Harvest

She arrived in the freezing February rain. The thin, blue suit and white blouse she’d been wearing for the last six days, ever since the soldiers shoved her family onto the train, was drenched, and water ran into her shoes. Her wavy, auburn hair hung dirty and tangled. First the troops separated Ruth and her mother from her father and younger brother. She and Mama stood in a long line of women while guards walked up and down the winding row, sometimes pulling a woman out of the group. 

That’s when the tall, thin officer pointed at Ruth. 

“Her,” was all he said. She saw him for just a second before a female guard yanked her from the line. There was a curl of hair on his forehead, and his moustache was thin, like a teenager’s. A huge, echoing silence seemed to fill her ears, and all she could see was Mama reaching for her as she was pulled away. 

The guard took her to a small room in a two-story brick building and brusquely warned her not to talk to the other girls. “The soldiers will shoot you,” she said. “Do not tempt them. Now tidy yourself up and wait for Herr Schmidt to arrive. He is garrison commander, with four hundred men’s guards and nearly five dozen women’s guards under him. He’s young. Just twenty-nine. But he’s tough. You’re a lucky girl. If you’re his, no one else will tamper with you.” 

When Schmidt came to her room late that first afternoon, his curly, dark hair combed straight back, he barely glanced at her sitting in one of the two little chairs at the table. He looked around the room, pale fingers stroking his boyish moustache, taking in the thin, white curtains, table, narrow bed with a brown wool blanket, washstand, soap, towel, and comb. At last, he looked her over. She lowered her eyes to the floor. All she could see was uniform trousers tucked into shiny, black boots. 

“Can you cook?” were the first words he said. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Nineteen.” 

“What is your name?” 

“Ruth Kraus.” She looked up. He was tall and slender, and she was shocked to see him smiling at her. Immediately, her eyes darted back to the floor. 

“I am Ernst Schmidt. Do not be afraid. If you are good to me, I will be good to you. You are here to give me what I want. Let’s start with food. How long since you last ate?” She didn’t know how long it had been since she’d eaten a proper meal. For a second, she flashed on a memory of sitting around the table with her parents and Stefan, celebrating her father’s birthday years ago. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“One of the guards will bring you a plate of food tonight. It isn’t good, but it is something. Tomorrow afternoon, someone will come with meat, potatoes, and oil. Tomorrow evening at eight, you will have my dinner ready for me. Then we will see how good a cook you are.” 

“What about my parents and my brother?” she asked. 

Herr Schmidt looked confused. There was a moment’s silence, and then he cleared his throat. “Yes, your family,” he said at last. “I will check on them. Now,” he approached her and put his hand on her cheek, “stand up.” She stood, eyes still down. Boots. Polished, leather, black. “Look at me, Ruth Kraus.” He lifted her chin up with his finger, and she found herself looking into dark eyes. “I am not like some of the others here. You will keep me company, and you will make a home for me in this godforsaken place. I will not force you. But you must do as I say, or you go out with the others. Do you understand?” 

“My family—if you help them, I will do anything.” 

“I will check on them. I told you. Now, I’d like you to pull off my boots.” He sat carefully on the bed. As she removed the boots, he loosened the Iron Cross and swastika he wore around his neck, smiling again. He rubbed his feet inside their black socks. 

She sat in the little chair again and looked at her hands in her lap. They had grown so thin over the past few months. “Listen, Ruth Kraus,” he said, “I’m not like the others. I don’t like what I have to do, but it’s what my country calls for, and I am a patriot.” There was a long pause. “I will never take you against your will, but from time to time, I want to share a meal with a pretty woman and enjoy her company. That is not too much to ask, is it?” She sat with her lips pressed together. “Well, consider yourself lucky,” he went on. “I am saving you from your fate.” 

Lucky. That’s what the woman guard had said, too. Her face burned, and her chin snapped up. The moment her eyes met his gaze, fear tore through her like a bullet. 

He stood. “When I return tomorrow evening, Ruth Kraus,” he said, “you will cook for me, eat with me, and talk with me. That is all I demand now.” Then he retied his neckwear, pulled on his boots, and left. 

The next dawn, she awakened, her cheeks streaked with tears. Again and again in the night, she’d dreamed of soldiers pulling her twelve-year-old brother, Stefan, from her arms. Where were they now—her tall, redheaded Papa, who always swore it would be over soon, her gentle Mama, and her freckled Stefan, with his games and jokes? 

Ruth stood shakily and rubbed her face. At the metal washstand, she leaned in to study her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. It was hard to recognize the sunken-cheeked, scraggly-haired creature looking back at her. She stood motionless, staring for a long time. After a while, she heard music, a brass band accompanying soldiers to breakfast. She stepped over to the window and looked out. 

Behind the dormitory was an abandoned, sunny yard. Stalks of reedy plants, stripped of color for the winter, stood in the low area at the end, where the ground was a little marshy. The plants looked familiar, but she couldn’t remember what they were called. On the far side of the yard was a paved road leading somewhere she couldn’t see, and beyond that, an open field. In the distance was a giant barbed fence. 

She tried the window and was able to open it about three inches. A blast of winter air rushed in. It felt good. Maybe Papa and Stefan were strong enough. Maybe they could work. Maybe they were pulled out of their line, too. And maybe Mama. . .

In the cold, she stripped off all her clothing and rinsed her face at the sink. She washed her underclothes and blouse with the bar of soap. She washed herself and brushed and braided her hair. Then, she lay her wet things on the windowsill to dry and slowly dressed again in just her rumpled jacket and skirt. She willed herself to think about playing board games on the floor with the family, going to the movies in groups of boys and girls, enjoying a picnic in the forest with her girlfriends. Who knew if she’d ever see anyone from her old life again?

The food arrived. As evening approached, a shaking and reserved Ruth served the commander dinner, which she’d made in the little kitchenette across the hall. He must have liked both the stew and her silence, because he sat down, chatted pleasantly, insisted that she eat a little, said he’d be back the next night, and bid her good night. From that evening on, she cooked for him every day, and he sat in one of the chairs every night, eating and talking.

The days were long. The women in the dorm were assigned mending to do for the soldiers. They sat in a bare public room on the building’s main floor with needles and thread in their hands, forbidden to communicate with one another. Sometimes, their eyes met under the watchful glance of the guards. About four o’clock each day, Ruth was summoned from her mending and wordlessly handed a basket—meat, sausage, eggs, or beans; maybe an onion; root vegetables; and, occasionally, flour, sugar, oil, or milk. She fried meat. She made stew. She baked desserts out of the occasional fruit. And at eight o’clock, she opened her door to Ernst Schmidt and served him dinner. 

The nights were even longer. Herr Schmidt had never forced her to have sex with him, but she knew from the sounds around her what was going on in the other rooms at night. She’d never slept with a man, and every night, she was relieved when Ernst left without having demanded it of her. She thought occasionally late at night of a boy she’d once liked, but it seemed impossibly long ago. And sleep was difficult. She awoke half a dozen times each night from terrible dreams about Papa, Mama, and Stefan. Sometimes, she was shocked awake by the sounds of shots firing or men shouting. Other times, tower searchlights swept through her window. She was afraid to be asleep, afraid to be awake. 

Over time, Herr Schmidt started confiding in her. “You know, Ruth, some of them don’t respect me,” he said one day. “They say I’m just a coddled son of a powerful man. But they’ll see. I have big dreams.” He told her he hated the war. What he really wanted to do was be a doctor—and when this mess was over, that’s exactly what he planned to do. This Iron Cross was a burden. He described himself as a maverick, hiding in plain sight among his fellow Nazis. 

By early spring, the dinners grew strangely normal. “Hello, my Ruth!” he would exclaim each day as he came in for his dinner. As long as he talked, Ruth hoped she might be safe for the time being. And over months, despite the visceral fear, and even though the voice was her captor’s, his words started to climb over the wall inside her. One night, perhaps the tenth time he asked her about her life, her silence broke, and she told him about her home in Hamburg, her dog, her garden, and her botany studies at the university. 

“What do you miss most about those days?” he asked her. 

“Clean stockings,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “And playing records on the gramophone and reading poetry. I miss nature and my garden and my friends Lilli and Gertrude. We used to hike together in the mountains. And—I miss my family.” There was a pause and then she begged, “Please tell me if they are all right.” 

 “Don’t ask about that,” he snapped. “I don’t know anything. I’m sure they’re fine. Stop dwelling on them.” In that instant, she knew she would never see them again. For a moment, she felt herself rise out of her own body, as if watching herself from outside her window, sitting at the little table while Schmidt ate. She was alone now, with no one but Schmidt in her entire world. 

* * * 

Spring came, and he brought her two flowered dresses. “Put the blue one on,” he said. 

“Now?” she asked, incredulous. 

“Now.” Heart in her throat, she slipped off her blouse and skirt and stood in her slip in front of him. He caught her eye and then looked away until she slid the dress over her head and zipped it. When she stood in front of him, he told her how beautiful she was and begged her to call him Ernst. She couldn’t, but despite herself, she felt something tiny dart up inside her. A week later, she found a small book of Hoffmann short stories on her washstand. 

She was ashamed of herself, but sometimes, she found herself looking forward to the hour he was there. One night that first spring, Schmidt came in with a bottle of schnapps and drank several glasses before dinner without offering her any. Sitting across the table, he confided to her that he’d never known a woman except once when he was a twenty-two-year-old student and went with a group to a whorehouse. He told Ruth the experience was so dehumanizing that he decided he would never sleep with a woman who didn’t love him again. But no one had truly loved him yet, so he’d gone without. “It isn’t natural, is it?” he asked. Then, he turned to her. “Have you ever been in love?” 

“No,” she said, raising her eyes from the table, “unless you count being in love with my garden on a summer day, with vegetables warm from the sun and butterflies around me. I think about that every day.” 

“Sometimes, a person just knows something,” he replied. “I knew the moment I saw you that. . .” He stopped and closed his eyes. 

The next day, she summoned up her courage. “With respect—Ernst—remember what I told you about my garden at home? Would you consider allowing me to plant a small garden just for you?” He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “If I saved vegetable seeds and potato eyes and tried planting them, it might allow me to make better meals for you. It looks like there is an area in back that gets afternoon sun and plenty of moisture.” Still no response. “Please forgive me, if you say no, of course. . .” 

“I think it’s a good idea,” he interrupted suddenly. “I could provide leftovers to the other men and make some extra money.” He looked at her face searchingly. “But Ruth, that means going outside. And I don’t know if I want you outside.”

“Why not?” asked Ruth. “Would it be dangerous for me to go out in the yard even with your permission?” She could tell by the look on his face that that wasn’t it. Her eyes widened as she realized what he meant. “You think I might try to run? Where would I go?” 

“Ruth, you are very special to me. I don’t want you hurt. And that means I don’t want you getting ideas if I let you go outside. If I say yes to you, it’s because I want some decent food, and maybe a few extra Reichsmarks—and of course, I am glad to make you happy. But anyone making for the perimeter fence is shot on sight. And the fence is electrified. Even if you made it that far, the moment you touched it, you’d be dead anyway. You must promise me not to run.” 

“Okay. I promise.” 

A week later, she saw three skeletal prisoners in soiled uniforms digging up a large, sunny plot outside her window. The men’s stick-like arms and legs seemed scarcely human. When they finished preparing the vegetable bed, a guard tossed each man a potato, which they set upon with a passion that once would have broken her heart. She turned away from the window. That afternoon, with Herr Schmidt’s permission, she stepped outside for the first time to plant the seeds and cuttings she’d been saving. 

Out in the little square patch of yard each afternoon, she could breathe. Tending the vegetables, watering seedlings, and pulling weeds gave her hours of forgetting. Sometimes, she spoke aloud to Mama and Papa, Stefan and her friends. And as the sun went toward the western horizon each day, she carefully prepared a nice table for Ernst. 

It was a warm evening in June when he first called her “love.” She’d just come back from her garden in the slanted light, having picked a handful of little white wildflowers blooming in the marshy area at the far end of the yard. She’d put them in a glass on the table, and Ernst had admired them when they came in, saying they were fit for “my little Jewess, my love.” The word echoed through her without landing anywhere. 

“When this is all over, Ruth,” he said, “I will marry you and take you away, maybe to India or Egypt, where we will live together in peace. Can you love me?” She told him that it is hard to love someone when you are in a cage. He said he understood. A pair of gardening gloves appeared on her table the next afternoon. 

It went on like this for months—mending and gardening by day, and Ernst in the evenings. He would shout orders at her in a stern voice as he arrived. But as soon as the door was shut with him inside, he was another man. When she looked at him now, she saw something she hadn’t seen before. The thin moustache seemed innocent, even sweet sometimes, and the way his hair curled over his forehead, despite his attempts to slick it back, revealed something that she believed, with a mixture of shame and hope, might belong to her alone. 

Then, one October night, Ernst staggered in late, drinking from a bottle of schnapps. “I am a monster!” he cried. She ran to the door and quickly closed it behind him. 

“Shhh,” she said. “You don’t want them to hear you. Sit down and let me take your boots. I have beef brain and sweet potato. A little food will soothe you.” 

“Nothing can soothe me. I am a terrible man, a monster.” 

Before she knew it, she was kneeling on the floor holding his hand in her own. She looked directly at him. “Ernst, what happened?” 

“Ah, but I want to earn your love, and now you will never love me,” he cried. “I killed a woman today, an old woman!” He sobbed out loud. “Call me a child, call me a weakling, I didn’t want this! But I had to—she was running for the fence. What was I supposed to do, my commanding officer was there, and he yelled, ‘Shoot, shoot, you idiot!’ I had to. The woman fell, and she twisted and writhed; it was terrible. And then two other men ran over and shot her at close range to finish her off. My commander told me, ‘Good work!’ and I said, ‘Thank you.’ I just want to go home, I want to live with you when I am not a jailor anymore, just a man with a woman he loves. You are so beautiful, so smart, so kind—I dream of your lips, of your voice. I want this to end so we can just be together. Why doesn’t it end, why doesn’t it end?” 

“If things were only. . . different,” she whispered. 

In that moment, the space around them seemed the only sanity in a bleak, airless world. Before she knew it, she was reaching for him. She made love with him that night; she didn’t even know why. 

After that, he seemed to fall even more deeply in love with her. The ordinariness of her routine gave her life a rhythm that started to feel strangely normal. But each night, when he took her in his arms, it was as if she floated back out the window to her garden, watching and responding to him from somewhere far away. 

One autumn evening, he reached into his uniform coat and pulled out a small flower he’d secreted there. As he handed it to her, he asked her to show him her garden. He had never asked to see it before. “It’s what you love, and I want to love it, too.” 

“It’s almost all gone for the season,” she said. But she took him outside, and they looked over what was left after the harvest, churned earth and stems and the last of the hearty winter greens waiting to be gleaned. 

* * * 

In February 1944, exactly one year after she was first taken captive, Ernst came into the room and told her that he had killed a man while on guard duty. 

“I had to shoot because the other men could see me. Things are getting worse. I shouldn’t tell you this, but there are rumors about Allied forces planning to invade France, and they are butchers. Some of the guards have been called away, so the commanders take regular turns in the guard towers now. What could I do? Besides, all the people get electrocuted, anyway. People never learn,” he sighed. 

“Maybe they would rather die,” she answered. 

But he shook his head. “No, Ruth. No one wants to die. Even these people out there, how they live. . . like dogs, like animals. Worse. Even they, they’d rather live.” 

* * * 

Winter passed, and the shortages grew more severe. Meat never showed up anymore. Lentils were rare. Cabbage and apples were all most officers had to eat at night now. Her garden was a lifesaver for Ernst, with its bounty of vegetables which she had overwintered in a small underground chamber she’d dug. One evening in April 1944, he handed her a letter that he told her to hide under the washstand. He said she should open and use it if anything happened to him. The letter gave orders to the guards to escort her to the Swiss border and release her there to deliver a letter to the military attaché, who would be expecting her and her alone. He also gave her a letter addressed to the attaché, but he told her she would not really need to deliver it. It was all just a ruse to get her to Switzerland, where she’d be free. 

 * * *

In June, almost a year and a half after Ruth became a prisoner, she realized that she was pregnant. It was hard to tell, since her periods were so infrequent, but she knew. She wouldn’t inform him until she had to. She knew what happened to the babies. Those unlucky enough to be born were dashed on rocks or thrown against the electric fence. 

Ernst seemed unhappier each day. And then, one day in early summer, he asked to see her garden again. It was his first time out there since the prior autumn. The little white flowers were blooming again. He pointed to the lacy fronds. “Aren’t those lovely!” he said. 

“Yes, aren’t they? They are called Queen Anne’s lace.” The stalks of tiny white blooms were gathered in clusters by the low area of the yard, just as they had been a year ago. And then, it struck her—Queen Anne’s lace didn’t bloom in early June. Those were Cicuta. 

Weeks later, on one of the hottest nights of summer, she was sitting in her room when he lurched through the door carrying another bottle of schnapps, already very drunk. “Oh my God, children,” he mumbled, swallowing great chugs of liquor from the bottle as he threw himself on the bed. “Three little boys, they were running to the fence. What could I do? A little girl was tossing apples from the other side. She ran away. They were trying to get food.” He turned red eyes toward her. “Can you ever forgive me, my Ruth?” 

Inside her, there was a sudden jolt, as if she were opening the door to her home after a long absence and realized that burglars had taken over the empty house while she was gone. In that split second, she felt strangely free and powerful. She closed her eyes. “Of course,” she murmured. 

She talked and cooed, stroking his dark hair until he slept. 

The next day, she went out and harvested dozens of leaves and buds from the white wildflowers. When August arrived, she nipped off little berries from those still standing, and harvested one parsnip-looking root from each of five sturdy plants. She wrapped everything in pages torn out of her book of Hoffman stories, and stored it all in the little underground garden chamber she’d dug, together with the vegetables for his meals. 

By the second week of September, she was ready. She took flour, fat, and apples she’d been hoarding and made a pie filled with the berries. Then, she made a stew of the thick roots, along with a little onion, potato, and carrot. She dressed carefully to hide the slight roundness of her middle, wearing his favorite blue dress. 

Ernst was in a fine mood, especially when he saw the feast awaiting him. He ate a big bowl of the stew and a thick slab of pie, begged her to join him, wiped his chin with a napkin, and declared her the best cook in Germany. She sat by, smiling, told him she’d eat in a little while, that she wasn’t hungry yet, but she was so glad he liked her cooking. 

The meal did its work. In half an hour, he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. Then, his speech slurred. He panted and stood up, only to stumble. He looked at her with disbelieving eyes. At last, he slumped down on the floor. She stood over him. 

“Help me,” he said. 

“I am helping you,” she leaned over and said into his ear. “Your baby is in my belly and my poison is in yours. Consider yourself lucky. I’m saving you from your fate.” 

In an hour, Ernst was dead. 

Ruth waited until his body felt cool to the touch. Then, she rifled through his pockets, found his matches, and burned the letters he had given her months ago. She looked around the room one last time and walked slowly out to her tidy garden. She paused for a moment there to gather a huge bouquet of the white flowers. 

Then she ran for the fence.

ILENE K. SEMIATIN

Ilene Semiatin was born in Westchester County, New York, and wrote her first story at age seven. In the 1990s, she returned to White Plains, New York, with her husband, Vincent, and their sons, Julian and Ethan. A science writer by profession, she volunteers extensively in her community.