Absolution
by
Gail Bollands

 

The rifle shook as Pieter looked along its barrel. His military training on the target range had not prepared him for this; for how he felt, confronted with his first victims. He wiped his rain-soaked brow with the back of his hand and again focused on his targets at the other side of the muddy trench. A pale woman clenched her sobbing child tightly to her – both were naked, the child’s head was buried in her mother’s stomach. Through the rifle sights the woman’s pitiful stare speared his heart like a shard of glass; her eyes drowned in fear and despair. Although her whole body was shaking, she tried to stand straight in some weak valiant grasp at courage. He found it hard to reconcile the image before him with the impure, inferior, poisonous creed that had been implanted into his young, impressionable mind during his time in the Hitler Jugend.

The order to aim was given, and the metallic clicks of numerous safety catches being released echoed down the line of soldiers to each side of him. His tears mixed with droplets of rain as he took a deep breath, and one last look at the woman’s face.

Seeing the tremor of her young executioner’s rifle, her expression softened into what appeared to be acceptance – a trembling, forgiving smile now formed by her mouth. She held Pieter’s stare firmly, glanced down to her child, then back at him. In that moment an unspoken understanding was passed between them. He lined the sites up with the base of the child’s skull and held his grip firm. His first bullet would strike painlessly, his second bullet unleashed mercifully in the flap of a butterfly’s wing.

The command to fire was given… He swallowed dryly, then kept his unspoken promise.

 

Pieter hated Krakow. It looked and smelled the same as Warsaw; like Hell on Earth. He had spent 18 long months stationed in Warsaw before being transferred here, where he had now been for 17 months.

When the war started he was in the prime of his life - a young man of 19. Four years on, he had aged at least ten. The things he had seen, and been forced to do, had slowly taken their toll on his zest for life. He prayed for the war to end, but it seemed like there would never be an end to the killing and confrontation. He had grown tired, not only physically, but mentally, of this existence. Flashbacks and nightmares haunted his mind; thwarting his rest.

Then one day, whilst patrolling the wall that divided the city from the ghetto, a fight broke out with a pocket of resistance that had managed to break through. Pieter and his comrade, Fritz, headed towards the sound of the gunfire and bellow of commands.

A senior officer instructed Pieter and Fritz to take up position behind a fallen heap of masonry, then fire their weapons into a ruined building on the other side of the street. The exchange went on for twenty minutes or more, ending in a stalemate situation. Pieter, Fritz and another group of soldiers were commanded to push on into the building under cover. Bullets whistled past his ears as he ran for his life and dived through a blast hole in the side of the building. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that three of his group had been shot down in the street – one of them Fritz. Only two had followed him in, unwounded. He indicated to his comrades that he would check the upper level of the building. Cautiously, he scaled what steps were still intact, not only fearful of being wounded, but fully expecting to fall through the fragile support at any time. Downstairs he could hear shouting and gunfire breaking out, but continued to push forward to the upper level.

After searching the whole of the upper floor, he deemed it to be clear and began to make his way back downstairs… only to be stopped in his tracks. The flap of wings and sound of something sliding came from a remaining section of the roof above him.

Pieter quickly moved towards the noise. ‘Come down or I’ll shoot!’ he ordered.

At first there was no movement. He began to call out again, just as a body crashed to the floor. Pieter held his rifle over them. ‘Hands up!’

For a moment he was not sure if the person was dead or alive. Slowly, it rolled onto its side and Pieter could see the dusty face of a young woman dressed as a man in baggy trousers, a three quarter length coat and cap.

‘Don’t shoot. Please,’ she begged.

Pieter’s eyes widened. For a moment he hesitated, not sure what to do.

The sound of a fellow soldier coming up the stairs startled him. ‘Is it clear?’ they shouted.

With seconds to spare, Pieter looked to the young woman and whispered. ‘Quickly, act dead.’

Her eyebrows furrowed.

‘Act dead!’ he repeated, and fired two shots over her head.

Pieter met the soldier at the top of the staircase… ‘Yes, yes it is now,’ pausing once to look over his shoulder as he followed his comrade downstairs.

In the street outside, Fritz’s lifeless body was being lifted onto a stretcher.

 

Later that evening Pieter was patrolling a quiet area of the city not that far from the building where he left the Jewish girl. His curiosity had been pricking at him since the moment he first saw her and he decided to return and see if she was still there.

Once again, he crept up the precarious stairway, his revolver at the ready should he have to fire.

‘Hello?’ he called softly, searching each room. ‘Are you still here? I’ve brought food and water.’

The building was still. His heart sank. He placed the flask of water and loaf of bread, he had saved from his rations, at the top of the stairs, and turned to descend.

‘Wait,’ came a faint voice from behind a bullet riddled door as the young girl appeared, ‘you came back?’

Pieter picked up the bread and water and moved slowly towards her. She gently - but eagerly - took the bread from his hand and began to rip pieces from it like a starved animal, pushing each morsel into her mouth with the palm of her hand.

He handed her the flask of water. Frantically, she unscrewed the top and gulped it down even though her mouth was still full of bread.

Pieter moved to the other side of the room and dusted the seat of a chair that had survived the bombardment. Because she was still covered in dust and dirt, Pieter couldn’t see exactly what she looked like.

She sat on the floor, crossed her legs, and continued to devour the bread and water.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Pieter.

After gulping down another mouthful of bread, she paused to answer him. ‘Irena.’

Pieter let her eat in peace, watching her intently.

When Irena could eat no more, she stuffed the remainder of the loaf into the pocket of her coat.

‘Where are you from?’ Pieter asked.

She starred at him curiously, studying his face. It was not like that of the other Nazi’s. His eyes were not threatening, they seemed drowned in sadness. Had he not been a Nazi, she might have found him attractive. ‘Before the invasion, I lived here in Krakow with my parents.’

She then asked the question that was burning away inside her. ‘Why didn’t you kill me?’

Pieter couldn’t answer at first, and had to think about it for a moment or two.

‘Because I had a choice.’ His head dropped slightly. ‘For four years I have been ordered to kill, or been forced to kill in self defence.’ He raised his head and looked at Irena. ‘You were different.’

Irena’s cheeks reddened, not sure what he meant.

Seeing her embarrassment, Pieter changed the subject. ‘It’s not safe here; I’m going to move you.’

‘But where to? Nowhere in the city is safe.’

‘There is a place, two blocks away. It’s a cellar with a trap door, and although it looks impenetrable because of rubble, there’s a hole that leads into it, just big enough for a person to crawl through.’

With no end to the war in sight, Pieter had come to the conclusion that life was no longer worth living. The cellar was his place of solace away from the relentless horror – it was the place he had chosen to die.

Seeing the despair in his eyes, she realised that he was simply a puppet of evil. She got to her feet and move slowly toward him. ‘I know it’s hard to imagine life as it used to be, but I truly believe that one day this war will end. We simply have to survive somehow, until that time comes. How do you think I have clung on to life this long? I couldn’t have existed for a day without hope and the belief that eventually we will be liberated. The world will discover what Hitler is doing to the Jewish people and put a stop to all this suffering.’

Pieter was in awe of this young girl, who could be no more than 20 but possessed so much strength of character. He so wanted to believe her words. For the first time in four years, he felt a spark of hope ignite within him; her optimism contagious.

‘We need to escape from the city,’ said Irena.

‘But how? The outskirts are sealed off.’

Irena fixed him with a determined smile. ‘Yes, but the river’s not.’

An overwhelming sense of excitement flooded Pieter’s soul. Could they… could they possibly escape this Hell?

It didn’t take long for Pieter to make his decision. There was nothing but death or insanity to keep him in Krakow.

Suddenly the creak of a floorboard startled them. Irena’s eyes widened, but they were not focused on Pieter; they were fixed at a point over his shoulder.

He turned, ‘Klaus!’ Klaus was from Pieter’s unit, but not one of his close friends.

‘Why are you not at your post, and what are you doing with this Jewish bitch?’

Pieter’s mind raced through explanations. ‘I followed her here.’

Klaus’s eyes narrowed, he wasn’t convinced. ‘But you were talking to her.’

‘I was interrogating her.’ Pieter knew from the tilt of Klaus’s head and the awkward silence; that he did not believe him.

Seeing Klaus’s hand move towards his holster, Pieter lunged at him, knocking him to the floor. The two men wrestled and rolled around on the dusty ground, punching each other. Klaus pinned Pieter down with his knee and reached for a piece of fallen masonry. ‘You fucking Jew lover.’ He snarled at Pieter, spat on him, and raised the rock over his head.

Irena’s face appeared above Klaus brandishing a wooden chair leg with a large protruding nail. She swung it down as hard at she could on the back of Klaus’s head.

Pieter dropped his head back onto the floor panting, pinned down by the weight of Klaus’s lifeless body. ‘Thank you,’ he managed.

Irena smiled.

‘It won’t be long before they realise we’re missing from our posts, we must hurry.’

 

They reached the banks of the river Wistula just before nightfall, after having to hide and reroute their journey on a few occasions to evade the Nazi street patrols.

Under the arch of a bombed stone bridge they found a place where they could easily access the river.

Irena began to undress, much to Pieter’s embarrassment. She noticed that he had turned away. ‘There’s no need to feel shy, all forms of dignity ended when the war started.’

Pieter looked around gingerly, his eyes desperately trying not to focus below her shoulders.

‘It’s easier to swim this way,’ she explained, tying her clothes together in one large bundle.

While Pieter was undressing, Irena went to look for something they could use as a float. A few feet away she found what looked like part of a wooden crate. ‘We need some camouflage,’ she said, pointing to some weeds by the rivers edge.

Pieter tore up two large clumps and waited for Irena’s instructions.

She lowered herself into the river with the piece of wood, then asked Pieter to pass her their clothes and the foliage. She placed the clothes on the floating piece of wood and covered them with the weeds.

‘It’s alright, it’s not that cold,’ she reassured Pieter.

When Pieter was also submerged, they slowly waded down river, not far from the water’s edge, until the water became deep enough for the current to carry them.

Visibility was poor due to a sky blanketed by cloud. But even so, Pieter was amazed how easy it was for them to drift by a couple of patrols; the soldiers playing cards and smoking.

After 30 minutes or so in the river, and with a good distance between them and the city, Irena said she thought it was safe to leave the river. They rang as much water as they could from their clothes and hung them on a tree to dry.

‘You should rest,’ said Irena. ‘At first light we must set off.’

‘Set off where?’ asked Pieter.

‘My Grandfather has a hunting lodge in the Zakopane Mountains. He used to take me and my brother there. He taught us many things: how to make fire, turn wood into weapons and instruments, catch fish and trap animals. I often wonder if he knew there would be another war and that was his way of preparing us.

‘Where will you go?’ she asked Pieter, fearing his journey would be more dangerous than her own.

‘I’ll lie low for a while, then make my way back home I suppose, or at least I’ll try - if I don’t make it, it doesn’t matter. I’d rather die a free man.’

Irena suddenly realised something; ‘I don’t even know your name?’ What’s your name?

‘Pieter…Pieter Hofmann.’

 

Pieter woke to the sound of barking. ‘Quiet Max!’ he shouted to his pet Alsatian. He had been dreaming he was back in Krakow with Irena. 23 years after their escape, Pieter still thought about her; wondering whether she was still alive, or had ever reached her grandfather’s lodge.

It took Pieter almost a year to make his way back to Germany and the farmhouse where he grew up. On his return home, he learned that his brother had been killed in battle, and his father had died a few months before his return. He and his mother lived a secluded, self-sufficient life on their farm until she too died eight years later. Alone with only his animals for company, he became introverted, desiring no contact with the outside world – a broken soul, constantly tormented by his past. The only comfort he gained from life was the companionship of his animals and his fond memories of Irena.

Max began to bark again, then ran and jumped up to the living room window. In the distance Pieter could see the dust trail of a vehicle coming up the track to the farm. As it drew closer he noticed that it wasn’t the post van but a blue saloon. Curious to know who it was and what they wanted, he went out onto the porch.

The car came to a standstill and the dust began to clear. An attractive woman got out wearing a short red raincoat and black boots. She must be lost he thought.

The woman approached the porch.

‘Pieter… Pieter Hofmann?’

‘Yes.’ He was at a loss as to what such a beautiful, well-groomed woman could be here for.

‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ she said softly, her tone lowering.

It was her… it was her voice - Irena. Pieter stood frozen to the spot, hypnotised by her. She must now be about 40, but looked at least ten years younger. She was more beautiful than he ever imagined her to be. Her silky chestnut hair was pulled tightly away from her face by a red headband, emphasising her heart-shaped face and porcelain complexion. Her deep green eyes the same as they were all those years before.

Although Irena was shocked by how frail and pathetic Pieter looked, she did not show it. ‘I’m so glad I found you Pieter. It’s taken me years to track you down.’

Pieter, still traumatised, couldn’t speak.

‘I tried to ring you, but I discovered you don’t have a phone. And I couldn’t write in case you weren’t the Pieter Hofmann who saved me.’

Pieter looked at her, his mouth still gaping open. ‘It was you who saved me.’ Tears were forming in his eyes.

Irena knew it would be an emotional encounter and she too had to fight back tears. He looked so old and broken and, unlike the Jews, he was despised by a world who knew nothing of what he had really done. She couldn’t help but think what Pieter might have been, had he not been born in Germany at the wrong time.

‘I have a surprise for you,’ she said.

She went back to the car and opened the back door. Two small pink Wellington boots emerged, followed by a little girl dressed in a floral coat of greens, blues and pinks. Her hair was long, brown and wavy, swept back - the same as Irena’s - with a pink headband.

Irena lead her to the porch. ‘This is Leah.’

Pieter looked to Irena.

‘She’s my daughter.’

Pieter wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and bent down to Leah’s level. ‘Hello Leah’, he said softly.

Her big brown eyes were so pure and innocent, and her face so fresh and perfect. Irena must have looked like this as a child, he thought. ‘And how old are you, Leah?’

‘Five,’ she said in the most angelic of voices. ‘Are you really an angel?’ she said. ‘Mummy said you are her guardian angel.’

Pieter dropped his head, stood up, and turned and walked into the house. It was all too much for him to deal with after all these years.

Irena followed him and gently touched him on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry Pieter; I didn’t mean to upset you. It hurts me to see you like this. I just wanted you to see Leah and know that I had survived … What happened in the war is gone. Don’t you understand, if it was not for you, Leah would not exist? God has forgiven you. You have to forgive yourself.’

Seeing that Pieter was too upset to talk, she squeezed his hand and said, ‘We’re staying in the village at the Kriegers’ guest house; do you know it? We’re here until tomorrow afternoon. I hope you will come and see us before we have to leave. I have so much to tell you, Pieter.’

She took Leah’s hand and they walked back to the car.

At the car Irena stopped and looked back.

 

That night Pieter had a dream he was standing on the edge of a grassy ditch. He caught the sound of a child’s laughter on the warm gentle breeze that swept the long grass and wild poppies to and fro. On the other side a little girl appeared chased by her mother. The child stopped running when she noticed Pieter on the other side of the trench. Her mother caught up with her, swept her up into her arms and swung her around, until she too noticed Pieter. She gently lowered her child back down onto her feet.

Pieter recognised her face from when he was a young soldier. He was about to shout ‘I’m sorry,’ but noticed that she was smiling at him. It was as if he didn’t need to say anything, like she knew exactly what he felt. The little girl tugged at her mothers dress for her to chase her again, and ran back in the direction from which she had come. The woman continued to smile at Pieter for a few more seconds, then slowly turned and walked after her child.

That night Pieter slept deeply and peacefully – the first time in 23 years.

 

© Gail Bollands 2009

 

 

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