Five Camp Sisters in a Hidden Notebook

My lovely German grandmother who raised me - my Oma -sent me to the Nazi concentration camp. There I was, a young man of 34 years, standing on the evil soil of Dachau, now a memorial site for visitors. I had my grandmother's small black notebook tucked away in my pocket. I took it out and turned it to the first page. The words, all in capital letters, jumped out at me, "MEINE LAGERSCHWESTERN".

As I thumbed through the pages, the left sleeve of my hoodie inched up towards my elbow, revealing my tattoo. A few rays of sun broke through the morning clouds and landed on my skin. My Oma's prisoner numbers, that I had tattooed on my arm, seemed to shine and tingle. I had a moment of anxiety. I was standing there, Oma's grown grandson Liam, in 2011, with my identity intact. However my Oma instantly became a number, not a person, when her numbers were punctured into her arm sixty-nine years ago.

I had to look at the photograph again. I had folded the faded picture of the handsome Hitler youth and inserted it into the small black book. This was Wilhelm. This was the man who Oma wanted me to meet in France, her "knight in shining armor" she called him. They fell in love in this hell on earth, this wicked place that imprisoned my Oma for being a German Jew.

I promised my Oma I would call after landing in Munich, and again once I touched the dirt of Dachau. She sounded excited, but her voice started to quiver. Oma guided me around the camp. I reached in to grab the visitor map from my pocket a few times. No need. She walked me through the grounds from memory. I was amazed as she recalled vivid landmarks over the phone. Some things were gone, some reconstructed, trees replanted, yet Oma knew where it all was. Then I stood before the still-intact crematorium with its gas chamber. I felt goose bumps.

I looked at the six numbers on my skin. I suddenly clutched my forearm with regret. I believed my tatt, of Oma's numbers, was an act of intimacy and empathy. I started doubting this belief as my experience at Dachau grew real and serious. I asked Oma if my actions brought hurt and disrespect. She was quick to reassure me that she approved of my tattoo, and in the same breath, she reminded me that loyalty and responsibility came with my choice. These numbers, she asserted, kept her alive. She explained this marked her to live as slave labor. This validated for me that I owed this trip and mission to my Oma without question. I was determined to finish her unfinished business.

On the bus back to the hotel, I began to think about Oma's lagerschwestern - her camp sisters - who formed a remarkable friendship at a deadly time. I took out the small black notebook to remember their names - Frieda, Lina, Mina, Anna, and of course my grandmother Lilly. Their names were scribbled on one white page, next to their prison numbers. Under each name, Oma wrote a skill each woman had. These women had strength and the will to live, and something else my grandmother recognized. Each camp sister possessed a skill the Nazis would find useful and so probably not kill them, at least not right away: cooking, sewing, singing, nursing, and typing.

I flipped through more pages for the umpteenth time. In the book there were Jewish prayers in German, a few freehand drawings of a hand with curved thumbs, and a faded photograph taped on the inside back cover of a bunch of flowers growing from a barbed wire fence.

I closed the book, careful not to expose the Nazi swastika to my fellow passengers. The horrid emblem was pasted on its front cover.

I flashed back to my teen years when I cried and asked, "Oma, were you a Nazi?"

Oma covered my mouth and grinned. She explained that the symbol on the book cover was a ruse. Then she had to explain a ruse. The swastika was intended to deceive, in case the camp guard seized the book she hid in the barrack's rafters. Later her camp sister Lina sewed the black book into Oma's dress for safekeeping.

Sadly, I thought I did not get to finish Oma's unfinished business on this trip. I did not find Wilhelm, not the physical man. I found his memories wrapped up in a satchel his elderly lawyer handed me. I discovered that Wilhelm died in Marseille one year ago; his estranged children placed him in a nursing home. Wilhelm bequeathed his few possessions to my grandmother in a scribbled handwritten will. I was frustrated. I had a message to deliver to Wilhelm from my Oma, to ask him about a money gift he promised and to tell him she was dying. Now all I had on my return to the states were unanswered questions and a worn-out bag with a long strap. No finished business.

My lovely Oma died from her cancer before I left France. Cousin Emma, my best friend, broke the news to me. I was heartbroken. I was far from home and I expected Oma to live a little longer. On the flight, I developed deep sadness. I wished I would have asked my grandmother more questions. I wished I had more clues to her horrible past in Germany. I wished I could have closed my eyes before landing to calm my noisy brain. I lost my grandmother and the hope of a mission accomplished.

Back home in Cincinnati I had to make the funeral arrangements with Emma's help. Emma was a social worker. I was Oma's only family and she was mine. Her husband - my Pop-Pop - died young. My mom was in drug rehab for the fourth time. Oma and I learned to depend on each other.

I was glad I reached two of grandmother's camp sisters. Oma stayed in touch via letters. She lost touch with the others when they left the U.S. Lina, who gave her testimony to schools throughout Ohio, was the closest to Oma. She sensed my agitation at my failed trip to Germany and France. She had answered one question of the mystery, which provide some relief.

Lina informed me that Oma's small black notebook was for prayer and meditation in two camps. The curious hand symbol with curved thumbs was a Hamsa, the hand of a Higher Power in all faiths - a sign of harmony and protection from evil, meaning "five" in Hebrew. Lina and my Oma believed their circle of five created a miracle. This was expressed for them when all five girlfriends were transferred - together - from Auschwitz to Dachau, to work in an armament factory, avoiding that day's death list.

I asked Emma if she wanted to search Wilhelm's satchel with me. I suggested this was the only item which may hold answers to my mystery. Emma seemed eager and agreed. She rushed to the old bag and first pulled out French pamphlets tied loosely with a silk red ribbon.

Emma held the papers up to me and challenged, "It makes sense to start here, Liam. There's a card on top to your grandmother".

The card read, "Lilly, my Hummel girl". Emma was touched at Wilhelm's four sweet words. I guess I seemed perplexed because Emma further added a history lesson: a Hummel was a beautiful porcelain figurine produced in 1935 Germany.

Just as Emma handed me the stack of ribbon-tied papers, what looked like a few dollar bills fell onto the floor.

She swooped them up and yelled, "This is American money. I have 3 one hundred dollar bills here!"

It was true. More bills slipped out of the stack. We counted, over and over, 197 more hundred dollar bills. We had a staggering $20,000 laying on the floor. I immediately knew this was Wilhelm's money that Oma talked about for months.

"There has to be instructions, Emma. Something!", I guessed.

From the satchel she pulled out a flat plastic case with folded handwritten letters. She sat on the floor, alongside the bills, and just started reading. I was mentally somewhere else for the moment. After an hour, Emma handed me one letter.

Sobbing, she admitted the satchel was the answer. She reassured me I was successful on my trip. The few letters in Wilhelm's satchel were from my grandmother; the one Emma handed me was for my grandmother. It was Wilhelm's letter to her; he never mailed it and she never received it.

I read the letter.

"My dearest Lilly, these words will be my last to you. I am very sick and in care. It is not the care you would have given me, I am sure. It's been a blessing all these years to stay in touch through letters. I cherished the few times you visited me before you married. It was misery each time you left. As you know, life after the war was not easy. What kept me in the land of the living were my memories of you. To know that you were happy and safe in America meant everything to me.

I tried to protect you as much as I could at Dachau. Thanks to my commander uncle, I had leniency and privilege to give you food, blankets, a safe job, and affection. You, in turn, melted my heart with kindness, laughter, and forgiveness. I will never forget out talks and kisses we secretly captured. I will never forget how you stayed behind on liberation day to nurse my self-inflicted injuries. You knew I would be sent to the battlefield and that I was frightened.

My precious sweet Lilly, you know how I fought my inner demons. I had to be a good actor for my uncle and the guards. I had to play the part of a good Nazi for survival. We both did what we had to do for survival in a difficult place at a difficult time. My torment brought me three failed marriages, hours of psychoanalysis, and bottles of prescription pills. But I have burdened you enough with my woes.

I have joyous news, and I hope a way I can right some of the wrongs. I found your camp sisters, Mina and Anna. They are living with their families in Warsaw. I am enclosing their addresses, in addition to $20,000 in United States currency. Forgive me, you know my mistrust of banks. This wealth came from selling my travel business, my only successful venture. Please share my gift with your lagerschwestern and please think of me whenever you can.

Lily, I have always kept in my mind the image of you and your girlfriends as daffodils at Dachau. Like that photograph I took with my new Kodak camera, and placed in your notebook, the flowers emerged so beautiful from the barbed wire posts. You see, my dearest, your beauty broke through the hard soil and wood to proudly bloom in the darkest of places. I love you madly."

The letter was signed by Wilhelm Fleishman.

This was a genuine love letter to my grandmother, from a broken and conflicted man. I knew what I had to do. Without another question, without mystery, I prepared for the next day. I conducted business at the bank. I had plane tickets in hand. I would proudly carry on board that old worn satchel containing a love letter, a small black notebook, a whole lot of money, and four photocopies of a young German's photograph of flowers growing through a barbed wire fence. I was on my way to finish Oma's unfinished business.