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The train trip across Germany to Belgium, with all of the transfers and delays and layovers, took three times as long as it would have before the war. Jim’s uniform and official papers paved our way through a lot of confusion and red tape, especially since the other survivors and I didn’t have any identification to show at the borders. We ate our Red Cross rations and dozed on and off in train stations and in passenger cars, slumped against each other. None of us complained, remembering the wretched journey that had brought us to Buchenwald. Gazing from the train window, we sometimes saw fields and villages that seemed untouched by the war. But there were many more scenes, especially in cities like Frankfurt and Cologne, where the ruin and destruction seemed so complete that I couldn’t imagine how Europe could ever be rebuilt. We passed countless abandoned Army vehicles and military sites with twisted wreckage of tanks and artillery. Soldiers from the liberating armies seemed as ever present as the Nazis had been.
At last we got off the train in Antwerp and were met by representatives from the Jewish relief agency. They took me and the others to a temporary hostel for displaced persons where we would have a warm meal and could spend the night. I registered my name with them and asked for their help in finding Uncle Aaron and Sam’s father in Havana. They promised to contact their branch in Cuba. I also gave them what information I had about Uncle Hermann in Ecuador.
I didn’t know where Jim went, but he returned for me in the morning, and we sat down in a little café in the city center to drink coffee and make plans. The brew smelled wonderful, but I ordered hot milk, not daring to drink coffee yet. I gazed out at the bustling square, remembering how lovely it had looked when I’d seen it for the first time with Sam—how many years ago?
Jim saw me staring into the distance and said, “I hope you’re thinking of a pleasant memory.”
“Yes, pleasant, but also painful.” I paused, blowing on the milk to cool it. “I was remembering how Sam and I used to explore Antwerp’s coffee shops together when we first arrived in Belgium. Back then, no one cared that we were Jewish. We were so young and hopeful—” I stopped. My tears would start falling if I said more.
Jim gently brought me back to the present. “Where would you like to search for Sam first?” My memories of Sam flew off like startled sparrows.
“I need to see Sister Veronica at the nursing school. She offered to relay messages for us. If Sam is searching for me, that’s where he’ll begin.” We finished our beverages and hopped on the same trolley line that I’d used to travel to school. Classes were in session when we arrived, and everything looked the same: the nuns in their black habits, their dangling crosses swinging as they walked; the young, eager-looking nursing students hurrying through the halls in their uniforms. It was as if I had never left, and I wondered how that could be. I had lived a lifetime since graduating three years ago.
“May I please speak with Sister Veronica?” I asked the nun in the outer office. “I’m one of her former students, Gisela Wolff.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “But Sister Veronica passed away shortly before liberation.” I had to sit down. It was another loss, another friend gone forever. “Are you all right?” the nun asked.
“Just shocked. And sad.”
“Would you like to speak with Sister Mary Margaret? She’s in charge now.”
I stood and entered the office where Sister Veronica had always welcomed and encouraged me, and I recognized Sister Mary Margaret right away. She had traveled on the train with Ruthie and me when we’d fled Antwerp, and had given us prayer books and rosary beads. She knew who I was, too.
“Gisela! Welcome back!” She hurried from behind her desk and drew me into her embrace. “We were told you’d been arrested. I can’t even imagine all that you’ve suffered!” I could only nod. “Please, have a seat. Tell me what I can do for you, dear.”
I sank down gratefully, my knees trembling with fear and hope as I prepared to ask about Sam. “Before I went into hiding at Hospital Sint-Augustinus, Sister Veronica offered to relay messages between me and my fiancé, Sam Shapiro. She knew my false name, Ella Maes, and where I was working and hiding. You did, too, of course.”
“Yes, I remember. We’ve prayed for you every day, Gisela, which is why I’m so thrilled to see you.”
“Has... has my fiancé come looking for me? He must be trying to find me. Has he left any messages?” I held my breath in anticipation and dread.
“I’m afraid not. I’m so sorry.”
I closed my eyes as the darkness that had nearly suffocated me in Buchenwald threatened to swallow me alive. Thoughts of finding Sam had been my only ray of light. But Sam hadn’t come. He hadn’t left any messages for me. I dared to offer up a prayer, my first in a very long time. Please don’t let him be dead. Please help usfind each other.
When I was in control again, I asked, “When was Antwerp liberated?”
“In December of last year. Brussels was liberated a few months earlier.”
I was speechless. Antwerp had been freed from Nazi domination just four months after I had been arrested. Four months! What cruel twist of fate had put Lina Renard in the same hospital with me, to betray me, when I might have been free all this time? It seemed absurd that the Nazis would continue to conduct their transports to the death camps even as they were losing the war. And even more absurd to think that if it weren’t for Lina Renard’s betrayal, I would have been free since last December. The news raised another, more terrifying question: if Belgium had been free for so long, why hadn’t Sam come here to search for me? I was certain he would have—if he had been able to.
“May I ask what your plans are now, Gisela?” Sister Mary Margaret asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“I-I don’t know. I’m still trying to find all the people I love.”
“I wish you success and God’s blessings. If you ever need work, please know that we will be very happy to find a place for you at our hospital.” She copied down Jim’s military address to contact me, and I thanked her for her kindness.
“I guess that didn’t go well,” Jim said when I came out of the office. I was wiping tears that I hadn’t realized were falling.
“She was very kind. But she hasn’t heard from Sam.”
“Come on,” he said, taking my arm. “Let’s not give up just yet. Do you want to try the apartment building where your families used to live?”
“No,” I said quickly. I couldn’t face those memories yet. My parents had died in that apartment. “I want to find my sister, Ruthie,” I said.
We rode the trolley back to the central train station, then took another train to Mortsel. As Jim and I walked through the still-ruined village to the Catholic orphanage, I told him about the terrible day that the Americans had mistakenly bombed an innocent town. How four schools had been struck and hundreds of children and civilians had died.
Jim looked so devastated by the story that I was sorry for telling him. “It wasn’t your fault,” I told him, but he didn’t seem to hear me.
