48. Emilie

FORTY-EIGHT

Munich, Germany

I turn up the radio, even though I’m not sure the volume can go much higher. I’m afraid I’ll miss something.

“Emilie, please turn it down. It’s so loud and they aren’t saying anything different from what they’ve been saying for days,” Mama says, pinching her fingers around her forehead.

Gerty is here, watching me pace the kitchen, but she’s staring at Mama who’s bouncing Theo on her hip. He’s Gerty’s spitting image, but with vocal cords twice as loud as hers.

“The noise is upsetting Theo too.” Theo isn’t crying or screaming. He’s making a racket like he enjoys doing, as per most three-year olds.

“There’s more noise in the streets than in this house and I don’t want to miss an update,” I argue.

Between learning about the death of Hitler and the war coming to an end here, there have been so many announcements, but new broadcasts seem infrequent compared to the repetitive announcements being played.

“I should go down there. I can help,” I say again.

“Have you not heard what they’re doing to the German guards who were caught at Dachau?” Papa shouts at me. “There’s a reason we got you out of that town, and it’s not safe there for you.”

Do I deserve to be kept safe when so many have been killed and tortured to death?

“No one knows who I am, not at this point. Danner could have been liberated. He’ll need help. I must go.”

“They’re caring for the liberated,” Gerty says. “The Americans are taking care of them.”

“I don’t even know if he survived. I can’t sit here and wait this out. I need to know,” I say, running out of breath.

Gerty grabs my arm and pulls me over to the kitchen table, shoving me down into a seat. “Calm down,” she says, pointing at me. “If he’s alive, he’s under care. If he’s not—” Gerty closes her eyes and wraps her hand around her throat. “We can’t change that, Emi.”

As I go to argue, the radio crackles.

This just in:

Just ten days ago, members of the U.S. Army uncovered forty railway cars filled with human remains.

In the following days, U.S. soldiers interviewed many residents of Dachau, inquiring about their knowledge of what was taking place within steps of their homes. The general response was: “What could we do?”

At this time, the U.S. Army has requested all residents of Dachau to report to the Dachau prison camp to assist in reparations of the deceased.

I keel forward, clutching my stomach, feeling an acidic burn rise to my throat. “I lived there. I knew,” I utter.

“You tried to help,” Gerty says.

I shake my head. “It wasn’t enough. I should have done more. I should have?—”

“You would have been killed, had you done anything differently,” Mama says.

“What if Danner is?—”

“Emilie, you can’t assume…” Gerty says, wrapping her arm around me. I can do more than assume. The only hope I had that he would remain alive was Dietrich’s word, and he was executed.

“I need to go,” I tell them.

“Emilie, you cannot go back there,” Papa says, making his way into the kitchen, blocking me inside with Gerty, Mama, and Theo.

My blood boils, knowing I can’t sit here any longer. “I’m going.”

“Emilie, please, think about this…” Mama says.

“You know that’s all I have been doing,” I say, standing from my seat. “Let me by, Papa.”

“You’re not going there alone,” he says. “Give me a minute. I’ll take you.”

“Andreas,” Mama shouts. “What are you doing?”

“We aren’t going to stop her. So, I’m going with her.” Papa steps out of the doorway and leaves the house.

Without a second thought, I give Mama a hug, feeling her heart pound against mine, chest to chest. “Please,” she cries once more.

“I love you, Mama. You’ve raised me to do what’s right. This is what’s right. Danner could be there.” He could be a body among the thousands found. He could be one of the many who were sent marching away from the camp days before liberation, he could be in a hospital bed, or he could be a handful of ashes left behind.

I give Gerty a hug and wipe away a falling tear. “I wish you still had your crystal ball,” I cry out.

“I wish it had worked, if I did,” she says.

Papa collected Felix and Herr Weber to join us. I haven’t had much to say to Felix over the years after learning he was hiding Danner in his home, keeping his existence a secret from us all. He confessed to his error in exposing his whereabouts to a friend, which led to his arrest. I know Felix punishes himself for the decisions he’s made. We can all take blame.

“I know you hate me,” Felix says, sitting beside me in the back seat of Papa’s car.

I turn my head to stare out the window, unable to respond. I don’t hate him, no more than I hate myself.

“He was my best friend too, and I would never wish for any of what happened.”

I nod, assuming he notices the slight gesture. He places his hand on top of mine and then squeezes it tightly. I tighten my fingers around his hand, appreciating the gesture, trying to forgive him as much as I’ve tried to forgive myself.

“I’ll help you find him, Emi.”

Citizens are lined up along the road leading to Dachau’s gates. Papa parks a distance away and we make our way up to the end of the line, like a funeral procession. Cries howl in the wind, gasps of shock and terror, moans and groans, and bouts of sickness are what we witness before we even approach the railway cars.

The pungent rotting stench is much worse than anything I smelled while making my way through the camp night after night. I smelled the unimaginable then, but this is something different. A wave of nausea envelops my stomach. I try to swallow against the sick feeling, breathing in through my mouth and out from my nose but when we pass the first car, witness stacks of bodies strewn like piles of laundry, flies swarming like vultures, and pairs of eyes staring directly at me from every direction, I hurl forward and wrap my arms around myself, trying not to let out the sob wailing through my lungs. Felix puts his arm around me, pinching the tips of his fingers into my flesh. His body shivers against mine and our fathers continue forward, leaving us to watch their shoulders jerking up and down as they release their pain too.

“Danner?” I utter. I’m not sure why I call out his name when there’s no living Dachau prisoner in sight, but I can’t stop myself.

“I know,” Felix says, rubbing his hand up and down my arm.

U.S. soldiers stand guard, watching us, inspecting our reactions to something no person should ever have to bear witness to. “Every one of these people will be properly buried,” a soldier shouts. “Your assistance will be needed.”

Felix and I share a look. His complexion is so pale, it’s almost green to match the way I feel inside.

“We can help. We should,” he says, speaking the words I was already thinking.