Shores Beyond Shores

by Irene Butter

  After three days of almost constant sleep, Pappi crawled back to health. Seeing him drag his body back to work was painful; the toll was more and more visible. His hack had greatly diminished, yet he had become thinner, and smaller, and grayer. Just as he was rallying, Mutti’s health slipped, but since she didn’t have any specific symptoms, she had to stay in the barracks. Besides, after seeing the infirmary and knowing it was only getting more crowded, I agreed with Werner that it was best to keep Mutti away from there.

  “I can’t help with the children,” I told Hanneli. “Mutti isn’t able to get out of bed. I need to stay with her.”

  “No problem, Reni,” she said, looking around at the few children left. Most were too sick or weak to need care as they just stayed in bed. I hoped they were still alive. Little Joseph hadn’t been around for weeks now. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “What isn’t wrong with her? Well, I mean she isn’t coughing.”

  “That’s good,” Hanneli said.

  I was at Mutti’s side through her pain, fevers, chills, and delirium. She never complained, though she did apologize a lot.

  Adulthood felt like it was falling in around me in ways that I had never expected. I always thought of getting older as having fun in new ways, like flirting with boys and trading in my heavy hair and girl’s outfits for a proper coiffure and eye-catching dresses. I looked down at myself. I probably looked older, but not how I wanted.

  December came and with it, my birthday. I turned fourteen without anyone noticing. Groups huddled in the candlelit corners of the barracks in the evenings, quietly celebrating Chanukah. They had a spit of oil and threads of cotton and prayer. Werner came back and shared the Rabbi’s words from that evening.

  “Despair is the opposite of being a Jew,” he reported.

  “That sounds like Heidi,” I said.

  “But Heidi’s Christian.”

  “Well, I guess she’d make a good Jew.”

  Days after the lights of Chanukah dimmed, the Germans could be heard singing Christmas carols, their voices carrying on the freezing breeze, and a week later we were in 1945.

  29

  Camp Bergen-Belsen, Germany

  January 19, 1945

  “Anne is here, Anne Frank!” Hanneli said a couple of weeks later as she ran up to me outside the barracks. “I saw her last night.”

  Of course, we both knew Anne and her family from our Amsterdam neighborhood, but Hanneli was closer to her in age, and they had been friends.

  “She’s here?” I asked.

  “Not in the Star Camp, in the tent camp. I was homesick and heard there were some more Dutch, so I snuck by the fence to ask who was there.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that. The guards…”

  “Yes, well, anyhow, I started talking with a women who turned out to be Mrs. Van Pels. Do you remember her?”

  I did, a little.

  “She said Anne is here, and asked if I wanted to talk with her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, a few minutes later I heard Anne’s voice as if it were yesterday. We just looked at each other through the fence, and we both started to cry,” Hanneli said, her voice shaky. “Oh Reni, she looks so sick and skinny.” She took a breath and continued. “I can’t believe she is here. I thought, I don’t know, I thought her family had escaped to Switzerland. She hid with her family and a few others including the Van Pels. They were in an attic for two years and never left once. Then somebody told the Germans about them. Her family was split up and sent to different camps, including Auschwitz.”

  Auschwitz. That camp had a bad reputation, even here.

  “Anne and her sister came here in November. They were in the tents during that big storm.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “They’ve been here almost two months!”

  “Yes, all that time and so close, and we didn’t know.”

  “At least they’re alive.”

  “I know, but Reni, Anne is as thin as a twig, or paper, and so pale. She’s afraid that her mother and father are dead. Her sister Margot is so sick that she couldn’t get up to greet me, and might be dying. Probably typhus. Anne’s clothes are rags. And, of course, the lice….”

  Typhus had become the talk of the camp. It was spreading, mostly because of the lice. At first typhus looked like the flu, but then it caused a rash over most of the body, a high fever, and then the mind failed until the person died. I thought of a spider wrapping prey with her long, black legs, then the dry carcass dangling by a thread, whipped and loosened by wind until it fluttered to the ground. Soundless and insignificant. So easily brushed aside with countless other weightless carcasses.

  “Can we help?” I asked.

  Dirt smudged Hanneli’s cheek. She smeared it with her hand as she wiped her eye.

  “Yes. Anne and I agreed to meet tonight. I really want to bring her food.”

  “Can we get her any? Does your family have anything left from the Red Cross rations?”

  We heard that Red Cross packages arrived all the time, but the Germans kept most to themselves except last month, just before Christmas, when they gave us two cardboard boxes with red crosses in the upper right corner. Each box was the size for new shoes: it contained powdered milk, sugar cubes, jam, and some canned goods. Considering the state of Werner’s feet, he was sorry they weren’t shoes.

  “We don’t have anything left,” said Hanneli. “We finished ours last week. Even if we had something left, I’m not sure my father would let us give it away.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We ate it all, too, especially trying to feed more to Mutti. I’m not sure we could get any food from anybody at this point.”

  “But we could get clothes,” said Hanneli.

  We gathered some clothes and a bit of bread, and bundled them in a ball as if we were readying to run away from home. Darkness and cold fell, and the fear of Allied planes kept camp lights dimmed, making it easier for us to walk unseen over the frozen, pitted ground. Hanneli led us to the fence in the thick shadow of a building. A couple of people milled around on the other side. We waited.

  “Hanneli?”

  “Over here, Anne!” Hanneli whispered loudly.

  I made out Anne’s silhouette in the dark; gone was the lively girl that Hanneli talked about. She was draped in a dark blanket like I imagined woman of centuries, if not a millennium, past. She seemed swallowed by the cloth.

  “Oh Hanneli, you’re here,” Anne said.

  “We’ve brought what we could.”

  The old friends stood there, sharing a moment in time. I had last seen them together in Amsterdam, on a sunlit, clean street, the wind teasing their dark hair. They had been twelve—younger than I was that January night—but they had seemed so much more mature, talking about boys and high school. I rested my hand on the fence, careful not to cut my hand on the barbs.

  “Hi, Anne. It’s Reni.”

  “Hi, Reni.”

  “Hanneli told me about the attic, and your family. I’m sorry about your parents and Margot.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Margot is pretty sick. Were you able to get anything?”

  “Yes,” said Hanneli. “I’m sorry it’s not more.”

  “It’s okay. It all helps.”

  Hanneli grabbed the wrapped parcel, and on the count of three, swung it high over the barbed wire so it wouldn’t snag. I heard it hit the ground. Anne turned around and disappeared into the dark. Suddenly, there was a shuffle in the shadows.

  “No! Stop!” Anne’s voice cracked in the chill.

  I instinctively looked around me to see if there were guards coming, but seeing none I turned back to glimpse a figure scuttle away. What happened? Then, the vacuum of silence, lightly peppered with the background of camp sounds—murmurs from buildings, the breeze by my ear, and heavy breathing—settled back.

  Anne emerged at the fence again, her voice heaving.

  “She took it! I can’t believe it. Somebody just took the bundle!”

 
“Anne, Anne, we’ll find more. We’ll find more,” Hanneli said with both hands on the fence. “Tomorrow if we are lucky, or the next night. We’ll find more.”

  “You promise?” Anne asked.

  “Yes, um, give us a couple of days, two nights from now,” Hanneli said. “I promise.”

  It would not be easy pulling together another bundle of clothes. Helping and donating were becoming less popular. Desperation had hardened all of us.

  30

  Camp Bergen-Belsen, Germany

  January 20, 1945 morning and afternoon

  I was still savoring the food of my dreams as I awoke to the barracks’ rustlings, murmurings, and groans. My eyes blinked open: I stared up at the wooden slats of the bunk above me with their familiar wavy grain and swirls. Many of the knots were like eyes. One had three dark dots at one end, resembling an owl. The smell of sleep, sweat, and sawdust hung in the air. I was about to roll over to look at Mutti, when she cleared her throat. Then I heard my brother stirring below and looked at the empty wall peg—Pappi’s jacket was gone. He had left for work. A long, soft sigh swept my lips. My family was alive. Dawn had become the worst time of day. Each morning I feared waking to someone having died. Thank you, I said, looking back up at the knot owl.

  Mutti would always say that every day in Bergen-Belsen was a question mark. Werner would say something clever like every day in life was a question mark. Pappi would say it depended on where you put the question marks. Did we let the unknown feed our fear? Or was it a chance for hope? Hope alone wouldn’t keep us alive in Bergen-Belsen, but, he said, miracles did happen.

  My family had more than our share of miracles. We had been saved from Camp Auschwitz, twice. At the theater in Amsterdam and at Westerbork. We had mysteriously received our Ecuadorian passports, even after we’d been deported. Lastly, we had stayed together as a family, which seemed more remarkable every day. Anne had no idea about her parents. If that were me, it would destroy me.

  Mutti moaned, and I rolled over. We silently stared at one another. She looked so much older.

  “So, so blue,” she whispered. “My Reni, your pretty, pretty eyes. Like they hold a piece of the sky.”

  The door thudded against the wooden wall, followed by the sounds of heavy, stamping boots and a call to attention. It must have been time to march outside for roll call. Appell.

  “Everyone holding a North American or South American passport must report immediately to the chief doctor to determine your fitness for exchange.”

  I raised myself on my elbow and peered over Mutti. The Kapo repeated the news, louder that time since there was now a flurry of movement and questions from everywhere. But the Kapo waved them off, saying that was all he knew and that he had to move along to the other barracks in the Star Camp. We would know more soon. The tip of a short rubber hose poked out of his pocket. The Kapos were carrying them more often for handing out punishments. I hadn’t been hit, but I had heard they were painful and could be deadly. The hoses were easy to carry, quick to strike with, and left few marks. The Kapos would let the ends dangle as a reminder that they could be used at any moment.

  There was no mention of Appell for the first time in a year.

  The chatter intensified. This was what we had prayed for and feared. Was it real? Would the Germans follow through, and what exactly would they follow through with? We needed to talk with Pappi, but would have to wait until he returned. Werner stood, watching, and listening. He was slowly, almost absent mindedly, tucking in his shirt and smoothing the creases. With a pull, he cinched his belt in another notch and fitted the long end into the loops. Then, like Moses dividing the Red Sea, he waved his fingers through his hair just once, and it dutifully parted.

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking,” he said, leaning on his good foot. “I’m not sure Mutti can walk, but if we can’t get her up and to the doctor, we may not be able to go. We have no choice. Get her dressed. I’ll help.”

  “Your foot.”

  “I said, ‘I’ll help.’”

  We propped up Mutti, helped swing her legs over the edge of the bed, and with great effort she stood, swayed, and stayed up. We explained the situation, but I wasn’t convinced she was listening. She only stood if she had to use the pot next to our bed.

  “So brown,” I said, trying to encourage her, “your beautiful eyes.”

  Your tired, far away eyes, I said to myself.

  “We have you, Mutti,” Werner said.

  She leaned into Werner, who got his balance, and I wrapped her with a blanket before getting on the other side of her. We started to shuffle. Her shoes looked huge at the ends of her skinny legs. When had she replaced her old shoes with these big ugly things with great rounded toes and wire for laces?

  Mutti suddenly collapsed.

  Werner stumbled on his infected foot and groaned.

  We carried Mutti back to the bunk and covered her. Breathing heavily, Werner and I sat on the bed with her. Werner leaned forward, shaking his hair back into place.

  “There’s no way we can carry her,” he said. “Too weak.”

  “Should we report to the doctor anyway?”

  “Yes. Staying here isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

  “I don’t like leaving her alone.”

  “She’ll be fine. For a little bit.”

  Mutti didn’t seem to notice as I covered her with my pink blanket in addition to hers, even pulling them up under her chin. I glanced at my brother’s tidiness and said that I needed a few minutes to get ready. Pulling frigid water from the sink outside the barracks, I rinsed and rubbed my face, and then brushed some dirt off my coat.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “Hasenbergs,” Werner said. “Let’s go, Hasenbergs. That’s what Pappi would say.”

  Werner limped. Side-by-side, we headed to the reporting station, a temporary set-up in one of the other barracks. Each person stood in front of the medical director, the Stabsarzt, whose first question was if they understood what was happening and if they wanted to partake in the exchange. If their answer was yes, they were examined. Ahead of us in line, a man with a cap pulled low over his eyes murmured that only the Nazis would make prisoners verify that they wanted to leave hell. He propped up an old man whose head kept bobbing forward. The back of the old man’s neck was covered in scabs as rough as caked mud.

  “Next,” said the Stabsarzt.

  The doctor had a hooked nose and an overbite, with kind eyes belying a bad reputation. The capped man struggled with the old man, coming to a stop in front of the Stabsarzt and his assistant, both in white coats. The medical team sat behind a small table and chairs, their stiff pens making smart checks and etching paths across sheets of typed paper and cards stamped with blue circles.

  “Names,” said the Stabsarzt, looking pleasant.

  The capped man gave their names.

  “Are you sick? He looks sick,” said the Stabsarzt, pointing at the old man.

  “He is a little sick, that’s all.”

  The assistant got up and examined the old man. The assistant’s hair was patchy like a dog with mange, and his eyes seemed impossibly close to each other. His white coat was splattered with too many stains. He scratched the back of his own neck before tilting the old man’s head up by the chin and looking at him from different angles. He let the head drop and fingered around the neck. The capped man adjusted his grip on the old man’s belt. Looking back at the doctor, the assistant shook his head back and forth.

  “Please, he can go, I will take care of him,” the capped man pleaded.

  “You can go. He can’t.”

  “Please, Herr Doktor.”

  “No. Next,” said the Stabsarzt, eyes twinkling.

  They looked at Werner and then to me, saying nothing. I licked my bottom lip and my mouth settled into a tight line.

  “Names,” said the Stabsarzt.

  Werner spoke for us.

  “Are you sick?” the Stabsarzt asked, wh
ile continuing to shuffle through the papers and scan the list. His partner on the right looked us up and down. I realized I was trying to stand a little taller. The assistant asked me to lean forward. At the same time I felt a nervous cough coming on and slowly swallowed, before shaking my head back and forth: No. Werner said we were fine. The doctor looked more closely at me, deciding for himself.

  “Ja, next.”

  His partner made two X’s on the paper, wrote on two stamped cards, and handed them to his superior, who thanked him. We stepped to the side, lingering only long enough to make sure they were truly done with us. They were, and we slid away. They didn’t ask about our parents.

  “We are so lucky Mutti didn’t come,” said Werner on our way back. I squeezed his hand, then held it as we walked.

  As soon as Pappi came through the door that afternoon, we launched ourselves at him. Werner did the talking, explaining the rapid developments and the need for him and Mutti to report, and how important it was that Mutti looked healthy, or at least healthier than she was. A couple of times I tried to jump in with details, but backed off, until I finally blurted:

  “Pappi, it’s true! It’s true! We can go!”

  But Pappi was silent, slouched over on the bed. I stopped, then looked back and forth between Werner and Pappi, and I studied my father. He was pale and was shaking all over, like the time when he had pneumonia. Oh no, not now, I thought. How could he suddenly be so sick?

  “Pappi, please,” begged Werner.

  “No. I must rest,” he whispered.

  As our parents slept, Werner and I fretted, mulling over the options.

  Then Mr. Roseboom came over with his son Lex. Mr. Roseboom was tall and big, and seemed completely unaffected by the food rations. Lex, a few years older than me, shared only his dad’s height. They were exchange Jews, too. Healthy ones. Easy X’s for the doctor to make.