Padlocked, page 3
Rafe nodded unconvincingly and stared at a spot on the floor.
“I leave at daybreak for America,” Hank said. “I’ll be back in one week. And I want you to go with me.”
“You’ll supply the car?”
“The magazine will supply everything.”
“And how do you propose getting me across the border?”
“Ah, you of little faith. The magazine has also thought of everything.” Hank stood and carefully replaced his chair. The buzz in the bar was constant, gaining volume as the hours crept past. He leaned forward so only Rafe could hear. “Daybreak. Will you drive me to the airport? The taxis are not dependable at the moment.”
“You will still be drunk at daybreak.”
“I plan to be. But you, my friend, must sober up, because you will drive me while I sleep.”
As Hank began to leave, Rafe said, “I’ll be there.”
“And Germany?”
“I’ll go there, too.”
“Don’t you want to know what they’re willing to pay you?”
Rafe shrugged. “I would have gone for free.”
3
Agata
The skies were a color that Agata had never before witnessed. They appeared to be all the colors of the rainbow at once, and yet swirling like the river she’d fished in as a child, as the trout converged in the late afternoon. She thought she almost saw the trout as she stared, but as the moment dragged on, she realized she was seeing the colors of circling clouds that eventually converged into a dark, ominous gray.
It was silent. There were no songbirds joyously singing as if every moment was a cause for celebration. Unlike her childhood expeditions, no frogs or crickets were emerging at dusk. There were no voices, though she slowly began to realize that people surrounded her. Their mouths moved all at once as they frantically rushed in, their eyes revealing a peculiar jumble of horror and satisfaction.
Agata remembered now. She remembered the Jews crowded a short distance away, chanting her name. A tall, burly man with more weight than she’d seen since the early war years had demanded something in Russian of those who had been unceremoniously gathered. Someone else had translated his words into both German and Polish. “Which one of you is Agata?” he demanded.
She couldn’t remember if she had responded. At that moment, a deafening noise had rocked the earth under her feet. She had a brief memory of being thrown into the air, all arms and legs, and then others’ arms and legs intermingled with her own, interspersed with pieces of fabric, shoes, and blood.
Agata attempted to hear the men shouting just inches from her before realizing that the explosion had deafened her. She tried to look at their faces; she attempted to turn her head to look into the crowd, for surely Elsa had been there only moments ago. Her mind cried out for the men to look for Elsa. She could not be hurt. She could not have died. Not now. Not after everything they had survived.
But her voice never reached her lips.
She attempted to raise herself onto her elbows and was surprised to find she could. In fact, she felt surprisingly light as she had when she swam in the river. She was buoyant.
But as she came to a seated position, she looked down at her body to find that she was gushing blood. Once more, she attempted to cry out, for she could not sustain such a massive blood loss. They had to act quickly.
They were moving away from her, and with the words she longed to shout still frozen somewhere inside her, she tried again to get their attention. She stood quickly and effortlessly. Amazed at her strength and endurance, she exhaled in relief, only to recoil when a strangled voice beneath her rasped. Agata turned to find her body still on the ground. She lay flat on her back, her eyes wide but unseeing, a rattle in her throat expelling a mixture of blood and mucus.
It was then that she noticed the fog rolling in. It was heavy and furious, as though the storm clouds that she’d witnessed only a moment before were descending to earth. She could no longer see the throngs of people in their threadbare clothing, their faces smeared with months of dirt and grime, their bodies no more than skeletal remains, that somehow managed to keep breathing. She could no longer hear them chanting her name. The others that had been gathered around her were gone as well, as were the soldiers who had demanded they stand in single file, as she had commanded the prisoners so many times.
The air remained silent as it closed in around her. She was sickened by her body lying on the ground, the red liquid continuing to pool as though the ice and soil demanded every last drop of her blood. Cod at the fish market was treated better, their bodies resting on slabs of clean, fresh ice, not the churned, desecrated camp mud.
A blinding white light stung her eyes. As she shielded herself from it, she realized it was cutting through the gray clouds with pinpoint precision, opening a path for her.
She did not wish to leave. Elsa was here. She had to see to Elsa’s welfare. She had to make sure she was still alive. Survive, Elsa, she wanted to shout. All you have to do is survive another day. You can do it, Elsa. You have to do it.
Then the gray clouds were gone, and in their place was a tunnel beckoning to her. She seemed to rise, but try though she might, she could not see the vast complex of dusty red barracks and the scores of people who she knew were there. The endless smoke that rose from the crematoriums was gone. The sickening stench was absent. There was nothing, nothing but her soul trying to reunite with her body so she could find Elsa.
She didn’t remember her journey. She didn’t recall when she could no longer see her body lying on the ground, and when the white, thick fog enveloped her completely.
Agata only knew that in the next instance, she stood in front of a pair of gates. They were not the ugly black gates at the entrance to the camp that proclaimed “Arbeit Macht Frei,” or “work sets you free.” These gates pulsed as though they were made of energy. She attempted to grasp the pickets, but her hands stopped just short of touching them. A padlock hung where the two sides met. As she stared at it, it transformed from pearl white to glowing silver, then morphed into oscillating gold.
Unable to touch the pickets or the padlock, she tilted her head back to view the top, but the gates did not end. Instead, they stretched for miles into the sky until a mountain of white, frothy fog obscured them. An image of her childhood swirled through her mind. She sat beside her mother in a church with stained glass windows and rich, dark wood, her eyes riveted on a cross behind the altar as the priest spoke of the pearly gates of Saint Peter. It was a homily that her father scoffed at when he heard it, which cemented his decision never to attend the church services with them.
Yet, here she was, a world away from the camp and her life in Poland, away from the filth, the mud, the stink, and the cruelty. All that existed now was her soul before these gates, and they were locked.
“I’ve been padlocked,” she breathed, surprised that her voice had returned. “I committed murder.”
“What did you say?”
The voice startled her, and she whirled around. “Where are you?” she demanded.
“Over here,” the voice responded calmly.
The fog parted to reveal a woman sitting on a log. Her hair was short and white, framing a face with enormous brown eyes. She wore a gown that undulated in white, silver, and gold threads. It reached from her neck, covering her entire body, including her feet.
“Who are you?” Agata breathed.
“I am Celeste.”
“Celeste,” she repeated. She did not recall an archangel named Celeste.
“Celeste,” the woman also repeated. As if reading her mind, she added, “And I am not an archangel. I am your guide.”
Agata managed to chuckle wryly. “My guide. You know nothing about me.”
“Oh, but I do.” Celeste remained seated, her voice both commanding and quiet. “You were born Agata Goldberg.”
“This is a dream,” Agata said, holding her head in her hands. “I’ve been knocked unconscious. Wake up, wake up, wake up.”
“I can assure you that this is not a dream.”
“Wake up, wake up,” Agata repeated.
“You prefer to be known as Agata Heinrich. It is the name on your forged identification.”
Agata sucked in her breath. She dropped her hands to stare at the woman.
“It was your mother’s name, was it not?” Celeste smiled patiently. When Agata did not respond, she continued, “You were born in 1922 in a German town not far from the Polish border.”
“Fürstenwalde,” she said flatly.
“It is a beautiful town, is it not? There is a very important train station there. Trains and beer gardens.”
“There’s a lot more to it than that.”
“Of course, there is. Your father, Ira Goldberg, worked as a janitor at the port there, did he not?”
At the mention of her father’s name, Agata’s heart grew heavy. Her father had been an avid reader with a voracious appetite for knowledge. He could pontificate on ancient Greeks and Romans, emerging medical advancements, and algebra and geometry. Yet, he worked the night shift mopping the floors of warehouses situated along the Spree River. Founded in the 13th century, Fürstenwalde had always been a vital port for goods moving up and down the river. Since the 19th century, a constant volume of crates had been transported into warehouses for further distribution by rail. Beer and other goods were also stored in the warehouses before they were loaded onto ships. Her father often arrived home after the sun had risen, his back bent and feet swollen from hours of mopping, yet she had never heard him complain.
At school, however, all the children knew that her father was a Jew in a lowly job, and the harassment was often more than she thought she could bear. She was swift to point out that her mother was not Jewish and neither was she, no matter what they said. Had not been Jewish, she corrected herself.
“At the age of six, your sister was born,” Celeste continued, bringing her attention back to the conversation.
“Elsa.”
“Yes. Elsa. Shall we go back to the day of her birth?”
“I don’t need to.” Agata straightened her back. “I lived through it once. I don’t need to again.”
“Ah.” Celeste seemed to grow larger as she studied Agata, her gown billowing out so it became one with the mist. “But, you see, this is how it works here.”
“How what works?”
“Every event in your lifetime has been lived through the filter of your own beliefs and convictions. When you reach this side, you must revisit those events through the emotions and repercussions of those you impacted.”
Agata’s head began to pound as her emotions started to spin. The words “every event” echoed in her mind. She could not relive some events. She had spent a lifetime building walls to protect herself, particularly since the rise of Hitler and the invasion of Poland. She could not relive them. She simply could not. “Is this hell?”
Celeste cocked her head. “Did you think hell would look like this?”
She glanced at the padlocked gates. “No. But why would you punish me by forcing me to relive my life?”
“It is not punishment, my dear. They are lessons in understanding and compassion.”
Agata opened her mouth to protest, but Celeste was gone in an instant. In her place was a long, immaculate hallway that smelled of disinfectants and cleaning solutions. On either side of the hallways were open doors, and the muffled sounds of coughs, groans, and moans. As Agata made her way down the hallway, she knew where she was, and she recognized herself before she reached the end, where half a dozen uncomfortable wood chairs were neatly arranged.
The young Agata sat alone, as she had for hours, a thin picture book gripped in her hands, her palms covered in perspiration. It was an oppressively hot day, and although the windows were open in the hospital rooms, there was no cross breeze to speak of.
She wore chunky black shoes, neat socks, and a dress that had been recently ironed but was now wrinkled from hours of fidgeting. The book and the pictures had long ago been memorized, and Agata could think of no other way to entertain her mind. She needed to use the bathroom, but there did not appear to be one in this hallway, and she had been told to remain seated there.
Sometime earlier, Agata thought her wait might be nearing an end, as her mother’s two sisters, Gertrud and Herta, had arrived. They had passed her in a flurry without acknowledging her presence, whisked along by a nurse in a crisp blue and white uniform with a starched white cap perched atop her short chestnut hair, her shoes oddly silent on the polished floors as Gertrud’s and Herta’s rudely clopped along.
Agata thought she heard a baby's cry, but the sound was distant and weak. She thought this would be a joyous occasion, but the longer she sat there, the more frightened she became. She wiped away the tears that spilled along her cheek and longed for her mother’s kind embrace and reassurance that all was well.
A movement caught her attention, and she glanced to the end of the hall. A nurse was just about to go through a set of double doors when she turned around and smiled at her. She looked oddly familiar with her white hair and kind expression, but she couldn’t place where she might have seen her. Agata had never been to a hospital before. Then, the woman was gone, but something about her presence lingered in the air.
When no one emerged from her mother’s room down the hall, Agata worked up enough courage to stand, set her book in her chair, and inch her way down the corridor. It was dreadfully long, and she was frightened of the open doors. She felt their pain and discomfort as she moved along; the acute spasm of a man coughing over an open pail, an elderly woman longing to tell the nurses that she was still in agony despite the medication, but who was unable to speak.
Agata felt everything acutely, and as she neared her mother’s closed door, the air became heavier. She quietly pushed open the door enough to peer inside.
Her mother was covered in sturdy, white sheets that reached over her chest. Her father, Ira, stood on one side of her, grasping her hand and muttering something she couldn’t quite hear. On the other side were Gertrud and Herta, both of whom were sobbing.
Then her father’s voice became amplified in Agata’s mind as he cried, “Anna, Anna, come back! We need you, Anna, your girls need you!”
Agata opened the door a little wider. A crib was near her mother’s bed. The nurse she had seen escorting her aunts leaned over the lowered rail, briskly working over something inside. Agata tiptoed across the floor behind her aunts’ backs as she peeked inside to discover a tiny baby swaddled in white linens as the nurse finished cleaning her face and placed a pacifier in her minuscule mouth.
The nurse abruptly looked up to find her standing there. “You shouldn’t be in here!” she snapped.
Agata’s aunts whirled around, and Ira rushed from the other side of the bed. He placed both hands on Agata’s shoulders, but instead of marching her back down the hall as she expected, he led her to a chair set against the wall.
“Agata,” he said. He repeated her name at least twice more. He was a handsome man with thick, dark hair, kind brown eyes, and a wide forehead. Though his eyes remained tender and warm, they also conveyed intense suffering. In that moment, Agata felt his heart shattering, his soul inconsolable.
Herta left Gertrud’s side and came to stand beside Ira. They both dropped to their knees in front of her. As Ira sank his head into her lap, each sob wracked her small body, and she longed to stand and rush to her mother’s side.
“Agata,” Herta said sternly, “you must listen to me.” Agata forced her eyes from her father to her aunt. Herta was a large woman who towered over most men, her buxom figure commanding attention and respect. Her honey-brown hair was cut short and styled in finger waves, appearing oddly immaculate amidst the turmoil surrounding them. Her hazel eyes were red and puffy as she spoke. “Your mother is gone. She isn’t coming back—”
“Don’t!” Ira cried out, raising his head to lash out at Herta.
Agata focused on the tear stains in her lap as Herta continued.
“She must know. There is no sugar-coating what just happened. Agata, look at me.” As Agata dragged her eyes upward to meet her aunt’s, she continued, “It is time that you grew up.”
“She’s six!” Ira protested.
“You must grow up, Agata, because there is a baby in that crib and your mother is gone. You must be that baby’s mother. Your father cannot do this alone.”
Agata’s attention became riveted on her aunt’s words. She vaguely felt her own tears rolling down her cheeks.
“You must take care of yourself now, Agata, and you must care for your new little sister. There is no one else.”
Gertrud stepped to the crib. Cradling the newborn, she set her into Agata’s lap, arranging her hands to support her. “This is Elsabeth,” she said. Gertrud was shorter and thinner than her sister but with the same reddened, hazel eyes. “Your mother chose the name.” She began to choke on her words as all three adults struggled to contain their emotions. After a moment, she continued. “Your mother would want you to take good care of her. We’ll find a wet nurse, but you must keep her clean, her diapers changed, and well fed. Do you understand? She is your responsibility now.”
Ira stood. “Surely, you can’t think that a six-year-old—”
“You must leave, Ira,” Herta said, also rising.
He pointed to his wife. “Anna is here!”
“She won’t be for long, and we can’t protect you anymore.”
Agata felt the life in her lap, but her attention was riveted on the adults.
