Long Way Home(90)
Jim lifted his hands. “Where would I go, sir?”
“That’s up to you. Anywhere! As long as it’s out of this godforsaken place.”
Jim stared at the floor without replying. I couldn’t guess what was going through his mind, but when he finally spoke, I wasn’t surprised to learn that he’d been thinking of others, not himself. “Nurse Wolff has been working just as hard as me, Major, and I know that she’s anxious to search for her loved ones in Belgium. With your permission and with your help, I would like to spend my leave escorting Gisela to Antwerp, along with any other Belgians who want to go. A military escort, of sorts.”
“As long as you take time to rest, Corporal.”
“I’ll make sure of it, sir,” I said.
“Very well. I believe the trip can be arranged.”
We left the major’s office with the papers we would need. I would be leaving the camp for the first time, and with memories of Nazi persecution still haunting me, I was glad that I wasn’t making the journey alone. My friend Jim, who would wear his US Army uniform, was committed to helping me search for Sam and Ruthie. I was both excited and terrified.
Jewish relief agencies and the Red Cross supplied clothes and shoes to former prisoners like me, and they also provided food for our trip. Together with a group of nine recovered prisoners who also wanted to make the journey, we boarded an Army vehicle for the ride to the train station in Weimar.
“We learned about the city of Weimar in school,” I told Jim as we waited there in the train station. “It was the home of Johann von Goethe, one of Germany’s treasured authors. But after what happened nearby in Buchenwald, I wonder if the city will ever seem noble again.”
“In the first weeks after the surrender,” Jim said, “when you were still very ill in the hospital, our Army forced the citizens of Weimar to take a tour of Buchenwald. We wanted them to see for themselves the dirty little secret they had allowed to happen in their backyard.”
“How did they react?”
“They seemed shocked. Many claimed they didn’t know what was happening there, but I think they chose not to know. In my mind, that makes them just as guilty.”
*
The train trip across Germany to Belgium, with all of the transfers and delays and layovers, took three times as long as it would have before the war. Jim’s uniform and official papers paved our way through a lot of confusion and red tape, especially since the other survivors and I didn’t have any identification to show at the borders. We ate our Red Cross rations and dozed on and off in train stations and in passenger cars, slumped against each other. None of us complained, remembering the wretched journey that had brought us to Buchenwald. Gazing from the train window, we sometimes saw fields and villages that seemed untouched by the war. But there were many more scenes, especially in cities like Frankfurt and Cologne, where the ruin and destruction seemed so complete that I couldn’t imagine how Europe could ever be rebuilt. We passed countless abandoned Army vehicles and military sites with twisted wreckage of tanks and artillery. Soldiers from the liberating armies seemed as ever present as the Nazis had been.
At last we got off the train in Antwerp and were met by representatives from the Jewish relief agency. They took me and the others to a temporary hostel for displaced persons where we would have a warm meal and could spend the night. I registered my name with them and asked for their help in finding Uncle Aaron and Sam’s father in Havana. They promised to contact their branch in Cuba. I also gave them what information I had about Uncle Hermann in Ecuador.
I didn’t know where Jim went, but he returned for me in the morning, and we sat down in a little café in the city center to drink coffee and make plans. The brew smelled wonderful, but I ordered hot milk, not daring to drink coffee yet. I gazed out at the bustling square, remembering how lovely it had looked when I’d seen it for the first time with Sam—how many years ago?
Jim saw me staring into the distance and said, “I hope you’re thinking of a pleasant memory.”
“Yes, pleasant, but also painful.” I paused, blowing on the milk to cool it. “I was remembering how Sam and I used to explore Antwerp’s coffee shops together when we first arrived in Belgium. Back then, no one cared that we were Jewish. We were so young and hopeful—” I stopped. My tears would start falling if I said more.
Jim gently brought me back to the present. “Where would you like to search for Sam first?” My memories of Sam flew off like startled sparrows.
“I need to see Sister Veronica at the nursing school. She offered to relay messages for us. If Sam is searching for me, that’s where he’ll begin.” We finished our beverages and hopped on the same trolley line that I’d used to travel to school. Classes were in session when we arrived, and everything looked the same: the nuns in their black habits, their dangling crosses swinging as they walked; the young, eager-looking nursing students hurrying through the halls in their uniforms. It was as if I had never left, and I wondered how that could be. I had lived a lifetime since graduating three years ago.
“May I please speak with Sister Veronica?” I asked the nun in the outer office. “I’m one of her former students, Gisela Wolff.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “But Sister Veronica passed away shortly before liberation.” I had to sit down. It was another loss, another friend gone forever. “Are you all right?” the nun asked.