Warning" Some angst
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Recht Oder Unrecht-Mein Vaterland [Right or Wrong-My Country]
Buchenwald forest - 11 April 1945
Charles Anson Miller, lately promoted to lieutenant colonel, looked around him in wonder. They were trudging through the forest of Buchenwald along a road built by hundreds of prisoners of the Buchenwald Camp. Their troops had marched from the nearby town of Weimar where the railway station was the drop off point for the thousands of inmates brought to the camp.
The forest lay on a rise, more a gentle sloping hill called Ettersberg, and the concentration camp was situated at the top of the rise. It was a hot day for early spring - bright sunshine, clear blue skies, the warmth of the sun caressing their tired faces. Through the leaves of the beeches the sun's rays dappled their uniforms, creating a camouflage. The thought struck him in that moment - uniforms that mimicked dappled patches would be harder to spot. Something to think about for the future.
They'd covered more than two hundred miles from Cologne and were finally nearing their destination. Knowing that they were so close, the tiredness seemed to dissolve slowly, brought on more by the anticipation of engaging once again in combat. Their target was within spitting distance.
Struck by the beauty of the beech trees, Charlie thought the luscious bright green leaves proliferating everywhere could be the balm to a battered soul. Surely artists must have captured the trees with bluebells covering the ground on canvas, painting impressionist views of the splendour surrounding them.
The men were quiet, walking with measured steps, each step bringing them closer to the electrified wire fence that surrounded the camp. Their goal was to liberate the camp, yet not one of his men could ignore the grandeur of overhanging green curtains, verdant forest floors, bluebells everywhere. The urge to sit down and relax pondering on the nature of things, of higher planes of existence, of acknowledging God's work must have been uppermost in the minds of some of his men.
Yet two things disturbed the wonder of God's creation as he walked in the early afternoon, preferring to feel the ground under his feet.
The first was the heavy bombing by Allied planes over the area. Their target was the SS factories where thousands of prisoners had worked over the years. Miller hoped fervently that there were no inmates in the factories now, and that they didn't hit the barracks. He hoped that the factories were razed to rubble by the bombing. That way they could strike a heavy blow and weaken resistance before the two regiments entered the camp. The unholy noise and thunderous explosions were ear splitting.
As they came to a turn in the road, they all stopped dead and looked at the scene before them. "Holy mackerel! What in God's name happened here?" Compton asked.
"Execution by hanging," Miller replied as he looked at the rows of gallows. Some bodies were still swaying, the reek of rotting flesh assailing their nostrils.
"Goddammit!" Compton yelled again and Miller thought he heard a sob in the young soldier's voice.
"Remove the bodies!" he ordered. He then instructed some of the support soldiers to dig a grave to bury the camp prisoners, their striped uniforms that resembled pyjamas hanging in tatters on them. He heard Longman also swearing as they proceeded to take down the bodies.
Miller felt his old rage that mostly simmered rise and explode from him. His face hardened and a nerve twitched in his jaw. Tears, he thought, were wrong for this moment, wrong. Fury and every other feeling of outrage, yes. It was clear what had happened here, and not in this one instance only. Over the years, hundreds of inmates - the dead were all Jews judging by the two triangles superimposed as a yellow star - must have been hanged here. He noted absently the raised earth overgrown by blankets of bluebells, where his instinct told him were mass graves. Had the condemned been ordered to dig their own graves?
He looked at the prisoners, their bodies swaying in the light breeze that had sprung up. The natural decay had been worsened by birds that had pecked out their eyes. Miller closed his eyes an instant; images of those tall birches in the Ardennes Forest that remind him of Day of the Dead dolls assailed him, refusing to leave his angered state.
Around them the beech trees flourished in a canvas of bright green. Below them the forest floor was carpeted with bluebells in all their glory.
It was spring, Miller thought, the birth of all things in nature. The bluebells of Buchenwald trembled in stark contrast to the death that surrounded them. He wanted to bang his head against a tree and release some of his pent-up fury.
He needed Katrine. So badly. Just her presence would offer him solace. Men like Longman and Compton needed comforting right now. As with him, it was not death that troubled them, but the outrage that rows upon rows of innocent men were hanged because the Star of David offended der Führer.
Then above the din of bombers flying overhead, they heard a rush of footsteps. Just ahead of them, men in the familiar stark grey-green uniform of German SS officers slowed their pace when they saw Miller's men. Immediately they raised their rifles, but Miller was ready for them. He watched the officer in the front who looked to be the leader of the group. They were outnumbered. The smart thing for them to do would be to throw their hands up and surrender.
"Lower your weapons if you want to stay in one piece. You are outnumbered!" he barked at them.
Slowly they dropped their rifles, their hands gradually going up in the air.
"There are twelve of them, Captain," Hemmings whispered next to him.
They carefully approached the officers, Charles followed by Hemmings, Longman, Riley and Compton. Further behind them, the rest of A Company had their rifles trained on the Germans. Charlie looked at the insignias of the officer he thought was the leader. A captain whose lips curved in a sneer. Miller felt like banging the man's face with his rifle butt, but he held his temper.
"A captain and a coward. Let me guess - you're abandoning the camp. Things are getting too hot for you."
"That is our business - "
"What is your name, prisoner?"
The man had a haughty bearing. Charles was fast losing his temper. Handing his rifle to Hemmings, he grabbed the officer and shook him until his teeth chattered, then dropped him suddenly. Charles noted absently that a front tooth was missing. The officer lost his balance but regained it, still giving Miller a haughty look. This time Miller grabbed him by the lapels and head-butted him hard. Only then did he get an answer.
"Götze. Kapitän Günther Götze."
"Well, Götze, we're on our way to the camp. Fancy a ride?"
There was no response from them. They appeared shaken, afraid. They were out and out cowards, leaving the rest of their fellow officers and foot soldiers in the camp to fend off an Allied air attack. His troops collected the confiscated rifles and sidearms, throwing them on the back of the jeep.
Miller turned to Hemmings. "Tie them up and load them on one of the trucks."
Then they were escorted to the trucks in the rear-guard of the convoy. Miller blinked several times as he turned to look at their retreating backs. What the hell was going on at the camp? Germans leaving their posts, running away, leaving the inmates unprotected? He knew that many of the camp inmates were criminals, convicts doing hard labour. If those elements escaped from the camp, what would happen when they arrived at the nearest town?
He stayed until they had dug a grave big enough to bury all the bodies, but not before their ID numbers had been taken. Somewhere these unfortunate men had families who might have survived. He knew from the way Katrine had been in the months following Joseph and Célestine's deaths, that closure became difficult if they didn't know that a loved one had indeed died, that the body was buried somewhere.
An hour later, Hemmings reported to him. All the prisoners had been secured on a truck with a few of the B company men who would keep an eye on them. They were ready to leave again. On his signal, the men started marching, followed by the trucks, gun carriages and M8 combat vehicles.
Soon they were within sight of the electrified fences. Longman hurled a rock at the fence. There was no reaction. The bombers had done their work. The snipers began spreading out to various strategic points outside the camp.
Miller had his sight on the guard tower furthest north. There were two Germans there firing ineffectually at the bombers. Good, he thought. You won't know what's coming.
"Ready, Riley?"
"As I'll ever be, Captain.
"I'll take out the one on the left, you the right." He peered through his scope, adjusted the lens until the German's face came into view.
"On my mark...fire!"
They saw the two soldiers slump down.
"We've got them both, Captain."
"Now we move to the camp. I'll be in the second jeep!"
Miller's heart raced as they began moving off again towards the guardhouse gates of Buchenwald. If Joseph and Célestine had not been shot dead in France, they might have ended up here, he thought. Then again, by now they might not have survived either, although, had they lived, his heart would have been a torch song of hopeless love for a married woman. He shook his head so viciously that Elsevier, momentarily distracted, almost ran the jeep off the road.
"Watch out, Elsevier!"
"Anything wrong, Captain?"
"Nothing. Keep going."
To which Elsevier simply nodded and continued driving. Sighing, Miller sat back. He had gathered as much information as he could about Buchenwald, in fact, about all the camps in Germany. He'd figured that liberating the camps would be a major part of their offensives. The convoy entered a long curve before it straightened out again like a Roman road. Dead ahead in the distance he could see the entrance of Buchenwald.
Liberation of Buchenwald Concentration Camp 11 April 1945
Buchenwald camp had been constructed in 1937, its entrance a stark gatehouse. The right side wing housed the camp jail or bunker for German soldiers tried and sentenced for serious misconduct. The left wing housed the SS administration offices. On top of the gatehouse was the main guard tower. Facing the inside of the camp, three guards had their machine guns trained on any prisoner attempting an escape. No doubt, Captain Charles Miller thought, those guards must have been kept pretty busy since the camp was first put into use. Now the main guardhouse appeared deserted, the guards taken out by the snipers from the two regiments. Miller made a mental note to request back-up in performing the mop-up operations.
Above the gatehouse, atop the main guard tower was a large clock. Miller had learned through radio contact that in the aftermath of the aerial bombing of the previous day and in the early hours of this morning, the clock had stopped at 3:15pm. They passed through the gate at 4:30pm. The wrought iron gate bore the inscription Jedem das Seine.
"Elsevier..."
"It means 'to each his own', Captain."
They paused just inside the gate. Miller raised his hand and waved it, indicating that the convoy move again. Dozens of the men simply kept on marching, their rifles primed to shoot. He didn't expect any heavy retaliation. He knew that more than three hundred German soldiers had been killed through the bombing of the last few days. So they simply drove through, crossing a very large square. He assumed it was a parade ground for inspections or roll call. Past the square they drove along a road that passed through the camp. On their right were barracks as far as the eye could see. On their left rows upon rows of houses, a hospital judging by the cross above the jamb of the door, officers' mess, soldiers, mess, wash houses, latrines for the soldiers, auxiliary buildings for ammunitions, provisions, clothing depot. He wondered where the crematorium was...
Elsevier handed him the loudhailer he'd retrieved from the back of the jeep.
Before he could even use the loudhailer, they came to a halt in front of two German officers who stood feet planted apart, their hands up. They carried no side-arms.
Charles jumped out of the jeep and approached them, one a lieutenant colonel and the other a first lieutenant if he read the insignia correctly. Their heads were bare. Their colouring was the opposite of Miller's black hair and eyes. They had the same stark blue eyes and flaxen blond hair as Robert Davis. If Miller could designate any profile on the men standing fearlessly in front of him, he'd say the German on the right was a true Aryan with an aristocratic bearing.
"We are only a hundred soldiers here, Captain," the lieutenant colonel said. "Many have died and a number have escaped. We surrender in the name of the Reich."
Miller nodded severely. "Who are you?"
"Oberstleutnant Johann Gaertner," answered the officer on the left.
"Oberleutnant Helmut von Wangenheim - "
Miller frowned heavily as he looked at von Wangenheim. A sudden image of a young rider whose horse threw him on a water jump flashing. "A von Wangenheim," he said, "rode in the Berlin Olympics. Broke his collarbone if I remember correctly."
Von Wangenheim's lip twitched.
"My brother. He is dead."
Miller nodded. Then he turned to Hemmings.
"See that all the prisoners are rounded up. Find a place where they can be held while we sort out a dozen things here."
"Yes, sir, Captain, sir!" Hemmings yelled, saluted and clicked his heels. Miller heard him shout orders to the troops. Two gun carriages were stationed in front of the gate house.
"Take these officers and put them with those other cowards in that rear truck. They can exchange notes on cowardly behaviour."
Miller looked at von Wangenheim who still stood with his hands up.
"Relax, man, I won't shoot you, though don't think I won't. I'll break your neck if you try anything, you hear me?"
Gaertner nodded. Von Wangenheim gave a sigh of relief as one of the corporals escorted them to the truck. The other soldiers had begun to round up the rest of the Germans who seemed relieved to be finally caught and become prisoners of war under the Americans.
"Captain!"
"Yes, what is it, Longman?"
"Just heard from one of the prisoners on the truck that there was an uprising of inmates here. They took over the camp, just over an hour ago."
Could that be the reason the clock stopped at 3:15pm? Those inmates had paved the way for the Red Diamonds to enter Buchenwald without so much as a skip in a heartbeat.
"Thank you, Longman."
"Welcome, sir. Wish I could break them soldiers' necks. Maybe there will be reason once we've inspected the camp, right?
"Thank you. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir!"
In the distance, at the northern end of the camp, smoke still hovered from the shelling of armament buildings, some of those building inside the grounds of the camp, others on the outside.
A number of inmates had drifted to the fence that surrounded the barracks. They looked ill, emaciated, some men naked, women whose clothing hung like sacks on them. In those nearest to where he stood, he could see in their eyes a hope that had never died.
Germans who had surrendered but were employed in critical services were left to continue, though Miller instructed one of his men to stand guard in the kitchens, the hospital, the washrooms. He was tired and needed sleep badly, as did the regiments of the Red Diamonds.
In the next few hours, his counterpart in regiment 11 with other senior officers oversaw the organisation of the US presence in the camp. They used the last of their rations for dinner. Tents were erected, though he was dying to sleep on a mattress. On an impulse he entered one of the German officer's houses. Von Wangenheim, as the rank showed just above the door jamb. Those prisoners of war were already placed in the camp bunks and kept under guard. He could use a shower, shave and a good night's rest. Tomorrow was another day. He doubted that things could get better or worse overnight.
He entered the house, his eyes instantly drawn to an upright piano against a wall in the lounge, a stand with sheet music and a violin on a chair. He closed his eyes, in his mind an image of Célestine playing the violin in a photograph he had seen in Katrine's house.
An image of Katrine late one night after she had again woken from a disturbed sleep. He thought she'd had a nightmare again, but when he switched on the bedside lamp, her eyes were curiously elated.
"What is it, Katrine?"
"I know part of your offensives in Germany will be to liberate concentration camps."
How had she known?
"Yes, honey. But my love, you know I cannot resurrect Célestine - "
"I know. But there will be child survivors. Do not worry, I am still in the resistance. We have our ears on the ground."
"Children?" He'd experienced a sudden breathlessness.
"Children who are orphans. They will have nowhere to go..."
He'd understood instantly. She was going to rely on him to connect with an orphan child and bring her home to France.
Miller stepped into the bathroom of von Wangenheim's house where he showered, shaved and got into bed. Within minutes he tumbled into sleep, dreaming of a little girl who would take to him and trust him enough to be his daughter.
Miller shook the hand of the US journalist who'd arrived with a number of other dignitaries at the camp. Edward R. Morrow exuded that air often associated with journalists - barely controlled curiosity. He'd listened enough to Morrow on CBS radio to know the man was a professional. He would observe, make notes and not lose sight of his objectivity.
They'd rounded up the chief medical officer of the camp, recalled Gaertner, von Wangenheim and Götze who would escort them around the barracks. Götze glared at von Wangenheim who seemed to ignore him deliberately. Miller caught this silent exchange. Later he would speak to one of them, preferably Von Wangenheim.
Men and women stood against the fence regarding them with interest. Some smiled and waved, though Miller thought those smiles were wary, worried.
"I understand you are a full colonel now, Colonel Miller," Morrow said. "Word has gotten around about your exploits."
"No more than any other officer would have done."
"Dragging injured comrades out of the line of fire and placing your own life on the line, I'd say that deserves a medal."
He'd received radio communication from General Irwin that his rank had been upgraded to full colonel. He'd also been told in no uncertain terms that he had to use his rank, that his new rank insignia would arrive soon. A number of the regiment would receive their new promotions in an official parade in the camp.
"Tomorrow, Colonel Miller. And Colonel?"
"Yes, General?"
"Congratulations. You deserve it."
Miller sighed and nodded to Morrow. "Ready, Mister Morrow?"
"As I'll ever be."
Miller gestured to Gaertner, von Wangenheim and the doctor who'd introduced himself as Doctor Schiller that they were ready. Longman, Compton, Hemmings and Riley walked behind them and occasionally he heard them talk, with Compton's familiar "goddam" spicing his conversation.
They walked down the road and entered the first gate in the fence, now open permanently, passing a number of women and men who looked like they would drop dead any moment. They were literally skin and bone. Miller observed Morrow begin mentally cataloguing what he saw. They visited a barracks filled with Czechoslovaks; another barracks was situated deep in the forest glade, practically hidden from the view of German officers, soldiers and guards. They saw boys who looked ragged, their eyes full of hope. Miller tried hard to subdue his outrage, to maintain a facade of objective observation. He saw a little girl whom a woman said was six years old, but looked the age of a three year old child. They visited the crematorium and saw sickening mounds of bodies that lay in the sun.
He looked at the four Germans who escorted them around the camp and he had a hard time keeping his arms stiffly at his sides for fear of attacking and killing one of them by breaking his neck. Longman and Compton had become quiet. Knowing them, Miller wondered when one of them was going to explode in anger.
Four hours later Miller met Morrow in the administration building now used by the American contingent.
He noted Morrow had just completed his radio report. Morrow handed him a paper.
"Here, read this."
Miller began reading Morrow's report.
[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 1200 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 had been where, what he 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 1200, 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.
In another part of the camp they showed me the children, hundreds of them. Some were only 6 years old. One rolled up his sleeves, showed me his number. It was tattooed on his arm. B-6030, it was. The others showed me their numbers. They will carry them till they die. An elderly man standing beside me said: "The children — enemies of the state!" I could see their ribs through their thin shirts...
We went to the hospital. It was full. The doctor told me that 200 had died the day before. I asked the cause of death. He shrugged and said: "tuberculosis, starvation, fatigue and there are many who have no desire to live. It is very difficult." He pulled back the blanket from a man's feet to show me how swollen they were. The man was dead. Most of the patients could not move.
I asked to see the kitchen. It was clean. The German in charge...showed me the daily ration. One piece of brown bread about as thick as your thumb, on top of it a piece of margarine as big as three sticks of chewing gum. That, and a little stew, was what they received every 24 hours. He had a chart on the wall. Very complicated it was. There were little red tabs scattered through it. He said that was to indicate each 10 men who died. He had to account for the rations and he added: "We're very efficient here."
We proceeded to the small courtyard. The wall adjoined what had been a stable or garage. We entered. It was floored with concrete. There were two rows of bodies stacked up like cordwood. They were thin and very white. Some of the bodies were terribly bruised; though there seemed to be little flesh to bruise. Some had been shot through the head, but they bled but little.
I arrived at the conclusion that all that was mortal of more than 500 men and boys lay there in two neat piles. There was a German trailer, which must have contained another 50, but it wasn't possible to count them. The clothing was piled in a heap against the wall. It appeared that most of the men and boys had died of starvation; they had not been executed.
But the manner of death seemed unimportant. Murder had been done at Buchenwald. God alone knows how many men and boys have died there during the last 12 years. Thursday, I was told that there were more than 20,000 in the camp. There had been as many as 60,000. Where are they now?
I pray you to believe what I have said about Buchenwald. I reported what I saw and heard, but only part of it. For most of it, I have no words.
If I have offended you by this rather mild account of Buchenwald, I'm not in the least sorry...
The Buchenwald Report by Edward R. Morrow
As Miller read Morrow's report, he felt a sting behind his eyelids. He'd walked with the reporter; every inch that Morrow covered, he covered too. There was no way he could say "This did not happen" or "Morrow is lying" or refute any of what Morrow saw. He had witnessed everything with the journalist who had struggled at times to remain objective.
How could one remain objective? How? Men died as they walked, their moment of freedom only fleeting as they died. Every breath of hope that had been within them, of going home, of being with those family members, who might have survived, died with them. Whole families brought into the camp never made it. They died from disease and privation, from exhaustion so total it was difficult to stand up. The emaciated inmates touched his arm with skeletal fingers, their eye sockets deep, their eyes grateful.
The Germans seemed to imagine that what was being witnessed by outsiders was normal. Normal within the framework of a herrenvolk ideal. They never showed any emotion, although one moment, when they saw the children, a nerve twitched in von Wangenheim's jaw.
Miller closed his eyes as he recalled his visit to the crematorium. Hundreds of naked bodies, just like Morrow described lay in the morning sun. He'd had a flashing image of the bluebell woodlands of Buchenwald forest and the stark contrast with death and destruction all around them.
Compton had touched the ankle of one of the bodies. "Goddammit, Colonel! They are stacked here like cord wood. It's inhumane, it's criminal! They have no shame!" And Compton had turned to face Gaertner, von Wangenheim and Doctor Schiller when he spewed his outrage.
Some of his men had stepped to one side and retched their guts out. He had felt the bile rising in his throat and worked to prevent himself from vomiting. The German officers and the doctor had looked on dispassionately, as if they'd distanced themselves from the atrocities they themselves had created or allowed to happen.
But it was Francis Longman's tirade that mirrored his own pain and anger today. He had simply voiced the outrage of every American who had looked at the naked bodies.
"Holy mackerel!" Beanpole Compton had cried out when they saw the two heaps of bodies. According to the doctor there must have been five hundred of them.
Bone white, as if every drop of blood had been drained from their bodies, they lay neatly stacked, just like Compton's image of piles of cord wood. On a trailer the Germans had simply thrown the bodies of about fifty more inmates. They too looked bloodless and white. Some were shot though the head, others simply died from hunger and privation, dropping dead from standing for hours in the sun. Again images like those snow covered birches in the Ardennes assailed him, Day of the Dead dolls with their eyes gouged out by birds.
Longman's voice cracked close to him, the suddenness of his expletive startling him and the others.
"What have you done, you bunch of fucking bastards!" Longman yelled at the German officers. Von Wangenheim jumped back as the distraught soldier looked to hit him with the butt of his rifle. Longman waved his arms at them in wild abandon, then at the dead men on the trailer and the heaps.
"They are people! They were humans like you and me! What the fuck have you done! Were they different? What was their crime? That they were Jews and Gypsies? They had eyes, ears, noses, heads and brains like you rats! They were given a will by God! A will which you destroyed! What right had you to imagine you were a god? No wait, let me answer that, you sick fucks. God would not let any human suffer by your perverse hands. It's a sin! A sin, you hear me? You want to be a herrenvolk? Fuck you all! They were sons, fathers and grandfathers, someone's brother, just like you have. You were mindless idiots that followed a greater idiot blindly! At the very least you could have afforded them some dignity! I treat my animals better than you have treated these poor souls. You could have made a difference, but let me tell you something!"
Tears spattered from Longman's face. He didn't care and they didn't stop him. He was every soldier's voice, even Morrow's.
"When you are given power, even a little bit of it, you abuse that power. You use it to rape, torture, kill mindlessly because you think no one is watching. You get a thrill from shooting a prisoner through the head. Yes, a thrill! You laugh, you joke about it with your buddies how you shot an old man through the head. Then you throw him on a truck and cremate him. Why, you sickos? Because there are a lot more where they were taken from! Power changes you from a man with balls to one whose mind is evil, who contrives the vilest torture imaginable and then you enjoy seeing a man, woman or child squirm!"
Longman lunged at von Wangenheim who jumped out of the way.
"This is extermination, you bastards! This is murder! And these are crimes you have committed. Yes, crimes! Crimes against humanity!"
Longman had stopped abruptly, out of breath. He fell down on his knees and wept hard tears.
Miller approached the distraught soldier and pulled him up. Even in that state, Longman clicked his heels and saluted. He didn't apologise for his outburst.
"I am not like them, Colonel. We are not like them. We won't punish them in kind, right? That would make us equal to the vermin they are!"
Then Longman pulled himself away from Miller and stood in front of Gaertner.
"I am not like you!"
Yes, Miller thought as he finished reading Morrow's report, it had been a difficult four hours. Other similar reports were emerging from other camps. It was a horrifying story.
"Thank you. Any more graphic and it would lose your listeners.
"No doubt." Morrow's eyes appeared sunken, but fired up with the same outrage Longman had displayed today.
'Well, I will leave you for now. There's a lot to be done here. Those Germans will spend the next few days cleaning those latrines, mass graves to be dug, the children to be seen to."
"You go, Colonel. I'll be okay here."
Miller nodded and left the office, glad to be outside again, to feel the sun on his face. Then he walked towards the house - Von Wangenheim's - to prepare for the next phase of operations in the camp.
"Are we free now?" Zannah asked as Daisy brushed her hair into soft, shiny curls that fanned her face.
"Yes, we are. Please hold your head still."
"I can brush my own hair."
"I know you can, my little bird. But I love doing this."
"Will you get my Tononi?"
Daisy paused in a brush stroke. She sighed. She was no longer allowed in the house that once was Helmut's quarters. But the violin was still there. She'd have to ask for it. Even though they were free and could go home, her heart raced madly having to face the stern officer - she heard they called him "Colonel" - who looked like he could twist the neck of every German he saw.
"That man - he is a colonel? Are you afraid of him?"
"He does not smile. His face is not friendly!" Daisy complained.
"He looks friendly to me, Maman Daisy. I am not afraid of him!"
"Then you go and ask for your Tononi!"
Zannah swung round, her eyes wide, now looking a little afraid. Daisy could not help but smile.
"Oh, no! What if he will hurt me?"
"I do not think so, sweet Zannah. These American soldiers follow rules. You do not have to worry!"
"Will you get the Tononi?"
"Yes. I'll get it for you. Then you can rehearse with the camp orchestra."
They had received instructions from the Americans to play at the parade. They wanted Zannah to be their solo violinist.
"I am sorry Maestro Dobrinski died."
"Me too. But do not despair, sweet Zannah. Maestro is in heaven. Did you know Klaus Schumann was first violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra?"
"Yes! Maestro Dobrinski told me of every person who can play an instrument. They used to play when we went to roll call in the mornings."
"Let us not think of the bad things now, Zannah."
"What will happen to the children?"
Daisy had finished Zannah's hair and turned the young child to face her.
"I really do not know. I would like to take you with me, and perhaps another girl whose whole family died - "
"I still think of my Maman. I dream every night about her."
"You think your Maman might be alive?"
Zannah nodded, her face suddenly creasing, her eyes filling with tears. Daisy pulled her close. She'd seen that vile Blériot strike Zannah's mother a glancing blow across the face, saw her collapsing in a heap. She'd appeared dead. To a child's mind that could very well have been the situation.
"I want to find out, Maman Daisy."
"Then we can go to Paris and try to find out, okay?"
A smile brightened the child's features, as if the sun shone in her eyes again. Hope, Daisy thought, was so easy to plant in anyone, especially a child who was receptive to it. It was what kept them both alive. She was happy for herself that she had fought so hard to survive. Everything that happened, the worse things, could now be shelved and remain hidden. Sighing, she looked at her arm, the ID number glaring at her. Closing her eyes, Daisy wondered whether she'd ever be allowed to forget.
"Will you fetch the Tononi now?" Zannah asked.
"You stay here. I'll go."
The children's barracks were clean now, with a bunk for each child. Extra blankets had arrived which the Americans had organised. Zannah was safe at last.
Her heart in her throat, Daisy made her way to the house now occupied by The Colonel.
Charles found a recording he wanted to listen to. A piano sonata by Domenico Scarlatti. Von Wangenheim had an impressive collection, almost as good as that swine he'd killed in St. Clair. Miller experienced only a twinge of guilt as he placed the record and wound up the phonograph. He'd make sure von Wangenheim's belongings would be sent to his home. Katrine had asked him about Glenn Gould, the genius kid playing the Scarlatti.
The music filled the room, melodic notes sounding like little gems bouncing over rocks in a river. He sat down on the couch, letting the melody seep into his mind. The ache he'd walked with for hours after witnessing the conditions in the camp, the hardships, the bodies on a trailer were slowly replaced by a new ache in his heart - the beauty of music.
Like this he had sat on Katrine's couch listening with his eyes closed, at peace with the world around him. Katrine and music - they were good for him. Scarlatti sounded good, the kid genius creating magic with black and white keys, organising octaves into harmony, pleasant pearls that made the old woes leave, even if reluctantly.
Yet the new ache deepened and he knew it had to do with Katrine who was never far from him. Katrine who was in spirit right beside him, encouraging him, offering solace, telling him littles wondrous legends of warriors and eagles. He could hear her voice piercing the Scarlatti.
"You wish I should tell you the legend again?"
"Only to hear your voice. It sounds miraculous."
"You are not listening to the story?"
"Katrine, I could listen to your voice all day. Sometimes I am jealous because I am not with you to hear you speak. It heals me, did you know?"
Then Katrine would look curiously at him, arch an eyebrow and say, "I am sure I will understand one day."
Katrine. He missed her, her laughter, her nearness, her touch. A sting behind his eyelids made him berate himself for becoming morbid. With the back of his hand he wiped fiercely at his eyes, leaning his head against the upper backrest.
Right at that moment there was a soft knock on the door. Miller frowned heavily at the intrusion. He'd put a young private to guard the entrance. Who could get past the guard? Sighing, he rose and stopped the recording. Glenn Gould and Scarlatti would have to wait another day.
He walked to the door, pausing again as he contemplated who his visitor could be. When he opened the door, a woman stood there, a woman with curly black hair, clear dark grey eyes, but sunken cheeks as if she hadn't eaten properly in years.
She looked scared. Did he scowl? Did the horror of what they'd witnessed today still remain etched on his face? The poor woman looked like she wanted to run away. An ID number was tattooed on the inside of her forearm, just above the wrist.
"How may I help you?" he asked, then belatedly waved his hand that she enter. She took a slow step across the threshold and remained standing just inside the door.
"Can I help you?" he asked again, this time in French. He saw her give a great sigh, the fear leaving her face.
"My name is Daisy Ginsberg. You - you were playing Scarlatti."
"That I did. Next question, you know that because you've been in this house before?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Colonel Miller, as I'm sure you know by now, Daisy Ginsberg. Were you von Wangenheim's lover?"
It was a shot in the dark. Daisy blushed furiously, then nodded, too embarrassed to look up.
"Ah, that explains Scarlatti."
"He played it often. Mostly piano sonatas, Colonel Miller."
"I won't bite. Now, you came here for something, I take it?"
"In two days we've heard the generals will arrive. The soldiers told us they will honour those with promotions and great deeds of bravery."
"I know."
"We have a little orchestra."
"And?"
"One of the members used to use Helmut's violin to practise. I was asked to collect the violin."
"This member is close to you both?" Another shot in the dark.
"Yes, sir."
"Fine."
Charles turned to the music stand, took the sheet music as well as other sheets that were lying on top of the piano. Then he took the violin and handed it to her.
"Thank you, Colonel. The young lady will be glad to be playing the Tononi again."
"Tononi?"
"This violin is an eighteenth century instrument."
Charles nodded. He knew nothing about violins and made a mental note to ask Katrine about them. She would know. She knew everything except how to row a boat.
"Does this instrument come back to the house?"
"Herr von Wangenheim said Zannah could have it because - because he - "
"Would most likely be tried, found guilty and be executed?"
Miller was unprepared for Daisy's reaction.
"Helmut is innocent of all the crimes others have committed here!"
"Well, the judge and jury will decide that. You came here for the Tononi. Let's leave it at that."
He knew he sounded unnecessarily harsh, but the Germans in the camp were all prisoners of war and some of them, like that Götze they caught running away, would be tried. Götze definitely came across as an individual that would have committed atrocities, all the things Longman had accused them of.
Daisy was breathing heavily as she exited the house, as if she was in a hurry to get away from him. He didn't mean to scare or upset her, but he had work to do, a lot of work. It was perhaps also useful to speak to a prisoner of war called Helmut von Wangenheim.
Paris Saturday 14 April 1945
Her students had all been more than willing to come in on Saturdays to work on trials to support their course work. They'd lost much impetus because of the war but were focused enough to come in to put in the extra time. They were catching up fast, as Katrine noted, not wishing to miss anything. Budding scientists had no problem working nights!
Katrine sat on a high stool in the laboratory of the Science Faculty, carefully balancing a test tube in one hand and a receptacle in the other. Carefully she poured the fluid into the narrow beaker. Once the liquid mixed with the powder in the beaker, she gave a satisfied grin. The experiment was working. At first the mixture stalled then slowly created an effervescent surge that reached the top of the beaker, but not spilling over.
At other benches and tables, her students were busy with their own tests. If they were successful, they could herald another breakthrough in the field of biomedicine. Joseph had always believed drugs like penicillin were wonder drugs, but they'd found that some patients had developed a reaction to it. Perhaps, if they could create a buffer, like another innocuous elixir, they could reduce the danger. Also, they'd be able to formulate it in oral form.
"For now, we focus on beating a disease like typhoid fever," she'd told her students at the beginning of the semester.
They were an enthusiastic group of second year students who worked very hard. Since the university reopened, they had been inundated with students new and old who wanted to resume their studies. She looked about her, silently observing their work. They were ordered, disciplined, dedicated, bent on catching up on work lost.
Sighing, she sat staring at the beakers filled with various liquids. She'd had the dream again last night, or was it in the early hours of the morning? When she woke in a great sweat, gasping for air, she realised she was in Célestine's bed. She'd taken to sleeping in her daughter's room. Then she'd wept again for her little girl as well as Charles who wasn't there to comfort her. He'd hold her in his arms and then whisper softly that things would get better, that as long as he was there, he'd be the eagle carrying her on his wings. Most nights she'd succeed in becoming calm again, but she missed him constantly. In her dream Célestine would talk to her.
"Maman, I am cold."
Celestine would look at her with large, pleading eyes. Funny how she never had tears in those expressive eyes.
"But the sun is shining, my little goldenbird. How can you be cold?"
"It is in my heart," she'd say, placing her small palm on her chest. "The cold is here."
"How can I warm your heart? You are so far away."
"I never left you, Maman."
"Never? How is it that I miss you so? Look, I sleep in your bed. Can you not feel my body close to yours?"
"No, please, come!"
"I am coming. I am walking towards you. Don't move."
Then the scene would change dramatically from warm sunshine near a beach, or on the banks of the Seine, to a field of tall grass, a clearing in a wooded area. It would be dark and cold, snow drifting noiselessly from the low clouds to earth. Célestine would stand there, knee deep in the snow, her hand reaching for her mother.
"Help me, Maman!"
"Don't move! Stay there..."
Then Katrine would take slow, careful steps through the snow covered grass to where Célestine was standing. As she approached, her daughter would suddenly stop talking, just staring at her with her wide eyes, her mouth slightly open.
"I am here. Take my hand - "
In that moment the breeze would lift her hair fanning her face. Face? That was no face. There was a gaping hole, a bullet hole against her temple. The figure would change before her eyes to a skeleton, with black eye sockets and no eyes.
In great fear Katrine would rock awake, gasping for breath.
Like this morning. How many times had she had this nightmare? Every week? Every few days? It seemed to her that Célestine visited her every night - a small child with a floral pinafore that turned into a skeleton as Katrine approached her. Her rational mind told her that Célestine was dead. They'd recovered her body in an isolated forest clearing and buried the remains in the Paris cemetery. So why was she having these terrible nightmares in which Célestine haunted her, looking like Katrine had last seen her in the pretty light pinafore?
"Professeur...?
She visibly shook herself to the present when one of the students spoke. Katrine looked at her dazedly.
"I am sorry. I haven't slept very well. Please continue."
The student nodded and returned to her station.
Sighing again, she berated herself for descending into such gloom. She continued with her trials, hoping that by the end of another week she and her students would have reached a conclusion to their testing.
She was still busy working with test tubes, writing down her findings when suddenly, a sharp stabbing pain ripped across her bosom. Clutching her chest, she tried to cry out but the sharpness was so severe that it knocked her breath from her. Her head began to swim, the dizziness overtaking her. She grasped the bench with one hand, while still clutching her bosom with the other.
Katrine gave a sharp little cry, images of Charles and Célestine flashing before her. She heard someone shout. It wasn't Charles or Célestine. One of her students? The room was spinning as she tried desperately to hold on to the table, but a deep black cloud overtook her, causing her to sail off the stool. She landed on the floor, giving a soft sigh as she lost control of herself, sinking into a deep oblivion.
When Katrine came to, she blinked in the bright light that filled the room. Frowning, she tried to move her head, but the action caused mild discomfort. A nurse stood at the foot of the bed, studying a chart. Touching her face, then her bosom, somewhat confused, she wondered what she was doing here. She was in a hospital, that was certain, but why? The pain in her chest registered only as a dim throbbing.
"Nurse?"
The young woman looked up. She had a friendly face, an unflustered demeanour.
"Ah, our patient is awake at last."
"What happened to me?"
"We have to wait for Doctor Blanchet, Madame Miller. He will be here shortly to fill you in on your condition."
Condition? What was wrong with her? Katrine realised it was pointless insisting on answers from the nurse who might not have the authority to diagnose. She knew from Joseph's hospital visits and surgery at home that he was always the one to deliver good news or bad. No, the nurse was simply doing her duty.
"How long have I been here?"
"Ah, Madame Miller, you arrived this morning at 11am. We sent your students home. They were worried when you collapsed in the laboratory."
Finished with the chart, the nurse replaced it and moved briskly to another bed. Katrine lay thinking about the moment when she'd had the attack. The pain had been excruciating and all that flashed were images of Célestine and Charles. Was it because she had been so preoccupied thinking about them? She lay quite still, afraid to move lest the pain return. Very gingerly she raised her left hand and gave a sigh of relief when she experienced no pain.
Were Charles and Célestine the reason for her collapse? She missed him with her very breath. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. Why couldn't she stop thinking about them? It felt so real, those images of Célestine, her bright laughter lighting up the room. Célestine playing her precious violin, Célestine concentrating as she played a difficult Bach piece.
"And why the tears, Madame Miller?" a voice sounded up next to her.
Embarrassed that she'd been caught crying, she wiped the tears from her cheek.
"Docteur?"
"Blanchet. You gave us a scare, but let me assure you immediately that you are fine now. We ran a standard ECG to determine whether you had a heart attack."
"It wasn't a heart attack?"
"No. But a sudden excitable event can cause something quite close. Your heart is fine. Tell me, were you shocked by anything?"
Katrine thought about the time in the laboratory. There was nothing that could have brought on something so cataclysmic as palpitation that caused her heart to beat arrhythmically. They had been progressing steadily and very, very carefully, the work ground-breaking but not so that her whole system would shut down for a while.
"No...no," she replied. "Nothing. Although - " She stopped suddenly, trying to bring something into perspective, a tease at the rim of her consciousness.
"What is it?" Blanchet asked as he took her pulse, frowning as he felt it racing.
"I dreamed last night, of my daughter. She's dead but it felt to me as if she called me. Could it be that?"
"Possibly, but not likely. This was very sudden, as your students testified. One moment you were sitting up and the next you collapsed on the floor."
Katrine shook her head, unable to think, for just thinking gave her a headache.
"May I ask, Madame Miller. Your husband?"
"He is an American, an officer of the Allied Forces. By now they are in Germany. I've been able to track their advancements only by radio and newsreels. I don't know where he is at this point in time."
"Well, you know that the concentration camps have been liberated. Could he be there?"
She thought how Charles was always very security conscious about divulging the regiment's movements. She accepted that. The letters were few and far between, but she knew he would never let her down. She believed that he was still alive beating the enemy back or overpowering them. She gave a sigh. She hoped he would call her some time. It was possible that his troops had reached one of the concentration camps.
"It is very possible," she acknowledged. "The Russians have advanced from the east and have already liberated Auschwitz in January. Much death and degradation there."
"Perhaps," Dr Blanchet said, smiling, "your heart is beating with his as one. Your bond is very strong!"
Katrine smiled, then nodded. She felt much better.
"Can I go home, Doctor?"
"You suffered serious palpitations, abnormal for one so young, brought on by stress or sudden longing. Perhaps a late reaction to your nightmares?"
She nodded, promising herself that she'd have to stop dreaming about Célestine, though how she could do that was another question, she decided as she left the hospital an hour later, prescription in hand. She'd pick up her medication later. Right now, she wanted to go home, lie on Célestine's bed and think of Charles.
It was late afternoon when Katrine finally arrived home after she'd collected her medication. She was tired, and if she admitted it to herself, still felt the slight murmuring in her bosom, as if her heart skipped a beat forcibly reminding her of her husband and daughter.
She breathed in deeply, relieved at the absence of the stabbing pain she'd experienced this morning. She put on some music, this time, a Mozart violin concerto, played by Yehudi Menuhin, closing her eyes as she relaxed on the couch. Katrine realised she hadn't eaten for most of the day, so she headed for the kitchen where she fixed herself a light meal.
When she had finished, she walked about the house, pacing in the lounge, stopping to look at pictures, opening the lid of the upright piano. Her heart began racing again. Katrine wondered if she hadn't been discharged too early from the hospital. A light pain lingered in her bosom. Closing her eyes, she tried to will away the feeling of being chased by an unknown foe. The walls of her house seemed to be closing in on her.
"Charles, if only you were here to calm the storms in me."
Katrine moved about the house, first to the room where Lamine used to sleep, then the lounge again, the kitchen, Joseph's surgery which now resembled more a science lab, her bedroom. She rushed out quickly, remembering how Charles made love to her there, how he loved her. When she entered Célestine's room, she was overcome with a strange feeling, as if her daughter's spirit lingered there.
"Why do you haunt my dreams so, my child? Why do you raise the hope in me again when I know there is none?
Later she relaxed in her tub, filled to the brim with warm, soapy water. Katrine lay back, soaking in the warmth, sighing when at last the heaviness, the dread, the hope that Célestine could beyond all possibility, beyond all fantastical reality, walk into the bathroom and say, "Can I sit in the bath with Maman?" Célestine used to ask her, the pleasant memory relieving the feeling of sadness.
Her eyes stung as an image of Célestine, so clear she could touch the child, came before her. She rose abrubtly, dried herself and berated herself once again for being so melancholy. Dressing quickly, she grabbed her purse and went outside. She drove to the city centre, to one of the cinemas where she could catch some newsreels, perhaps find out how far Charles's regiments had advanced into Germany. Halfway through Casablanca, however, she got up abruptly and left the cinema.
When she returned home, she changed into her sleepwear, deciding to sleep again in Célestine's room. It was only 9pm, still very early by French standards. She gave a deep sigh as she wormed herself under the blanket and relaxed, the haunting images slowly dissipating.
She was almost asleep when the ring of a telephone penetrated her consciousness. It rang sharp and strident. At first Katrine thought she was dreaming until she rocked awake and jumped out of the bed. She rushed barefoot to Joseph's surgery where the phone was located, out of breath when she virtually grabbed the receiver from the hook.
"Madame Katrine du Pléssis-Miller?" a thin female voice asked.
"Yes."
"Could you hold the line for Colonel Charles Miller?"
END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A/N: The Buchenwald Report is the actual report quoted here in this chapter. Edward R. Morrow was the warp correspondent for CBS. There was no way I could have duplicated so exactly what Morrow had written, so decided to quote it intact. vanhunks