by Joan M. Wolf
Some of the girls had pale faces and puffy eyes that scanned and searched this strange place we'd been brought to. None of us made eye contact with anyone else, but when I accidentally caught a glance from one of the girls, I couldn't help but stare. Her eyes were the prettiest blue I had ever seen. I smiled briefly, and she smiled back.
Two different Nazi women appeared from the door of the building and led us all into a large entry room. The floor was brightly polished, with clean white tiles glaring up at us. The walls, too, smelled clean and fresh, giving off the faint scent of new paint. On one wall was a shadowy hint that a large cross had once hung there. I thought of Babichka with her rosary in her fingers.
One of the Nazis motioned for us to follow and led us into a long, narrow sleeping room. There were fourteen cots arranged in two rows with an aisle running down the middle of the room. Moving briskly, the guard showed us each to a cot, then ex ited abruptly, leaving us to stand awkwardly in our new surroundings.
Here, too, the walls smelled of fresh paint, and the tile floor gleamed spotlessly. At the foot of each cot was a trunk, and above each bed hung a small photograph of Hitler, one arm outstretched in the Nazi salute. From the wall opposite the door, he glared down fiercely in an almost-life-size picture, his eyes piercing every corner of the room. Again there were shadows on the wall on either side of the picture, revealing that another cross had once hung there.
Ruzha had been assigned to the cot on my right. The girl with the pretty blue eyes had been directed to the one on my left. We all sat wearily on our cots, not sure what to do next. My mind felt blank and empty, unable to grasp anything that had happened.
Ruzha and I sat for a long while, just looking at each other, until finally she spoke.
"I don't like you, you know, Milada."
I nodded. I didn't like her either.
She continued. "I don't know what is happening, but I shouldn't be here. There's been a mistake."
"Yes," I agreed.
"A terrible mistake."
We were interrupted as a female guard came in. She motioned for us to stand and make the same salute that Hitler was making in the pictures that hung above our cots. We were to face the huge pic ture of Hitler opposite the door. As I raised my arm, I shuddered at the thought of Babichka seeing me. What would she have said? Her oldest granddaughter saluting a picture of the man she thought was Satan himself, in a place that had once held a cross.
I held my arm at the proper angle, but I refused to look at Hitler. This one time I would not follow Papa's advice to do as I was told.
After a minute in this pose, we were allowed to put our arms down. Then each of us was given a long white nightgown that smelled like bleach. I'd worn the same set of clothes for so many days that the nightgown felt soft and comforting against my skin, even though it smelled strange. I ran my fingers down the front of it, tracing the soft pleats of lace.
Carefully I folded my blouse and skirt the way Mama had taught me, and placed them at the foot of the cot. Then I crawled into bed. The guard left, and the lights went out.
That's when I remembered Babichka's pin. I sat up and felt for my clothes. I reached into my blouse and found the pin, unclasped it, and repinned it carefully to the inside of my nightgown. Babichka, I thought, trying not to cry.
The room was filled with the soft sounds of girls crying quietly in the dark.
"Milada?" It was Ruzha. Her voice sounded small.
"Yes?" I answered.
"What do you think is happening?"
"I don't know."
There was silence from her cot. Everything in the room was dark and muddled, and I could feel all the strength draining from my body. Where were Mama, Anechka, and Babichka? Why was I not with them? All I wanted was to go to sleep and awake back in my own bed in Lidice in time for Terezie's birthday party.
Compared to the sour hay and the hardness of the gym floor, the cot felt soft and comforting. Running my fingers around the bumpy outline of Babichka's pin, I let the tears finally roll onto my pillow and closed my eyes.
***
It was still dark the next morning when the sweet sound of music threaded its way into my sleep. I could hear the beautiful Czech national anthem calling to me from our phonograph in the living room and Anechka fussing in her crib to be picked up.
Where is my home? Where is my home?
Where brooks rumble through the meadow,
Pines murmur over the mountainside,
All the orchards are in bloom.
What an earthly paradise in view,
This is the beautiful land,
The land of Czechs, home of mine.
But as I awoke, the sounds changed. It was not my beautiful country's song. I was not home listening to Anechka's waking cry. I was far away on a small cot, listening to Ruzha cry while the tinny sounds of a German song swelled from a phonograph I couldn't see. Groggy, I sat up and turned to Ruzha.
"Oh, Milada." She was sitting on her cot, twisting her nightgown in her hands. "Oh, Milada." This time she did not avoid my eyes and I did not avoid hers.
"It's all right, Ruzha. It's all right." I sat up, still trying to shake off sleep and very aware of how close my own tears were to falling. I tried to hold them back, afraid that if they started, they would never stop.
"I don't know what's happening," Ruzha continued.
"Neither do I." I stood as the same two female guards from the night before appeared and began moving around the room briskly, motioning for us to dress.
Everyone was awake but moving slowly. My whole body felt thick and heavy, as if I was moving through mud. The desire for more sleep kept pulling me back toward my cot.
I looked around for my clothes, but they were gone. In their place was a uniform: a short-sleeved white shirt, a short dark-blue skirt, and a black scarf with a clasp engraved with an eagle. The eagle's wings were spread wide, and it clutched a tiny swastika in its talons. Confusion swept through me. When had my clothes been taken, and why? I touched Babichka's pin, still safe beneath my nightgown. I was glad I had put it there the night before.
Carefully, I pinned the star to the inside of my uniform shirt so no trace of it would show. I realized now that it needed to stay with me always.
As they dressed, the other girls spoke to one another in the same language I had heard the night before. I sat on my cot, watching them in the daylight, unable to stop staring at the blond hair crowning every girl's head.
A very small girl sat across the aisle from me, speaking in rapid, panicked tones. Most of the other girls seemed close to my age, but this girl looked very young, maybe five or six. She was having a difficult time getting her shirt buttoned. An older girl was trying to help her.
The young girl fell onto her cot crying, and the other girl hovered above, moving from foot to foot, as if unsure of what to do. Eventually, she sat down and whispered in the young girl's ear. Finally, the little girl smiled and stood up.
The Nazi women reappeared and led us down the hall to a dining room. It had a high ceiling, and tall windows lined one side. Several small tables dotted the room, and one long formal table ran down the middle.
The guards led us to the large table and directed each girl to a chair. No one was allowed to sit until we had all given the Nazi salute. One of the guards then seated herself at the head of the table, and a woman with a cook's apron scurried back and forth to a kitchen behind the dining room. On the table were cloth napkins and dishes made of china.
Steaming bowls of sweetened oatmeal and warm loaves of bread with butter sat on the table. The smell of the food made me aware of how terribly hungry I was. I dove into the meal, eating without stopping, until every bit in front of me was gone. There seemed to be no ration books or shortages of anything here.
The other girls around me ate just as quickly, and no one spoke. The only sound in the room was the clinking of our spoons against our dishes. As I licked the last of the sugary oats from my bowl, I thought of Terezie wanti
ng a real cake for her birthday. Guilt formed a small lump in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.
After everyone had finished breakfast, we were led into a small auditorium across from the dining hall. On the stage stood one of the Nazi women from the night before. She was pretty, in a sharp sort of way, with a small nose and soft, ivory skin. A crisp light-blue shirt and skirt fit snugly on her body, and her light-colored hair was swept up in a fancy braid wound around her head.
"Young women of the future," she said, and it was like hearing music. For the first time since leav ing my home, I could understand what a Nazi was saying, because she was speaking in my language. She spoke first in Czech and then in the language the other girls had been speaking.
"It is tragic that your families were killed in an Allied air raid," the woman continued.
The frightening scene of the Nazi soldiers in our living room flashed through my mind. I could still feel the hands of the soldier around my waist, pulling me away from Mama in the gym. Didn't this woman know what had happened, how we had arrived in this place? There had been no Allied air raid. Nazis, like her, had taken us away.
Ruzha looked briefly at me, her eyes piercing mine, but I couldn't read what was in them. The woman spoke in the other girls' language, then continued in Czech.
"You are blessed to be chosen as Aryan children, sent by God to serve Hitler and save the world from the Jewish scourge."
The words "Aryan" and "Jewish" bounced around in my mind. I knew only that Jews were supposed to wear yellow stars, and I had heard the word "Aryan" just once or twice before and didn't even know what it really meant. Why was this Nazi using the word "Aryan" to describe me?
I looked around the auditorium. Each wall had a picture of Hitler, with a red candle burning beneath it. Beside each picture were posters of girls wearing uniforms similar to the ones we had been given. In some of the posters the girls wore sashes with German words running down the front.
I thought of the day Babichka, Jaro, and I had walked to church, right after Czechoslovakia had surrendered to Hitler. A picture of Hitler had been pasted on the door of the church. Babichka's eyes widened when she saw it, then filled with a hardness I had never seen. Standing tall and straight, she marched to the door, grabbed the poster, and tore it into little pieces. Her fingers moved quickly and steadily, as if she was knitting.
"Babichka! It is illegal!" Jaro took her by the shoulder, guiding her into the church while I followed behind, watching pieces of the poster flutter in the wind.
"Here, in this center," the Nazi woman continued in Czech, opening her arms wide, "you will learn everything you need to know to be a proper German girl. Everything you require will be provided. When the time is right, you will be sent out into the world to fulfill your duties as German wives and mothers. Heil Hitler!" One of the other guards stepped to the front of the small stage and motioned with her gun for us to stand and give the Hitler salute.
Then a different Nazi woman guided us to stand in a single-file row in front of the stage, facing the empty chairs in the audience. She, too, wore a blue uniform. Her hair was pulled into a neat braid, and her eyes were sharp and bright.
Next, the pretty woman who had spoken in Czech stepped down from the stage to stand in front of our line. She pointed to herself, saying "Fräulein Krüger." Then she pointed to us, wanting us to repeat her name, which we did. Next, she approached us one at a time and said a different name for each of us.
"Franziska!" she said loudly, as she placed her hand on Ruzha's head. "Franziska!"
"Franziska!" we all repeated.
"Eva!" Now it was my turn. "E-va!" she repeated, her hand pressing down on my head.
I shook my head, shivering at the sound of this strange new word echoing in the room. My name was not Eva. Ruzha's name was not Franziska. My name was Milada, the name of my grandmother and her mother before her.
"No," I said forcefully. "My name is Milada."
"Nein!" Fräulein Krüger yelled. She slapped my face hard, moving so close to me that our noses almost touched. "Nein!" she repeated, grabbing my chin in her fingers and pressing her nails into my skin as she lifted my face toward hers. My cheek stung, and I swallowed to keep back the tears.
"E-va." She jabbed a finger into my chest. "Franziska!" She pointed at Ruzha. "Ja?"
I nodded, as a sickening feeling settled into my stomach. No longer would I be known as Milada, fastest runner in the class, stargazer, Jaroslav's little sister. No longer would I hear the lyrical sound of my own language or feel it roll across my tongue.
I returned to my seat, only half listening as Fräulein Krüger continued assigning everyone a new name. The girl with the pretty eyes became Liesel. The small girl who had had trouble buttoning her shirt, and who still stood weeping and trembling, was renamed Heidi. The girl who had helped her, her sister, was renamed Elsa.
Only part of me was at this place. The other part of me was back in Lidice, sitting under the huge tree in our backyard, listening to the crows and the sounds of summer. I was walking barefoot in the creek that ran through the center of town, feeling the crisp, cold water numb my toes. I was off visiting Mrs. Janecek's docile cows that liked to munch clover from my hand through the fence. This was where I would stay, I decided, in my memories of my home, until Mama or Papa came to rescue me.
A hand tapped my shoulder and I looked up, startled out of my thoughts, to find a Nazi guard motioning for me to follow the other girls. We walked as a group on a tour of the center. Fräulein Krüger led us, smiling and speaking in German the entire time. Besides the auditorium and sleeping room, the building had classrooms and a gymnasium. Outside, a little past the church, Fräulein Krüger pointed to the razor-wire fence that surrounded the compound in a neat square. She was no longer smiling.
She spoke in clipped, harsh German and turned her bright eyes on each of us, then pointed to the fence that could be seen in every direction. Although I couldn't understand her words, the message was clear. There was no escape, no running away.
We walked back in silence except for the chatter of Fräulein Krüger, who had become eerily cheerful again. Along the way I looked for other buildings, other people, and any roads or paths that might lead to my rescue—any way for Papa to come find me. But there was nothing, only open, empty space and the distant shadows of the mountains.
Our tour ended with one last message delivered by Fräulein Krüger in Czech. She swept a pointed finger across our line. "You will not speak any language but the chosen Aryan language of German. Ever. Should you disobey, you will be punished. Severely."
I stood listening to the birds in the trees, wondering how they could sing, how Fräulein Krüger could smile, and how everything else in the world could go on as if nothing was happening in this once-holy place that had been turned into something awful.
Ruzha stayed next to me as we walked, but neither of us tried to speak. Even though we were together, we were very much apart.
Later that night on my cot, as the lights were turned off and the sound of girls whispering faded, I spoke my name softly to myself: Milada, Milada, Milada. I pictured each of my family members, and remembered what my grandmother had said as I traced the bumpy outlines of her pin.
Remember who you are, Milada. Remember where you are from. Always.
Four
Summer–Autumn 1942: Puschkau, Poland
EACH day began before the sun was up. The strains of what I now knew was the German national anthem would swell into our small room until all fourteen of us were awake and standing by our cots. With hands outstretched in salute to the large picture of Hitler on the wall, we waited to be released by Fräulein Krüger so we could dress and prepare for the day. Freshly cleaned and pressed uniforms were waiting for us each morning, along with new ribbons for our hair. Every day I secretly pinned Babichka's star to my shirt to keep it close, before walking to breakfast with everyone else.
Breakfast was always delicious and nourishing, with real sugar a
nd delicacies such as fresh meat and fruit. Nutrition was important, we would learn in home economics lessons. Proper nutrition helped German bodies, and therefore Germany herself, grow strong. We had plenty of food, more than I had seen in years, and plenty of new clean clothes. All our physical needs were taken care of. Fräulein Krüger and the other Nazi guards and teachers were outwardly friendly, but there was always something sharp and distant about their actions.
Breakfast was followed by lessons and drills and exercises. At first, from morning until night, we studied only the German language. After our first day no adult ever translated again. Instead, gestures and signs were used if needed. We remembered the warning that the punishment for speaking in any language other than the true Aryan language of German would be severe.
During those first few weeks at the center, we spent endless hours practicing the formation and pronunciation of German words. Our language instructor, Fräulein Schmitt, was both animated and deadly serious about her lessons. When she wasn't speaking, she pursed her lips together in a way that reminded me of a bird's beak. Her hair was always pulled back so tightly that it made my head hurt just to look at it.
"Kin-der!" she would bark, cracking our desks in time to the rhythm of the words with the ruler she carried.
"Kin-der!" we repeated, as her little bird eyes darted among us, trying to catch someone mispronouncing the word.
Franziska grasped the German language quickly and easily, and she appeared to enjoy the lessons. The words rolled effortlessly off her tongue as her eyes shone up at Fräulein Schmitt.
She was eager to point out mistakes made by the other girls in their pronunciation of German words. When someone misspoke, her hand would quickly rise high in the air.
"Yes, Franziska," the teacher would call on her, and I would know what was to come.
"Excuse me," she would say, in her beautiful German. "I do not believe that is entirely correct." And she would go on to point out the correct formation of the words or the exact inflection of the German accent.
