36

LIESELOTTE KIRCHMANN

OCTOBER 1944

By the second week we understood the established routine —a routine broken daily, hourly, according to the whim of the guards on duty.

Whistles blew at 4 a.m., followed by a mad dash through flying straw and dust to the center of the room to grab what at least looked the color of ersatz coffee and our morning ration of bread. By four thirty, regardless of the weather —rain or sun or early snow —we slogged to the Lagerstrasse, the wide, open ground before the hospital, to join thousands of prisoners from other barracks.

We stood at attention in our ten-wide, ten-deep formations for an hour, or it might be four hours. Finally released to our barracks, the whistle might blow again, and we would rush back to the cinder avenue and begin roll call once more —calling out our numbers, over and over again.

Workers inside Ravensbrück lined up for two “meals” per day. The thousands that marched to the local factory, Siemens —a mile and a half from camp —received three. Eleven grueling hours each day we loaded heavy metal plates from railway cars into a handcart, then pushed the handcart to a receiving gate within that factory.

Only the morning and evening marches to and from camp made the work bearable. Looking up, the mile and a half through the forest, beneath the changing autumn leaves framed by a blue sky, reminded us that life went on somewhere —at least in the realm of birds and clouds and scuttling squirrels. Were we not starving and filthy, with torn dresses and broken shoes, it might have been a stroll through Berlin’s Tiergarten —at least that’s what Mutter Kirchmann said each morning. Birdsong kept me from utter despair. If that one little bird could live —like the sparrow whose life Mutter Kirchmann said was important to the Lord —then perhaps so could I. If that one little bird could live and breathe and sing and fly away —even to see my Lukas, wherever he was —then perhaps I, too, might one day see him.

During the march to and from the factory, women whispered to one another —as long as we weren’t caught. Making acquaintance, asking for information about husbands or sons or daughters or news of the war. How close were the Allies? Were the Russians near?

We grilled new recruits for outside information. After the first week I understood that urgency —every bit of news was a slice of heaven from home.

In our second week Mutter Kirchmann met the Dutch Sisters. Forbidden the use of names, we rarely asked, but we knew they were sisters —women Mutter Kirchmann’s age who bunked across the narrow aisle from us in Barracks 28. They were a blessing to her that I could not be. “Very religious,” I called them, and often closed my eyes at night, pretending to rest from my exhaustion, while they sang hymns and read, eyes and voices aflame, from books of a New Testament one of them had smuggled into the barracks.

I rarely joined in. My fledgling faith in the God of my Confessing Church wavered. How could He allow Ravensbrück? And if He didn’t, then He was either not God or not there. Perhaps, as some said, He was on leave.

“Lieselotte,” Mutter Kirchmann whispered night after night in my ear. “We musn’t lose faith. We don’t know why things happen, but —”

I am ashamed to say I shut her out. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t comprehend.

At the end of the second week, as dusk fell during our return from the factory, the guard blocked our entrance to Ravensbrück —just beyond the heavy iron gates. A number was shouted. Weary after a grueling day at Siemens, my brain didn’t register the number. All I could think about was crawling onto our hard wooden bunk.

The woman beside me whispered, “That’s you —that’s you she’s calling!”

The guard shouted the number again. Uncertain, I glanced at Mutter Kirchmann. It was not a good sign, being noticed. I stepped forward from the lines. The Kapo, a prisoner in charge of prisoners —often more cruel than the guards —motioned me to follow her. The columns of workers, including Mutter Kirchmann, marched silently into camp, while I, quickly as possible, followed the Kapo down an alley.

She stopped, then came behind me, impatiently pushing me along. “Schnell! Do you think I have all night?”

We turned a corner, nearly running into another guard —a man, who slipped her a roll of bills, then pulled me roughly by the arm. I couldn’t see his face, but the very fact that it was a man terrified me. “No,” I whimpered. “Please.”

“Shut up! I’m not going to hurt you —not if you do as I say. Not if you become the meal ticket I’ve wagered.” It was the SS officer who’d goaded me the day Mutter Kirchmann and I were first processed, the one who’d flirted and run his hands and eyes over me with vigor. My heart beat so fast against my ribs it nearly burst its cage.

He pulled me along, then pushed me through the door of a whitewashed building. The bright lights, the row of sewing machines, the women still bent over their needles surprised me.

“I —I don’t know how to operate a —”

But he wasn’t interested and pushed me through the doorway at the far end of the room. Three other women stood in the center of the narrow room —each looking as frightened as I felt, and each about my size —height and shape and hair color. I glimpsed two men in suits and fedoras standing in the shadows against the back wall. I narrowed my eyes to better see but was immediately shoved to turn the opposite direction.

“Spread your arms!” The order surprised all of us, but we obediently spread our arms.

“Close your eyes and turn around —keep them closed!”

My heart beat all the faster. My mind ran through every scenario I could imagine —none of them good.

I wanted to open my eyes, to glimpse the men observing us, perceive their intention, but was afraid.

“Face the wall! Hands on the wall!”

We obeyed. And then I heard the officer’s heels walk to the back of the room, heard the men murmur, heard the voices become more intense, grow demanding, then falter. Something familiar in the cadence, even though I couldn’t hear the words, made me tilt my head to listen. I lifted my head, certain I recognized a voice —a voice I’d known all my life.

“Vater?” I whispered.

“Keep your eyes closed! Face the wall!” the officer barked, new anger in his voice. Footsteps quickly crossed the room. The door opened, then closed with a decided latch. My heart wouldn’t stop beating. Had Vater come to release me —to free us?

The officer walked behind us, slapping one woman after another on the backside. “You, you, and you —return to your barracks. Now!”

But he hadn’t slapped me. And that made my heart stop. Freedom? For me, and if for me, then surely for Mutter Kirchmann! Vater must have realized what happened, must have come looking for me!

“Not a word.” He grabbed my arm and pushed me forward, opposite the doorway where the man with the familiar voice had gone. This can’t be right! The other way! They left the other way!

“Mein Vater,” I whispered hoarsely.

“Apparently not.” He jerked me into a long, dimly lit hallway, blocks of cells on either side.

“But . . . I heard —”

“What you heard —” he pushed me into a cell and slammed the door behind him —“is a man who claims not to know you, who claims that his daughter is dead.” He pulled his gun. “I expected to be rewarded for my trouble and expense in finding the missing Fräulein Lieselotte Sommer, beloved daughter of the great and rising Party member. But it doesn’t seem he really wants to find you —and my discovery has only led to my superior’s fury.”

“No. Please, let me talk to him. There is a mistake, a misunderstanding.”

“‘Mistake’ —an understatement. Well, I say if Herr Sommer believes his daughter is dead, we have nothing to lose. We might even prove him right.”

“No! No!”

“On the other hand, there are things more profitable to me than your death.” He smiled slowly and holstered his gun. “Yes, more pleasurable and profitable, indeed.”

My heart stopped. My legs barely held me up.

He unbuckled his holster and his belt and tossed them aside.

I cowered to the farthest corner of the cell, but it did no good. I screamed and screamed, but he came on, ripping open my filthy prison dress. And when I continued to scream he slapped me, again and again, hard across the face.