The Girl in the Striped Dress: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 page-turner, based on a true story

by Ellie Midwood

  “I understand your feelings, Mr. Novák,” Carter announced in a softer tone, after a pause. “But the court is a court. Will you be able to keep those feelings under control? I don’t want this to turn into a circus. Perhaps, it would be better to use your written affidavit instead of facing Mr. Dahler?” He consulted the clock on the wall, much like Dr. Hoffman had done, just mere minutes ago. “It’s not too late to change your mind. You are not under any obligation to be present during the hearing.”

  Novák took a deep breath, seemingly collecting himself. “I only need you to listen to me.”

  “And we will. But do you believe that you can give a calm, dispassionate testimony?”

  Novák’s clenched jaw didn’t escape Dr. Hoffman’s attention. Yet, the Slovak Nazi-hunter steadied himself and slowly nodded. “Yes. I believe I can. I have to. For her sake. He belongs in prison for the rest of his life, where he won’t be able to hurt her anymore. I will prove it to you that he’s a pathological liar, a cold-blooded killer, and a rapist, who manipulated that poor young woman into the position of a slave, first in the camp, and now, as his wife.”

  His tone dripped with derision as he uttered the last word, wife. The Slovak didn’t believe it for one second that a former extermination camp inmate would willingly marry the man, who used to be an officer in charge of her sector. Neither did Dr. Hoffman, truth be told. He had met with many women who spoke of SS guards with a tremor in their voice, even two years after the liberation. Their eyes widened in fear, instilled by the months of abuse. Of their own volition, nervous fingers clenched and twisted the material of their skirts. They spoke of those guards either with a fervent tone of accusation and nearly palpable hatred oozing out of their voice or with horror and tears, shaking their heads and trembling with their entire bodies at the mere mention of a certain SS guard’s name.

  Needless to say, when Carter dropped Dahler’s case on top of Dr. Hoffman’s desk and announced, in his usual unemotional voice, I believe this would interest you, as a specialist, Dr. Hoffman found himself utterly and positively mystified. A former SS guard from Auschwitz, after receiving the Denazification Tribunal’s summons for the oral proceedings, wished to bring his wife as his witness to the Court. The wife, who used to be an inmate under his charge. A Slovakian Jew. Oh, that interested him, all right.

  “Mr. Novák, I assure you, we will do everything in our power to bring Mr. Dahler to responsibility, if he is indeed found guilty of such crimes,” Carter assured his Slovak colleague, who had helped the MPs hunt down and identify not just one Nazi and motioned his head in Dr. Hoffman’s direction. “Dr. Hoffman is here precisely for that reason as well. He’ll be observing Mrs. Dahler closely as she’s giving her testimony and if he finds that she’s being coerced in any way to give it, we’ll place Mr. Dahler under temporary arrest, reschedule the trial and speak with her in private, where he won’t be able to influence her. Would that be satisfactory with you?”

  The Nazi-hunter nodded, seemingly pleased with such arrangements. Perfect timing, too, Dr. Hoffman noted to himself. One of the MPs opened the door to the conference room and announced that they were expected in the courtroom.

  The courtroom, one of the many in the State Magistrate’s Office, was a small affair, still under construction after the damage it had received in the last months of the war. The paneling was still intact though, much like the floor in this particular courtroom. It was the west wing that had suffered the most from the bombs raining onto the city in the spring of 1945 and the ceiling that now sported multiple cracks in its white surface, as though a soldier scarred by the war.

  At last, the door opened silently prompting everyone present to crane their necks. A bailiff looked into the corridor and called out Franz Dahler’s name. Andrej Novák pulled himself up in his seat, straightening his back to an almost unnatural, rigid pose.

  A young man stepped through the doors. Dr. Hoffman regarded him with a surge of sudden, harsh curiosity. A handsome face; high forehead, sharp, pleasing features, eyes – bright blue and expressive. Wavy, dark hair brushed neatly back. Behind his tall frame, Dr. Hoffman at first failed to see his wife, who trailed after him, until Dahler reached the front of the courtroom where a chair was set up for him. Only then did she come out of her hiding and only after he turned to her and took her by the hand. He didn’t release her palm even when the Chairman walked in; only asked to address the Court before the hearing would start.

  The Chairman nodded his assent.

  “Would it be agreeable with the Tribunal if my wife sat next to me?” His voice was surprisingly pleasant, with a slight accent to it that Dr. Hoffman recognized as Austrian. “Crowded places cause her great anxiety and particularly if she’s alone. She would be much more comfortable if she sat next to me. This way, I will be able to hold her hand if she gets… overwhelmed.”

  Dr. Hoffman looked at Mrs. Dahler, who stood next to her husband, with her gaze downcast. She was, undoubtedly, a beautiful woman, with brilliant dark-brown, nearly black hair, expressive eyebrows, and full, finely-shaped lips which must have looked so pretty when she smiled but which were now pressed into a hard line. Under a tailored suit, her posture was rigid; the facial expression guarded, the skin – unhealthily pale, almost of the color of the pearls around her neck.

  Well, at least he dressed her up for this occasion, a thought slithered through Dr. Hoffman’s mind, which he took great care to chase off, at once. He was here to be an objective observer and yet he found it difficult not to pass judgment after Novák’s passionate speech. He’s a pathological liar, a cold-blooded killer, and a rapist, who manipulated that poor young woman into the position of a slave, first in the camp and now, as his wife.

  “Frau Dahler, would you be more comfortable next to your husband, or would you prefer to sit alone?” the Chairman addressed her directly.

  Dr. Hoffman noticed that Mrs. Dahler’s fingers trembled imperceptibly. Without looking at her, Franz Dahler gave her hand a gentle pressure. Instantly, she looked up at the Chairman.

  “Yes, please. I’d like to sit next to my husband, Your Honor.” Her voice was pleasant but vaguely tense; her German – a bit halting and had a slight Eastern lilt to it.

  A second chair was brought in and set up next to the one in which the defendant was supposed to be seated. Dahler waited for his wife to take her place and pressed her shoulder slightly before taking his own seat. Dr. Hoffman didn’t see his expression when he did so but he found himself a bit surprised at Mrs. Dahler’s reaction. Instead of cowering in fear like most victims of abuse would do in a similar situation, she smiled warmly at her husband, as though in gratitude.

  Not a silent threat then? The reassurance of a concerned husband? Was she indeed anxious and he was merely looking out of her? Or was it all a carefully constructed performance?

  The usual routine followed.

  “Defendant, raise your right hand and take an oath… State your full name, please. Birthdate. Current occupation. Occupation during the war. Have you ever been accused of war crimes or crimes against humanity? When were you released from the POW camp by the US War Department?”

  Dahler replied calmly and confidently. Twenty-five years old. Auto mechanic. Former SS guard in the extermination camp Auschwitz. Before that, a Waffen-SS soldier. Dismissed from active duty on the Eastern Front due to injury. Never accused of any war crimes or crimes against humanity. Cleared by the US War Department on December 14th, 1945. Released from the POW camp on the same date. Married Helena the following day.

  Dr. Hoffman thus learned Mrs. Dahler’s first name. Helena. A fleeting shadow of a smile passed over her face when her husband mentioned the marriage. Dr. Hoffman made a note in his notepad.

  After the formal part of the questioning was over with, the Chairman shifted in his seat before addressing the defendant. “Ordinarily, the Tribunal would have given the verdict based on the witness’ statements, personal characteristics, and letters of support provided by the War Department
– you do have excellent reports here from the officers at the POW camp in which you were detained. However, Mr. Novák has acted as a co-plaintiff and required a full investigation of your crimes, which, according to the prosecution, fall under the category of Crimes Against Humanity.”

  If Dahler felt uneasy after those words and a pregnant pause that followed, he didn’t betray his feelings in the slightest.

  The Chairman then pointed at Andrej Novák with his pen. “You are familiar with this man, aren’t you?”

  As Dahler shifted his gaze to one of his former prisoners, Dr. Hoffman observed both men’s reaction closely. Novák, his features convulsed with fury, gritted his teeth with such force that Dr. Hoffman could see facial muscles shift under his skin that was shining with sweat. He stared at the former SS man with unmasked hatred, ready to pounce on him if given half a chance.

  On Dahler’s face, to the contrary, not a wrinkle appeared. He looked at the Slovak with almost fascinating calmness and then back at the Chairman before uttering the letter A and a series of numbers in such a soft voice that Dr. Hoffman couldn’t make the exact numbers out.

  Novák’s veins stood out on his neck. The Chairman scowled slightly.

  “You must forgive me, Your Honor,” Dahler spoke again, with a fleeting ghost of a smile that passed over his face, without reaching his eyes. “It must have come off as a bad joke. I do know this man but not his name. Just his number. We didn’t know almost any of the prisoners’ names in the camp; we only called them by the number that was given to them upon their admission into the camp. The one tattooed onto their forearms.”

  At this remark, Helena Dahler tugged on a long sleeve of her jacket. To Dr. Hoffman, it appeared to be an instinctive gesture. She was embarrassed by hers and was used to hiding it.

  “You met your wife in the camp, you said.” For the first time, the psychiatrist addressed Dahler directly. Not the regular protocol but he needed to clarify something.

  “Jawohl.”

  “What year?”

  “She arrived with the transport from Slovakia on March 21, 1942.”

  “You have a remarkable memory for dates, young man,” the Chairman noted.

  Dahler looked down, concealing a smile. “Only because it was my birthday, Your Honor.”

  “You said you didn’t know any of the prisoners’ names, just their numbers,” Dr. Hoffman repeated. “Did you know your wife by her number only, before the liberation, as well?”

  “Of course not.” Dahler chuckled as though Dr. Hoffman had asked him something incredibly idiotic. “When I learned her name, she didn’t have a number yet.”

  “How come?”

  It was Helena Dahler who answered instead of her husband, once again surprising the psychiatrist greatly by the suddenly confident tone of her voice. “Because I was scheduled to die the next day. They don’t tattoo the ones who are to go into the gas chamber. It was Franz who saved me from it. And no, he never, not once, called me by my number. I was always Helena to him.”

  Helena

  Auschwitz, March 21 1942

  What does one do when they are told that they have only twenty-four hours to live?

  I, for one, brushed my hair, stroke after stroke, as I was ordered by Rottenführer Wolff, making myself into a pretty, almost-corpse. It wasn’t a sickness that would claim my life soon; it was a death sentence for a crime, which I didn’t commit. I was a prisoner and this surely was a jail, the worst one that anyone could imagine in their worst nightmares. Did I kill anyone to get here? No. The ones who did, they wore a green triangle on their uniform. Murderers actually left this place from time to time, after serving their sentence, or at least, so I was told.

  Just this very morning, while we were still waiting on the ramp, as the SS were deciding what to do with us, a man in a striped uniform announced to us the reason for the wait. The camp administration was congratulating a Kapo on completing his sentence and releasing him back into society with their best wishes, rehabilitated. Apparently, that Kapo (a prisoner supervisor of some sort, from what I had concluded from his explanations) murdered his wife with a butcher’s knife, in a fit of jealousy but had been working so diligently as part of the camp team that he had earned himself an early release from Herr Kommandant himself.

  The Kapo was a German, needless to say, and his crime wasn’t as unforgivable as ours. He was only a murderer. We were Jews and we were scheduled to die as soon as the Kapo affair was over with – a newly arrived SS man announced in a cheerful voice. But then, another one appeared, coughed into his hand in embarrassment and reported that the damned inner walls in one of the crematorium’s chimneys had caved in again and the Aktion would have to wait until the Sonderkommando had fixed it. From time to time, they looked us over and tilted their heads to one side, narrowed their eyes slightly as though calculating something in their methodical minds – perhaps, the number of bullets needed to off us all and the exact amount of manpower required to dispose of our trembling, miserable bodies.

  We stood as they had assembled us, close to each other and in neat rows of five; a resigned little army of shadows, already fading into nothingness. Around me, deathly silence lay. Even the ones who spoke, did so, in undertones. Our transport consisted solely of young women – the second one coming from Slovakia. The SS spoke openly about our fate; women are generally an obedient lot, not prone to revolts and therefore, the soldiers had nothing to fear. All we could do was shiver unmercifully, left to our own devices on the snow-filled ramp and feel the cold spread from our toes to our very hearts, turning them into unfeeling stones, as though all of us had already died. Some cried softly, my friend Cylka included. But she had a valid reason for it – her baby has died from hypothermia on the train. I, for one, preferred this liberating numbness. The interminable wait of one’s approaching death was easier this way, not as agonizing.

  We still stood on the ramp when a group of SS soldiers, accompanied by the men in striped slacks but civilian jackets with numbers sewn onto their chests strode up to our pitiful column. The men in striped slacks began taking our possessions from us, calmly and very rationally explaining that soon we wouldn’t need those. One of them pulled my suitcase out of my clenched fist, looked at me with a sort of momentary pity but I refused to meet his gaze just like I refused his sympathy. I looked straight ahead of myself instead, while cold rage and helplessness battled inside of me, obliterating every other thought.

  Distant and indifferent, the sun hung among the remnants of the clouds above the neat rows of barracks in front of us. A flock of birds fluttered their wings against the curtain of blue sky. I followed their progress with envy. How I should like to do the same – up and away from this place. But these birds didn’t consider escaping this doomed misery. On the contrary, they crowded over one of the barracks, weighing down the powerlines around it, adorning its roof in gray – the color of SS men’s overcoats. The barracks must have been the kitchen and unlike us, the birds had nothing to fear from the said SS. Only the barbed-wire fence didn’t attract them for some reason. After regarding its construction closely and noticing a sign with a death head and a sign in German and Polish – Halt/Stoj – it occurred to me that it must have been electrified.

  Another gray-clad officer trotted over and began demanding that everyone who could sing, recite poems, or dance reported to him immediately. He had a sharp, impatient face and a horsewhip in his hand. The women hesitated for a moment but after he flicked it in a typical manner, characteristic of someone with a short fuse, a few of them reluctantly stepped forward. One of the women pushed me, by accident, as she was passing me by and, before I knew it, I was separated from Cylka and stood face to face with the SS man whom his strange underlings in striped trousers addressed as Rottenführer Wolff. He seized my face in his gloved fingers at once and, in a business-like manner, turned it this way and that. A shawl slid off my head but he pushed my hands away before I could fix it.

  “Beautiful mane you have there,” he c
ommented in a hoarse voice that betrayed his fondness for smoking and let a strand of my hair run through his fingers. “Ja. That’ll do. Come.”

  I couldn’t quite believe all this had happened mere hours ago.

  Wolff brought us, the few women he had chosen, into a warehouse of sorts – a tremendous affair overflowing with personal belongings and suitcases of all shapes and colors with names and deportation points smudged over their surfaces in chalk. Wolff’s underlings threw our suitcases into the same pile unceremoniously. I think it was then that I realized that I would never leave that place again; alive, that is.

  “Welcome to the Kanada, the land of riches.” He spread his arms in a mock-welcoming gesture and smiled like a snake. “Enjoy it while you can. It is unfortunate that you won’t be staying, my ladies.”

  His orderlies were already snapping the suitcases open and rummaging through our carefully packed clothes and underthings, pulling out the sweaters and stockings with the same indifferent expression that I saw on a butcher’s face while he was sorting the hooves and the guts from the good cuts of meat.

  “Don’t look so sour now.” Wolff grinned pitilessly again, perching on the edge of a sorting table and lighting a cigarette. “You should feel honored; all of your clothes will be disinfected and sent to Germany, for the Aryan folk to wear. And your hair, that, too, should not be wasted. Our Kriegsmarine sailors will make great use of it in their socks and Wehrmacht soldiers, in their felt boots. You should be proud that you can make sacrifices for the Great German Reich. Well, now, let me see how well you can dance and sing.”