“However grave the crisis may be at the moment, we shall, through our unalterable will, and our readiness for sacrifice, end the crisis masterfully.”Adolf Hitler, Broadcast on the 12th anniversary of his becoming Chancellor of Germany, 1/30/45
Home!
Grossmutter came towards me with arms outstretched and a wide smile on her face. “Helga! Helga!” I ran to her and received the warm embrace I’d dreamed of for so long. She held me, rocking me back and forth. Then she drew back.
“Let me see you.” She touched my forehead, stroked and kissed my cheek. Then held me in her arms again, murmuring, “Oh. Oh. Oh.” When she backed away both our faces were wet with tears. “Come, Helga, come into the house.”
Inside we climbed two flights of stairs, stopping several times for Grossmutter to catch her breath. “Your Tante Alvina’s apartment is here on the second floor. She was lucky to get it. And I’m lucky she has space for me.”
“Where are Mutter and Vater and Amalie?”
“They live in an apartment a few miles from here. They’re all fine. OH, they’ll be so happy to see you.”
We walked a narrow, dark hallway past four doors, stopping in front of number 207. “Here we are,” she said. The door opened wide and Tante Alvina looked down at me.
“So, you’re our missing girl! Come in here.” She pulled me across the threshold and into her arms. After a quick hug, she pulled back. “I’ll pour water so you can bathe,” she said. “Then we can talk.”
As she disappeared, I looked around and saw a small room filled from floor to ceiling with a sofa, several chairs, a dinette, a tall bookcase crammed with knick knacks and hats, boxes of books, and Grossmutter’s antique carved wooden chest. Alvina returned to the room carrying a plate of cookies and bread and a cup of cold tea. “Here, have a bite to eat while you’re waiting for the water.”
“Thank you, Tante Alvina.” Not taking time to sit, I ate the four cookies and slice of bread and drank the tea before I thought to offer some to Grossmutter.
They both smiled, “I guess you were hungry,” Alvina said.
“Yes, very.”
“Your bath water is ready now. It’s not warm, but it’s water.” I followed her down the short, narrow hallway filled with baskets of clothes and books. She stopped at a small closet and pulled out a bathrobe and underwear. Opening the door to the bathroom she said, “Just pile your clothes on the floor and we’ll wash them later. We can probably salvage some of the material for patching. And look here. We even have soap!” She reverently placed the small wafer in my hand. “But it has to last until the war is over, and God knows when that will be, so don’t let it sit in the water and melt.” She looked down at me with a raised eyebrow, the same look that had frightened me when I was a child. Now I thought it was funny.
I had forgotten how a bath felt. I sank into what, for a moment, was clean water, wondering briefly where she was able to find it. I picked up the sacred sliver of soap and began to rub. Then, I remembered when I was a small child, Mutter announcing, “Time for your bath, Helga.” My response was to whine and beg. “Do I have to?”
I hadn’t been in the tub more than five minutes before the water turned brown. I pulled myself out and emptied the tub, careful to wipe the black ring away. Looking into the bathroom mirror, I saw a clean me. I smelled my arms. They had a sweet fragrance. I’d have stayed there admiring my lovely smelling body, if a sudden thought hadn’t hit me. Where was Grossvater? I dried and dressed in the underwear and robe that Alvina gave me and returned to the living room.
Grossmutter was sitting on the sofa, turning the pages of a photo album. She looked small, pale and much wrinkled.
“Helga, come sit beside me. I have the photos of you before the war. I’ve looked at them almost every day for the last year. Seeing your dear face helped me get through some terrible times.”
I sat beside her and asked, “Will Grossvater be home soon?”
She looked at the ceiling and tapped her mouth several times. Then, looking at me, she took my hand. “Helga, Grossvater won’t be coming home.”
I had a sudden feeling of dread. “Why?’
“Helga, Grossvater is gone. He died six weeks ago.”
Her words did not make sense. How could he be dead? I stood up, walked to the other side of the room and faced the wall. He wasn’t a soldier. And he wasn’t just anybody. He was my Grossvater. He was supposed to be here when I returned. “No. I don’t believe you. Not Grossvater. He was always well. Are you sure?”
“Yes, Helga, I’m sure. I’m sorry to tell you like this.”
My body began to tremble. I hugged myself and bit the inside of my cheek hard. In front of me, on the wall, hung a framed print of Gainsborough’s painting, Mrs. Thomas Hibbert. Grossmutter had given it to Grossvater on his birthday. He had chuckled and said, “Well, well, well. Now I have two girl friends: One to hang on the wall and one to sit beside me.” I loved that picture. Grossvater would take it off the wall, and we’d study it together. Now I hated it. It was here. Grossvater was gone. I turned to face Grossmutter.
“How did he die? Did the Russians kill him?”
“No, dear, his heart gave out. It was very quick.”
“Quick how?”
“He was taking a nap after dinner and never woke up.”
“Was he sick?”
Alvina stood in the doorway. “No. He had a heart attack,” she said. She reached out and drew me to her. I pushed her away, ran to the bathroom and slammed the door. My clothes were still piled in the corner. I reached into my dress pocket and found my little wooden bird. Grossvater, you promised to be here. Why didn’t you wait for me? I sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, talking to my bird. Maybe if Grossvater had kept you, he’d still be alive. He gave it to me to keep me safe. But he had no charm to protect him. I threw the bird on the floor and wept.
“I hate you, Hitler,” I said out loud. “You made me leave my Grossvater and now he’s dead. I hope you die.” After some hard sobbing, I pulled myself up, took the bird from the floor and put it in my robe pocket.
Grossmutter and Alvina looked sad and worried when I returned to the living room. “Are you all right?” Alvina asked.
“Yes...fine,” I said.
“I’m going to fix supper,” Alvina said. “Come into the kitchen and help me.”
“I’ll set the table,” Grossmutter said. “It will be like old times.”
Grossmutter and Alvina tried to be cheerful. But it was not like old times. What little food they had in the cupboard was stale. Alvina carefully unwrapped three used tea bags, removed one and rewrapped the remaining. She took three cups and filled them with water from a container under the sink.
“It might not taste very good, Helga, but it's water. I get it from the neighborhood well. We’re lucky to have it.”
The vision of Tante Alvina lugging the heavy container up three flights of stairs and pouring it in the tub for my bath gave me a feeling of guilt and gratitude I carry to this day.
We cut pieces of cheese and opened a tin of fish. Alvina put it all on a tray and carried it to the dining table.
Grossmutter set the table with her best china and linen. She stood at one side, pointing to the end of the table.
“Helga, you get the seat of honor.”
We ate slowly, savoring each tiny bite. It reminded me of sitting at the Countess’s table, of how it struck me as bizarre. We’ve all gone batty and Grossvater is dead.
While we ate, Grossmutter and Alvina told me again that Mutter, Vater and Amalie were safe and well. They asked me about the past few months at camp and how I had made my way home. Grossmutter told me she had written a letter telling me Grossvater had died. I told her we had not received mail for about a month before they told us to leave.
After three hours at the table exchanging news, we decided I'd sleep the night in the apartment and walk home the next day.
"Mutter," Alvina said, "I think it would be best if you stay here. I’ll take Helga with me,” Alvina said.
But Grossmutter insisted she would go along. “I want to deliver this child safely to her parents. I am going!”