The Secrets We Share

by Emma Hannigan

Due to the fear, the cold and the searing pain in my ribs, I struggled to climb inside. I heard the noise of the soldier’s baton swooshing through the air before I felt the pain as it cracked across the back of my skull. Two hands reached out from the darkness and, like an angel carrying me on its wings, I was pulled aboard. As I reeled from the blow, I was met by a pair of soft brown eyes. Stella introduced herself and tugged me over to the side of the carriage from where she’d scurried. I know she saved me.

  We huddled together and sat rocking back and forth. The shutters were slammed down and the noise of the steam engine shuddering to a crawl made some of the prisoners cry out in fear. Nobody knew where we were being taken or what would become of us.

  As the hours passed, the inky night was diluted by strands of light shining through the slits of wood on the sides of the carriage. At last the train ground to a halt.

  There was no food given and no water offered. Two buckets were placed at the end of the space, for use as a toilet. We remained there for hours. I huddled into Stella’s embrace for warmth and comfort, and prayed.

  By the time night fell again, those buckets were overflowing and many of the smaller children were vomiting uncontrollably. A stench of desolation and degradation filled the air.

  The darkness brought more movement, as the sound of the steam engine roared forth once again. This routine continued for four nights. All the while, I remained huddled with my new-found friend. I thanked God for sending her to me.

  In faltering whispers she told me how she’d been captured. She was living near Vienna in a tiny apartment with her family. When the soldiers arrived, her mother and younger sister managed to slip away through a trapdoor in the kitchen floor to the cellar of the building. As the soldiers ransacked the place, throwing all their belongings on to the floor, they unwittingly hid the trapdoor, ensuring their safety.

  Stella was grateful they had escaped but was traumatised by witnessing her dear brother being shot in cold blood. Alone and terrified, she was taken to the train. She’d been as glad to meet me as I was to find her.

  I told her all about you, Lukas. She knows about our darling Clara too. Speaking about you both has renewed my faith in love. As I told Stella how you both make my heart sing, I am once again reminded that I am never truly alone. You are not here with me physically, but you will live on in my heart alongside Clara.

  As we contemplated what would become of us, the train shuddered to a halt for the last time. The doors were forced open from the outside, and flashlights were shone around the cabin. We were all ordered out. The snow was falling thick and fast. The soldiers pointed towards a large open field. Dressed in full uniforms along with boots, fur-lined hats and gloves, they were better equipped to cope with the weather. I, like most of the others, was wearing a blouse, woollen skirt and flimsy boots. Without a coat, all I had to shield me from the elements was my own determination.

  As we trekked across the endless fields of sludge, my boots became clogged with mud and grass. The sheer numbers of people tramping the same ground meant that the mud became churned up and coated our legs, making it difficult to walk. My muscles burned so badly that I considered lying down and giving up. But the image of your face and Clara’s dancing smile spurred me on.

  For what seemed like hours we followed the guards, each step bringing us closer to what I feared could be death.

  I stayed in close proximity to Stella, hoping to God we wouldn’t be separated. As the barbed-wire fencing and searchlights came into view, the sounds of gasping, gulping crying spread through the crowd like a contagious disease.

  By the time all the prisoners had managed to stagger to the edge of the camp, the sun was about to rise. Using a megaphone, one of the guards stood on a large metal box and ordered us into two groups. Half of us staggered to the left and the others to the right. We were very much to the outside of the extreme left, so it was an easy choice. But we could hear panic from the people closer to the centre, confused about which way to go.

  With irritation and impatience, two guards with batons shoved their way through the middle to indicate where each person should stand.

  My group was ordered to follow a guard.

  We walked towards the open gateway that led into the camp. As we reached the centre of the compound, all hell broke loose behind us. Several soldiers opened fire at the remaining civilians and did not stop until the crowd was silent.

  I felt my legs giving way as I took in the carnage. Silence has never sounded so scary, Lukas.

  As the sun rose, I began to notice the meek peeking eyes of the prisoners who were already at the camp. They were sheltering in tunnel-style brick-built chambers.

  Nathalie placed the letter down with shaking hands and picked up the next one, which had been scrawled on a scrap of paper that appeared to be the label from some sort of dried bouillon.

  June 1943

  Dear Lukas

  I have been at Bergen-Belsen for two months now. I managed to steal this broth label so I can write to you. My life has become a game of survival. The horrors I have witnessed are unbearable and I will most certainly die here. Stella is very low. She is sweet-natured and has little to hope for.

  I consider myself one of the lucky ones. When reality becomes too much, I can dream. I can force my mind to think of an imaginary house where you and I are happily raising Clara. At our home I can block out the horror of the present. The morning is the worst time here. The moaning and wailing increases as the barrow women approach. They come to remove the dead, you see.

  The lifeless bodies are swung by the arms and legs into great wheelbarrows and taken to the crematorium. There are no gas chambers here at Bergen-Belsen. I read about some of the other camps before I was taken here. I know that many of them round up prisoners and gas them in great numbers. So I thank God for small mercies. I have learned that being quiet is my safest course of action. The soldiers are easily angered and will shoot on sight should a prisoner cause them bother. They are merciless with people who attempt to escape also.

  There are many people here, but I cannot say there is much laughter or fun, ever.

  We have a little routine going, though. In a way, we have formed our own community and know we must make the best of this horrid situation. We cook over campfires in large cauldrons. The food is mostly soup, consisting of water and a tiny amount of potato or other vegetable. It is nothing short of a miracle when a slice of sausage appears in my cup. Black bread is also seen as a treat and is rationed sparsely.

  I am eternally grateful that I left our baby where I did. I could not live with myself if I thought she was being subjected to this torture. I would take this punishment a thousand times over to protect her.

  Stella is ill and I can literally see the life draining from her eyes. I fear she is giving up. I do not blame her. There are days when I wish I did not harbour this strong urge to live. It would be so much easier if I could simply lie down on the dusty earth and pass on to the next world. There has to be something better than this.

  Where are you, Lukas darling? Are you sitting at your piano mesmerising some pretty girl with your brilliance? I hope you are living a life less dire than mine. My suspicions are that this is the case. This, my Liebling, is hell personified, led by and organised by the purest form of evil imaginable.

  I love you with my all of my heart. You are in my dreams and you pull me through the moments when I fear the shadows will win the battle I am waging.

  Nathalie sat barely breathing as she tried to fathom the fact that the piece of paper she was holding had actually come from a concentration camp. She’d heard of them, of course she had; at school she had learned about the dreadful atrocities that had been committed by Hitler and his government. But never in a million years had she ever thought she would come so close to witnessing the true horror of what had unfolded at that time.

  She hesitated before picking up the next letter, not sure she could actually stomach it. Her heart stopped as she realised this wa
s the last one. She peered into the box, hoping she’d been mistaken. But nothing else was left.

  This time the note had been written on a piece of brown paper bag. She left the original scrap on her lap as she frantically read the translated document.

  1944

  Dear Lukas

  I know not what month we are in. I presume winter is nigh as the nights are becoming colder and the light is fading earlier.

  Life at Bergen-Belsen is more of a struggle with each passing day. My dear friend Stella lost her fight to live some months back. Her emaciated body had become too weak to go on. Like many others, she looked like a balloon pulled over a skeleton. Her eyes had lost their light and she was too exhausted to continue. I hid her body for two days. I could not bear the thought of my sweet and gorgeous girl being tossed into a barrow and treated like she was nothing. She was everything to me. She was my only confidante in here.

  I stowed her at the very back of the shelter we have occupied since getting here. There are only a few ragged blankets remaining and some of the other prisoners became fractious. She was using up precious blanketing and they are all terrified of infectious disease. They took her body and left it for the barrow women. I could not fight them. I felt like I’d failed Stella. I let them kill her and obliterate her body. I hope she is at rest now. I hope she has found paradise. But I miss her so badly it churns me up inside.

  Now I have nobody to tell about our love. I cannot trust others to keep Clara’s whereabouts a secret, so I have chosen to remain silent.

  I still go to you and Clara in my imagination, though. You are in our home still. We have a fire with plush spinach-green chairs and thick velvet drapes that pool on the floor in luxurious style.

  Sometimes I become so confused that I am not certain of who I am or where I belong. You are so real to me, Lukas. I can smell your scent and feel the coarse bristles of your whiskers as you lean down to kiss me.

  I can hear Clara’s voice as she calls to you and beckons me to join in.

  My hands are shaky now, Lukas. I find it increasingly difficult to write and focus on the words. I think the angels are calling me. I did not want to go with them before. I had an incredible urge to live. But now I feel my time is coming to a close. No matter what happens, I will wait for you, my darling Lukas. I will watch over you and Clara and I will protect you with my love.

  Hannah

  Nathalie put her head in her hands. A noise behind her made her jump up in fright. She turned and came face to face with her grandmother.

  ‘Oma! It’s you. It’s so terrible …’

  ‘I know, dear, I know,’ Clara soothed, enfolding Nathalie in her arms.

  ‘I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have looked …’ she sobbed.

  ‘Yes you should,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to see.’

  Nathalie stepped back. ‘You mean, you left them there so I would find them?’

  Clara nodded. ‘There are so many strands to your family, Nathalie. I didn’t know how else to tell you. You come from generations of strong women who knew what pain was and somehow managed to overcome it.’

  ‘Are there any more letters, Oma?’ she asked, beseeching her to say yes. ‘Please, I have to know what happened to Hannah.’

  Clara held her tightly and stroked her hair.

  ‘All in good time, Liebling, all in good time.’

  Chapter 19

  Clara had known she was taking a gamble leaving those letters on view in the sewing room. She was banking on Nathalie being as curious as she herself would have been in the same circumstances.

  The anger and bitterness that had flooded the air as Nathalie stepped into the arrivals area of Dublin airport had been the final push she required.

  Clara knew she could easily sit and tell Nathalie her parents’ story, but it wouldn’t come close to reading about it first hand. She was sorry the poor girl was so traumatised by the brutal reality of what had happened to Hannah, but she knew that her incredible example would teach Nathalie more about life than any other means.

  As they began to sew Nathalie’s quilt, Clara could already see a change in her granddaughter.

  ‘Do you think suffering is passed on in a silent genetic thread, Oma?’

  ‘Ooh, how do you mean, dear?’ Clara asked.

  ‘Well, Hannah went through hell. I’m guessing you did too … Ava has faced her fair share of heartache and now I’m here attempting to pick up the pieces of my life …’

  ‘I don’t think that’s genetic, my dear. I think that’s just life. The grass isn’t greener on the other side. Nobody lives a perfect existence without so much as a shred of sadness.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  Clara put on a classical CD and turned the music up. Words were not necessary at times and she knew this was one such occasion. Methodically they placed the cut-out squares in a pattern, swapping and changing them until Nathalie was pleased with the result. Shyly she pulled a vest from beneath a pile of fabric.

  ‘This was Mackenzie’s. Could we incorporate it somewhere?’

  ‘Sure,’ Clara said happily. ‘The best quilts have pieces that remind the owner of someone special, or indeed a time that means a lot.’

  They cut the vest material and added it to the quilt.

  ‘By the way,’ Clara said through pursed lips, dotted with pins, ‘the quilt need never be totally finished. There’s always room to add more. So any time you find something pretty, or a scrap that has meaning, add it in. Make a new row and broaden the beauty.’

  Nathalie watched like a hawk as Clara showed her the best stitch for linking the squares. The sewing machine was very different to the one she used at home and so it felt alien to her at first, but once she got the hang of how to manoeuvre the fabric, it was deeply satisfying. Lost in her own world, she was thoroughly enjoying the process of quilting.

  ‘I’m going to take a little trip to Gus’s grave,’ Clara said. ‘I go quite often and it gives me a sense of peace. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘Er … where is it?’ Nathalie asked.

  ‘Not far. Out the gate and left, walk for approximately ten minutes and it’s there, overlooking the sea. It’s rather beautiful really. I often wonder why graveyards are built in such wonderful locations. It’s hardly for the occupiers. It must be to keep the minds of the visitors sane.’

  Nathalie smiled, enjoying Oma’s left-of-centre musings.

  ‘You’re right, graveyards are often housed in beautiful settings. I guess we deserve to rest someplace pretty when we’ve finished our work on earth.’

  ‘So would you like to come, or are you happy here?’

  ‘I might stay here and carry on with this if you don’t mind too much?’

  ‘Of course.’ Clara hugged her. ‘I’m delighted you’ve been bitten by the quilting bug!’

  Left alone, Nathalie began to wonder what had happened to Hannah in her latter years. She knew she could ask Oma outright, but she didn’t want to rake up dreadful memories for her. It was probably best to wait and bide her time.

  She finished another couple of rows of her quilt before stretching. She was looking forward to her date with Conor. The thought of him made her smile. He was a rare character and she knew full well that he was a bit of a rogue, but she was grateful to have met him all the same.

  She was about to leave the room when she noticed something tucked into the side of the cardboard box. It was a small bundle of letters. This must be the final batch. With a beating heart, she took them carefully out and sat down.

  25 April 1945

  Dear Lukas

  I am free! Just over two weeks ago, the most incredible miracle occurred.

  It was early morning, and as the sun rose, I heard a siren sounding. Fearing the worst, I joined the others at the edge of the compound. Officials and men in uniforms I didn’t recognise, along with reporters with large cameras, had gathered on the other side of the barbed wire.

  Some announcements were made, which were not altogether cle
ar at first. We all assumed we were going to be exterminated. It was of course the natural conclusion for us. We had been treated like beasts for so long, we thought we were being rounded up and shot in one swoop. Panic set in and there were cries from some of the more vocal prisoners that we should stampede. That maybe we should crush the fencing and make a dash for it. That perhaps some people might survive if we did this.

  The shouting and pushing came to a stop as a man climbed on to a box and shouted into a megaphone that Bergen-Belsen was to be disbanded and we would all be free to go.

  A feeling of euphoria and disbelief spread through the rippling crowd of starved and bewildered prisoners.

  Lukas, I did not dare believe that this was actually happening. I pinched my leg to ensure I was not dreaming.

  Over the course of the next few days, the wire fencing was torn down. Trucks took groups of people away, a few at a time. I did not rush forward to be taken first. I had no idea if we were going to a better or a worse place. My trust in human kindness had worn thin. By that point I did not know how it felt to be treated with anything but disdain. Still, I figured that anywhere had to be an improvement on what I had endured. My energy was all but spent and I knew that one way or another, the ordeal of Bergen-Belsen was behind me. If my life was over too, I was not in a position to fight.

  We arrived at a great grey hospital where we were taken one by one to a room. The nurse spoke gently and slowly, asking questions. It became clear that she was trying to determine what diseases I might have.

  My self-esteem was at an all-time low. I felt ugly and dirty, and knew I must look like a terrified rat.

  I could not fathom whether I was simply overcome or gravely ill, but I felt the room spin. Sounds droned in a slurred manner and I blacked out.

  When I came to, a man with dark heavy shoes and grey trousers came into my vision. I could only see his feet. The pain in my head was so severe that I couldn’t bring myself to sit up and regard him.

  He crouched down and introduced himself as Dr Schmitt. I guessed he was in his fifties, with greying hair and a rather bushy handlebar moustache. His eyes were filled with concern and I instantly knew he would look after me. Unlike the soldiers, who had only ever looked at me with scorn and disgust, this man was treating me like a human being for the first time in so long.