, sie hat Chanukka-Karten von deiner Mutter."
Johan looked sad again. "Ich wünschte, ich könnte sie lesen."
Zussman took hold of both his shoulders. "Ich weiß nicht, was du vorhast," he told the younger man. "Aber du hast eine Familie in Chicago. Vergiss das nie."
Johan nodded. "Ich habe an Palästina gedacth." Johan admitted. "Veilleicht werde ich über Amerika nachdenken."
Zussman took out a piece of paper and a pen from his bag. He wrote on it his parent's names and address in Chicago. "Sie würden sich sehr freuen, von Euch zu hören."
Johan asked him many questions about Chicago, his parents, and his childhood. Zussman answered what he could and shared more pictures.
Pierson was surprised that Rosensaft wanted to see him. But he just spoke to the translator rather than speaking directly to him. Finally, the translator spoke. "Come with me, please." He began to leave the office.
Pierson followed, but if this hadn't been a DP camp, he wouldn't have left Zussman alone. "Uh, where're we goin'?"
"Mr. Rosensaft says there is another survivor from Stuttgart here. Maybe she has more knowledge of the people on your lists."
Pierson pulled those lists from his pocket. "I have his mother's side, too. And some friends. What's your name?"
"Petr," the man replied. It almost sounded like Petter, but there was a lot less space between the t and the r. "I was studying English and German in Charles University before the Germans invaded Czechoslovakia."
"You speak it very well," Pierson told him as they left the building. "Foreign languages aren't so big in American schools."
"America has been isolationist for much of its past," Petr said. "Only very large wars have brought you out."
Pierson nodded. "True. Things may change after this very large war." Pierson started to hear music as they approached another building. Classical music.
"Sofi Bergman plays the clarinet," Petr told him. "This saved her life."
Pierson didn't understand. "How?"
"There were orchestras in Auschwitz. One for men and one for women. They played marches as the workers went in and out, but also concerts for the Germans."
"Huh? I did not know that," Pierson admitted. He thought he remembered a Sofi on one of the lists. But he didn't recognize Bergman. They went inside and sat down until the rehearsal was finished and the orchestra-it was larger than he expected-packed up. Then Petr motioned that he should stay. So Pierson stayed put as Petr approached one of the clarinet players. As they spoke together she looked over at Pierson. He saluted with two fingers to his temple just to acknowledge and hopefully convey that he was friendly. She and Petr walked back his way. He stood and offered her his hand.
She took it and shook it briefly before pulling it back. She said something in German and Petr translated. "You have lists of people from Stuttgart she can maybe help with?"
Pierson nodded and offered her the seat next to him. "Yes. A member of my squad, Private Zussman, his parents moved from Stuttgart to America. We're hoping to find information about their families and friends still in Germany when the war started." He handed her the three lists.
Petr stood behind them and continued translating.
She put the first page to the back of the pack. Pierson had recognized it as the friends. She spent some more time with the family tree lists. But she put the father's list away pretty quick, too. Probably because he'd already scribbled information for them. Then she set the lists in her lap. "Oh, Zussman!" she exclaimed. The translator shared her words. "I have a vague memory of that name."
Pierson felt good about that. It was a start. She picked up the father's list again but started shaking her head lightly as she read it more carefully. She still had short hair though she had tried to dress it up with a ribbon across her crown and tied behind her neck. She was thin, maybe in her thirties, though her face had a few more lines from all she'd suffered. Her whole demeanor changed when she switched pages. She sat up straighter and looked closely at the page.
"You know someone there?" Pierson asked.
Petr didn't quite have the same emotions in his translations of her reply. "I know me there."
"Und meine Mutter."
"And my mother." Pierson hadn't needed the translation that time.
"Meine Großmutter und meine Tanten," she added. She dropped the pages again.
"My grandmother and my aunts," Petr said. He was smiling now.
She spoke more rapidly now, looking forward as if staring into the past. Peter translated quietly as she spoke. "I remember a wedding. My aunt's wedding. I was a little girl. I held the flowers. She married a man, a Zussman, and moved to America." She flipped to the previous list. "Robert Zussman. I remember."
So she was that Sofi, but a little girl then. She had obviously grown up, married, and taken the name of her husband.
She held the lists to her chest. "Dein Zussman ist heir?"
Pierson nodded. She looked to Petr. Petr smiled broadly. "Come," he said and they both stood.
Pierson introduced himself properly on the way back to the Council's office. "Sergeant William Pierson," he said, offering his hand again.
"Sofi Bergman," she said, smiling now but with unshed tears in her brown eyes. "Ich dachte, ich wäre jetzt alleine auf der Welt."
Petr translated and Pierson smiled. She wouldn't be alone in the world anymore.
She stopped suddenly and pointed to the lists again as she spoke.
"All are dead now," Petr repeated in English. "My parents, my aunts and cousins, my husband, my daughter."
She'd had a child. Pierson's chest hurt just then. "I'm so sorry," he said.
She sighed then started walking again, clutching the lists again to her chest.
Rosensaft was waiting to greet them in the outer office. He and Sofi kissed cheeks in greeting then spoke together in Yiddish, Pierson guessed. Petr didn't translate. Rosensaft smiled and touched her shoulder. He led them all to the side office where Zussman was meeting with Johan. But when they went inside, Petr introduced her to both Zussman and the young man.
Sofi pulled one of the pages from her chest and looked it over. She looked at Zussman and spoke in German. "Er ist also auch dein Verwandter."
"Auch?" Zussman's eyes went wide.
She moved to his other side and showed him the second list. "Deine Mutter?" she asked as she pointed to a name.
"Ja," Zussman replied. He looked at the list then pointed to another name. "Deine Mutter?"
A tear slid down Sofi's cheek but she smiled. "Ja, ich bin diese Sofi." She put the papers on the table, then took Zussman's face in her hands. "Du bist so jung, aber du bist meine Cousine."
"Ich bin auch sein Cousin," Johan said, "auf der Seite seines Vaters."
Pierson wasn't getting translations now but he thought he caught the gist. He motioned to Petr and they stepped out to let the family get acquainted.
"You came for one," Petr said. "But you find two."
"Less than we hoped for," Pierson admitted, "but two more than we thought we'd find."
"German Jews suffered the longest," Petr said. "Very few survived. Johan was young, strong enough to work, so they kept him for slave labor. Sofi was saved for the orchestra. If she had not played, she would have been gassed with her child."
Pierson didn't understand that. "She would be young enough for work, wouldn't she?"
"Nazis killed mothers with their children," Petr explained. "Kept them both calm before the gas."
Pierson's chest hurt again. It burned in anger. "They should rot in hell for what they've done!" he said through clenched teeth.
Petr nodded. "I agree." There was a steely tone in his voice. "When I leave here, I will never speak German again."
"You were in Auschwitz, too," Pierson guessed, remembering how he'd described the orchestras there.
"I worked the ramp. Telling new arrivals to leave their bags, men to one side, women and children to the other, translating for the Nazis. I told some to say that they were older, some younger, that twins were a good thing. I remembered Sofi. I made her leave her clarinet. I told her to tell the Nazi doctor that she played."
"But her daughter?" Pierson still hurt to think of that little girl.
"Probably, she went with her grandmother to the other side."
"The other side?"
Petr pointed one way. "Links, Tod." He pointed to his right. "Rechts, Leben. One goes to the gas, the other into the camp."
Pierson didn't know what to say. "I saw Ordruff and Buchenwald. Dead people on the roads from long marches."
"There were hundreds of camps," Petr told him. "In Germany, in Poland, the Netherlands, France, Czechoslovakia. Auschwitz was just the biggest. All of them were death."
Pierson nodded. "I saw a little one, too. Berga. Not far from Buchenwald." He almost told him about the POWs but thought better of it. It was a long story and would only cause questions the Army didn't want him to answer. "It's all so wrong."
"It was like the world was inside out," Petr said. "Or upside down. Bad was good and good was a crime. To help a Jew was a death sentence. To be a Jew was a death sentence. To help the resistance, the same. But to denounce your neighbor? That was rewarded."
Pierson had trouble imagining living in that. "I'm sorry," he told Petr.
Petr shook his head. "The Germans should be sorry. The collaborators. But you Americans, the Allies? You defeated the Nazis, liberated the camps, made it possible for some to live again in a right-side-up world. Good is good again."
Pierson nodded. "Let's hope it stays that way." He looked back at the room where Zussman was getting to know his extended family. "Do you know where I can get a camera?"
Petr thought for a moment. "This is in short supply but I know a man with a camera. You want photos so they can remember?"
"Yeah," Pierson said. "One for each of them. So Zuss can show his parents and Sofi and Johan can have them to hold on to."
"Just a moment." Petr left to talk to Rosensaft. He returned after a few minutes. "We think Otto is in the dark room. Come."
Pierson followed and they found Otto hanging up some wet pictures. Petr explained and Otto smiled. He took off his apron and grabbed his camera. "Wspaniale!"
By the time he and Zussman left that afternoon, they all had a fresh photo in their hands. The two cousins had an address in Chicago for letters and promises were made to keep each other updated of any future moves. Pierson saw Zussman smiling, a lot, and it held even for the few miles back to the hotel. They had MREs for dinner again there. Pierson asked Zussman if he wanted to sleep first this time.
Zussman shook his head. "I have another letter to write."
"We'll head back first thing in the morning," Pierson told him. "You got to get that photo back to your mom."
Zussman looked at him for a moment. "I'm glad you asked me to stay," he said. "They weren't real people to me before, you know. Now, even though most of them are gone, they're very real."
"Yeah," Pierson agreed. "Names on a list to me. Now I wonder about every name, and every name that wasn't there. Like Sofi's husband and daughter."
"Abram Bergman," Zussman told him. "And Greta. She was three."
There was that pain again. Pierson sighed. "I don't know how they go on with so much pain and grief."
"There was this kid in Berga," Zussman said, sitting down on the bed. "He thought Berga was easy. Compared to where he'd been before: Auschwitz. He told me about the gas chambers, experiments on prisoners. But it was full-on hell to me. We were stronger, you know, going in. But one month in and we started dyin'. He survived. At least until the camp was evacuated, marched out. The day I would have died, if you guys hadn't found me when you did."
Pierson sat beside him. "If we'd been just a few minutes sooner, we might have saved the other four."
"The others were just ten minutes away," Zussman added. "But we can't live on what-ifs. Metz promised me I'd die before I left that camp. You broke his promise."
Pierson chuckled. "Well, I'm happy about that. You'd better get to writing. I think it's going to be a long letter."
Author's note: This was a long one. I just couldn't find a better place to break the chapter. By the way, Rosensaft was a real person and I apologize for taking artistic license with him. I meant no disrespect. Petr, Sofi, and Johan are all fictional. I lived in the Czech Republic for a year and fell in love with it. I had to throw a Czech in there.