The Family Behind the Walls

6. Dalia

SIX

DALIA

JULY 28TH, 1943 – HAMBURG, GERMANY

Black raindrops, heavy as tar, fall from the opaque sky ahead as we move farther away from the burning streets. The Gestapo in front of us holds on to a crackling torch—the irony of fire being our only source of light. Above the cries and screams surrounding us as people try to run to safety, all I can hear are the echoes from the Gestapo telling his comrade to collect the children from the bunker.

I’ve begged with him to let me go back but only to be warned not to say another word. To the two Gestapo, we’re nothing more than nagging flies swooping over their shoulders. One is in front of us and the other behind, both with rifles that keep us from running off. We know they won’t hesitate to use force. We’ve witnessed it done to others before.

“I plead of you—tell me where the other officer is taking the children from the bunker,” my voice breaks as hot tears sting my eyes.

“Dalia,” Leo utters again, just as he did the last few times, taking my arm into his grip.

“We can’t leave them! We don’t even know where they’re taking them,” I shout through my ragged breath.

“I know, darling. I’m—trying to find a way—I’m trying.”

Leo has asked them to release us just as many times as I have, except he has been able to remain calm and composed. All they’re doing is ignoring us. Begging them won’t work.

Leo stops walking and puts his hands up in the air. “We can’t walk any further until you tell us where the children are,” Leo demands.

The Gestapo in front of us comes to an abrupt halt, draws his pistol and aims it at Leo’s head. “You didn’t worry much about leaving them in the first place—I should assume they mustn’t belong to you, yes?” the Gestapo shouts. “Look around you. A soldier of your status wouldn’t argue with commands. I assume this isn’t an issue for you—” Spit flies from his mouth as he shouts at Leo.

We thought we were protecting them.

“There’s no issue,” I cry out, afraid of what Leo might say. We’re no use to our children if we’re dead on the street, and the Gestapo already know we’re Jewish. It’s best that they don’t know the children belong to us—it’s our only sliver of hope for them.

“Your wife has more sense than you, Ober-gef-reiter Jude-rattenam,” he snarls with a sinister chuckle. “A Jew dumb enough to fight for the German Army. You must think you have some kind of special treatment, don’t you? We’ve heard it all before.”

With each syllable, his words pierce the narrow street and tighten around my heart. I always anticipated this day, the day when someone would ridicule Leo’s supposed immunity. For years, I’ve lived in fear, deprived of sleep, hoping we would never have to question the promise made to him.

This officer is too young to have any memory of the Great War. If he did, he’d understand why Leo had no choice. We grew up in a small town near Warsaw, and in 1915, the Germans marched in, claimed our town, and called it theirs. After years of violent conflict, their manpower dwindled. At just eighteen years old, Leo was conscripted and given a rifle to fight under a foreign flag. The unforeseen consequence was that he was seen as a traitor, collaborating with the occupiers of our homeland. Our once peaceful home became a hostile place, consumed by whispers and threats. Amid indifference, Leo’s Army deputy officer emerged as a decent man, guiding us to Hamburg. He assured us of a fresh start, a well-compensated civilian job, and freedom from scrutiny and judgment.

Yet, as I observe the smirk on this officer, I’m left wondering if it was all part of a trap.

The Gestapo shifts the barrel of his pistol to my head, staring at me for what feels like the longest moment of my life. My heart falls to my gut, my body flushes with ice despite the burning of the boiling asphalt gnawing on the rubber of our soles.

I’m afraid to swallow, blink, or breathe. Leo might react. I’m surprised he hasn’t already. Dear God, spare us, spare our children. Bring this war to an end.

The Gestapo narrows his eyes and drops his weapon by his side. “Move,” he snaps, turning around to lead us in the direction we were walking.

I peer over my shoulder in search of any sight of the children but the street behind us is lit by a dark orange glow through the smoke.

It feels as if we’ve been walking in circles, trying to find the open roads, continuing through the fiery tunnels of the city burning around us. We move across cement blocks of terrain from fallen buildings, camouflaged bodies molded to the crags. It isn’t long before agonized screams pull us toward a clearing between burning trees and buildings where so many people are pleading for help. In front of us, the St. Nicholas’ Church, a Gothic Revival cathedral and historical symbol of our city, is lit up like a bonfire, burning as if it were made of paper. We aren’t far from home, yet I feel as though we’re worlds away in this nightmare.

The light from the fire creates spotlights across the incredible damage and destruction, people included.

The Gestapo stops once more and turns to face us. “You,” he points at Leo, then me. “Find the living and send them toward the brigade of vehicles off to the right for evacuation. We need to help these people make their way out of here before the entire city burns down.”

Those who are still alive are screaming, burning, dying…there’s no way we’ll be able to help them all.

“What about us?” Leo asks. “We need to be evacuated too.” Leo holds his hands up as if asking for peace. His words are careful, calm, and pitiful to any Gestapo.

“What about you ?” the officer asks, laughing once again. “I thought I made it clear—you’re nothing but a Jew. There is no immunity here. Find the living ethnic Germans so we can save our people.”

The rising sun reveals the truth of the devastation. Thick smoke lingers in the air and it’s clear that our efforts have only made a small dent in the carnage surrounding us. A numbness has crept through my nerves while I continuously convince myself I’m not in a horrible nightmare. A nightmare that has become a reality I won’t ever unsee. Bodies, burned and mangled, cover every square surface of the area. We’re surrounded by destruction, with no buildings left standing except the skeleton of St. Nicholas’ church.

Exhausted from carrying bodies from one end of the square to the other for hours on end, I can barely muster up the strength to keep moving. My lungs burn with every cloud of smoke I walk through. I can’t take much more.

I’ve watched most of the other residents get evacuated. I heard they’re being sent somewhere safe or to a nearby hospital that hasn’t been affected by the fires. But there are still some of us here, and it doesn’t seem as if we’re ever going to be evacuated or rescued—just forced to keep working.

Leo is missing. I last saw him when he was told to assist with some bodies down one of the dark side streets, but he never returned. As the hours drag on, the level of panic ebbs and flows. I keep telling myself he would come back if he could. He would never leave me without warning unless he wasn’t given the option… This thought carves a hole into my chest.

Despite the horrific scene of people burning to ash, SS officers are joining the Gestapo, parading around in front of the blackened church, holding handkerchiefs over their noses and mouths. They bark orders at us to continue our grim work of gathering bodies in the center of the clearing.

Each time I peer around, I see men and women covered in ash, some with very little clothing, burns and wounds alike, struggling to follow the orders with what little strength they have left. Another SS officer blows a whistle, communicating silently in a way that strikes us all with fear.

My knees buckle as I go to lift yet another body—a woman left in only her undergarments, her legs and bare feet burnt to the bone, cradling a charred child in her arms. I check her pulse, knowing there won’t be one. Tears blur my eyes, and my throat tightens around a shuddering sob as I move behind her. I scoop my arms between hers and drag them across the jagged road toward the other bodies, whispering a quiet prayer for her and her child. “A heroic mother you are, long beyond your final breaths. God bless you,” I say, whispering the broken prayer. “I’m so sorry.” Tears burn my eyes, mixing with the ash covering my face.

Within minutes another brigade of vehicles pulls into the city square, except no one calls for order or to form a line.

While I’m struggling to understand what’s happening, someone takes a hold of my arm and yanks me across the sharp terrain toward the vehicles. “Name?” The question is shouted into my ear.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat before responding. I’m not quick enough and I’m jerked around. “Da-Dalia Bergmann, wife of Obergefreiter Leo Bergmann. We were both brought here, but we must get back to the bunker.”

I know better than to speak too much to an SS officer or a Gestapo, but it may be my last chance.

“The bunker is gone, now nothing but a black hole in the ground,” the man says with a sneer, peering down at a crumpled paper in his hand. “Jüdin?” he asks.

“Yes, but my husband and I have immunity—” I know that means nothing now, but there’s nothing else to say.

“Where is your badge?” he asks, poking me with the end of his torch.

“We were woken from our sleep in the fires,” I cry out as he jostles me towards the back of a truck.

“Right. I have another!” he shouts to someone before turning back to me. “There is no immunity for Jews.” He spits then grabs me by the arm and throws me into the back of the truck with others piled on parallel benches. After the door slams shut, we’re enveloped in darkness once again. This time, it feels suffocatingly final.

Intense hacking and gasps fill the air as we’re jostled along on this unforgiving rough ride. My lungs ache with every exhale, expelling the remnants of Hamburg—our home—flattened into ruins and ash, hidden beneath our sorrow. Silent cries are swallowed by the rumble of the engine.

“Where are they taking us?” a woman’s voice breaks through, a hoarse whisper, more air than sound. Her words tremble like the wheels beneath us.

“God only knows,” someone mutters back, but there is no comfort to be shared. Just a hollow truth, echoing off the metal walls. Then a voice begins the Hebrew Shema—an ancient prayer. It quivers in her throat, her words faltering.

“Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.”

More voices join in, one after another, until the prayer becomes a soft murmur that unites us. Their lips move with mine, the words barely forming. Is this a plea for peace in our final moments in this world?

My heart beats frantically, desperate for relief. I suddenly understand, with a chilling clarity, that we are all Jewish. Maybe even the last Jews left in the city. That is why we are here, crammed together in this metal containment.

Has Leo already been taken to wherever I’m going? My mind keeps spiraling. Did they drag him away from the square when my back was turned? Or is he out there somewhere looking for the children, and now me?

My babies. I don’t know where they are. My God. I’ve never spent a day without them. They could be screaming for me, trapped like I am, scared and alone. My breath catches in my throat and I choke, spit spewing from my mouth as I claw my way to the ground, trying to climb over legs. “I need to get back to them!” I bellow.

Hands pull me back, preventing me from reaching the back doors of the truck, which block our way out.

“You’ll only get yourself killed,” one of them says. “Or worse, all of us killed.”

I gasp for air, my voice scraping against the soot in my throat. “I need to get out of this truck,” I whimper through an unintelligible mutter.

What was the point of it all? Leo’s acts of self-sacrifice, the endless hours of factory work, taking in another child, and the constant fear that plagued our sleepless nights—for what? I struggle to hold back tears, clenching my eyes to block out the others around me.