My hair. That’s what everybody said had saved me. The mop of fiery red curls atop my head saved me from the wrath of Hitler and his men. The irony of the predicament brought a smile to my face; the rose colored hair I’d loathed as a child served as my salvation since the war began. In the Jewish community, the similarities of people blended into one conformed being: dark hair, dark eyes, covered in a smooth and dark complexion. I stood out like a red coat in a sea of people: large green eyes, milky complexion, all brought together by my unruly hair. My friends at school would stare at me, wondering how I could have been born into a Jewish family… Now, I wondered how I could have lost them so quickly.
My mother used to tell me that my hair was gift… I wasn’t there when she and Papa were taken. And all I heard of Daniel’s capture were screams and gunshots while I hid in the room behind our closet.

“Elena… do not come out. No matter what you hear, alright? I promised Father…” He trailed off, both of us thinking of their absence now.

“But Dan… maybe if we both fight we could get out the back door and then…”

His voice cut through my words, “They will kill us. They don’t listen to reason and they don’t listen to anyone.”

“I can’t do this without you…” I pleaded with him.

We heard a crash on the floor below us and his hand reached to close the wall, trapping me inside, “They’re coming. Don’t come out… I’ve planned for somebody to save you when it is safe. Trust him. I love you, Elena. Mama would be proud.”

I waited in that room for five nights and four days… Each day was a struggle to breathe, a struggle to keep my rations lasting, and a struggle of my will to live.

On the fifth day at the crack of dawn, I heard two sharp thuds on the door. I didn’t dare move. I didn’t even breathe. I tightened my hands upon the only weapon in my artillery: a small kitchen knife. The footsteps drew nearer to the closet and then the door slipped open quickly. The light blinded me and I fumbled with the knife, nearly slicing my finger open in the process.

“Elena. Elena…. Are you alright? It’s me…Wil. Elena, please?”

“Wilhelm?”

I hadn’t seen him since last Christmas…. Nearly seven months ago. My father was a professor at the University; Wil’s father had been a colleague. The three of us: Daniel, Wil, and I, had grown up together. But something had always caused a simple line of separation: Wilhelm’s family was German.

Eye’s adjusting to the light, I finally met his gaze… he hadn’t changed since I had seen him last… Except for the swastika littering his arm.
He followed my wide eyes, “Elena! No, I have to… I don’t want… It’s for..”
Despite the ache in my body I reached for the knife, crawled out of the hole, and put my weapon to his neck in one movement.
“Put the knife down. Listen to reason… You’ve known my family for years. We aren’t like them… We’ve been helping your parents deport Jews, hiding them. I joined them to hide my secrets, Elena. Trust me. Trust Daniel… and trust your parents.”
And so I did. I trusted Wil, perhaps too much because he began to steal bits of my heart. He didn’t pity me, nor did he treat me as if I was the heroine of the story. He treated me like I was the same girl who used to throw rocks at him or splash him in the pond when we were young.
Wil’s father, Alfred, guided me through my new identity: A 19 year old Irishwomen who had visited Germany and needed to get back before the chill of winter set in. It was a good fit, my hair with the protection of neutrality of Ireland. I would live in Dublin and return home after the war ended.
They taught me, Alfred and Wilhelm, everything I needed to learn. If I am to be honest, I wanted to forestall my teachings, lengthen them until the war ended. I wanted to stay with Wil, and I wanted to live under Alfred’s protection. There were so many things I wanted. But in the world of Nazi men and Nazi idea, what I wanted was the same as the wants of a fly: meaningless, unnecessary, and most importantly, impossible.
I didn’t cry when I had to leave Hamburg, my home. I didn’t cry when I saw in the German tabloids about my parents, “PROFFESOR AND WIFE JEWISH SCUM KILLED. REWARD FOR THE FINDING OF DAUGHTER AND SON. DEAD OR ALIVE.” I didn’t cry when I heard my brother dragged from my home. I didn’t cry when I witnessed a girl no older than I clutch at the gunshot wound in her stomach, and beg for her mother. I had hardened myself to the evils of the world. And I had promised to give Hitler nothing, not even my tears.
The last sight I saw of Hamburg for seven years was Wil’s face searching my boat for me, for my eyes. This always made me wonder what the last sight of my parent’s eyes was or Daniel’s. Later, when I found out Alfred had been killed in his home for harboring a young Jewish father and his daughter; I wondered what his last sight had been. I hoped they had all been pleasant, I hoped they didn’t see a ruined world or a person gasping for breath. I hoped they saw each other, and within each other, hope.
I left Germany in 1942, and I returned in 1947, one year ago today. The war ended three years ago. Well… the Second World War ended. Inside, I am still drowning in rage and despair over my losses and the fact that I am alive; whilst my parents were tortured to death. I have regrets over hiding like a coward while my brother was taken from our childhood home and worked to death in a labor camp. I still fight with myself. I still argue and wonder at the evils of this world. I haven’t made peace. I don’t know if I will be able to forgive myself, but I do pray for a better day. For a stronger generation of people to know what the human hand can do and to stop those who use its power in anger and murder and hostility.
Wil wrote to me while I lived in Ireland, when there was a safe risk to do so. He helped me with the emotions that have settled within my heart. And I helped him to silently stick up for what he believes in… I trust it is truly a miracle of God that he still lives even though he had disobeyed the power of the Nazi, time and time again.
I found him in a pub, four weeks after my return from Ireland. He had no idea I was coming and he thought me dead since I hadn’t returned a letter in so long. He drank away his sorrows and his father’s death with cheap beer. Today, he still struggles with what he witnessed in those horrid camps, and I still struggle with the fact that I was one of so few that didn’t struggle in those camps when everyone else I knew had no choice. I don’t, and I didn’t, wish for death… but I know I was given a cheated hand of cards while the Jewish community was robbed of theirs. We help each other, day by day, to realize that I have been blessed and he too.
We got married shortly after I helped him home from that rancid smelling pub. Our ceremony hosted three people: Wil, the pastor, and I. Our families couldn’t attend our matrimony… but both of us felt closer to them as we exchanged our vows.
I want to have children someday. I want to teach them the intelligence of their grandfathers, the kindness of my mother, and the bravery of their uncle. I want to raise them in a world where one doesn’t fear for their life or the lives of their family. Instead, raise them in a home where freedom and choices are a necessity, not an option.
“Wil, what do you wish the last thing you see to be? Before you die?” I ask, curious to see if it has crossed his mind as it has my own so many times.
“You. A picture of my father. Or our future children.” He looks up at me to smile, “I hope to see family. What do you wish, Elena?”
“I want to see a German man help a Jewish woman across the street again. I want to see two young lovers embrace without fear of being caught or persecuted. I want to see my people live long lives and not dwell on the memories of those lost in the tragedy of that war. I want to see hope.”
And in this world, a world rid of Nazi men and Nazi ideas, my wants are those of a living, breathing, and important woman: my wants are possible.