CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Buchenwald Saturday 14 April 1945
Saturday morning broke with a clear sky and a sun that hovered just above the horizon. It was going to be a fine day, Colonel Charles Miller thought as he prepared to dress for the parades. Soldiers of the 10th and 11th regiments would be honoured with new promotions for their acts of bravery as well as honouring those who died in battle.
The inmates had begun to leave after the second day, and now only two thousand remained of whom there were numerous children, the youngest of them a boy of four. Charles remembered Katrine's directive to him, to connect to a child who needed a home. That was a reality. Many of the children were orphans who had no family to return to. His troops assigned to that task had returned with harrowing stories of camp prostitution, rape, the use of children as sex toys. And every time, one name cropped up whenever they spoke of these atrocities.
Kapitän Günther Götze.
A malicious, cold-blooded officer by all accounts. He would be tried, there was no doubt about that. Von Wangenheim and Gaertner appeared to have tried their best to minimise the atrocities committed in the camp. His own express order to his troops was that none of the prisoners of war be targets of reprisals either by American troops or the inmates in the camp. He had a heavy guard posted at the camp prison to prevent such attacks taking place. Longman was right. There was no use for the eye-for-an-eye behaviour. They had to show they were better than that. Justice had to be seen to be done, even though every fibre of his being screamed retaliation.
He stood in front of a small mirror fixing his tie, grinning as he remembered Katrine doing a much better job of it. She'd stand in front of him and kiss him after she'd knotted the tie.
"No kiss for me this time..."
He smoothed down his dress jacket, a smart blue-grey garment. No longer a captain, the twin bars on his lapels were now missing. New pins as well as the insignia of the American eagle would be pinned on him during the promotions ceremony. The ribbon racks were pinned on his left chest, just above the pocket.
"There, that should do it," he murmured as he once again smoothed his hair. General F. Wilson Erikson and Maj. Gen. Joshua Muldoon had arrived the previous night. They'd dined together in the officers' dining room amid general high spirits. It seemed everyone wanted an end to the war. It was nearly the end of the war.
"Once we take Berlin, it's all over, Colonel Miller."
"How long will we need?"
"Less than a month, I'm sure."
"Beware of the Soviets making their way west," he'd parried last night. It was a cold thought that had sprung up immediately after he spoke.
"We just have to get there before they do."
And he'd wondered about that, since the Russians had already liberated camps in Poland. But Muldoon was right. Taking Berlin, the seat of the German High Command, the war would be over. Then they could go home and rest for a month. He was dying to get home, do a masters course in military science and archaeology. He wanted Katrine to be with him. That was another issue. Would she return with him to the United States?
He tried pushing that thought away from him. Once he saw her again, they could simply rejoice in being together at last and think about setting up a home somewhere. He hoped it would be in America. He hoped to have children with her, to give young Evan a baby brother or sister. But he was always going to be a military man. Wherever he was posted in peace time, Katrine would be with him, he hoped.
Charles tapped his top left pocket. Caesar's Gallic Wars was safe, along with the photos he'd placed within its pages. On an impulse, he took out the book and removed the one photo he'd loved to look at on those dark nights in the Ardennes forest when missing her had become too much. The picture he'd rescued when Katrine had swept the photos off the mantelpiece.
Mother and daughter. So beautiful and so alike, both smiling into the camera, their eyes alive. He recalled how Katrine's eyes were dark and unhappy when he'd first met her. Then he wondered, as he always did, how Célestine's eyes had looked after they were captured. Dark, expressive, unhappy eyes. He longed for Katrine and prayed again for the thousandth time that Célestine was alive, that Katrine and Célestine could be happy at last.
Charles shook his head to dispel the negative thoughts, placing the photo back between the pages of the book, inserting it once again where he was always comfortable carrying it. The day they had landed in France at Sugar Red Beach in July last year seemed a lifetime away. Since then, they'd been fighting in every major town, fought their way through dense Ardennes forests, captured Remagen, slowly inched eastward to central Germany.
A soft knock on his door alerted him to the present. He turned and walked into the lounge. A Beethoven concerto was playing softly in the background.
"Come."
The door opened and a young private stood there, shaking a little by the looks of it. He saluted stiffly.
"Everything's been set, Colonel. The proceedings will begin in ten minutes."
"Thank you."
At 10:30am, the parade was about to start. Two rows of chairs divided by a narrow aisle were reserved for the dignitaries who'd arrived to attend the ceremony. They occupied the first row. The second row was left vacant. Those who would not be receiving promotions and other accolades sat in the next rows. To the left of the American contingent was a large square where inmates were seated. On the other side of the main group sat the German prisoners of war, under heavy guard.
Miller smiled grimly. In front of that group sat the German doctors, Gaertner the camp commander, von Wangenheim and Götze. They looked subdued. Two days ago they'd been forced to witness the burial of the dead inmates in a mass grave. Two rabbis and their own chaplains had conducted a short service to give the dead a dignified final resting place. He'd seen von Wangenheim's eyes fill with tears. He still had not been able to speak to him.
Behind the standing group of soldiers and officers a small orchestra was seated. The piano that had been removed from von Wangenheim's quarters earlier in the morning stood at one side, but close to the main group of performers. It had surprised him to learn that the camp had an orchestra, that they'd played frequently for visiting German dignitaries, or for the camp staff. He'd also heard through his troops that they played after roll call on most mornings. They'd told him winter was the worst when they made the poor inmates stand in the cold or snow until the camp staff saw fit to inspect them. It was also where Götze never hesitated to shoot anyone who sank to the ground or looked sick or who tried to protect a fellow inmate.
Two other officers were to receive their new ranks of colonel, from the 9th Armoured Infantry and from their own 10th and 11th regiments. Others would be elevated to majors, captains, and all the ranks for the enlisted soldiers.
The heat was stifling and he itched to scratch his neck just below the collar where his tie pinched him. So he stood quite still at attention, letting the discomfort pass, trying to remember if he shined his shoes properly the morning, or whether a hair was out of place.
Major General Muldoon called the names of each soldier and pinned his new insignia on him. He smiled when Hemmings accepted his new rank of captain, Longman and Compton serving with their new ranks of corporal and Elsevier skipping staff sergeant to sergeant. He was proud of his men. They deserved their promotions. Miller doubted whether he'd have anyone better to serve under him.
His heart thumped wildly when his name was called.
"Colonel Charles Anson Miller..." Muldoon's voice droned.
Charles clicked his heels and stiffly stepped forward, saluting the two generals.
"We honour Colonel Charles Anson Miller today with a well deserved promotion to the rank of colonel. A man of many talents as some of you might know. Back in '36 he represented the United States at the Olympics in Berlin as coxswain of the University of Washington's rowing eights. Might I remind you all that the US took gold in that event, that even then Colonel Miller as team coxswain displayed all the qualities that defined the spirit of leadership. Congratulations, Colonel."
"Thank you, General Erikson."
Then Charles saluted again and stepped back. Once he'd re-joined the group for the next phase, Corporal Compton whispered, "Congratulations, Colonel. I shall miss the captain!"
He smiled, then listened carefully while some of the soldiers of the group were awarded honours for valour, acts of bravery during the conflicts of the last months, in fact, since they'd landed at Sugar Red Beach. He glanced very quickly at the new insignia above the ribbon track, an American eagle, and smiled again as he thought of the legends Katrine had told him on that fateful night he'd stumbled into her home.
He rocked to attention when his name was called again. General Erikson spoke warmly of Miller's accomplishments.
"In the face of adversity, Colonel Miller has acted with distinction and valour. He saved the life of a private who had been in danger of drowning. We learned of his acts of bravery during the Battle of Vidouville where he stepped in the line of fire to protect a seriously injured soldier. During the Battle of Remagen, Colonel Miller once again placed his own life in danger by dragging an injured comrade to safety while under heavy fire from the enemy. These acts of bravery, most particularly the last mentioned, is are deserving of the highest honour for bravery in battle. We have pleasure in awarding Colonel Charles Anson Miller the Congressional Medal of Honour. We give him here only a small pin because, as many of you know, this honour is awarded personally by the President of the United States."
Charles stepped forward to stand in front of General Erikson, a soldier who had himself been the recipient of the medal and saluted. He felt like he wanted to weep. He knew this rare honour would be repeated in a formal ceremony at the White House in the new year, once he was home.
He stepped back, saluted again and turned to join the rest of the group.
"Please be seated, officers and soldiers," Major General Muldoon ordered.
Charles knew he was to take the first seat in the second row. He would get a good view of the rest of the proceedings, which had been preceded by a short service by a rabbi, one of the freed inmates and two of their own chaplains. Now the orchestra was preparing to set their instruments. One violinist, he had been informed, was a member of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. The other inmates were all former members of orchestras. Could the person who would play von Wangenheim's Tononi also have been a member of an orchestra?
He remembered thinking how so much talent had been lost in the concentration camps. There were novelists, journalists, scientists, French aristocrats, medical doctors, philosophers, politicians, prime ministers and mayors of cities, and many who were instrumentalists, conductors of orchestras, teachers, mathematicians... All who had died needlessly, whose bodies had lain in forgotten heaps like trash thrown out on the weekend.
He was hoping to see the person who'd be playing the violin that was in von Wangenheim's house. Daisy Ginsberg had sounded secretive. Could it be someone related to her? He hadn't wanted to scare her further because she looked as if she thought he was going to throttle her.
He simply couldn't rest. Since he'd left Paris, his sleep had always been broken, punctuated by nightmares. His appearance tended to scare some of the inmates.
Charles sighed as he took the little book from his top pocket to immerse himself in Latin until he could hear the orchestra launch into the first strains of a Mozart concerto. He felt a thump against his arm from Hemmings who sat next to him.
"You just cussed under your breath, Colonel."
"Latin."
"Oops."
Hemmings shut up and appeared to lose himself in the music. Charles listened while he kept his eyes on the Latin texts. He'd played a recording of this same violin concerto in Katrine's home, both in St. Clair and Paris. She'd always tell him how Célestine loved to play the solo pieces. His attention was still on the book when his ears pricked and he began to listen in earnest when the violin soloist entered in perfect harmony, thin, breathy, the vibrato confident, contained but well balanced.
Damned good violinist. Perhaps the one playing the Tononi.
"Holy mackerel!" Compton's voice sounded up. "It's a goddam little girl playing like God himself put his music in her heart!"
Only then did Charles look up. His view was blocked by the giant frame of Major General Muldoon, so he shifted a little to the left to see the players. The conductor stood on a little dais, but to his right a child had stood up to play the solo.
A gigantic fist from a great height punched him on the chest, so hard that his heart almost stopped. The child was stroking the violin in soft piano until the notes grew in strength - thin, sweet, then majestically rising to a crescendo that wrung beauty from the strings such as only the gods bestowed on humans. The piece was a classic, Mozart masterfully entrusted in the hands of a skilled expert. Every stroke, every reedy draw of the bow over the strings capturing pain and heartache and joy in one lingering glissando.
Once Katrine had asked him about Glenn Gould. He'd told her he'd listened to the kid genius on the radio. This, this what he was hearing, what every American in the camp and every inmate and every prisoner of war was hearing was surely God's voice speaking through a child. Not a single atonal sound could be heard as everyone was caught up in the miracle of hearing something sublime, something miraculous from the hands of a young girl.
Her face was turned away from him, focused on the sheet music and the baton of the conductor. Charles wanted to weep, for here was talent in abundance, talent that would have gone wasted had the Allies not arrived.
Then the child looked towards the audience.
Her eyes connected with his.
Charles gasped as the giant hammer struck his heart in relentless blows. He could not look away from those eyes piercing his own.
She was small, her frame dainty. Rich auburn curly hair framed her face. Eyes which even from this distance, appeared blue-grey. When she smiled at him, her mouth lifted in a curve at the corner.
"Holy mackerel!" Compton exclaimed again. "The kid looks like someone I know!"
Miller felt a blinding flash behind his eyes, so searing that he gave a little cry. It left him lightheaded, breathless. He was losing control. The flashes continued unabated, driving out the divine music, even the face of the child. He tried sitting up, but couldn't move from the bent over position into which the erratic thumping of his heart forced him. He had to get up, he had to get away from here...
In a sudden jerking movement he forced himself to a standing position, scraping the chair as he did so, a drunken effort that alerted Hemmings and Compton. Charles looked at the child again.
The same eyes, the same hair, the same face, the same smile. With trembling fingers, he opened the photo and stared into the face of Katrine and Célestine, mother and daughter. Same face, same eyes... He tried folding the photo and placing it again between the pages of Caesar's Gallic Wars, managing at last to put it in his top pocket.
There could simply be no mistaking the face of the child.
She was not a figment. She was not a spirit doll come rising from a grave to him. She was not an orphan in an orphan world. If anything, this child was the embodiment of man's instinct to survive. She was the daughter of Katrine, his beloved, with whom he sometimes wept when she dreamed of her dead child. She was not dead!
She was Célestine.
Then the nausea hit him. Nausea, faintness, the urge to weep, the hard hammering of his heart beating rhythmically, overtook him. He clutched his chest, trying to rub away the extreme pain. He gave an agonised cry as he tried to breathe, the pain so severe that darkness began to descend on him.
"Colonel!" someone shouted as he stumbled away from the group, looking for an entrance, anywhere he could be away from the crowd and think. Think! He found his way to the administration offices, the nearest building from where they were seated.
Once inside, Charles Miller succumbed to the overwhelming trauma of losing consciousness.
"Maman Daisy, that - that Colonel Miller, he is sick."
"I know. I think the music upset him. But you played so beautifully, how can anyone be sick?"
"While I was playing, I looked at him. And then his eyes went wide, like he was shocked."
"Perhaps you remind him of someone very dear to him."
Zannah smiled. She loved Maman Daisy who was very wise, who taught her how to take care of herself, who taught her mathematics. But she still missed her own mother.
"I think maybe I remind him of someone he knows. Maybe we could ask Colonel Miller to find out."
"Find out what, dear Zannah?"
"Perhaps he could tell us what happened to poor Maman..."
"Oh, Zannah! Do you still think you can hope?"
"Maman Daisy, you taught me that hope is all we have to keep us alive!"
"I said that, didn't I? Now, do you think we should visit Colonel Charles Anson Miller in the infirmary?"
"Oh, no! He looks very stern!"
"Do not let that bother you. Do you remember how Herr von Wangenheim also looked so stern in the beginning and how frightened you were of him?"
Zannah nodded vigorously. Daisy laughed. Things were looking up for them. In three days time, she would be taken to Weimar where she would board a train and head for Paris - a two day journey. There she had friends who would put her up until she could find her own place to stay, perhaps start teaching again. She wanted to take Zannah with her. Who knew, one day Helmut might be free and join them. Then they could be a family. Zannah needed convincing, else she'd be sent somewhere strange, where she would be adopted by strangers. Daisy hated that thought, of Zannah going to live with strangers.
But first she had to see if she could speak with Colonel Miller. Even if only to ascertain once and for all that Zannah's real mother had died, was buried somewhere, so that the child could get closure and focus on living and being happy.
Charles woke with the sensation that the sharp pain in his chest had subsided. He breathed, relieved that he could do so without any discomfort. He looked about him, saw uniformed nurses going about their duties, tending to other inmates on the road to recovery.
He was in the camp infirmary. The old German doctor had been called to do duty along with their own medical personnel. Many of the inmates were malnourished, on the brink of death. Doctor Schiller looked up, saw that Charles was observing him. Schiller hurried to him, a broad smile on his face.
"Ah, I see our patient is awake!"
"What happened?"
"You suffered severe palpitations, arrhythmic heartbeats that caused your system to shut down."
"It was not a regular heart attack?"
"No, fortunately for you, Colonel Miller. You are as healthy as a horse and strong as an ox."
Charles rubbed his neck. "How long was I out?"
"Well, let's see. The orchestra was playing and young Zannah did the solo. She saw you sitting there. I was told she looked at you, then you became distressed. That was 11am."
"What time is it now?"
"It is afternoon, Colonel. It has just gone past two," Herr Doktor Schiller said as he took his patient's pulse.
He was out that long? He touched his chest, the unbearable pain gone. Could a child have had such a devastating effect on him? The child was Célestine, of that he was absolutely one hundred percent certain. There could be no doubt. So the question that filled his mind was, how did she survive? How did Célestine cheat death? How did she land at Buchenwald and not one of the other camps like Belsen or Dachau?
The constant self-interrogation gave him a new headache. He had to see the child. He had to know, once and for all. What if, in all of creation, he could be wrong, that the child was not Célestine? So he got up and pulled the screen around the bed. His uniform lay neatly folded on a chair next to the bed.
"Colonel! Please, you should not move about now. The ECG - "
"Proved I am okay. There is nothing wrong with my heart."
"Yes, but - but - " the old doctor blustered.
"Doctor, I'm getting out of here. Try and stop me."
He gave the doctor a glare that challenged to the medic to stop him. Then another doctor - one of their own - parted the screen.
"I see Colonel Miller is discharging himself."
"See? See?" Doctor Schiller crowed. "You cannot leave yet."
"The only thing I see is that I am fine now."
"It is clear we will not convince Colonel Miller to remain in the infirmary for another couple of hours. He has recovered from the fainting fit - "
"Doc, I do not faint!"
"Yes, I understand. You are well enough to be discharged. Sign here, Colonel."
To which he hastily appended his signature on the proffered form. He left the infirmary and headed straight for his quarters that once belonged to von Wangenheim.
He had to speak to a few people, get hold of the child whom the doctor referred to as Zannah. His heart raced again but this time in anticipation. He needed to see the child, find how she survived. Ask her pointed questions, perhaps ask straight out whether she was Célestine. The likeness, though, was too real, too astonishing to be mere coincidence.
Once he entered the house, he fixed himself something to eat, realising belatedly that he was hungry. Also belatedly he noticed the piano that had stood outside while the orchestra was playing, was now back in its usual spot. It was something, he thought, he'd want to do for von Wangenheim. It was the German's personal property. If von Wangenheim was going to be imprisoned, then he would arrange to have the piano transported to his home.
He opened the door and stood on the top step.
"Delaney!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Come inside. There's something I want you to do."
Daisy Ginsberg studied the few children in front of her. They were all between the ages of eight and ten years old, girls and boys. They were the most proficient in Mathematics and Science. For the past hour they'd been busy learning new concepts as best as she could remember from the syllabi with which she had been acquainted before she arrived at the camp.
They'd managed to keep a little school going, the most important subjects taught by various inmates who were qualified teachers. Zannah was the most proficient with English, which had improved steadily during her time at the camp. Most of the group was on par with Mathematics and the sciences. For the rest they'd all be able to catch up once they were reintegrated into their respective schools.
It had been a stroke of inspiration on Helmut's part when he suggested that the girls most at risk of being targets in the prostitution rings be kept in hiding. He didn't want to know where so that he'd have a plausible excuse, such as they'd died and were buried in the soft turf at the end of the camp near the outer boundary. During the last months, many German soldiers defected from the camp, or were not as diligent as at the beginning, becoming slack in their guarding of the barracks and inmates. The inmates could move about almost nonchalantly.
Her gaze fixed on Zannah who was always so eager to participate in the lessons especially science in which she was above average. Zannah looked up and smiled back before she dropped her gaze again to focus on the work.
A few minutes later, they all looked up when there was a disturbance at the entrance of the barracks. Women scurried about, their old fear of being tossed about by Germans still lingering. When they saw it was one of the American soldiers, they sighed with relief.
He stood just inside the doors of the barracks, looking around. The barracks had been cleaned and looked much better than when the Germans were in charge and smelled a whole lot better, too.
Daisy was glad that the soldier didn't pull his nose like many of the visitors to the camp had. She closed the book from which she'd been working, waiting for the soldier to speak.
"I am looking for the kid who played the violin solo this morning," he shouted so everyone could hear him.
"Maman Daisy," Zannah whispered. "I am afraid."
"Do not be. I will go with you."
She walked with Zannah to where the soldier was standing, his feet planted apart, hands behind his back, a stern look on his face.
"This is the child," Daisy informed him. "She is my daughter. I must go with her."
"Fine. Colonel Miller wants an adult to accompany her. Follow me."
Daisy sighed. Were all soldiers so military-minded that they never smiled? They walked behind him, almost running because he was moving so fast. They passed other freed inmates who were sitting around playing chess, some playing their instruments. Others were busy in deep conversation, probably making arrangements to leave the camp permanently.
"Please," Daisy began as she and Zannah hurried behind him, "why does the colonel wish to speak with my daughter?"
"I do not know. It is none of my business what he wants with the child."
"He must not hurt her."
"I can assure you that hurting anyone in non-combative time that combat is furthest from the colonel's mind." When he stopped abruptly to look at them, they practically bumped into him. "Do not insult my superior," he added.
So they kept quiet as they followed the soldier to von Wangenheim's house. For a moment Daisy felt sad because Helmut no longer lived in the house that had been the home for her and Zannah. Now they were merely formal visitors. She wondered what Colonel Miller wanted. Could he, like many of the inmates, have been so taken by Zannah's wonderful expertise on the violin that he wanted to hear her play again?
"Zannah," she whispered to the child, "if he asks, then you are my daughter, you understand?"
"Yes, Maman."
But Zannah's heart was racing. What did the colonel want? Did he want her to play the violin for him? Who would accompany her on the piano then? She did not want to stop playing! She was a little afraid of him, only because she thought he might hurt her.
When they reached von Wangenheim's house, they were very surprised to see Helmut von Wangenheim standing outside. He looked tired, Daisy thought, tired and dispirited.
"Helmut!" Daisy exclaimed softly. "Qu'est-ce que tu fais ici ?"
"I was ordered by Colonel Miller to report here. I suppose you got the same message?"
Daisy nodded. "Please, when he asks, Zannah is my daughter," she whispered with a desperate air. She was afraid that they might lose Zannah. The child had kept her alive and she'd kept Zannah alive. She couldn't lose her now.
Zannah was glad to see him and rushed forward to hold his hand. Von Wangenheim smiled grimly before he released Zannah's hand. He went up the step first and knocked.
Charles Miller, still in his dress uniform, heard the knock and stepped from the bedroom into the lounge. It was a moment he dreaded, but also anticipated, filling him with excitement. Still, he couldn't smile, he couldn't rejoice yet. He'd asked von Wangenheim to be present as well, since the three appeared to be connected in some way. The child played with the German's violin, Daisy Ginsberg was von Wangenheim's lover and ostensibly the parent of the child.
He had heard and read the reports of the atrocities that had occurred at the camp since 1940. He knew of the previous camp Kommandant Karl Koch who had been sentenced to death for committing many of the crimes. The accounts of the prostitution rings were hair raising.
Was Zannah a victim? One of the torture toys? A flash of anger filled him as he walked to the front door and opened it. There stood von Wangenheim, with Daisy Ginsberg and the child on the step below him.
"Colonel, you have requested our presence here," said von Wangenheim.
Even dressed in rags, von Wangenheim had an aristocratic bearing. His eyes were very blue as he stared fearlessly at Miller.
Miller waved his hand indicating that they step inside.
"Sit down, please," he said as they hesitated inside the door. When Zannah headed for the couch, he stopped her. "No, you, little lady, can sit in that armchair."
Zannah flinched as she sat down in the armchair while Daisy and von Wangenheim sat down on the couch. Miller had taken the piano stool and seated himself, facing three pairs of eyes on him, each with a different expression in them. He felt that stab of pain again in his chest. Zannah... There was no doubt it was Célestine, but he had to establish the truth. He thought she looked scared, while Daisy appeared apprehensive. Von Wangenheim looked confused.
Miller penned Daisy with a piercing look.
"Who is this child?"
"She is my daughter, Zannah Ginsberg."
Daisy looked at von Wangenheim who nodded in agreement. Miller shook his head making Daisy look very scared. He moved the stool, placing it in front of Zannah, facing the child. Zannah shrank back.
"Douce enfant, je ne vais pas te faire de mal, d'accord?" Miller spoke in French. Zannah's eyes grew as wide as saucers. Miller continued in French. "Now, I know this woman here said you are her daughter, but I can tell you that you are not her daughter."
"Maman?" Zannah said softly, looking at Daisy for help. Daisy's eyes filled with tears as she nodded.
Miller glanced at Daisy. "That is the truth, isn't it? She is not your daughter."
"No, Colonel, she is not," Daisy said softly.
He turned to face Zannah again. The child's eyes were downcast. "Regarde moi, mon enfant."
Slowly she looked at him, her blue-grey eyes almost his undoing. Charles felt the familiar thumping against his chest, so be breathed deeply to calm himself.
"Your name," Charles began, continuing in French, "is Célestine Héloise du Pléssis-Blumenthal. Your mother's name is Katrine du Pléssis-Blumenthal. Is that true?"
Célestine's face creased as she nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek. Charles took both her hands in his.
He turned to Daisy again.
"Did you know her name is Célestine?"
"Yes, Colonel. I only wanted to protect her..."
Charles nodded before facing the child again.
"Et, Célestine, I have good news for you. Ta Maman est vivante, tu m'entends? Your mommy is alive and she misses you every single day."
He watched Célestine's expression change to wonder and her eyes grew soft. They filled slowly with tears that rolled hotly down her cheeks. She gave a sob and threw herself against him.
Von Wangenheim and Daisy looked on in astonishment at the turn of events. They waited while Célestine wept brokenly.
When Miller released her, his eyes were filled with tears too. He removed the little book from his top pocket and slipped the photo from it. A picture he'd taken from Katrine's home in St. Clair on an impulse, not knowing what he was going to do with it except just stare at it from time to time. Now it had become a critical piece of evidence as he unfolded the photo and showed it to Célestine.
She smiled and sobbed and smiled as she looked at her mother. Impulsively she kissed Katrine's smiling face. Then she fired what Miller thought was the million dollar question.
"How do you know my maman?"
Charles glanced back at the other two who sat shocked, Célestine's question mirrored in their eyes. He handed them the photo. Then he turned to Célestine again. He took her hands in his again.
"Tell me about your papa."
Her eyes turned sad and dark as she recalled the memory.
"My papa died. They shot him."
"Your mommy was alone for a long time after your papa died. She searched everywhere for you. Then she went to St. Clair. That is where I met your mommy, Célestine."
"Is she in St. Clair?"
"No, sweetie. Your mommy returned to Paris only last year, in September."
"You know her?"
"Oh, yes. I know her very well, indeed! Very well. Célestine, do you see this ring?"
Charles held his left hand so that Célestine could see the ring. She nodded, then looked at him, a question in her eyes.
"Your mommy has the same ring. See, when I met your mom, we fell in love, even though I knew how much she missed you."
"You married my maman?"
Charles smiled, relief swamping him as Célestine framed her question like someone who seemed pleased.
"Oh, yes, we got married in Paris, on the 5th of September, a day after - after - "
"My birthday!"
"Yes. We celebrated your birthday. Look here - "
Then Charles fished in his pocket again for the little book. From it he pulled two pictures. One with him and Katrine on the day they married, and the other a birthday cake with nine candles. Célestine gave another little sob and hugged him tightly.
Charles sighed deeply as Célestine sat back again.
"Can I go home now?"
"Sweetie, there are a few things I need to complete first. Then I shall take you to Paris in one of our army jeeps. Would you like that?"
"Oh, yes. Can - can I take the Tononi?" she asked, looking at Helmut.
Helmut nodded. "I cannot play that instrument as well as you can, Zan - Célestine. Please take good care of it for me, will you?"
"Oh, yes, I will!"
Charles rose from the stool and opened the door. He called Delaney inside.
"Célestine, this is Corporal Delaney. He will take you to the barracks again. I must speak with Madame Ginsberg and Herr von Wangenheim."
"You won't forget?"
"No, I won't," Charles said, smiling.
"Are you my papa now?" she asked, smiling with Katrine's smile, another hammer blow to his heart.
"I would very much like to be, because, you know what? I loved you, even before I met you."
"I will get all my things. I cannot wait to see Maman and Lamine!"
He waited until Célestine was escorted out of the house to return to the barracks. He closed the door slowly. Then he turned to the two people who had sat quietly during his conversation with Célestine.
"Okay, Daisy Ginsberg. I was correct, wasn't I? The child Zannah Ginsberg is really Célestine du Pléssis."
"Yes. I heard her mother call her by that name the day she and her father were taken."
He was glad that Daisy confirmed Célestine's status. He pinned her with his gaze. She looked a little distraught. Then he asked the next question, something that had been on his mind since he regained consciousness in the infirmary.
"Who is the child buried with Joseph Blumenthal?"
Daisy felt Helmut's arm around her as her eyes filled with tears.
"It is my daughter, the real Zannah Ginsberg. You - You say she is buried? In a grave?"
"Yes, in the Paris cemetery. Explain to me briefly how such a switch could have been made," he ordered, feeling bad that Daisy had to recall a traumatic memory.
"The truck stopped in a big forest clearing. We could see the waiting train through the trees. We were all ordered to get out of the truck. When we couldn't move fast enough, they pulled us out. Célestine's father was sick and disoriented as he fell to the ground. I held the hands of the two children. When - when Joseph screamed for Célestine, the soldiers pulled Zannah to him. Célestine's father couldn't move well because he had already been badly beaten by them. My little Zannah was sick as well. She wore the same colour patterned dress as Célestine and was carrying Célestine's teddy bear. Then they shot Joseph and my Zannah."
Daisy's eyes were closed as she recalled the day, engraved forever in her memory. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks while Helmut held her close to him. Helmut looked distraught at what the Germans had done, his eyes expressing all the guilt on their behalf. He looked ashamed.
"What happened after that?" Miller asked.
"I told Célestine to pretend to be my little girl Zannah, then I could protect her, tell her to do whatever it took to stay alive in the camp."
Charles nodded in understanding. A child without parents arriving at the camp was an easy target. Then he looked at Helmut, who frowned at the hard expression in Miller's eyes.
"Did you touch the child?"
When Helmut didn't answer quickly enough, Miller yanked him to his feet and threatened to head butt him.
"Did you?"
"No. I have never touched any child in the camp. Never. I -"
"Please, Colonel, he speaks the truth."
Charles let him go suddenly. Then he barked an order. "Be in the administration building at 6pm. Not a minute later, is that clear? Both of you."
He couldn't kill von Wangenheim, although he felt damned near to breaking the German's neck.
He listened. From time to time he asked a question. He sat behind the desk, Daisy and Helmut von Wangenheim facing him. At another desk sat a young women's auxiliary, a stenographer who travelled everywhere with General Erikson.
She filled page after page of shorthand. Sometimes when he glanced at her, he'd see her wipe a tear from her eye.
Once Daisy Ginsberg started, it seemed she couldn't stop, the words tumbling from her mouth in heated catharsis. Her trials, her witnessing of what happened to her and Célestine, her longing for freedom, the things Götze and his cohorts had done to her. She spoke of the traumas she and Célestine experienced, of watching inmates shot dead in their presence, of having to feign indifference at a woman who lay dead right next to them. She spoke of the hanging tree where they'd sometimes see an inmate whose body swayed in the wind on cold days.
From the beginning, from the moment she and Célestine were brought into the camp, she told her story in meticulous detail. She had saved Célestine's life by sacrificing her own, by allowing herself to be a victim of the debauchery of the German soldiers and officers.
Daisy spoke of the day Günther Götze had made his lust clear when he said he wanted Célestine as his sex toy. How von Wangenheim stepped in and ordered her to bring the child to his quarters, in his own effort to save the child. She spoke of her fear for Célestine, of telling her to be strong. Daisy had no more tears, but Charles could see how she bled inside, how Günther Götze had eroded her self-worth so that she began to think she was no good anymore, a whore who liked the treatment they meted out to her. She spoke of the two Daisys, one bleeding inside, crying for strength and praying to God for deliverance, the other playing along with the filth of her captors, even showing her enjoyment.
She spoke of how she wept when Célestine told her that Herr von Wangenheim never touched her that first night, how he let her scratch her own legs and inner thighs so that it looked as if he had violated her. Just so men like Götze and the others could see that he too, played a major role in the rapes, the tortures, the prostitution that went out of control in the camp. She spoke of how she would protect Zannah by offering her own body, suffering in the name of a child who really was not hers.
Daisy spoke of how she knew that if she did not take Célestine to be her own Zannah, that Célestine would have been dead within a week in the camp, for then she would have been nobody's child, only good enough to be anyone's toy.
While Daisy spoke, he watched von Wangenheim's expression.
Many times the German officer nodded his head in assent. Sometimes he spoke, yet he never, during the hours they spent in the office, defended himself. He asserted from the outset that he was ready to accept the consequences.
Von Wangenheim spoke of his innate revulsion for the things his colleagues indulged in. As Hitler Jugend, the drilling and brainwashing had little effect on him, because he had grown up with values instilled by his own father. Even in the Jugend, he had been appalled that boys as young as fifteen and sixteen were already speaking about how they would enjoy killing the enemy. He spoke of his sadness of losing Jewish school friends who were removed from his school and taken to holding camps.
He had flinched whenever Götze and his gang shot dead an inmate without any compunction, with impunity, how they would laugh. He hated the idea of killing any person, had never killed and was not planning to kill. Von Wangenheim spoke about how he had been transferred from Berlin Headquarters to Buchenwald because they thought he was too soft and needed to become hardened by using women and young girls like his colleagues had. In Buchenwald they hoped that he would lose all inhibition, all sense of decorum and decency and violate as many women as the whim took him.
He spoke of his discovery that Célestine was a musical prodigy when he took her in his house that first night he'd called her. How she had looked at the violin as if it drew her inexorably to it. He let her play while he accompanied her on the piano. That night he had decided to lighten her burden by letting her practice with him twice a week. He spoke about how he had begun to sense that Götze wanted the child as his sex toy. When Célestine fell ill, he was instructed by Herr Doktor Schiller to keep her permanently in his house, that Daisy remain there to care of her.
He spoke of the day Götze killed Maestro Dobrinski who was Célestine's tutor, how Götze had taken the child to his own house. He spoke of how he found Götze attempting to rape Célestine, how he beat his superior nearly to death, so angry had he been that day. He had spent three months in the camp prison for knocking his superior's teeth from his mouth.
Three hours later, Charles called it a day. He rose and thanked Daisy and von Wangenheim for their input and told them it would go a long way in his defence should von Wangenheim be brought to trial. Von Wangenheim seemed proud and fearless, assuring him that he was prepared to go to jail.
"Please, see that Célestine is brought to me by 12pm," Miller said, looking at Daisy. "Pack her belongings, however little they are. The violin must be brought too. Célestine must be reunited with her mother as soon as possible."
When they remained, hovering near the door, he saw admiration in Daisy's eyes.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I love Célestine, Colonel. I will miss her. But she has two parents now. I am glad."
"Thank you."
Miller smiled for the first time in hours. When they left, he sank back in the chair, looking at the stenographer.
"Write up the report, will you? I want it by tomorrow morning, in triplicate."
"Yes, sir. Sir, if I may..."
"Yes, what is it?"
"Is Célestine your daughter?"
"I married her mother. Yes, that makes her my daughter."
Half an hour later, after he'd dismissed the stenographer, Charles picked up the phone. He needed to speak with Katrine. She needed to know that her little Célestine was still alive, surviving against all the odds in a concentration camp.
The whole afternoon after Célestine had been taken to the barracks by Private Delaney, he had been in a quandary, wondering as to how to inform Katrine of the miraculous news.
Katrine believed implicitly that her daughter had died. There was no reason for her to believe otherwise, since she'd received an official communiqué from the Germans that her husband and child had died. Also, when she and Lamine had gone to investigate the Germans' so-called turn of heart that they knew where the bodies were, they'd found only two - that of Joseph and Célestine. Their bodies had decomposed beyond recognition given the fact that they had lain in a field with tall grass for months, that winter had hastened the rate of decay.
To inform his wife over the phone would shock her terribly. He didn't want her to suffer what he had earlier in the day when he saw Célestine play the violin. The only way he could prepare her was to expand the idea that they wanted to adopt one of the children.
"If you connect to a child, especially a girl," she'd said one night in Paris, "and if she has no parents or family at all, we can give her a home."
He remembered staring at her with open-mouthed wonder.
"You really want that, my love?"
"To give her a home, to give her love and caring, yes."
"Then so be it, Katrine." And his love for her burned fiercely because she wanted little Evan to be hers too.
His heart was racing as he dialled the switchboard with trembling fingers and gave his name and Katrine's number. He was told to hold the line, hearing as the number was being dialled. Then he waited.
When at last he heard her voice, he felt faint, another sensation of dizziness overcoming him.
"Charles...?"
"Katrine!"
"You are Colonel Miller! W-Where are you calling from?"
"I am at the Buchenwald concentration camp, Katrine."
A dead silence ensued. For a moment he thought Katrine might have put the phone down. "Katrine?"
"Yes. W-Why are you calling?"
"Katrine, do you remember how we spoke about - about children orphaned at the camps?"
"I asked you to find a child with whom you felt a connection, so that we could give her a home…"
Katrine's voice trembled; it sounded tearful. He knew she was thinking about Célestine. He felt such a heel for having to deceive her. He genuinely felt that surprising her on the phone might be too great a shock. If she could be mentally prepared a child was coming, the shock would be diminished somewhat.
"Well, I have found such a child, my love. Her name is Zannah Ginsberg and she is almost ten years old, and quite tiny for her age. I love her already and I am dead certain you will love her too. She needs an abundance of love. She has been through a great deal of suffering in the camp."
Katrine burst into tears but continued to speak through her sobbing.
"Ne t'inquiète pas, mon amour. We will shower her with our devotion. You are sure she will like us?"
"Oh, yes. I think she loves us already. I told her how we would love to give her a home and to make her our daughter. She likes me!"
"When will you bring Zannah? You say she is almost ten years? Does she have any clothing? I want to go out and buy her some tomorrow. Oh!"
Charles laughed at the excitement mingled with tears of his wife who sounded so obviously overjoyed. He wasn't going to tell her about "Zannah's" musical ability.
"What?"
"It is Sunday tomorrow! Oh, I wish it were Monday already!"
""Zannah" has an extra dress - "
"When can she come? Tonight? Oh, Charles, I was so sick today! I had an attack this morning. I woke up in hospital. It has never happened to me! The doctor said I suffered palpitations - "
"Katrine! What time did that happen?"
"At around 11 o'clock."
Charles gasped, then went quiet. The same time he had his attack and landed in the infirmary. He was quiet a long time.
"Charles?"
"No - no, it's nothing. Are you okay now?"
"Yes, but I was restless all day after that. When are you bringing "Zannah"?
"Tomorrow. Or will Monday - "
"No! Tomorrow!"
"Good. Expect us around 5pm."
"Oh, Charles! I am so happy! I'll cook the best meal!"
"I am sure "Zannah" and I shall enjoy it. I have to go now. A lot of things to do before we leave here."
"Come home soon..."
Paris - April 1945
Katrine couldn't sleep after Charles phoned her. She knew that Buchenwald had been liberated by American troops.
Now, she was filled with unbearable excitement and thought that Sunday couldn't come soon enough. On an impulse she walked to the lounge and cranked up the phonograph, playing one of the Mozart violin concertos that Célestine had loved so much. She sat back on the couch and closed her eyes. She tried playing her conversation with Charles over and over in her mind.
They were to have a daughter! They would raise her with all the love they had. Charles said "Zannah" had suffered a lot. She was prepared to guide their new daughter through her traumas, be there during the nights should she be terrified by nightmares.
The music was beautiful, Célestine's favourite piece. The soft beauty of it filled her heart. Katrine lay still a long time, running the telephone conversation once more in her mind.
She was a resistance fighter who dealt with all sorts of coded messages, had learnt to read between the lines any hidden messages during the Resistance's heyday.
What was Charles not telling her? What lay hidden behind his words and the words he didn't say? There were times he'd hesitated when he spoke, the sudden silence heavy with a strange import. Now suddenly she wondered what "Zannah" looked like. Although their conversation was not long by any standard, Charles would surely have mentioned some of the little girl's likes and dislikes, whether she loved to read or whether she liked music, what she looked like, the colour of her hair, her eyes.
Another thought struck her. It was already after ten. Even if they travelled in the jeep in the early morning, it would still take them two days to get to Paris. Surely they'd have to rest overnight somewhere? Something was a bit strange, she thought. There were not many civil aviation airports around Buchenwald. They could not go to Berlin; that city was not yet occupied for Allied Forces had not yet reached it. The war was not over. How else would they travel if not by train - also two days - and military air transport? Danger still lurked in some areas of Germany.
Then another thought occurred, which added to her concern. While her husband could bring their new daughter home, he'd have to leave for the front almost immediately. She would be without him again, perhaps for more than a month. Charles had left out a lot of things that he could have said. But then, his most important information was to tell her about "Zannah".
Katrine wondered if "Zannah" liked music.
Then, on an impulse, Katrine got up and entered Célestine's room. She opened her daughter's drawers, looked at Célestine's undergarments. Holding up one of them, she thought "Zannah" might be small enough to put them on, only until she could get to the boutiques on Monday. In Célestine's wardrobe were all the dresses for summer and winter, all the coats she had never had the heart to get rid of, still hanging. Taking one of the garments in her hands, she thought how she had bought some of Célestine's dresses a size too large. They could fit a child whom Charles said was quite tiny for her age.
Then Katrine buried her face in the soft fabric of the dress, giving a few heartrending sobs.
"Célestine, my beloved child, please be happy for us...please..."
END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN