No Woman's Land: a Holocaust novel based on a true story (Women and the Holocaust Book 2)

by Ellie Midwood

  For a couple more weeks, still no news from the German radio. Willy reported that there were no official addresses from the political officers on account of Stalingrad as well. The German troops, along with the German people, were kept in darkness. The mail, exchanged by comrades who had been separated by a twist of fate, was monitored even stricter now. Entire passages in the letters coming from the South were blotted in black ink. Willy puzzled over his wife’s letter as well, which was almost entirely black. The orderly who brought his mail only shrugged apologetically in response to Willy’s uncomprehending look as the latter showed him the letter.

  “From home?” he inquired sympathetically. He was an older fellow, with a kind face lined with wrinkles, most of them around his eyes and mouth. He must have smiled a lot in his youth, before the Great War. He carried the Cross from it, on his chest, along with the one from 1939. He held his left arm stiffly by his side and favored his left leg as he moved about. It was sad to see an old warrior in a messenger’s role.

  “From my wife.”

  “She must have complained about the bombing then. Or the rationing. Censorship office always blots that out.”

  “What bombing?” Willy regarded the old soldier in disbelief. Surely there couldn’t have been any bombings in Germany?

  The latter shook his head in a quick and dismissive manner – you didn’t hear me say a thing, my good fellow; I may have given an arm and a leg for the Fatherland but I’m not ready to surrender my life for some reckless remark – and made for the door but at the last moment took pity on his younger counterpart and asked him in a mere whisper, “where does she live then, your wife?”

  “Dresden.”

  “No, shouldn’t be that then. The RAF are mostly skirting the borders now – Dortmund, Essen, Duisburg, Düsseldorf and such. Dresden is safe from what I last heard. Though, no one can know for certain now. Don’t ask her that though; they’ll censor it in any case but the Field Police will be on your doorstep before you know it to ask you who supplied you with such information. As long as she writes, everything is fine.”

  I looked at Willy. His hand was clutching the edge of the desk with such force that the knuckles turned white. With tremendous effort, he collected himself, at last, passed the other hand atop his head and nodded his gratitude for the truth. At least the old soldier still had the heart to speak it when the new generation knew nothing else but how to keep one’s mouth shut. Blind obedience, no questions asked – that’s how it was now.

  “Thank you. I won’t mention it to anyone; you have my word.”

  “Good.” The old soldier smiled. Fatherly kindness softened his eyes. “And don’t worry more than necessary, Herr Leutnant – it’s an old Army rule.”

  In the background, the German radio played classical music with the obstinacy of a crew pumping the water out of a ship that was steadily sinking, as the passengers on-board remained blissfully ignorant.

  February 15, 1943

  The day dawned dim and gloomy, with the promise of a snowstorm in the gray air. Even at eleven in the morning, it was still so dark that the lights were on in both Willy’s office and his living quarters, in addition to the lamp that was casting a soft yellow light onto the paper as I typed under his dictation. His earlier predictions concerning the relocation of the troops turned out to be correct; even some of the administrative workers were being transferred to the Volga – “to shorten the front,” no doubt.

  We didn’t speak about the new orders from the OKW, only smiled in the same hopeful and dreamy manner – him, as he dictated; me, as I put down his words on paper. No doubt, if the Luftwaffe was going, the SS was going as well. They needed much more Field Police there now, to keep the troops’ morale at the necessary level and correcting their behavior by means of disciplinary battalions and a few court-martials thrown in for good measure, when the soldiers refused to exhibit the prescribed amount of enthusiasm on account of their “imminent victory.”

  After a polite knock, followed by Willy’s come in, Schönfeld sauntered in and stood in the doorway, looking positively delighted at Willy’s suddenly soured face.

  “Heil Hitler, Herr Hauptmann,” Schönfeld greeted him amicably as Willy scowled at the wrong rank, already sensing some malice.

  Schönfeld’s face looked yellow and waxy in the artificial light of the room, only his eyes shone with triumphal light as he regarded a paper in his hands which he then laid out in front of Willy. “I suppose, congratulations are in order.”

  Willy pulled the official paper toward himself and read it carefully while I remained in my seat, staring at the floor under Schönfeld’s fixed stare.

  “A promotion?” Willy finally raised his gaze to the SS officer.

  “Why, yes, of course. You’ve demonstrated brilliant results since your transfer here and I couldn’t help writing an excellent reference letter to your superiors as one of your political officers. Told them what a conscientious civil servant you are, what a reliable officer, and a most convinced National Socialist.” Despite his grin growing wider, it looked outright predatory now. “Speaking of National Socialism, is your Party badge still being cleaned?”

  “It’s in my desk drawer. I forgot to put it on.”

  “Don’t forget to take it when you empty your desk then. I don’t want your new superiors to think that I lied on your account and suspect you of not being loyal to the Party.”

  Willy’s face grew pale at once. A passing shadow of fear crossed his features before they turned to granite as he narrowed his eyes at the man standing before him.

  “What new superiors?”

  “Ach, I can be so forgetful at times! Please, do forgive me.” He tapped his forehead theatrically before extracting another paper from his pocket. “Here is your transfer order; it goes with the new promotion. You can receive your marching orders directly from your superiors here but your promotion order I wished to present you myself since I had so much to do with it. Tallinn, such a beautiful city! I envy you, Hauptmann Schultz. Serenity and fresh Baltic air and no partisans, of any sort, just waiting to shoot your head off at every corner. And the best part – no Jews, whatsoever, in the entire country. Imagine that? Yes, a paradise, no less. I bet it’ll do wonders for your career as an officer. You’re welcome now. Heil Hitler!”

  He raised his hand in an exemplary salute and made his exit, whistling a jolly tune. Willy still sat at the table, looking as though he’d been shot.

  An ice-cold wave of horror washed over me. I clutched at the side of the desk just to stop my hands from trembling. For the third time, Willy was re-reading the order as though in the hope that the words would somehow miraculously change their meaning before his eyes. He moved his lips as he read yet he made no sound.

  “When?” I could only squeeze one word out of my throat, which suddenly was constricted with an invisible rope of the ticking clock around it.

  He didn’t appear to hear me.

  “Willy, tell me when?”

  Tell me how much longer I have left to live.

  He read that last question, which I didn’t dare utter when he finally looked into my eyes.

  “April 1st,” he replied, at last, his face still white as chalk.

  “Six weeks.”

  He shook his head in denial, then counted in his mind and let his head drop to his chest in defeat.

  “Six weeks,” I repeated in a hollow voice.

  “We still have time…” he whispered softly.

  “We have nothing, Willy. We have nothing any longer.”

  I rose to my feet, swaying like a drunk. My feet were suddenly far too light to hold me. He tried catching my wrist as I passed him by but I pulled my hand away and picked up my coat on my way out. The air in this room turned hot and suffocating. I needed fresh air. Just a bit of fresh air to stop that pounding in my head.

  Outside, the snow began falling in great fluffy flakes. The sentry who stood at the door was almost all covered with them. I passed him and stole my way
through the snowdrifts, toward the boiler house, near where small, snow-covered figures were moving – I could see them from here. My people. This is where I belonged from the very beginning. Shouldn’t have allowed myself to believe in any miracles; miracles were shot dead and buried in the pit along with babies from the Jewish Orphanage during the Purim pogrom. Last March it happened, almost a year ago. Nearly a year ago, General-Kommissar Kube stood at the edge of the pit, into which the SS was throwing the children, still alive and screaming and threw candy into their pleading hands. He thought it to be merciful, to give them something sweet to eat before the SS would start piling earth on top of their still-moving bodies. He thought a lot of things to be mercy. So did Willy. He thought it would be merciful to throw me candy as well when I was already one foot inside the same pit, already half-dead but he felt he could do at least something for me. I know he meant well. Perhaps, so did Kube. People said, he did love children and always gave bonbons to the orphans whenever he visited the ghetto on inspection. But then, the SS killed all the orphans and he eventually got over it. And so will Willy, eventually. He still has Hedwig at home and Dresden is still standing. As for me, I will turn into snow, snow and earth, from which I came and that’s exactly how it all should have been from the very beginning. A rabbi in the ghetto once said that it was unnatural to intervene with the natural course of things; stiff luck I didn’t realize it back then that the natural course of things didn’t include Jews into the equation of the Neues Deutsches Reich anymore. My own fault for believing in something that was never meant to be. I really shouldn’t blame him for anything.

  I stumbled into the boiler house, stared without understanding at the woman who was trying to report something to me – she thought I was here on my supervising business. As though in a daze, I finally found my way around her and stumbled toward stacks of coal and into the corner, pulled my legs to my chest and buried my face in them. That’s precisely how Liza found me after they fetched her.

  “Ilse, what? Don’t just look at me with such eyes as though someone died! Tell me what happened!”

  Oh, Liza, my dear little Liza! You should have gone with your Nahum while you still could, for we will all die here soon.

  “Willy’s being transferred,” I finally mumbled.

  She pulled back at once. Her hand slid off my arm.

  “When?”

  “April 1st.”

  She tried to smile at me but only cringed instead. I felt my face twisting as well; I’d held it together so well but now the tears rolled out of my eyes of their own accord and there was no stopping them. My sisters came running from the outside, two bundles of coats, shawls, and rosy cheeks. I sobbed even harder at the sight of their beautiful, young faces. You relied on me and I failed you both. I failed you, Liza, too. I failed everyone.

  “Ilschen, what happened?” They cooed around me, rubbing my shoulders and arms that were shaking with sobs.

  “Did you have a row with Herr Leutnant?” Lily demanded, the stern older sister.

  “Don’t be daft!” Lore dismissed her with the wave of her hand. “When did they ever have a row? He loves her to death.”

  “You’re a right romantic, Lore!” Lily pursed her lips in a defiant line. “People fight from time to time; it has nothing to do with love.”

  “It has everything to do with it! When you truly love someone, you learn how to sacrifice things for them instead of battling over them all the time.”

  “What do you know about it?” Lily was suddenly suspicious.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” Lore threw back. She didn’t tell Lily anything about Reuven, a teenager who worked as a doorman in one of the buildings of the Kommissariat, the German headquarters in Minsk; she only told me because I’d understand and because I surely wouldn’t betray her when she’d return just before curfew with lips still raw from kissing and a few pieces of bread soaked with honey carefully wrapped in a newspaper. I didn’t ask anything but it was my most profound conviction that the Polish youngster was dabbling in some underground business too, judging by the goods he supplied Lore with. “What is it then, Ilschen?”

  They both fell silent as they traced my gaze and saw Willy standing in the doors of the boiler house, with his coat open. Stepan, the only man working in the brigade, swiftly removed his hat and was now holding it in his hands, his head bowed. Liza and my sisters slowly rose to their feet and murmured their greetings. Only I remained on the floor for I just couldn’t bring myself to move a single finger. The life itself was gone out of me.

  He approached me and gave me his hand. “Come.”

  I shook my head slowly, through tears. Don’t drag me back there. I don’t belong there anymore. Let me be, why can’t you? Why torture me some more when everything is already decided?

  “Ilse, come,” he repeated, motioning for me to get up, with his hand.

  Still, I sat without moving.

  He stepped back for a moment, took a deep breath.

  “On your feet! Now!!”

  I jerked from the unexpected shout but found myself standing before I knew it. Liza had long ago remarked that we, Germans, we were indeed curious creatures, who understood shouting much better than coaxing. We were used to orders, that’s all; I explained it to her. Orders are easier to follow whereas pleading leaves you choice. We don’t like choice. We need to be told what to do, by someone who knows what needs to be done. I was grateful for the shout even though it startled me at first, worse than a gunshot. Willy saw it too and nodded slightly, with a soft, apologetic smile. I looked at him and suddenly understood everything, this soft grin of his, that necessary shout, that coming back for me in the first place – he still had positively refused to abandon hope when I had already surrendered myself to the fate.

  “Come,” he repeated. “Liza, you too.”

  Obediently, we trailed after him back into the Government Building. Inside his quarters, he didn’t say anything until he took a bottle of cognac out of the cupboard and poured three glasses, an even amount in each.

  “Let’s drink to victory. And then, we’ll all sit down and decide what to do. No one will leave this room until we have a plan. We will have it.”

  He fetched the paper and we all stared at it long and hard, our minds as blank as the sheet itself. Outside, the wind pushed itself against the windows as though trying to force its way inside. In the corner, the clock was ticking, mocking and indifferent to our common suffering.

  Eventually, cogs began turning in our brains. Willy started to speak, his words slowly gathering conviction. Something feasible soon began taking shape, outlined by Willy’s determined hand.

  “Partisans. Forest. How to get to the forest? Only by legal means. Legal means are brigades. Wood-cutting brigades. But we get wood delivered by train. Falsify a working permit then?”

  “Do we have to?” Liza blinked, mystified. “Can’t you obtain an empty blank?”

  Willy shook his head. “No. I have access to ration cards but can only put the request for working permits through the Labor Department; however, it’s them who approve the request and bring the filled passes back to me.”

  “Who holds the blanks?” Liza was all business now, the former Komsomol leader. The occupying forces might have stripped her off the Komsomol part of the title but a leader she remained and they would have to shoot her to take that away from her.

  “The SD office.”

  We all leaned back onto our chairs in the same hopeless surrender. Another interminable stretch of prolonged, torturous silence descended upon us, shrouded us in its dismal cloak. The snowstorm was raging with violent force behind the window. It had grown darker. It was that particularly dismal, winter hour during which all colors are absent; when everyone’s face appears leaden and lifeless; when it seems as though darkness will forever prevail and when brandy tastes the best.

  Suddenly, Willy was on his feet. In a few short steps, he crossed the room and brought the lamp from the desk at which I usually ty
ped, turned it on and, instead of keeping it next to him and his paper he pushed it to the center, sharing the light with everyone. With stubborn resolution, he turned to Liza once again. “Do you know anyone, a woman perhaps who washes the floors there, who can have access to the room where they keep them?”

  “I don’t know anyone who works in the Kommissariat, but I can ask Sergei. Maybe he does.”

  I felt my face brightening at once as the realization dawned on me. “Kommissariat, you said? I think Lore’s new friend works there as a doorman. Yes, I’m quite sure she said it was the Kommissariat building.”

  “Don’t jest with holy things!” Liza was suddenly afraid to breathe, afraid to jinx our luck; only regarding me with her wide-open eyes, her hand on top of my wrist.

  Willy pulled forward at once as well. “That new friend of hers, does he have access inside?”

  “He’s a mischling from what I know, not a full Jew, so I think it’s possible that they let him inside on one business or another. I’m convinced that he deals with someone corrupted there. Lore wouldn’t tell me anything but I drew my own conclusions. He brings her far too many goods for them to come from an honest source.”

  “How serious is that young man about Lore?” Willy asked.

  I grinned. “She’s thirteen, and he’s sixteen; I doubt they talk about the wedding and such—”

  “No, what I mean is, would he do something for her if she asked him? Would he steal a blank from the SD office?”

  My smile melted at once. One had to be serious about a girl to risk his very head for her in such a manner. From what I had heard about him I concluded that he was a savvy little weasel and a profiteer but then again, that’s precisely the way Lily regarded Willy, all the while he risked his life for us.

  “I don’t know,” almost apologetically, I replied. “I will have to ask her about that.”

  Willy nodded a few times. “Please, do. Perhaps chivalry is not yet dead and the young fellow will come through.”