Esther had fallen sound asleep near the river, a little south of the central city. Finally, she was at the marsh where she and Hans had spent countless summer days rowing a little skiff and playing in the fields. He had his camera, and she would draw birds and grasses in the breeze. The marsh grasses were soft, a wonderful nest for an exhausted girl, the only sounds being occasional rustlings of birds, or the honk of a swan. One whistle was particularly jarring – the voice of a human hunting other humans. The man shook her and ordered her to stand up. Her captor did not yell. He simply took her by her thin arms, pulled out his weapon, and told her to walk quickly. The barrel of the gun pressed into her back as he directed her forward.
“Get in the wagon.”
She made no eye contact with the others in the canvas covered farm wagon. She did not utter a word during her return to the theatre. She stood absolutely still in the buzzing lines of people, waiting for her name to be located on the registers. Luck was on her side. Instead of being processed for the camps in the east, she would be deported to work in Germany. She was on the way to a place called Bergen Belsen. It did not sound like a vacation in the mountains.
The freight train drew close. Esther’s future was crushed under the rumble and squeal of iron wheels. Within moments, police forced all the captives into the cattle cars. There were no destination signs on the cars or on the front of the German train.
Coal sparks and steam flew from the tenders of the train. The summer heat baked the cars stacked with hundreds of people. Urine and feces covered the floors of the car as the captives stood in place or collapsed. Esther willed herself to stand. Eighteen hours later she stepped out into the warm sunlight, blinking and trying to smooth her hair. She straightened her summer dress. Her shoes were gone. Standing barefoot in the dirt, her only thought was, “What next?” Soldiers inspected the girls. Once again, she boldly looked into the eyes of the officer, as he examined her full bosom and slim waist. “You are a pretty one. With those green eyes, why don’t you have yourself declared Aryan?”
She laughed in astonishment, “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
He walked on down the line. The women followed the guards toward their barracks and drudgery. This was a labor camp. As the line walked, the soldier accosted her once more.
“You there! Come with me.” His harsh voice indicated that some special punishment was ahead. She followed him to another building, where a fat matron waited. “She needs to take a shower.”
The matron grabbed her, stripped off her dress, and pushed her into a dark room. Without warning a spray of water came from the low ceiling. She scrubbed and wiped with no soap until the grime of the last three weeks was gone. When the spray stopped, the matron handed her an ugly pair of blue and white pajamas and told her to sit quietly.
At midday the soldier returned, pulled her hands behind her back, and marched her toward a row of small houses. When they stepped inside, he released her.
“Do you know how to iron?” She nodded. “I need you to take care of … my clothes.”
He stepped forward and unbuttoned the top of the pajamas. Her full breasts were creamy white and he reached underneath them, holding them in his hands. Then he unbuttoned his pants and pushed her toward a chair. He sat down and asked her to come sit on his lap.
“You Jewish whores are all alike – don’t be shy.” She was terrified. An instinct told her to not follow his directions, and she began to shake. “Oh come on then, just kneel in front of me – touch it, you will like this.” It was warm in her hand, and she inspected the uncircumcised flesh carefully – he asked her to touch him and showed her how to rub, so she went along with his request. She felt his hands grasp her around the neck as he said, “I don’t need to see your pretty face.” Yanking her hair, he pulled her head down.
Afterward, Esther realized that she had just come into some odd type of luck.
“I’m not a whore.”
“What?”
In Dutch she replied, “I am not a whore. Whores take money for sex. I can give some comfort, but I won’t take anything.”
He laughed, “Not that it matters here.” She had gotten him to say something.
“Also, my name is Esther.”
He laughed. “I see. Now we are making formal introductions? I am Lutz, Georg Lutz.” He spoke in German. She decided that she should pretend that she didn’t understand the Germans, that she was maybe sweet and a little slow. Her survival was dependent on her choices. She might even be able to hide her pregnancy for a few more weeks, and become indispensable to him. She was returned to her barracks with his taste in her mouth, the only thing she had eaten in two days.
The women’s dormitory was stifling. Even an afternoon rainstorm did not freshen the air. Three girls were assigned to each short bunk. Some were crying and others were praying to a deaf God. Esther pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face. Hannah, a pianist from Amsterdam, had been carrying kettles of soup all day long. She nursed her blistered hands. A third girl in the bunk wheezed like Max did when they went out in the grass. She was too exhausted to even have a name any more. Their stomachs rumbled, but they were alive.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Noumea, New Caledonia
August 1942
Battle of Guadalcanal begins.
“Australia and New Zealand are now threatened by the might of the Imperial Japanese forces, and both of them should know that any resistance is futile.” ~ Hideki Tojo
Hank Burns looked into the unfamiliar night sky. The Southern Cross blinked back at Hans Steen, his new identity.
Hans Steen, Dutch Civilian
They were truly on the underside of the world. The Westerveldt had landed in New Caledonia. The harbor was situated in a vast lagoon, surrounded by reefs that were visible in many places. The clear white sands, palm trees and brilliant blue waters were in stark contrast to the loading equipment, swearing men, and beehive of activity on the cargo docks. Was this heaven or hell?
The French island of New Caledonia was one of the few Pacific Islands that had not been seized by the Japanese. It was now a staging area for all services to be shipped north into the Pacific War. Troops were milling around in khakis with various insignia. Hans was one insignificant man, alone in a big war. Now a Dutch civilian, he no longer looked like one of them. He had grown a mustache, and an unruly mop of thick wavy hair had somehow altered his features.
A month ago in New York he had been called in front of his Commanding Officer to review his reassignment to Counter Intelligence.
“We’re sending you to the islands. The Japs are taking everything, our boys are dying and the Allied troops can’t even talk to each other. It’s a mess.” The Officer closed a file with a red label on it.
“Islands, sir?”
“The Pacific. There are two notes in your folder that say you are good at finding things. Are you familiar with CIC?”
“No, sir, not really.”
“There are different types of combat and we need some guys who can fight a different kind of battle. Your two commendations indicate that you have presence of mind, and you are willing to take risks. Some battles are fought with will or wit.”
“What about photography?”
“Oh, you’ll be taking cameras with you. Thing is, you won’t be carrying a gun. You’ll have to figure out your own way to take care of your hide.”
Now he was in a tent in New Caledonia, facing his new boss. Hans Steen was going undercover as a Dutch tourist in a French colony with a free pass to go anywhere and talk to anyone. He didn’t know anybody. “Sir, I’m not sure exactly what I am supposed to find.”
“Good question. We think some people are working for both sides of a conflict that is not two sided. This thing has more dimensions than a jigsaw puzzle.”
Noumea was a busy international community. The sleepy island
port was about to become the home for 150,000 soldiers from all over the English-speaking world. The closest civilization, if you could call it that, was New Zealand.
“With all the stakes in this war, we’re having trouble making friends, even with the French. Who is a friend and who is an enemy? That changes by the hour as well. Most of them seem to be mercenaries. Get to know the locals. You are a businessman. Find out how the deals are made, and who is in it, for what.”
Hank’s steady gaze covered his confusion. He had never been a great listener, and now his life and others might depend on things he heard and remembered. The Captain spoke again. “Everyone is nervous because we are piling people and equipment in here, but the action is somewhere else. Drop off your written reports on Fridays. Stay away from the base unless it’s urgent.” With that advice Hans Steen was cut loose with no military ID and some cash.
It wasn’t as if the Japanese officers were walking the street and posting their battle plans on storefront windows. Hans needed to start somewhere. Bars were a good choice for meeting people, but he was uncomfortable in them. Making friends had always been difficult, but drunken sailors do plenty of talking. Then it would be up to him to sort out the bragging and lies. He walked down the street until he saw the perfect venue. A pair of carved tikis stood 6 feet tall on either side of the entrance to a dark hole in the wall. Noise from within The Crocodile rolled out into the street in waves. Inside the open door he smelled stale sweat and beer, sweat that had rolled off the bodies of men who could not wash off the fear. Most of them worked on aircraft carriers and made all night and early morning runs to bomb whatever came their way. Each afternoon some returned, and some didn’t.
Hans sat down at the bar and listened to a couple of background conversations. It had been a bad run this morning. “I don’t know who was watching their coast, but it was like they expected us to come to their damn tea party.” The speaker lit a cigarette, and continued. “Whose idea was it to get into that fly trap? Goddamn Japs seem to know where we’re going before we even get our flight plans.” Puffing like a smokestack, he blew smoke toward Hans and continued to talk to his buddy.
A filthy menu with a list of boissons – beverages – was thrust into his hand. What the heck was “Monkey Seed Monkey Screwed?” Turned out the viscous mixture involved coconut milk and bananas with various hard liquors. It looked disgusting. Une bieré sil vous plait – Heineken? A warm bottle was opened and placed into his hand. It tasted like rat piss.
The bartender was interested in repeat business, and wanted to make Hans feel at home.
“What’s your outfit?”
“Pardon?”
“Your outfit, your unit – who are you with?”
“No one really, I came here on a Dutch Merchant Marine.”
“What the hell, you a bloody tourist?”
“No, no – I came to settle up some business. My uncles have holdings in Jakarta and South Africa.”
“Where are you from? You know there’s a war on, right?”
He pondered his error. Had Hans Steen already provided too much information? He commented, “Amsterdam. But I’m just getting by like everyone else. Holland is a mess too… thank God for the British… and the Anzacs.” He had noted the Australian accents. They were fighting on behalf of the Brits, and these rough men were warriors. Now he had presented himself as a profiteer, and hoped that he was on the right side this afternoon.
“Well, young man, there’s plenty of opportunities here if you can fly right. The Yanks are buying everything in sight.”
In the back corner sat another loner, with the brim of his sailor cap pulled down over his eyes. The top of the white cap peeked out into the dark room, but his hunched shoulders and clenched fists had no visible opponent. A wall of shot glasses separated him from the remainder of the men.
“That’s Smythe. He got a letter today.” What could a letter possibly say that would be worse than having a buddy crash into the sea? Hans looked toward the bartender. “You know the one, ‘I’ve always been honest with you…You are one of the grandest people I’ve had the honor of meeting…. Blah, blah, blah.’” Hank nodded knowingly, only he didn’t.
“It’s a real bitch. No gals around here at all.” Another man offered the obvious. “We could have a real party if there were some gals. Stuck-up nurses are all 2nd Lieutenants. They can only dance with officers and most of the officers are married or they’re gonna marry sweethearts that their parents picked out. Bloody shame.”
“So how do you meet people here?”
“Here? You gotta be kidding. Hope you already have a gal at home, cuz you won’t get one here. At least not a white one.” Other men at bar began laughing, “… but, then again, if you go for dark meat…So which is it? You got a gal or you got a letter?”
“Oh, I have a girlfriend.” Hans reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet with a picture of his sister. Esther’s photo would be pretty enough to shut them up for a bit. They passed the picture around.
“Damn, I’d like to climb into her pouch for a night!” Hans whipped his head around to the speaker, incensed. Esther was a loose cannon, but the assumption that she was a plaything infuriated him. Even if she were his girlfriend, he would have expected admiration and respect, not these jibes. “Hey, sorry buddy, didn’t mean to insult her. She’s a pretty one. What’s her name?”
His fingernails bit into his palms. He had to keep cool. “Lilli.” This was not the time or place for action. He turned to the bartender, ordered a Coca Cola and sat down, looking at Esther’s picture once more before he put it away. God knows where she was, but hopefully it was away from roughnecks like these.
Across the room a silk Japanese Rising Sun was tacked to a dartboard on the bamboo paneling. There were some tears around the edges and a couple of the rays were barely holding together, but the red circle in the center of the image was intact. Except that it wasn’t at the center. The sun itself was off-center – a captured naval ensign flag; the trick was to be able to hit it toward the left, which was tricky for a right-handed thrower.
In the crowd were several bombardiers from Australia and New Zealand, men who made a treacherous living climbing into the bay of an airplane, readying bombs, adjusting sights and hoping to hit Japanese ships. Others were gunners, trained for air battle. After a few drinks, they were taking shots at the Rising Sun. One didn’t even get a dart onto the board. Darts nicked the wall and fell. Good thing there were no tables on that side of the room. Another player’s three darts rang from the violence of the throw, but landed in the outer rays.
“Hey mate, let’s toss a few!” Tattoos and a massive chest appeared above his line of sight. The sailor set the darts down on the little table. “Be a sport.”
Hans looked up at his contender and smiled apprehensively. Oddly enough, others couldn’t tell when he was nervous, because somehow under tension his entire body would go calm. He picked up the first dart, set it between his thumb and middle finger of his left hand, laid back his arm and threw. The dart veered a little off center, then punched right into the middle of the red sun. Dart two was about an inch away from the first, and dart three hit so closely that it deflected for a moment, then sank in. Hans sat back down quietly.
A burly arm appeared next to him, “H’lo mate. Name’s Jaxton. Usually I throw darts for drinks, but let me save some time and just buy you one.” Hans looked at Jaxton, a large man who had spent a lot of time outdoors recently. Jaxton’s face was bright red, with scars from multiple sunburns.
“I’m Steen, Hans Steen. Thank you. Do they have anything besides beer and whiskey? Maybe gin?”
Jaxton smiled – this pigeon would be his soon enough, as soon as he had drunk enough so that they could start betting. “Sure they do. What do you want in it?”
“In it?”
“Yes mate, tonic? Lemonade? How do you like it mixed?”
“You mix gin?”
“Yeah, with anything.”
“No, with nothing. Just a shot of gin and very cold please.”
“I’ll get you the gin, but there isn’t anything cold here at all.”
Jaxton picked up the next dart, and tore another hole in the flag. Hans still got two shots out of three into the rising sun. The gin steadied his nerves. Meanwhile, he was running out of things to say and do in his Dutch character. Continental manners were completely out of place here. These sheepherders were all brawn and brag. There was no information to get because they didn’t have any. He wandered back out into the sunshine wondering what he should do next.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bergen Belsen
September 1942
“Everything human has its origin in human weakness.”
~ Franz Stangl, SS Captain
Esther heard the flies before she opened her eyes. In the stillness of dawn inmates walked through the camp and stopped in front of each barracks to carry out the dead. Limp arms and legs in filthy striped rags slipped out of their hands or over the side of the occasional stretcher. Occasionally a body was stiffened in its final agonies. Flies buzzed, landing on the dead and the living.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, and dropped to the floor. She scurried by the stacked corpses, eyes and mouths open but not seeing, not breathing. They no longer existed.
The latrines were evidence of the living, waste from bodies that still functioned. Overcome by the stench, hardly knowing which end to position over the hole in the bench, she retched. A whistle blew, and lines of people formed in the open areas between buildings. She ran to her group of 400 women lined up in rows of ten, an easy way for the guards to see if anyone was missing. The armed guards in their black uniforms walked down the lines hunting their daily prey – those hardly able to stand, and others too sick to work. On the morning that a woman could no longer walk, a ruddy-faced guard would enter the barracks and force the prisoner outside either to work or die.
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