WARNING
Dear Reader
This chapter was one of the hardest chapters to write. It focuses on atrocities committed in concentration camps of WWII. These gruesome things happened in camps to inmates - men, women and children. While my characters are fictional characters, the things they went through are non-fictional.
CHAPTER FIVE.
Buchenwald, Germany - 1943
"I asked to see one of the barracks. It happened to be occupied by Czechoslovaks. When I entered, men crowded around, tried to lift me to their shoulders. They were too weak. Many of them could not get out of bed. I was told that this building had once stabled 80 horses. There were 1,200 men in it, five to a bunk. The stink was beyond all description
They called the doctor. We inspected his records. There were only names in the little black book, nothing more. Nothing about who these men were, what they had done, or hoped. Behind the names of those who had died, there was a cross. I counted them. They totalled 242. 242 out of 1,200, in one month
As we walked out into the courtyard, a man fell dead. Two others, they must have been over 60, were crawling toward the latrine. I saw it, but will not describe it."
Extract from Edward R. Murrow's Buchenwald report - April 15, 1945
Daisy Ginsberg fell into a restless slumber on the top bunk she shared with two other women and a child. Her arm was slung over the emaciated body of the sleeping girl. In the dark world of their sleep, the child's body twitched, a sign that she was dreaming. Soon, Daisy realised, she would wake up in a sweat, gasping for air that was dank and thin in the barracks. Then she'd clamp her hand gently over the little girl's mouth to prevent her from screaming or sobbing.
They'd been here almost a year. Conditions were as harsh as she had imagined. The barracks smelled foul, sweaty. The impulse to gag at the odours of putrefaction of bad food given them and dead bodies they'd taken too long to remove had left her after the first two weeks. Now the stench was part of their breathing, for they had all lost any sense of sweetness. They lay cramped together. At least four children in the barracks were hidden from the guards. They had learned to remain motionless, soundless, hungry throughout the day, whenever the guards came to inspect the place.
To Daisy, the only comfort that she could derive from their desperate conditions was the fact that she was still alive, the child was still alive and the rest of the inmates managed to keep their hopes up.
In the deep of night, she lay with her eyes closed and allowed herself the luxury of dreaming of golden days past - family picnics in Alsace, her husband who laughed at her silly jokes, of Zannah, little Zannah who was sickly but bore her sickness with such child-like courage.
Now, lying on her stomach with her arm over the sleeping girl, her luxury dream morphed into the nightmare of the day they were trucked out of Paris, a late afternoon in summer when the sun's last rays touched the tops of buildings of the old city. Her body twitched as the months and days rolled back to that day...
Paris - 1942
The truck stopped about twenty miles outside Paris, near a railway line in a remote, woody area which was mostly dark and isolated. Daisy Ginsberg looked around her. She held two children to her, children who were scared out of their wits. Her little daughter had wet herself from the shock of being hauled out of their home and thrown into the truck. No explanations given by the surly Germans whose voices uttered commands in the rough, guttural tones of their language.
But they all knew why they were corralled like beasts and thrown into the lorries. They were mostly Jews and dissidents, political prisoners, all squeezed together, hardly able to breathe. They carried their most meagre belongings, some had nothing at all, like the little girl and her father who lay semiconscious against his daughter. The blood from the gash on his forehead had congealed. The little girl had wept silently after screaming for her maman. Daisy had seen a woman try to get to her child, and Lucien Blériot strike her a hard blow with the butt of his rifle. They knew their fate. They were going to die, eventually. They would never see their homes and their loved ones again.
A cattle truck stood waiting. They could hear screams coming from the train. Daisy clutched the children's hands, kept them close to her.
"Out!" ordered a German officer, waving his side-arm at them. Soon the officers who followed in their kübelwagen joined the first German and the driver of the truck. When they couldn't get off the lorry quickly enough, they fired shots in the air.
They scrambled to get out, the father of the distraught little girl tumbling to the ground, hitting his head against a rock. He stood up, staggering about. When the little girl tried to scream, she pulled the child to her bosom to prevent a sound coming from her. Her own daughter was too weak as she too failed to get up when she fell out the back of the lorry. Daisy tried to lift her child while still holding on the other girl.
"You!" shouted the first German, pointing his gun at the frightened girl's father, "you look sick. You are not fit to live or work in our camps!"
Daisy held firmly on to the stricken man's daughter. The father turned to look at them, reaching for his little girl. It seemed to Daisy that he was too dazed to realise he reached for the wrong child. In a sudden burst of events another soldier jerked her child from her and threw the beaten man and her daughter together. She bit back the urge to scream. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with angry tears.
Without warning, as if he was merely acting on an angry impulse, the soldier shot her daughter and the injured man. Machine gun fire ripped through their bodies. They did not scream or cry out but simply sank noiselessly to the ground. She tried not to scream as her daughter lay dead. Suddenly the other child lunged away from her toward her father but she yanked the child back, covering her mouth roughly with her hand. Other trucks had also arrived and those men, women and children were marshalled to the train.
In the precious seconds before they too moved to the train, Daisy bent down to face the terrified child. Then she did something, a blind, intuitive reaction to the situation. She didn't allow herself time to grieve for her dead daughter, for she knew, as every adult in the truck knew, they were on their way to a concentration camp. They'd all heard stories about the unbearable conditions of the thousands who had already died of privation or gassed to death. In her heart she mourned the death of her daughter and her tears fell inside her.
But now, a little girl was without her father and her mother. A little girl with golden brown curls and blue-grey eyes.
"Shhh, child. When they ask you, your name is Zannah Ginsberg. Will you remember that? The little girl who died, her name was Zannah, and she was my daughter. We can do nothing for her and for your daddy now. Stay with me..."
They were bundled into the cattle truck which already stank of urine and faeces, of vomit, of blood. She kept Zannah with her, protected her as if she was her own daughter. They had no idea of time or destination. Some of the people, too sick or injured, died. One man who was a rabbi prayed for those who died on the train. When the train stopped in the middle of nowhere, the bodies were dumped in the fields. No burial, no dignity.
"Now, Zannah," she bent down and spoke to the child again, "we are going to try our very best to stay alive, tu m'entends? You hear me?"
And Célestine du Pléssis, now Zannah Ginsberg, nodded mutely as the train carried them to the camp. There they were ordered to stand in a row, separated the men from the women and the children, marched slowly through an office where each prisoner was photographed, their names recorded and a number tattooed on their arms.
1943
"Why am I being posted to the Buchenwald Camp?" Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim had asked three days ago.
"You need to become more aggressive, Von Wangenheim. At Buchenwald with its thousands of prisoners, you can develop that aggression and become emotionless after the kill."
He had wanted to tell the general that the prisoners at the camp had no means to defend themselves, when the general continued.
"Because they are unarmed, you can exploit your inner demon, the one you fight hard to repress. Let it come out. Many women are there, especially young girls. Use them, Oberleutnant. We will recall you once you have become sufficiently detached about slaughtering the enemy."
He had clicked his heels and saluted "Heil, Hitler!" before he left the general's office.
Buchenwald.
Its reputation had preceded it. Thousands of prisoners, mostly men and boys, and two barracks into which a thousand women and children were crammed. Conditions were harsh so he had heard from his fellow officers. "Treat the inmates like the scum of the earth they are," he was told. "You are a true Aryan, Von Wangenheim, of aristocratic blood. You are the younger son of a Baron, a freiherr. Du musst einen Killerinstinkt entwickeln, Von Wangenheim. A prisoner who talks back, shoot him on sight. We show no mercy. They are without any worth. Soon we'll will transfer those undesirables to other camps where they will be exterminated, for they are vermin, understand? That is their lot, do you understand, Von Wangenheim? They are nothing. They are not your kin, they are not your friends, they are not worthy of being spat at."
Many inmates had died of privation, some simply walking then dropping dead, literally just skin wrapped around bone. Others were hanged publicly to serve as a deterrent for anyone who tried to escape. There was heavy artillery - mortars, canon, antiaircraft guns - and a host of snipers just waiting for a prisoner to try and run away.
Helmut turned away from the window and sat down at his desk. The picture of his brother's horse and his own, Kürfürst and Tannhauser, stood on one side. Konrad had won Olympic team gold on Kürfürst in Berlin with a broken collarbone, a hero in Germany's eyes. On the other side of the desk was a picture of his mother, brother and sister. Grossmutter Adelheid had passed away two years after the Berlin Olympics, on the Munziger Estate she loved so much.
He had his Klavier brought to the camp as well as his Tononi, the violin handed down through two generations of Von Wangenheims. He needed music like his next breath and playing the instruments would be a good distraction from the daily grind of overseeing thousands of prisoners debilitated by poverty, privation and abuse. He still had hopes of riding Tannhauser at the next Olympic Games whenever that was to be resumed, since the summer Games had been suspended indefinitely. He was as good, if not better than Konrad who served in the cavalry regiments.
"Wir sind Deutsche, Helmut. Nur das zählt," Konrad had told him a few weeks ago.
"Nothing else," Helmut murmured softly. "Nothing else is important..."
He remembered his orders. Ensure roll call is done every day and pick a nice Jewish girl as your play toy. Helmut closed his eyes at the innuendo of these so-called "pleasurable" duties.
"The camp is full of young Jewish women who need to be taught a lesson or two..."
He got up abruptly, scraping his chair in the process. Nauseated by the images of the officers' lecherous accounts of their sexual exploits, he walked to the bathroom and retched. Minutes later he left the office where he joined the camp Kommandant for the roll call in the large compound. A thousand women and young girls stood absolutely still. If one moved it was because she collapsed in a heap on the ground and died. It was almost afternoon and the inmates had been standing there since early morning.
The officers sauntered slowly past the rows and rows of inmates, the female guards whipping a few women to attention as he passed them. He grimaced at the sound of the riding crops they used on the prisoners.
"Steh gerade!" one guard barked. The women's shoulders would stiffen visibly as they tried to remain upright.
They looked bedraggled, hungry, emaciated, abused. He tried not to make eye contact with anyone, yet he noted how proud they were with an inborn strength no whip or hangman's rope could destroy. So the whipping intensified. One woman sank to the ground. The guards ordered her to stand at attention. She got up slowly. Helmut noticed how her feet were bleeding. Next moment a shot rang out, and the stricken woman sank to the ground again, dead.
"Let that be a lesson to you!" the Kommandant shouted. Helmut remained unmoving, trying not to flinch at the pure malevolence of the act. Hands behind his back he followed the other officers down the row of women.
He saw a woman holding a child's hand. A child no more than seven or eight years old. He looked away pretending he was as detached as the other officers. One of them paused when they reached the woman and child. He looked her straight in the eye, then nodded. The woman dipped her head.
Helmut didn't have to ask about the meaning of their wordless exchange and about the women of the camp who were prostituted by his fellow officers. He remembered the general's words.
Many women there. Use them. Explore your inner demon.
He rocked up as Kapitän Günther Götze pointed to the young child. She looked straggly, doe-eyed and very scared, clinging to the woman's hand. A Mother protecting her little girl. Helmut noticed how the woman tried valiantly to curb the tears he saw in her eyes. He felt the bile rise inside him. The mother stood dead still, knowing that if she objected, she would be shot dead in front of her child. The officers and guards had little patience...
Young Zannah Ginsberg was scared from the moment the soldiers had thrown her and her papa in the truck. She had not stopped being scared. The great big soldiers were like giants to her, giants that could step on her with their boots and kill her right away.
When they shot her papa, she had wanted to scream. Then she felt a hand covering her mouth. She couldn't scream but in her fear had wet herself. The woman told her to keep still and pretend she was her little girl. She was Célestine du Pléssis, but her new maman told her to say always that her name was Zannah. She even liked the name. Now she pretended all the time that she was Zannah Ginsberg and not Célestine du Pléssis. Her new maman told her it was to keep her alive, that whatever happened in the camp, they must both try to stay alive.
Her new maman told her that her husband was working in a labour camp somewhere in Germany, that she had not seen her husband for a long time. She missed her husband and her little girl who died in Célestine's place. Maman Daisy told her to be courageous and to stay alive for a long as they could.
She missed her papa, her own maman Katrine and Lamine. She missed playing the violin. Music always made her feel better. At home she played for Lamine who was so sick and who loved her as much as her papa and her maman.
In the camp, her new maman made sure she slept at the back of their bunk so that the guards and soldiers couldn't see her. During the day, the women taught her mathematics and English. Now she could even speak a little bit of German. Many of the other girls were taught by the older women too, for one day when they could get out of the camp. They could then attend school and catch up faster.
Every night she dreamed of home, of being with her own maman, of playing the violin and making Lamine laugh. Every day she was scared when the soldiers made them stand in the cold to count them. She was not sick like some of the other children. The soldiers had tried to take her before, but Daisy Ginsberg always managed to keep her safe. Whenever they came to take the women and the girls away, they wanted to take her. Then Daisy would block their path.
"Take me, instead, Oberleutnant Berenger. I'll make it double worth your while," Daisy would tell the officer.
She did not know why the women went with the German officers. Sometimes she saw young girls cry when they returned to the barracks. And all the time Daisy was there to protect her. She was glad because she did not want to return to the barracks crying with her arms and legs and thighs full of red marks.
Today there were new soldiers and officers who had come to live at the camp. It was bitterly cold, but they had to stand in the courtyard. All the women and girls stood in a row and then the soldiers and officers inspected them.
"Courage, Zannah." She knew that Daisy Ginsberg did not say the words, but she felt it in the way Daisy squeezed her hand.
Zannah couldn't breathe, so afraid was she when two officers stopped right in front of them. Her heart beat so hard that her body ached from the pain.
"Courage, Zannah..."
But she couldn't stop being afraid.
"Die Kleine hier wirkt energisch, Helmut," said the first officer. "Very feisty. I think I will enjoy this little plaything."
Zannah was terrified, for the German's eyes looked strange and wild, like he wanted to eat her. He rubbed his hands together and licked his lips.
"You!" he pointed at Daisy, "make sure this little - "
"Oh, no, Kapitän," the other officer interrupted him, "I have explicit instructions from Oberstleutnant Johann Gaertner to have my pick first. The child is mine!"
"You must enjoy being an aristocrat, Von Wangenheim," said Kapitän Günther Götze, "with all your connections in high places. Fine, enjoy your new toy."
"That will be my pleasure, Kapitän Götze. This little bird belongs to me."
Zannah felt her hand squeezed even tighter. She couldn't look at Daisy. She didn't want to look up. What if they shot her dead?
"Whatever it takes to stay alive, Zannah. Remember that..."
The officer Helmut took his riding crop and pressed it under Zannah's chin to make her look up at him. She stared into eyes that were very blue, bluer than her own or her maman Katrine. She was so afraid! She did not want her legs and arms and thighs full of deep scratches like the other girls. The officer Helmut bent down a little and kept the riding crop under her chin.
"You will be brought to my quarters by your mother after dark. That is an order!"
This time she looked at Daisy. Daisy's eyes were full of tears. Zannah knew that if Daisy did not take her to the officer's quarters, they would hang her outside where everyone could see the body for days on end.
"Maman?"
This time she heard Daisy give a little sob, then answered, "Yes, Oberleutnant."
"Good. See that she has a clean dress."
The officers continued to walk past the other women. Only when they stopped their counting were they allowed to walk back to the barracks.
"What is going to happen to me?" Zannah asked Daisy.
Daisy stopped abruptly then bent down. She gripped Zannah's shoulders. This time the tears rolled down her cheeks.
"I could not protect you this time, my sweet Zannah. I feel I have failed you. Mon enfant, whatever happens to you tonight, sois forte, tu m'entends? Stay strong."
Zannah could feel how Daisy was shaking as she wept and she wondered why Daisy wept so.
Her hair was brushed - it had not been washed in a long time but it looked neat. They had found a clean dress for her. She wore her only pair of shoes, the ones she wore the day the soldiers threw her in the truck.
She was afraid. Her heart was beating much faster. If she pressed her hand against her chest, she could feel the thudding. What was going to happen to her? She tried to remember what the women had said about the young girls.
"They are torture toys..."
Zannah thought it meant that the girls were injured in some way, that the officers punished them. Did they do something wrong? Was she going to be one? A plaything for a German officer?
"Come, child," Daisy said softly, her voice sounding like she wanted to cry.
So she held Daisy's hand and walked all the way to the main living quarters of the officers. Daisy knew where Oberleutnant von Wangenheim was. When they reached the door of his quarters, Daisy knocked once. Then she bent down and hugged Zannah fiercely.
"Be brave, will you, sweet Zannah? Be brave..."
The door opened. Oberleutnant von Wangenheim stood there. Daisy sighed as she looked straight at him.
"I have brought the child, Oberleutnant. Her name is Zannah."
"Danke. Now you can leave."
Daisy turned reluctantly to walk to the quarters of the officer in whose service she had been since they arrived at Buchenwald.
Seulement rester vivant...stay alive...God will surely look down upon us and protect us.
Helmut Von Wangenheim stared down at the child whom he thought to be no more than seven or eight years. She looked so scared, her hands trembling, as if she waited for something fearful to happen to her. He closed his eyes briefly. He had a sister whom he loved unconditionally. When they were about this young child's age, they had all of Munziger as their playground. This girl was an inmate who had once known freedom, gone to school, played hide-and-seek and impressed her teachers. He stifled the urge to bang his fists against a wall. Then he straightened up because the child was still standing outside his door.
"Come inside," he commanded.
Zannah stepped hesitantly over the threshold . It was lighter here than in the barracks. There was a bright lightbulb in the small lounge. Her eyes caught the phonograph on a little table in the corner of the room.
Helmut sat down on the couch, beckoning Zannah to stand in front of him. She hesitated.
"Now!"
The child stepped forward, slow step after slow step. Even in her abject state, the slenderness of her frail body, her gaunt face, Zannah Ginsberg was beautiful.
"Do you speak English?" he asked. Zannah nodded.
"Good. I will address you in English."
"Do you know why you are here?" he asked her. Zannah shook her head.
"Speak to me!"
"I do not know," she said softly, beginning to whimper.
Helmut tried to ignore her distress.
"You are to be my plaything, do you understand? Look at me when I speak!"
"Yes, Oberleutnant."
"What does it mean? Tell me!"
"You will p-play with m-me, Oberleutnant."
"How? How will I play with you?"
"I do not know."
"I will tell you. You will sleep with me in my bed and I will do things to your body, between your legs, do you understand?"
"Yes, Oberleutnant."
Helmut von Wangenheim felt the old rage surge through him. It had been all he could do today at the roll call not to lose his temper, to rein in his emotions. He knew what his colleagues were up to, whoring every able female in the camp on a nightly basis. They had no compunction about raping young teens of twelve, thirteen years old, beating and torturing them. Was that what they expected of him? Was that why he was sent to Buchenwald, hoping the camp would turn him into a debauched rapist? Günther Götze was going to take this silent child and turn her into his little toy. A child! He felt again the urge to retch, forcing it down vehemently. He breathed until the sensation of nausea receded.
And Zannah wondered why Oberleutnant Helmut looked angry. He was very tall, and his hair was almost white. She saw his hands tremble a little bit. She didn't want to look into his eyes and wait for him to injure her legs and thighs and mouth and chest. Oberleutnant von Wangenheim just sat there with his hands together staring at her and not really seeing her. So she tried to look somewhere else quickly.
She gasped when she saw a black upright piano against one wall. Her eyes widened even more when she saw a violin on top of the piano. Above the wall was a painting of a beautiful chateau in a forest. On a small table in front of the couch stood a chess set. A door led from the lounge to another room. That must be the bedroom, she thought.
"Do you know what happens to the other girls?" she heard Von Wangenheim speak. Startled, she turned very quickly to look at him, else he would hurt her. When she didn't respond, he repeated, "Do you?"
"No, Oberleutnant. I do not know."
"One day when you're a little older, you will know exactly what happens here, Zannah Ginsberg. They expect me to do the same to you, you understand?"
"Hurt me between my legs and my thighs and chest?"
"Yes, that and much, much more."
The distressed child began to weep softly. He let her cry until the crying stopped. He had to be hard on her, though it killed him to see her so afraid.
"Come here, child," he invited as he pulled Zannah closer to him, hugging her tightly. She did not demure even as he put the fear of the devil in her. She was only a child, Gott im Himmel, who weighed next to nothing and he was supposed to prostitute her.
He released her then said, "Look at me, Zannah."
Reluctantly she complied, her face tear-stained.
"I will do you no harm, do you understand? I will not hurt your legs and arms and chest and thighs. I will never hurt you. But little girl, I need you to understand that when you go back to the barracks, that it must look like I have tortured you. Do you understand that?"
She was quiet a long time before she nodded. He had seen her look with a kind of wonder and longing at the piano and the violin.
"Sag mal, magst du Musik?"
"Yes." He breathed a sigh of relief that Zannah was talking instead of simply nodding out of fright.
"Do you play?"
"I play the violin. My-my papa taught me and also Maestro Sargozy."
"Is your father here, in the camp?"
"He died."
Helmut nodded, took Zannah by her hand and led her to the Bechstein.
He took some sheet music from the top and placed it on its stand. Then he opened the violin case and lifted the violin with great care from the case. "Do you know the Mozart Lullaby?"
She had played the Mozart often for Lamine when he was so sick. When Zannah smiled, Helmut gasped. Her features transformed to sheer beauty as she took the violin and positioned it against her chin and neck. He sat down on the stool, playing a soft arpeggio to flex his fingers while Zannah did the same, tuning her instrument to the correct key.
"Ready?"
Zannah merely nodded as Helmut started the short intro of the Mozart Wiegenlied. They played together in perfect counterpoint as Zannah became used to the instrument, used to playing again. She hadn't played in months and her joy overflowed as she surrendered to the beauty of the music, her eyes closing at the poignancy of the lullaby.
Helmut, momentarily stunned, continued playing, realising he was listening to a young prodigy. When the piece ended, he sat still for quite some time, hands on his thighs. He felt the old anger again. Anger that the camp hid such unsurpassed talent, of all kinds - music, literature, art, everything! He kept staring down at the black and white keys, the storm raging for several minutes.
"I was not good, Herr Oberleutnant?" she asked shyly, her fear forgotten.
He stared blankly at her. "My dear child, you are better than good. It was sublime! We shall play more."
"Yes, Oberleutnant."
They played a few more pieces together, Zannah improving her skill by the minute, continuing to stun Helmut.
Later he gave her something to eat. They sat down at a small table and ate in silence. When they were finished, Helmut gave a great sigh. He had to do something to the child lest his colleagues suspected something that she didn't look injured enough, at least not over the first few weeks. He hated doing it, he hated war, he hated the mindless torture of the innocents. Zannah had to return to the barracks in some sort of disarray.
"Zannah..."
"Yes, Oberleutnant?"
"I have to send you back to your barracks, but I cannot send you like this. I...have to injure you in some way, do you understand?"
"So that they can think you have injured me between my thighs?"
Gott im Himmel!
"Yes. So here is what we're going to do..."
Daisy Ginsberg stumbled into the women's barracks in the early hours of the morning. She managed to find her way to their bunk and climbed up, feeling at the same time for Zannah's body. When she settled in, she flung her arm round the sleeping child. Although Zannah was sleeping, her body twitched, and Daisy could feel an occasional sob escaping the little girl.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blank out the depravity of the German officers enforcing her compliance. If only Günther Götze didn't invite two of his colleagues to his quarters. She could handle Günther on his own, but two or three more was punishment trebled. The things they did to her, the things they made her do...
Shame had left her the day Kapitän Götze first took her to his quarters. When she refused, he let three other officers rape her. She never complained after that. It was a desperate play of survival on the stage of her life. She wanted to stay alive, whatever happened. Now her body still trembled in the aftermath of their sick lust. Her throat ached and she found it difficult to swallow. Her lower body was so tender that she stifled a cry of pain as she tried to move her legs, to shift to a more comfortable position.
Their faces flashed before her, their crazed lust, finding new ways of wasting her body, their ugly laughter, their guttural exchanges in German. And she had to play along, pretend it was what she wanted, what she enjoyed.
Don't think, don't think...
Yet she couldn't stop herself. She was so tired, so abused, how could she endure another night like this? When would deliverance come? Where was God to whom she had prayed every single day to save them? The tears squeezed from her eyes, rolled silently in a never-ending stream down her cheeks. She was too tired to try and stop the flow, or wipe the tears from her eyes.
So she lay weeping until at last she fell into a restless slumber.
In the morning she awoke, with Zannah staring worriedly down at her.
"Did they hurt you?" Zannah whispered.
She pulled the child to her and whispered back. "No, my child, they did not. I am still alive. Did Herr Helmut hurt you?"
Zannah's eyes filled with tears. Then she pulled up her dress and showed the long weals made by the scoring of nails along her thighs. Red, ugly weals on her legs, her arms, her tummy.
"Zannah...?"
They were lying alone on the bunk, still too close to the next bunk, so they kept whispering, as pretty much everywhere in the barracks there was whispering. Other women who had gone out for the night and crawled into their bunks in the early hours.
"Maman, Herr Helmut said I must scratch my own legs and thighs and arms, so we can pretend."
Daisy stared very long at Zannah, her mind a whirl until the revelation sank in. She had seen the Oberleutnant flinch when an officer shot Vivienne Le Maitre in cold blood. She had seen his brief look of alarm when Günther Götze picked Zannah in order to violate her in his rooms, and she'd been relieved beyond measure when Von Wangenheim stepped in.
A look. It was all it took, although to the rest of the German officers he was as debauched as they were. He was using his position as an aristocrat with connections in high places to protect Zannah. A look which told Daisy that she could trust von Wangenheim, that what he'd done by intervening was saving Zannah's life. Now, Daisy didn't care for herself, as long as Zannah was safe.
"He will protect you, Zannah!"
"He has a piano and a violin. We played together a lullaby and some other pieces."
"C'est extraordinaire!"
Daisy hugged Zannah to her and began weeping, for now she was overtaken by joy that one soldier in all of Germany could save a child from the prostitution racket in the camp.
"He said I must come again the day after tomorrow."
"Shall I take you myself, then?"
"Yes, maman..."
So began the unusual relationship between a young inmate of Buchenwald and Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim. He saw her twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was always Daisy Ginsberg who brought her to his rooms.
Helmut had gone to the camp Kommandant and informed the SS Officer that the child Zannah Ginsberg was now his "property" to treat in whatever way he desired. Oberstleutnant (lieutenant-colonel) Johann Gaertner had grudgingly agreed that Helmut could keep Zannah as his favourite, for he too, had become jaded, hating camp life as much as Helmut had. It was a dangerous emotion, that of being jaded, for an atrocity was easier to commit because the perpetrator was angered. Gaertner was a married colonel with two young daughters. He had had enough of debasing himself, so it had been easy to consent to Helmut's request. Word had gone out quickly that Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim, by virtue of his high birth and connections in the right places, could exercise his rights in whichever way he deemed prudent. No one was to question Helmut on his decisions.
It meant that the other officers could not touch little Zannah. Helmut thought Grossmutter Adelheid would have told him to leave the child alone and do everything for the fatherland. Grossmutter did not suffer fools gladly. To her, the young men who entered the war had a duty to the Reich and that meant defending it to the death. He was glad Grossmutter was no longer alive. She would not have liked him much.
Zannah touched something in him, perhaps it was her very innocence. His mandate had been to become more ruthless, to take any woman, for a Jew was simply expendable, meat to be devoured, to kill without conscience.
He had been stunned at the appearance of the child the minute she stepped into his quarters. Fey, lightweight, small for her age, she had been terrified those first few minutes. After being so hard on her, he had managed to allay her fears and she had begun to talk.
He had acquired more sheet music from Berlin, mostly pieces for piano and violin. He had heard that someone in the camp who had once been a member of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, played the cello. Perhaps at some future date he could let the inmate come and test the lone cello standing in Gaertner's office. He sighed. Protecting Zannah had become all consuming, a delicate dance in which he had to be at once ruthless and caring.
One evening when she came, she'd looked at the chess set on the coffee table.
"Do you play?" he'd asked.
Zannah shook her head.
"We call this game Schach."
"échecs."
"French?"
"Ja."
"Good," he said when he picked up a piece. "This piece is called König...king in English."
Zannah nodded and said, "Roi."
He had begun to teach her from that time onwards and Zannah had learned fast. Now, as strange as it appeared, he enjoyed playing chess with an eight year old camp prisoner. He enjoyed making music with her. One evening when she came, he had played a recording on his phonograph. Zannah had frowned, the question obvious in her eyes.
"It is Beethoven's 3rd symphony, sometimes called Eroica." So whenever they played chess, music was always playing softly in the background. Zannah had her favourites. She loved Chopin, Debussy, Faure. He was passionate about Beethoven, Bach, Bartok.
He enjoyed watching Zannah eat normal food. He had been careful not to give her too much, lest it aroused suspicion among the other women in the barracks. But Daisy Ginsberg was always there to protect her, to parry any questions they had. Strange, he thought, that mother and daughter did not look at all alike. Perhaps the child resembled her father.
He had begun to look forward to the child's visits and every time she had to leave, it tore him apart to watch how she scored long scratches on her body to make it look like he had raped her. Then he waited for Daisy Ginsberg to collect her late at night. Sometimes the child was so exhausted that he let her sleep in his bed while he bunked down on his couch. In the early morning he had to wake her so that Daisy could walk her back to the barracks - two females in the aftermath of sex. Later, months later, she didn't have to scratch herself.
He'd been rocked when Günther Götze intimated in his greasy tone, "So, your little toy is becoming used to sex, Von Wangenheim. She looks well stretched between her thighs."
If they had been in any other situation outside of the war context, he would have beaten Günther Götze to the ground and have him beg for mercy. Yet, he had to concede that Götze judged Helmut by his own debauched, evil standards. The man was his superior officer after all. Helmut had merely nodded and replied with something generic.
At the roll calls, he'd dress in the uniform of the Wehrmacht, polish his already shiny boots, check for his sidearm and the riding crop. He had to look the part of a debased German officer thriving in the hunt and rejoice in the kill.
He had not dared voice his agonies to his fellow officers, like "When will the war end"? They'd accuse him instantly of being a traitor to the Reich. Things were happening in Buchenwald that made his hair stand on end, and he had to play down his own concerns about the unnecessary brutality with which they treated the inmates. They'd tell him that der Führer's vision for a Reich of a thousand years had not yet been realised and until his objective had been completed, the concentration camps would remain full of Jews, dissidents, political prisoners, homosexuals, Gypsies...
Autumn
One evening on a very cold night, there was a knock on his door. He frowned. No one disturbed him after lights out. He had always liked it that way, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Zannah came. It was Monday and it was raining.
When he opened the door, Daisy stood there with Zannah in her arms. They were drenched. The child looked sick. He took the child from her and laid her gently down on his couch. She was burning up with fever and appeared semi-conscious.
"Please, Oberleutnant von Wangenheim," Daisy begged, her eyes full of tears, "do something for Zannah. They are going to separate us tomorrow. I heard. Kapitän Götze has a loose tongue when he's drunk. Last night he was mumbling about sending half the camp on a trek to Auschwitz. What is going to happen there, Herr Oberleutnant? Why are they sending the inmates away?"
"Before I answer you, let me do something first," Helmut said. He went into his bathroom and returned seconds later with a face cloth. "Stay here with Zannah. Take this cold compress and dab her face and neck to keep her temperature down. I'll be back."
Helmut waited first for Daisy to sponge Zannah's face. Zannah had woken in the meantime and was crying softly, "Maman...Maman..."
He didn't waste any time, walking briskly to the medical buildings, his mind in a whirl. Of course they didn't let him in on what they were doing, but he, like his brother Konrad, read the war well. Konrad's last communication was had been "We are losing the war, Helmut. I suggest you get out. Leave Germany. You never were one for the wars, my brother."
How could he leave? He too knew that they were losing on the front lines, that cities and towns in France had already been liberated, that the Allied Forces were advancing steadily on all flanks. Russia was penetrating deep into central Europe. Helmut gave a big sigh. He really wished it were over. Whatever happened, his part in the war would be ticked next to his name. It was a development he knew was inescapable.
That was why approaching Herr Doktor Schiller who had once been the team doctor of the German Olympic team was of utmost importance. He had to think on his feet now for strategies to save both Zannah and Daisy Ginsberg. He should not let them out of his sight. Schiller would help, and if he refused, Helmut was going to make him comply, in the most authoritative manner possible.
The doctor was still in the hospital writing notes when Helmut burst through the door. He hadn't been here before but now, looking around, he realised that the hospital facilities were reserved mostly for the German staff. He'd heard stories of experimentation on children, although he could swear by God that Herr Doktor Schiller, a family friend whom they knew well, could never have been party to such practices.
He forced away images of experimentation on the inmates, especially the children, many who died after given vaccines to test immunity that would later be used for the German forces.
Schiller looked up from his notes and penned Helmut with a searching look.
"Oberleutnant von Wangenheim... I was expecting you," the ageing doctor said.
Helmut frowned. How was that possible? he wondered.
"Why is that, Herr Doktor Schiller?"
"I know Allied forces are advancing, Von Wangenheim. This business...I grow tired."
"I need your help now, Herr Doktor. A young girl, burning with fever..."
"She has typhus," said Schiller instantly, scraping his chair as he got up and prepared his medical bag. "She needs help immediately. Who is with her now?"
"Her mother. They are in my quarters."
Herr Doktor Schiller looked up, startled, the surprise clear in his face.
"The child was your toy?" he asked.
"In a manner of speaking. Come, we must hurry."
"Why am I agreeing to help you, Von Wangenheim?"
"Because you know my family, liked my Grossmutter Adelheid and treated my brother Konrad at the Games in Berlin."
"That is good enough for me. No, a child who is sick is good enough for me. I will keep this a secret, ja?"
"Ja."
When they reached his quarters, Daisy was still sponging Zannah. Schiller clucked like a hen when he opened his bag and produced his stethoscope and thermometer. Minutes later he exclaimed, "Too high fever. But you called me in time."
He filled a syringe with chloramphenicol. Rubbing her upper arm with disinfectant, he administered the injection. Zannah gave a tired little cry as the needle punctured her skin.
"Maman...Maman..."
"Shhh, little one. Soon you will feel better," old Schiller said in a reassuring voice.
Then Schiller spoke to Daisy. "You need to disinfect her clothing. Better still, burn her clothing. Shave off her hair and burn that too. This disease is spread by lice. Helmut," addressing the officer by his name, "this couch needs to be disinfected. Here are some powders you can use. Someone needs to stay with this child night and day. She cannot go back to the barracks."
Daisy looked hopefully at Helmut, who nodded severely. He could practically hear her sigh of relief. He'd have to face Jürgen Götze about releasing Daisy as his playmate.
"I will come tomorrow evening again, Von Wangenheim." The doctor penned Helmut with a contemplative look. "You would do this for a Jew?"
"I would do this for a human in need, Herr Doktor."
"That is what I thought. No one shall know of this. Good night, Von Wangenheim."
The moment the door closed behind Schiller, Helmut turned to the child.
"She calls for her mother," he said absently as he stroked her cheek. "Yet you are here. Why is that?"
He glanced up at Daisy. It seemed her shoulders sagged from a great weight she had been carrying.
"I am not her mother, Oberleutnant Von Wangenheim. When they took us away, her father and my own little girl were shot dead. I told her to stay with me and called her Zannah, which was my daughter's name. She would have been alone..."
"And dead by now," Helmut said with wonder. "You saved her life."
"As did you, Oberleutnant. She told me."
Helmut smiled grimly. "You will stay here in my quarters with her until she is well. Let me handle my colleagues."
"Thank you, Oberleutnant."
"There are a few dresses in a cupboard as well as underclothing of children who have died in the camp. Use that for... What is Zannah's real name?"
Daisy Ginsberg smiled tenderly as she stroked Zannah's hair from her face. "I only know that her father called her Célestine."
"As beautiful as Zannah."
"I had time enough to grieve my losses, Oberleutnant, though sometimes I miss my little girl. She was already sick at the time we were captured. I live through this child."
"I understand. I know that there will be a right and left separation tomorrow. I cannot prevent that, Daisy. It is out of my hands. I only pray that those left behind be saved."
So Daisy Ginsberg became the live-in help of Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim, and the child Célestine the only clean anchor in a sea of atrocities committed against humanity. The day after Schiller treated Zannah, the camp was divided. Those shifted to the left had to go on the cattle trucks to other concentration camps in Poland where they were exterminated in the gas chambers, those on the right remained behind and were safe, for the time being.
Herr Doktor Schiller attended the sick child until she had recovered from the dreaded fever that ravaged the camp and killed off another five hundred inmates.
END CHAPTER FIVE