40

LIESELOTTE KIRCHMANN

APRIL 1945

I lost track of the days spent on the floor of the stationary cattle car. Day passed into night and night into day, and the cycle repeated. Surely we’d been forgotten. Then, without warning, the door would slide open and a basket of turnips might be thrown in, or a pail of water set just inside before the door slammed shut again. Those nearest the door got the water. The rest of us had fallen too weak to fight for it. One by one, each day, another closed her eyes forever.

When the train finally moved, it rattled our bones so hard we could not bear to lean against the sides of the car, could not bear to lean against one another. We’d grown so thin, our bones protruding, that we sat on our hands to protect our buttocks and tailbones from the jostling of the train. I did my best to protect the little bump at my waist, but could not imagine how my little one survived, certain —dreading —that one day I would no longer feel movement.

Bombing continued day and night. We gave up cowering at the explosions, waiting for the hit. Let it be a merciful death, became my prayer.

Guards called for the dead each morning. What they did with the corpses —if they were buried by the side of the tracks or thrown to wild animals or simply left to rot in the sun —I did not know. I knew only it was a relief to have the door slide open, to breathe fresh air for a moment, and to see daylight.

It gave me an opportunity to peek into a world from beyond time. I couldn’t separate my sleeping from waking, though I no longer dreamed. None of us dreamed anymore. Days and nights became one. If I could have slipped into oblivion, I would thankfully have done so.

Finally, the doors were pushed wide. “Schnell! Raus!”

But we were so very weak —those of us left —that we could barely stumble from the car to the ground. The sun blinded. I blinked against the sudden pain and staggered forward, following the woman in front of me, allowing those behind to push me along.

More orders, more shouting as we marched through new gates. We were assigned to low bunkers —holes in the ground —and the bombing continued.

Between bombing raids we walked outside, talked with other prisoners —something we’d not been allowed to do at Ravensbrück. Prisoners asked newcomers for names, towns, news of relatives and of the war. They called out names of loved ones —real names, not numbers.

And so, I began begging, “Kirchmann, Kirchmann,” wherever I went. The name tasted good in my mouth. No energy to talk, to ask more, but they understood, and shook their heads.

Guards called for work details, but those too emaciated were not sent. Day after day, I wandered from bunker to bunker under the watchful eye of guards toting machine guns as they stood sentinel in high towers. I wandered as far as allowed, searching for Mutter Kirchmann. And then, one day, there were no guards in the towers —they’d simply vanished.

I couldn’t think what new horror that might mean, but I wandered farther than I ever had before, pleading, “Kirchmann, Kirchmann,” expecting no answer.

A woman stopped me. “You’re from Ravensbrück —I remember you there.” That she recognized me when I couldn’t have recognized myself was a miracle. But the faded number on her coat looked vaguely familiar.

“Ja.”

“I was in Barracks 28 with you —and the Sisters. Do you remember?”

“Ja, the Sisters, and my mother-in-law, Frau Kirchmann.”

“Frau Kirchmann? She’s here —with me. She led our hymn singing until —she’s very weak. I don’t think she’ll ma —”

“Where? Where is she?” Life surged through my veins for the first time since Mutter Kirchmann had been taken away.

“Come.”

I followed her into a bunker several buildings beyond, praying the discovery would be real and worth the terrible effort to walk so far. The smell ranked awful —even worse than in my own barracks. Sickly sweet and rotting —like meat gone to maggots.

“There, by the wall. It’s good you’ve come. I don’t think she’ll live the night.”

Lies! I won’t listen to lies. “Mutter Kirchmann . . . Mutter Kirchmann!” I knelt beside the sleeping form —gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes, matted hair so thin and white. No rise or fall came to her chest. I feared I’d come too late. No! I laid my head on her bunk beside her arm and would have cried if I could have mustered tears.

I closed my eyes. Moments passed, minutes, perhaps hours.

“Lieselotte.” The whisper came like angel’s breath.

A precious dream. I would not open my eyes lest it fade.

“My Lieselotte.”

I lifted my head to see the supreme effort speech cost her. “Mutti Kirchmann.”

She closed her eyes again and smiled. “Thank You, Father. Thank You.” Her breathing grew labored, and then so peaceful I thought she’d passed, but she hadn’t. “Baby?”

“The baby lives.” My throat caught. Barely. I pulled her hand to my stomach. As if on cue, the little one kicked.

“And so must you,” she whispered.

“We’ll all live. The guards are gone —only a few officers remain. The bombing’s almost stopped. The Allies must be very near; it won’t be long now.”

But even as I talked, rattling on, I felt her fading. No! Hold on! Please, hold on!

When she stopped breathing, I couldn’t be sure. I crawled in the bunk beside her, gently lifting her head to my shoulder, cradling it against my chest. More mother than my own mother, I could not let her go.

Night fell and the woman from Ravensbrück urged me to return to my barracks, to get my ration. I couldn’t —wouldn’t —move.

“They’ll take her away in the morning. We’re to stack the bodies of the dead outside the building. She can’t stay here —not now.”

But I rolled over, stretching my arm across Mutter Kirchmann, determined to protect her, to keep them from taking her away.

“Until morning, then, but then you’ll both have to go. If they come back, catch you here . . .”

I didn’t listen. I closed my eyes and thought of Lukas, of all the Kirchmanns, blessed and loved, on my wedding day. Now there would be one less . . . and perhaps one more.

Morning came, but no rations. Two of the women pulled me from the bunk and carried Mutter Kirchmann to the yard, laying her stiffened body on top of a heap of rotting corpses awaiting pickup outside the bunker.

I stood beside her for the longest time, the early-morning chill seeping through my coat. I couldn’t leave her. If the Allies were truly coming, they could help me get her home to Berlin, where Vater Kirchmann could bury her, where Lukas and I could lay flowers on her grave and light candles in the night, where we could tell our precious child about her —or his —beloved grandmother all the years of our lives. If I could be the mother to my baby that Mutter Kirchmann was to me, life might come full circle.

I waited until the women from the bunker moved away before crawling on top of the heap of corpses, wound my fingers through Mutter Kirchmann’s stiff ones, and closed my eyes.