Last Stork Summer

by Surber, Mary Brigid

  During one of our lunch breaks, I noticed her drawing designs in the dirt with a stick. Thinking she was playing a game I asked her if I could play.

  She shyly looked up at me and whispered, “Just watch.”

  Design after design appeared in the dirt like magic. Triangles, circles and lines blended into beautiful designs that I couldn’t imagine ever creating myself.

  “What are they for, eggs?”

  Berta shook her head and I continued to watch as she effortlessly continued drawing.

  I was familiar with the Pisanki eggs available in Kostrzyn at Easter time, and even though these designs were similar, they weren’t quite the same.

  It wasn’t until several days later, during another work break, that Berta told me about her parents and the Polish crafts they made and sold for a living. It was hard for her to talk about them without tearing up. I could tell she thought about her parents as often as I thought about mine. I softly squeezed her hand, and told her to always keep them in her heart. That way she’d never lose them, and no one could ever really take them from her.

  She nodded her head and said, “Yes, I suppose that’s true, but somehow I’d feel better if I could touch them and hear them.”

  I didn’t know what to say to her. Words couldn’t fix the years of injustice, cruelty, and ravage of our lives and country. The awkward suggestion spilled out of me despite my misgivings.

  “You will again soon, Berta.”

  “How can you be so sure, Ewa? Especially when we don’t see any end in sight?”

  “You heard what the underground is telling us. The Germans are losing the war, Russia has turned against them, and they are no longer allies.”

  “I hope they are telling us the truth, Ewa. I don’t know how much longer I can stand living like this.”

  “I know what you mean. On days when I’m sad, I pick out a day from before the war. It could be a special day, like a holiday. I try to recall every detail from that day…the weather, people, food we ate, things we did, smells, colors, special activities, the clothes we wore…I try to remember every little detail. Then I know I’ll have it in my memory forever, and it is one more thing the Germans can’t take away from me. Think about all the days you spent living before the war, Berta. How you may have watched or helped your mama make breakfast, or work on her craft work. Did you help select trees in the forest for their crafts? What did you see as you hiked in the woods? What did you hear, smell, and feel? You can never forget those things.”

  “I was always in trouble for remembering those things in the Germanization Program, Ewa.”

  “Yes, but not here. Here the only thing they care about is how hard we work. They’ve already decided we aren’t good enough to be German. Here, we are just slaves, and as long as we work we can think whatever we want to think. I like to think about home and going back there sometime soon.”

  Our short break was over. The rows of crops, like obedient soldiers, stood at attention waiting for our stewardship. The guards started yelling at us to get back to work. Berta nodded her head. I could tell our conversation had started her thinking about the differences between our labor camp and the Germanization program. Even though both took away independence, in some ways we had more freedom here; we could speak Polish among ourselves, and remember who we were. Usually we’d find an opportunity to share a memory with one another, and feed our souls in a way that food never could. It was more than knowledge, facts or ideas. It was the gift of wisdom, discerning how the memory strengthened our resolve to survive. It enabled us to make important comparisons, and changed our focus from barely hanging on, to survival for a reason – the opportunity to regain our lives and families.

  I picked up my tool and started working the ground again. It felt good to be out in the fresh air and sunshine. My hands were calloused and hard and didn’t blister anymore from this kind of work. I was good at telling the difference between the weeds and the crops that were growing. I was trying to figure out when I could sneak one of the young beets out of the ground and into my mouth when I saw the transport trucks pulling up to the gates.

  A shiver came over me causing me to tremble involuntarily. My heart started beating faster and my palms began sweating. Another load of terrified children peeked out between the thick boards in the back of the trucks. Like sheep being hauled to market, their eyes pleaded, hoping for relief from the confusion and chaos they were now part of. Who would give them comfort and ease their uncertainty and fear? Penned up like animals, they waited for the guards to open the barbed wire gate. I shuddered at the memory of my arrival as my heart filled with compassion for the young ones being introduced to slavery. The guards did a good job of intimidating their distressed charges from the time they stepped off the transport trucks. If being exhausted, disoriented, starved and weak wasn’t enough, they yelled at them, allowing their dogs to lunge, bark, and snarl. If they didn’t move fast enough to the shower building they would swear at them and call them names and whack them with sticks. It was horrible to hear the terrified screams of the children. I recalled the playground sign from the German school I’d imagined: “No Playing Allowed…fight, fight, fight.” Yes, the Nazis were experts at wounding children. I prayed that God would let this madness end soon. I looked at the dirt and fought back the tears burning my eyes. Injustice, terror, slavery, there were no good words to describe what the Nazis had done. There were no good reasons either. There was only one ultimate aim of German policy toward the Polish children: biological reductionby Germanization, enslavement and extermination.

  Sadly, I turned my back on the screams and cries of children. My stomach rolled like a ball was bouncing around inside of it. I leaned over and retched but nothing came out. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I bent over, panting, awaiting relief from the nausea. My racing heart slowed, as the sickness began to subside. It was terrifying being on the receiving end of Nazi bullying, but for me it was even harder bearing witness to the cries of innocent children being mistreated.

  The Germans had succeeded in at least one way – we’d become like animals working on the instinct of survival. Everything we did was governed by our desire to survive. It was tiring to monitor my behavior all the time. All that was expected of me here was work and obedience, nothing more. So I was presented with a problem; how did I turn off caring for others, showing kindness, sharing with people, celebrating, compassion, anger and love. I constantly had to pay attention so I wouldn’t cross the line and react and be seen as a threat. Wisdom and experience had collided.

  The storks instinctively forage for food in loose, large groups of birds, but that was their innate nature. How I longed to pay attention to the thoughts and feelings of my nature as well as my instincts. Soon, I reminded myself, my life will come back to me. It can’t go on like this forever.

  Chapter 6

  Rescue

  Breeding birds add to the nest each summer, with both males and females contributing to the construction.

  Often, after days of working the fields, I’d awake with dirtcrusted eyes. This morning, as I struggled to open them I could hear the dogs whining outside our barrack, eager to enter and bark their commands, warning the children to get busy. Within seconds the guards, along with their dogs, would be entering, shouting at us to wake up, eat our soup, and go outside for roll call. I was so relieved to be awake already because I hated the days when I was sleeping deeply, dreaming of my life before the war, only to be abruptly torn from my dreams by the sound of yelling. The hollering was all done in German with the soldiers acting as if we couldn’t understand them. They acted as if screeching loudly increased comprehension.

  What most of the guards didn’t discern, however, was that in my town, Kostrzyn, I had many, many German neighbors. We were so close to the border that numerous German families had settled in the area over the years. I had learned German as a young girl; my father had insisted on it. The breeding stock that my father used for his dogs was from Germany. Many of hi
s business dealings were conducted in German and I went with him whenever possible. The German families I had grown up with had children that went to our schools. They shopped in our town and even went to our churches. It was hard for me to imagine them being my neighbor one minute and my enemy the next. I wondered if they really hated me as much as their government told them they should.

  Hitler had gone to great lengths to legalize a number of repressive measures in a law he proclaimed as the “Law for the Protection of German Blood and Honor.” It simply meant the German people wanted to keep their blood pure and their culture together, so no marriages of mixed race. He turned his racial ideologies into laws that created enemies of other cultures. Other countries simply existed to support the Aryan ideals of Adolf Hitler. It seemed odd to me that Hitler valued his culture so much, yet felt the need to destroy everyone else’s.

  The soldiers stormed in, yelling as usual while directing their dogs to bark us awake. It wasn’t enough for them to merely startle us awake; they thrived on terrorizing us. The commotion was always unsettling but especially so if you were sound asleep. One of the newer, younger girls was so startled by the commotion that she started screaming. Eyes wide with fear, she clutched her coat and curled up in the corner of the bunk trying to escape. This only made the dogs bark more ferociously. I wanted to go help her but feared the consequences of stepping in. I knew how to handle dogs, and I also knew that if you showed any fear, the dogs would sense it and feel like they had the upper hand. I searched my brain for some way to step in and not be considered disobedient. The young girl’s terrified screaming was making my heart race with fear for her. All of the other girls had cleared out of the barrack as fast as possible, so only this young girl, the Germans, and I remained. I eyed the young German that was handling the more aggressive of the two dogs. He seemed unsure of how to gain control of the situation.

  All of the snarling, lunging and barking was only making the tiny, terrified child retreat farther back into her bunk. She rolled herself into a tight ball in an attempt to escape, but her screaming was keeping the dogs agitated. Suddenly I heard the word “enough” escape through my lips. I’d said it in German, the way my father had taught me to when I needed to take command of a misbehaving dog. The force and loudness that I’d said it with, surprised not only me, but the guards and the attacking dogs, who not only obeyed me but suddenly sat by their masters’ uniformed legs and looked at me as if waiting for another command.

  I quickly spoke again in German. “I’ll take her out…stupid girl, she was really agitating the dogs.”

  I wanted them to think I was on their side, and that I hadn’t crossed the line and forgotten my place. I ran down to the bunk and quickly grabbed the sobbing bundle, yanking her by the back of her tattered coat. I pulled and her body slid backward off the wooden bunk, legs unfolding in the air. Thankfully, she landed on her feet. I grabbed her hand and started running down the aisle of the barrack toward the door.

  We were going to make it. I couldn’t believe it.

  We were just stepping outside when I heard the word, “HALT.”

  Chapter 7

  Grace

  Storks stay with one mate for the breeding season, but they do not migrate or over-winter together.

  I could hear the heels of his boots hitting the floor with authority as he walked toward us. He was smacking his heels so loudly I thought the wooden floor boards would crack. The little girl I’d rescued looked up at me, eyes pleading, nose running, grasping my hand so tightly my fingers pinched. Her dirty face, stained from tears, reminded me of how terrified I felt when I first arrived here. The loudness and smells of the camp along with the starkness of the barracks were unsettling, and I knew how intimidated she felt. I gave her hand two quick squeezes to let her know we’d be ok.

  “You two turn around,” he commanded.

  Time stood still as we slowly turned, dropping our grasp, then grabbing hands again once we were around and facing the soldier and his dog. I could feel my heart pounding my chest while my breath panted noisily in my ears. My stomach growled so loudly I feared the soldiers would hear it and get angry. We didn’t dare look at the soldiers. I stared at his shiny black boots polished to perfection. The sight of the dogs sitting so closely made the tiny girl begin to whimper and she started sliding behind me.

  “Naa, naa, shhh,” I quickly said. “You’ll get them barking again.”

  She stopped crying and peeked out from behind me, eyeing the dogs suspiciously.

  The soldier leaned in so closely that I could smell his breath; sausage and cigarettes. I could also smell his dislike for us; his need to be done with us. In his eyes, we weren’t worth the trouble we were causing. The annoyance flew from his mouth like a flock of starlings, thick, black, roiling. We were keeping him from accomplishing his list of duties for the day. Unlike his black boots, we weren’t perfect. I knew I had placed myself in a very precarious situation, possibly changing my chance of survival. I may regret this impulsive choice.

  The soldier spoke to me in German.

  “Your little friend appears to be afraid of dogs, yes?”

  I nodded yes. I hadn’t meant to speak in German earlier, it just sort of happened; now he knew I could understand him.

  “What is her name?” he asked.

  I shrugged, then cautiously offered, “She is new to the camp and I haven’t had time to get to know her yet.”

  “Ask her.”

  In Polish I quickly told her not to be afraid and asked her for her name.

  “Anna,” she replied in a shaky whisper.

  “Anna,” I repeated loudly so the soldier could hear. I didn’t want the dog to think he was in charge so I tried to make myself stand as straight and tall as I could.

  He continued. “But you, you’re not afraid of dogs, are you?”

  “No,” I responded without volunteering any further information.

  “What is your name?”

  “Ewa,” I said calmly.

  “Ewa,” he repeated in his German accent. “You should teach your little friend how to get up on time in the morning, no more of this nonsense, yes?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Now hurry or you’ll be late for roll call.”

  We turned, and hands still clasped tightly, ran out of the building, and down the shadowed alley between the barracks. We stepped out into the broad, barren, wire-enclosed yard and quickly found a space in which to stand at attention. I couldn’t believe we’d been able to run away unharmed from our encounter with the soldiers.

  My heat beat started to slow its racing pace. In hindsight, I realized I’d just crossed a troll’s bridge and survived without paying a toll. Or had I?

  Good, they hadn’t started roll call yet. Anna was shivering. In strong, crisp German, the commander of the camp was going over camp rules again and talking about the importance of doing our best for Germany. The vocabulary from his mouth was so exact, so sharp; instead of paying attention to his message, I marveled at the perfection of each syllable in each word. I imagined him being a language professor before the war; leading his students in speaking drills with precise pronunciation. Dressed in perfectly polished shoes, clothes cleaned and ironed to perfection, walking up and down the rows of desks, keeping tempo with a pointer smacking his hand in perfect time, and laying it against the ear of anyone brazen enough to become distracted and speak off tempo. Perfection demanding perfection from those around him.

  His monthly tirades about camp rules were so familiar that instead of listening I let my thoughts roam freely, dreaming about my life before the war. Then I heard him say something that brought me right back to reality. The Red Cross was coming for a visit and we were starting a camp beautification program…. today. He informed us that we would be helping with that process.

  I was unsure what that meant. Could it possibly mean more food for us? Even if it was just for a day, the thought of something more to eat sounded beyond wonderful. Would we be able to
actually speak with the Red Cross delegates, or would the Germans keep us hidden in the woods somewhere? Maybe we would get new straw mattresses and blankets. I could never have guessed the depths of deception the Nazis would go through in their attempt to make the world think they were involved in treating children with dignity and respect. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that the Red Cross visit was proof that we were not beyond help. We could walk out of here someday soon. Please, please, let it be soon. I eyed my bony legs. Thread-bare socks barely covered my ankles. Like slices of Swiss cheese, my shoes were riddled with holes. I needed to find rags to bind them and fill the holes. I was shivering from the brisk morning air. A new pair of shoes and socks for the Red Cross visit would be wonderful, but in all actuality, not very likely.

  As the camp commander spoke on and on, the chilly morning air reminded me of how I used to attend similar assemblies in the mornings at my old school. At the start of every month our school principal used to speak to all the students about following school rules and doing our best on our school work. It must be the start of a new month. Suddenly, like a gust of wind, the thought hit me…it must be April, which meant I would soon see the storks again. It was a good day, a very good day. It amazed me how one single thought could suddenly change my whole world to a brighter place. Especially this place, with all of its sadness and suffering. As usual, the thought of seeing the storks lifted my mood.

  Grandpa’s words came back to me. Wuroczystość Zwiastowaniabocian ma stanąć na jego gniazdo: on the feast of the Annunciation a stork shall stand on its nest. The storks are a blessing because they teach us to have faith.

  “Thank you, grandpa,” I whispered. The Feast of the Annunciation always comes in the last week of March to commemorate the angel Gabriel telling Mary that she would be the mother of Jesus. The storks’ arrival and the holy day were closely linked in our Catholic tradition as well as nature’s timing.