Chapter 20 School of the Illiterate
School of the Illiterate
Moringen
After the brief meeting with her lawyer, Helene had been whisked away to a women’s prison, where she spent a few days in isolation.
One morning she was given clean clothes that did not fit but at least did not reek of sweat, and then she was jostled into
a van that took her to the courthouse. The Nazis did not handcuff her, but her entire body felt shackled by invisible chains.
The day of the trial had been one of the worst in Helene’s whole life. She sat waiting on a bench just outside the courtroom.
Sitting opposite her were two young women with bruised faces, blackened eyes, and the saddest looks Helene had ever seen.
Taking advantage of a moment when the officer was down the hall, Helene asked the women how they were doing.
They were sisters, both studying law, and they were guilty of distributing anti-Nazi pamphlets on campus at their university.
They had been captured, locked up, and beaten, and now were sure to be sent to a camp.
They were seventeen and eighteen years old, respectively.
Talking with them renewed Helene’s resolve.
If those adolescents could face the Nazis, she could not back down at a time like this.
About twenty minutes later, she was called into the courtroom. Her lawyer, Jacob, was already there and came to stand beside
her. He caught his breath and groaned when he saw the judge.
“It’s Roland Freisler. He’s a fanatic, one of the worst judges we could’ve gotten. Please, don’t do anything to provoke him,”
Jacob whispered into Helene’s ear.
The judge struck his gavel, then motioned to the prosecutor. The district attorney was a large, burly man with gray hair and
little eyes. He stood, his hands holding his shirt lapels, and laid out the charges.
Judge Freisler gave the district attorney a satisfied nod and then motioned for Helene’s lawyer to take the floor.
“How does the accused plea?” Freisler asked sharply, giving the impression that he wished this case were already over.
Helene recalled every detail of the scene. Jacob turned red. It seemed like his voice would never make it out of his dry throat.
Finally, in a barely audible croak, he managed to say, “Innocent.”
That set Freisler off. He glared at Helene and started yelling and showing his teeth, like a rabid dog. After the verbal onslaught,
he whacked the stand again with the mallet, declared Helene guilty, and sentenced her to five years in Moringen concentration
camp, to be reeducated.
That had happened yesterday. Now Helen found herself on a train, in a car full of prisoners.
It had once been third-class but was dirtier and had no seats, and the windows had been mostly boarded shut.
Helene could only see out through small slits.
The January sun was not very strong, but at least when it shone on her nose and part of her eyes, she felt as if she were alive.
The rest of her body was frozen beyond feeling.
“What’s your name?” a woman beside her asked.
At first, Helene did not respond. She had been lost in her own thoughts for so many days that she had lost touch with reality.
Finally, she made sense of what an appropriate response would be. “Helene Nathan.” She decided to take back her maiden name.
At least she no longer had to hide her identity since the Nazis considered her a Jew. “But I’ve gone by several names lately,”
she added.
Helene could now see that the woman was a gypsy and that she was very pretty. Her dark hair was tied back under a colorful
bandana and, in contrast to the drab prison uniforms or dark suits of the rest of their travel companions, her colorful dress
had a flower pattern.
“I’m Mercedes. I’m in here for stealing, supposedly. They always think we gypsies are robbers, though I earn an honest living.
My family raises horses and makes jewelry with precious gems. I sell fabric in the villages, but a neighbor lady in Düsseldorf
brought accusations against me. She’s Aryan, so here I am. What madness! How did you end up here? You seem like a pretty little
goody-goody. Are you a Jew?”
Helene smiled at Mercedes. Helene could not remember the last time she had smiled and was relieved that her facial muscles
recalled how to bend and stretch in that way.
“For concealing books.”
Mercedes let out a hoot. “Books?! Who cares about books these days? Now, if they had been tomatoes or onions . . .”
At that, Helene cracked up. It felt so good to let laughter take control again.
“I hope they treat us all right. This is by no means the first time they’ve locked me up. The police never like us gypsies, and the lack of affection is mutual.”
Helene enjoyed talking with Mercedes for the entire ride. When they arrived at the station in Moringen, a group of soldiers
ushered them out of the train car and down the streets of the picturesque town. The houses were small and quaint, and the
town consisted of a church, a pharmacy, a pub, and a few small stores.
Most of the townsfolk walked by quickly without even glancing at the prisoners. Yet one elderly woman stopped right in front
of Helene and Mercedes, screwed up her face, and spat on them.
“God will punish you for that!” Mercedes said.
The woman cursed at them as she walked away.
At the edge of the town, they came to a long path lined with poplars. They shivered in the shade as they walked alongside
a chain-link fence with concrete columns. At certain intervals along the perimeter, there were guard towers. Helene could
see the bored faces of young blond soldiers staring out at them. Large signs with skulls and crossbones were attached to the
fence, as if the place were full of pirates.
The soldiers halted the line of women at the camp entrance, which reminded Helene of a castle. There was a double iron gate
and smaller door behind it that creaked horribly when it opened.
The prisoners passed through in two lines. The soldiers stayed on the outside of the gate, and in the open patio, the prisoners
were met by six female guards dressed in gray suits, an overcoat, and a side cap. Each had her hair pulled back in a tight
bun. All but the largest guard in the middle carried a night stick. She, in turn, held a riding whip.
“Ladies! Though actually I should say whores. That’s what all German women who don’t know how to behave in our beloved country should be called.
But don’t worry, we’re here to reeducate you.
Moringen is proud to be the first camp for women, and we intend to make it a model for others to come.
I don’t know what you may have been told about the place, but I can assure you the reality will be worse. ”
None of the prisoners responded, their heads drooping as if too heavy for their necks. Yet Helene studied everything with
great attention. Lena always said that the best way to get used to something was to figure out as soon as possible how the
system worked. As a child, Helene’s friend had been sent to a boarding school in Ireland to learn English. It had been the
hardest few years of her life, but she had learned how to survive.
The big guard in the middle continued. “Don’t think you’ll live on handouts here. This isn’t a free ride. Your job is to sew
uniforms for the SS, as well as to work in the various departments of the camp. Work is the only true road to happiness. When
you leave Moringen, you’ll be the faithful followers of our Führer. The rules are simple: Do as you’re told, and don’t cause
trouble. Then we’ll all get along like one big family.”
Beside Helene, Mercedes was smiling as if the guard’s words were a joke. Another guard came up and whacked Mercedes on the
head from behind. Mercedes stumbled, and blood started running down her neck. Helene’s instinct was to catch her new friend
before she fell, but she restrained herself.
On the ground, Mercedes started convulsing.
The guard in the middle pointed and said, “Now, is my meaning clear?”
The rest of the women nodded, trembling both from cold and from fear.
Through the waning light of the afternoon sun, Helene watched as Mercedes’s body stopped seizing and then lay still, lifeless.
For the first time since longer than she could remember, Helene whispered a prayer through her dry lips.
“God, protect us!”
The prisoners were forced to walk naked to the communal bathrooms, all the women covering their private parts as best they
could with their hands. They showered as quickly as possible in the freezing cold water, then dressed in white undergarments—Helene
was grateful they were cotton—and stiff, sackcloth uniforms. They were issued a handkerchief for their hair and a lightweight
coat entirely insufficient for winter in Germany. At check-in they had been assigned a number, which was sown into the flap
of the coat. Different markings on the uniform indicated the crime for which the women were imprisoned. Helene had been given
the political prisoner uniform, not the Jewish uniform. That, at least, was a point in her favor.
Helene came to learn that initially Moringen had been a jail for young criminals. At first the Nazis had sent only men to
the camp, then they started to house women there as well. Just over a year before Helene arrived, it had become exclusively
a women’s camp.
She was given a light blanket and a towel and was taken to the first building, which was the barrack for political dissidents.
When she and the other new arrivals entered, they saw about fifty prisoners spread out on chairs or their beds, which were bunks stacked three beds high.
The prisoners all turned to look at them, and the welcome was none too warm.
Helene would come to learn that their barrack was not as crowded as the larger ones, but they were watched more closely.
Helene’s assigned bed was by a window. An elderly woman approached and introduced herself.
“I’m Anna. Luck has not been on your side. By the window you won’t smell the sweat and feces as much, but the cold at night